Letters from Yelena (16 page)

The nervousness I felt was hidden by years of practice. I wore a determined smile throughout the audition, and as I danced I gradually became looser, and the smile became more genuine.
Afterwards, catching my breath at the barre, I was told I had danced well, but that unfortunately it was not enough. I needed a very good graduation performance and only then would I be
considered.

I decided to simply stop feeling overawed by the Mariinsky. Seeing it merely as a theatre, an arena for opportunity, and for the first time I did not feel conscious of its history. I told myself
that I would dance as I had always meant to – with passion, and hunger, and pleasure. I wanted people to be able to forget themselves as they watched me dance, to give people solace and a
means of escape.

In the days leading up to the dance I developed a couple of habits that have always stayed with me. I put Juliet’s music onto my ipod and I listened to it during every free moment –
over breakfast, over dinner, and before I went to sleep. In so doing I grew to learn its nuances and love its intricacies. I stayed on the stage for longer than I needed to, familiarising myself
with it, as if it was my own.

Backstage, the Mariinsky is a rabbit warren, made up of little intricate spaces and concealed chambers. Although I was sharing a dressing room with the other dancers, in my mind I pretended I
was a Principal, and I acted with the focus that you’d expect of one. The time that I normally would have spent with the other girls I was on the next floor, where the haberdashers worked on
all the beautiful costumes. I wanted to make sure my costume was exactly right, and we kept at it until it was perfect.

We were told that during the dress rehearsal there would be no time for repetitions or corrections. I was relieved therefore to see that out of everyone, I seemed the most prepared. Julio was
utterly focused on the task too, and with him I danced as well as I ever had. Freed of the burden of an audience I was able to imagine we were alone in my room, or even that it was just a dream.
After the dress rehearsal some talent scouts approached me. I took their cards, but did not allow myself to be swept away by their attention. After all, I knew it would soon evaporate if the Sdacha
did not go well.

I told myself to enjoy this final flourish; that I deserved it. My father and Inessa flew in to watch the show, and it filled me with happiness to see them taking their seats at the front as the
orchestra warmed up. Inessa looked overawed by the beautiful and historic surroundings, and my father had a look in his eyes that suggested he was quite overwhelmed to think that his own daughter
would be coming on stage, here, at any moment. It was enchanting to see an expression on his face that I had never seen before, created as a result of my own effort. It made me feel more confident
as I looked out onto the lavish array of rapidly filling seats from the wings. Before the show I sat backstage, listening to the building clamour of the audience. Our teacher came back to offer
some last minute reassurance. I smiled at him, and he patted me on the shoulder.

I heard the
corps de ballet
enter the stage and I felt the soft thump of their feet through the floor. Eventually, the horns that heralded the close of their sequence began. A stagehand
appeared at my door and nodded. I tiptoed out onto the stage, the lights instantly blinding me. I felt a murmur of appreciation fill my ears and I looked up and saw Julio enter from the other side
of the stage. He held out his hand, and something inside me instantly spread out like wings. That night Julio was a wonderfully attentive partner, and if I slightly overwhelmed him with my jagged
and unpredictable style, he was generous enough to accommodate it. I felt utterly in control of the moment, as if it was mine to manipulate and experience at will. My concentration was such that I
felt time slow down to the pace I needed it to be. As the piece came to a close I felt a sudden ecstasy tumble through my limbs, and Julio’s smile suggested he was relieved and happy too. As
the audience rose to their feet in ravenous applause I felt as if I had suddenly closed the door to a painful chapter of my life and been ushered into another – one full of light and hope.
The audience’s applause came as an unexpected balm. This was what life was about. I would always know I could bury myself in that thrilling, visceral noise. We were called back for three
ovations, and at the final one, some of the girls at the edge of the stage turned and applauded me. I felt tears slipping down my cheeks, but I always kept smiling.

