Chapter 20 #2
Grisha parks the car on a street that's relatively quiet for the Admiralteysky[23] district, one of St. Petersburg's most famous historic and cultural neighborhoods. When I get out of the car, Grisha is already at my side, and the moment I head toward the project entrance, he follows me.
“You can wait for me here.” I look at him and then at the car.
“I must not lose sight of you, ma'am,” he says, his tone serious.
“It's just a visit,” I argue, forcing myself not to lose my patience.
“I have to keep the Pakhan's wife safe, and that's what I'm going to do.”
His voice is deep and low, leaving no room for negotiation. The most frustrating part, though, is his posture—rigid as stone. The brute stands with his arms crossed and doesn't even bother to look at me when he speaks, just glances furtively in all directions, scanning for threats.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter, walking past him. “It's a social project.”
“You'd be surprised how many bad people hide in social projects, ma'am.”
I don't respond, because I figure he's right, so I head to the entrance of Dreaming on Pointe. Grisha follows me everywhere, always two steps behind with a stony expression, his eyes sweeping every corner as if a child in a tutu might jump out and ambush us.
Right now, I feel afraid. Like an idiot, I hadn't thought about what the director would think when she saw me with an armed thug trailing behind me. It's easy enough to put two and two together and assume that after my career ended, I got involved with the wrong people.
Without realizing it, I touch my grandmother's pearl earring—that old tic that brings me comfort. She wouldn't judge me. My dear grandmother would understand that I did the best I could with the situation I found myself in.
But as soon as she sees me, Vanya Gurenova says nothing about Grisha. She just stares at me in a way that undoes me a little, because it's been years since anyone looked at me like this.
“Anya Voronova.” The way she pronounces what was once my stage name gives me chills. “I saw you dance at the Bolshoi. Twice. And I left speechless.”
I open my mouth to make a joke like I always do—a bit of self-deprecation to balance the discomfort I feel whenever someone mentions my past at the dance company.
But the sincerity in her words left me as speechless as Mrs. Gurenova said she was.
Her words, her look, the tone of admiration brought back the feeling that this is me.
The ballerina.
“It's been a while,” is all I can say.
“Talent like yours doesn't have an expiration date, my dear.” Vanya smiles, unbothered by the wrinkles that frame her face. “Come, let me show you my girls.”
The headquarters is small: three long rooms with wooden floors that have seen better days, a barre on only one side, a noisy heater losing the battle against the cold.
Girls of mixed ages share the same time slot, some with torn tights, all staring at me without even trying to hide it.
None of them has ever set foot on a real stage—it's obvious from the way they grip the barre.
There's more heart here than technique. And technique is the only thing I have left.
I speak little during the visit and observe each face, each corner. When I finally gather the courage to say that I want to teach for real—come at set times, establish something consistent and disciplined—Vanya stops in the middle of the room.
“That takes a lot of time and commitment. This project is all some of these girls have,” she says, sitting behind a desk cluttered with papers in a room too small for the two of us and Grisha, who once again refused to stay outside.
“Time and commitment are what I have plenty of.”
“Why do you want to do this?” The question catches me by surprise, but I decide to be honest.
“Since I stepped away from the stage, I've felt like something was missing—a purpose.” I swallow hard, not wanting to dwell on this subject. “And since I recently moved to St. Petersburg, I thought this would be a great way to start.”
“What are you suggesting? A regular workshop once a month?” A wide smile spreads across my lips.
“I want to work with the most talented girls you have, prepare them for auditions at the major Russian ballet companies.”
“Professional company,” she repeats, astonished and excited. “You would prepare my girls?”
“The ones who have the talent for it. And from what little I've seen walking through the halls, there are several here who do.”
Her hand flies to her mouth. When she speaks again, her voice is choked and she's already planning out loud: a special class, the three or four who “have something,” the days, the schedules, what she'll need to arrange to receive me.
A former senior soloist from the Bolshoi preparing girls from a godforsaken social project for auditions at prestigious companies.
“This is a dream I dared to dream. Thank you, Miss Voronova.”
“Call me Anya.”
I don't tell her that Voronova is no longer my name, or that I no longer feel like the famous Anya Voronova. This place, this school, these people are my chance to start something new for a change.
One more.
Since I married Maksim, so many opportunities have come my way. I take a deep breath, smile at her as we say goodbye, and realize I like this feeling. This new life doesn’t seem as terrible as I imagined it would be when I got into that black car with a masked man.
On the way back, wrapped in Grisha’s icy silence, I feel the small, solid weight of Yelena’s knife tucked in my boot. A weight that, for some idiotic reason, makes me feel safer than this scowling, armed bodyguard following me.
I think it’s because I finally feel like I have something of my own. A purpose that didn’t come from Maksim, wasn’t handed to me by him, and isn’t a favor.
It’s mine.
The idea is mine, the planning, the execution, and every smile on Vanya’s face and those girls’ faces will be all my doing, without anyone else’s involvement.
The joy filling me is so overwhelming I want to scream.
Laugh out loud and scream. And before I realize it, I’m imagining how badly I want to tell him.
Every little detail. Vanya’s face when we met.
The girls gripping the barre tightly, doing their best to impress the visitor.
The crash course in self-defense with Yelena and the knife that will now always be tucked in my boot.
I wanted to see his expression, know what he would say, if he would share another story from his private life casually in the middle of a conversation, as if it were nothing.
I really wanted to tell him everything.
Actually, I think I wanted everything with him.
If only he would stop fighting it.