Chapter 5
Five
I'm sure he watched me all four nights from that private box nearest the stage. I felt him. I didn't make any more mistakes the rest of the performances, so maybe if he noticed the one on opening night, he won't comment the next time I see him.
On Monday I've got a free period while the principals are rehearsing. Natalie, Frederick, and Mr. V are running some of the choreography in Studio A, which is the largest rehearsal space. There’s an extra mirror at the far end of the studio and several barres set up where other dancers—mostly from the corps—are using this time to warm up and rehearse some of their own parts.
I take a spot at the end of one of the barres and put my pointe shoes on.
But I don't practice my own steps. I'm watching Natalie.
She's going through Odette's opening solo piece.
It feels like I've seen this a thousand times, so on a certain level I know it already.
But my feet don't know it like my brain does.
I stand off to the side and mimic her movements. It's the same Swan Lake choreography we've used since I've been here, so it's easy to pick up—easier than I thought it would be. I glance over to find Mr. V. has stopped watching Natalie.
Instead, he's watching me. Natalie doesn't notice. She's too wrapped up in her role as Odette. I shift my focus back to her and continue marking and learning the steps, but I feel Mr. V.'s eyes on me.
When the music stops he says, “Take five and get some water, then we'll work with Frederick on the pas de deux.”
As soon as Natalie has gone off to follow his direction, he makes a beeline across the floor to me. He's so intense that several other dancers nearby stop what they're doing to watch.
“May I see you privately out in the hallway?” he asks, his voice low and curt.
I just nod and follow him out of the studio, my stomach going into a tight hard knot with each step. The hallway is empty. All the dancers are in either Studio A or B working on something for the show.
“What were you doing in there?” he asks, keeping his voice low. “You aren't the understudy. We've already set the list for the season. You're distracting me.”
For a moment, I just stand there staring at him, the nervous dread gone now that he's said this out loud. How am I distracting him? I'm off in the corner doing what I'm doing. It's not as though I'm dancing in front of Natalie right in his face screaming for his attention.
“I-I'm sorry. I know. I just wanted a challenge... to learn more.” It's not as if I can tell him the real reason. It's blackmail homework to stay out of prison would require a much longer explanation. One I'm not prepared to give.
Mr. V. sighs. I can actually see the pity on his face. And then I know. My mysterious blackmailer was telling the truth. Conall really was keeping me from progressing in the company. I could have been a principal.
“Go get some lunch and meet me in the small studio at two p.m. I have a couple of hours free on Monday afternoons.”
“I... wait what?”
“I'm going to work with you, Ms. Lane. You did say you want to learn and be challenged, right?”
“Yes! Thank you!” I think I squeal this. I know I hug him. Then I quickly step back and practically flee from the building before he can change his mind.
I grab lunch at a nearby cafe and am back in the small studio warming up at the barre by one-thirty.
The small studio is the third studio space in the building.
It really is a small and intimate space, but it's large enough for a couple of dancers to rehearse when the other spaces are being used.
And it's private to keep out distractions.
There are a few other small rooms that can be used for this purpose as well, but the small studio is the only one with proper sprung floors, a barre, a mirror, and a CD player for music.
We have live accompaniment in the bigger studios.
Mr. V. walks in right at two o'clock. “I'll need a few minutes,” he says, sitting down at a table in the corner and unpacking a lunch of his own.
I stretch some more and wait while he eats.
“What were you wanting to learn?” he asks, in between bites of a chicken salad sandwich he picked up from the same cafe I just returned from. I should have asked if he wanted me to get his lunch. If this is more than just a one-time pity session, I'll pick his food up for him next time.
“The first solo and the first pas de deux.” I say it more like it's a question than a statement because I know just how presumptuous it sounds.
We both know I need a partner for the pas de deux.
And while he may for some reason be feeling generous with me, he's not going to pull Frederick or his understudy away to engage in fruitless practice that won't turn into anything.
It would raise weird questions. This will probably raise weird questions—the fact that he's even in this private studio space with me at all.
Mr. V. doesn't comment on this. He just eats the rest of his sandwich and drinks his iced tea. “All right,” he finally says. I'm not sure if he's agreeing to my syllabus or if he's merely stating that he's ready to begin.