Afterwards, I went backstage to find the dressing room filled with flowers. A representative from the Mariinsky came back and offered me a place in the company for the next season. When Inessa
and my father came back they looked utterly thrilled – Inessa was actually shaking with excitement. It seemed that I had finally found my place in the world, and I could not have felt more
relieved and gratified.

With love from,

Yelena

Dear Noah,

Of course I understand if you didn’t know quite what to make of my last letter. If it seemed cruel to send you an account of my first heartbreak, I can only apologise. I
never intended to be unkind, only myself. You said that you found it morbidly fascinating to read about Vlad, though it is not a letter you will probably read again. I can understand that. But I
was grateful to read that you enjoyed the story of my graduation. It is a story that I often replay to myself, and therefore one I felt I had to share with you.

It is true that I do not dwell on my time at the Mariinsky. It’s not because it was not important to me, more because it is not important to us. I was proud to have gained my certificate,
and though I entered the
corps de ballet
feeling excited, it did not last long. I had drawn attention to myself with my graduation performance, and did not realise that consequently some
people might want to knock me down.

However, the looks I got from some other members of the corps when I entered suggested that I was vulnerable. I remember I started compulsively tying and untying my pointe shoes, a nervous tic
that had suddenly started. From the corner of the hall, a cluster of girls studied me, their hands on their hips. I looked back at them, trying to be impassive. Sensing this exchange, a girl with
auburn hair came over to me, reached down, and neatly tied the ribbons of my shoes around my calves in one go. I looked up at her, pleased and surprised.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m Yelena.’

‘I know,’ she answered. ‘I’m Alina.’

At that moment the choreographer entered. He was a slight man with a rather squat face, his eyes moved analytically over us. As we moved over to the barre I whispered to Alina that I
didn’t know how to play it for the first session. In quick, hushed tones, Alina told me the advice the choreographer had given the girls at a pre-season party the night before. I barely had
time to thank her before the barre work began.

But when my moment came, towards the end of centre work, I found that everyone was doing the opposite to me. Whereas my dancing was full of dramatic flourishes, the rest were being very minimal
and crisp. The music suddenly rolled to a halt as the choreographer snapped his hands. ‘You,’ he said, pointing at me. ‘What is your name?’

‘Yelena,’ I answered.

‘Everyone observe. This – ’ he started to do an exaggerated version of my flourishes and turns, ‘ – is the last thing I want to see this season. If you want to find
yourself at the back of the pack Yelena, continue to dance like this. Maestro, please.’

I looked over at Alina. She was smiling at some of the other girls, who raised their hands to their mouths.

I recovered from this inauspicious start, and learnt to be more selective about who I trusted. I worked hard, and after a year I began to feel a part of the group. I quickly graduated as a
second soloist, and a few months later grew into first soloist roles. I slowly came to deeply love rather than fear that wonderful theatre. I expanded my repertoire with many of the most beautiful
roles in ballet. I danced as all the fairies in
Sleeping Beauty
, and in some of the most testing solo roles from
Paquita
. The choreographer even began to praise me personally,
particularly when I danced as Gamzatti in
La Bayaderé
.

Soon I was twenty-four, and more settled than I had ever been. St Petersburg had gradually become my home, although there had been little time for anything other than ballet. I had grown into
the lifestyle and had found a way to make it suit me. Although it was the most famous dancers who were generally taken on tour, opportunities had started to arise to allow me to dance around the
world.

For  a  while  producers  had  been  watching  me,  saying that I was ready for Principal roles. One day, after practice, I was introduced to the director
of an English company, a rather unsettling and curious man called Michael. He had come to Russia to scout for talent, and had been ushered in my direction by our choreographer. To my amusement, he
insisted on taking me out for dinner, and over a small bowl of pasta he enquired what role I most wanted to play.

Of course, I told him it was my ambition to dance as Giselle. He seemed to already know this. When I told him that the role had always thundered with personal meaning to me, he was not as
impressed as I had expected. ‘Ballerinas can over-identify with a role you know,’ he answered. I argued that just as all dancers have their speciality, mine would be the personal
dimension I brought to it. I told him that there were personal reasons that I felt capable of dancing Giselle. He waved his hand dismissively and said, ‘I don’t need to know.’ But
a couple of days later, I was delighted to receive a phone call from him offering me a place in his new company. Breathless with excitement, but trembling with fear, I accepted the offer to move to
England.

By then I was used to intense application, and having danced my last at the Mariinsky, I focused all my energies on learning about English culture. I didn’t have to try hard – the
country had long existed in my affections. No longer needing to listen to the soundtrack of my next performance, I instead silently mouthed along to English speaking tapes over the course of that
fortnight. England felt like the right place to go next, and I hoped that journeying there would enable me to reconnect with my mother somehow. As soon as visas were arranged, I found myself on a
flight to Heathrow. The tour would take me all over your country for six weeks, closing with a week at a prestigious new theatre in the North East where we’d perform Giselle – with me
in the title role on the final two nights.

Those six weeks felt like a breathless sweep across the dusty stages, service stations and dry wipe hotels of your country. As a child I had romanticised the land beyond belief, it seemed to me
a place where it was possible to lay your delicate mark upon history. It was the land of David Bowie’s glamour and pomp, in my mind populated with witty, arch Peter Cook types who placed
themselves amongst history simply through the natural expression of their personalities. It seemed a land that lent itself to immortality, a place where a little serendipity could usher one into
eternity. The ghost of my mother, and the ghost of Giselle, leant those six weeks an elusive, resonant meaning. When I was not focused on my next solo role, I was chasing spectres with my eyes
across the moist, fertile land that span outside the train window.

During the occasional day off I went looking for my mother. Searching, rather desperately, for traces of a slight, pale woman I had barely known. Trying to imagine how she might have felt as a
young woman, when my existence was so remote as to be negligible. Did she have the same thoughts I had? Was she prone to flights of fancy, awkward in social situations? I walked around and wondered
how she might have looked, on the edge of the pack perhaps, trying to find her way into the world. At times, I felt tempted to try and communicate with her. I felt that she, and she alone would
understand what I was going through at that moment. Sometimes, I couldn’t help lamenting that I had never known my mother, and I worried what would happen if I ever became a mother myself.
How would I know what to do? When to be there? I would have no-one to model myself on, I barely remembered her and there was nothing about Bruna I could look to.

There  was  a  spirit  amongst  the  English  people  that  I recognised as my own – perhaps my mother had passed it onto me, and it had lain
dormant for many years. When we stayed in Manchester the company director took us for post-performance drinks, and many ended up in the city’s Northern Quarter, knocking back vodkas and
dancing to The Stone Roses until the small hours. During those snatched nights I felt freer than ever – as if it was now for the first time okay for me to openly enjoy myself.

Once we arrived in the north, I was taken to the house that would be my home for this final stretch. It sat just above a gentrified quayside, which reflected the city lights when the sky grew
dark. It was my home for now, but after that I had no idea where I would go. A severe looking matron owned the house, and as she waved me into my room I suddenly felt very alone. I put my suitcase
on the floor, and felt a kind of rising nausea within me. It soon collected, and knifed into a feeling of distinct sorrow as I suddenly realised I didn’t have a home. It felt so odd to arrive
somewhere and to have no-one to call, no-one wanting to know if I had arrived safely. By now I had grown used to not contacting Inessa, for fear of undoing any safety she had secured for herself. I
felt unable to contact my father too, as I couldn’t bring myself to accept why he had not done more to protect us as children. Although the hostess at the residence was warm towards me, I
also knew that the smiles that ushered me into this room existed purely while I had a function to serve. I saw that once I stepped off the narrow precipice of hospitality afforded me as a
Principal, I was utterly alone.

I opened one of my shoe boxes, in which I kept my most cherished possessions. They were all photos of people I had known in St Petersburg, along with the odd faded photo from my youth. I saw
that almost all of my memories related to my work; that for me there was no life without it. I realised then that I had to learn to open up, to overcome my suspicions and move on.