I stand, and he stands. I'm surprised when he opens his bag and takes out a pair of his own ballet shoes and puts them on.
He does a few warm-up exercises and stretches at the barre.
He's been retired from the Bolshoi for ten years, but he doesn't move like someone retired for a decade.
He moves as though he performed with us yesterday.
It makes me suddenly wonder if he still dances for himself in his off time. Maybe he has a barre at home like I do.
Mr. V. spends the first hour teaching me the solo. It's easy to pick up because I've seen it so many times. But since I've seen it in rehearsals and not on stage, there are a few parts I've missed. He spends extra time on those parts, making sure I have it down before moving on.
He plays the music and lets me do the entire solo once I know all the parts. He shouts out a couple of corrections as I go. I fix them on the next run through.
“Very good,” he says. “We've got another hour. I'll teach you the pas de deux.”
“I need a partner.”
“It's been a while, but I think I can manage,” Mr. V. says.
I worry I've offended him, but when I look up, he's smiling at me.
“Okay,” I say.
He's still an amazing dancer. So much better than Henry, though I will never ever tell Henry that.
It would hurt him even though he knows he'll never get out of the corps.
He's a solid corps dancer, but he's not principal material.
As far as I can tell, he doesn't seem sad about this. He accepted the truth of it long ago.
“Do you miss it?” I ask Mr. V. when we finish for the day. Another rehearsal is starting in Studio B, and both of us need to be in there.
“Sometimes,” he says. “But I also love teaching. Two p.m. next week?”
“Yes.” This time I manage to contain my squeals and hugs.
By the time Wednesday night rolls around, I’ve practiced Odette's solo more times than I can count in my private studio space at home, and I've done what little I can of the pas de deux alone, marking all of the parts as well as I can.
I'm wearing the plum leotard today and all the other things he requested.
“I want you en pointe tonight,” the voice says over the speaker system.
I strip off my outer layer of clothes, finish getting ready, and put my pointe shoes on. I pull on my leg warmers and stand at the barre to begin my warmups. I want to ask if he was at the show opening night, but before I can find a way to phrase the question, he speaks again.
“I saw the mistake Thursday night. I'm sure no one else noticed it, but I noticed it.”
I swallow hard. He doesn't say anything else. I'm finished with my warm-ups before he speaks again.
“I want to see the solo, now.”
I move to the center of the stage. When the music begins I do the solo exactly as Mr. V. taught it to me. When the music stops, I stand there, pleased with myself, sure I've impressed him.
“The angle of your arabesque is off. And your second turn could have been tighter. Try again.”
I'm sure I did this exactly as I was taught. But thinking on it, the angle was a little off, and maybe the turn could have been tighter. This man is pickier than Mr. V. But I only nod.
“Speak,” he says, as though training a dog.
“Yes, Sir,” I say, rattled.
The music starts again. This time I get it right, and I can feel his pleasure at my performance.
“Beautiful. Go to the barre and put the blindfold on.”
I'm sure that as long as he makes me come to him every week like this, the order to put the blindfold on will make me feel this way—this unbalanced nervous energy in my stomach.
It's fear and excitement... anticipation.
He's coming to me. What will he do? Will he touch me?
Will he fuck me? His promise of soon has played all week on repeat in my mind like a background soundtrack to my life.
I stand at the barre, the blindfold in place, trying to calm my breathing. Again, I feel his approach before I hear it.
“Face the barre, and bend forward into a parallel stretch.”
I do as he asks, and a moment later, there’s a hard slap against my ass. I gasp. My instinct is to take my hands from the barre to rub the sting out.
“Do not move your hands,” he says, as though reading my mind.
I stay perfectly still, waiting for the sting to fade.
“That was for your error on Thursday. Don't do it again, or I'll punish you. Now stand upright.”
I do as he asks, trying to process what just happened.
I feel the heat in my face, knowing he sees my blush.
He spanked me. Like some misbehaving child, for a minor misstep onstage.
I know, given my violent history with Conall, I should rip the blindfold off and try to run.
But for some reason, I'm not scared. Even though he just smacked my ass, it's not the same.