Read Online Russian Winter by Daphne Kalotay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daphne Kalotay
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not just onstage but in this new life, a dancer, permitted—by her own doggedness and exacting training as much as by luck and the various whims of the universe—to do for a living the thing she loves most in the world.
Now it is December. Winter darkness, like a candle blown out. All month a flu has stalked its way through the company, as always, just in time for the endless Shchelkunchik performances, half the corps shivering with fever, mucus flung from noses with each pirouette. Tonight all three principals are ill, and Nina at the last minute finds herself dancing the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy, holding forth well enough in the big adagio but still worrying the audience might begrudge this eleventh-hour switch.
Her pulse continues to rush after the heavy curtains have swung shut, and then she is back in the chilly dressing room she shares with Polina now that they have both been promoted to first soloist. Polina is Nina’s age, with freckled skin, spidery eyelashes, and a long, thin neck. Tonight she danced the part of the Snow Queen and has glitter all through her hair. Peeling off sweaty tights with trembling hands, trying to hurry, hoping the silk doesn’t snag. An official from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs has requested two dancers for a reception tonight, and in the absence of any principals, Nina and Polina are to perform.
Only after company class this morning did the director explain: a foreign delegation; a Party official’s private residence; a car and escort to be sent for them…
“You of course understand what an honor this is, to entertain our leaders.”
Of course she is honored. While the top-tier dancers (and actors, writers, singers) often perform at government functions, not until this year has Nina been included in the lowest reaches of this category. Yet even now, as she quickly washes and powders herself, shehears the implication in the director’s words: that it is her duty to perform, that both she and Polina are at the service of the state. If only she weren’t so tired, if only the hour weren’t so late. Already this week she has performed double her usual bill. Her pointe shoes, crusted with rosin, are starting to wear through.
“I’m so excited,” Polina is saying, stuffing pink tights and leg warmers into her drawstring bag. “I just wish I had something better to wear.”
“They’ll only see our costumes, anyway.” Changing into her one good dress, though, Nina too feels plain. Just last week her mother fixed her coat up for her—sewed a yard of braid to the cuffs and hem—yet the elbows are so worn, they shine. At the last minute, though, she has an idea.
“Well now, where did that come from?” Waiting in her own shiny-elbowed coat, Polina raises her overplucked eyebrows.
“Where do you think?” Across Nina’s shoulders is a fur, white and lush, taken from the costume stash. “I’m just borrowing it.” She rubs her chin against the animal’s small head as she and Polina, carrying the hangers with their costumes, and the drawstring bags with their shoehorns and leg warmers and rubbing alcohol, and the clutch purses with their perfume and lipstick, make their way outside, where their escort—a shivering, glum-looking man in a thick-shouldered coat—waits.
The snow has been coming down since afternoon, wet flakes beginning to turn icy. Polina keeps exclaiming about the weather as she and Nina are driven along in a long black ZiS limousine. This is the first time either of them has ridden in one. Only once has Nina been inside a private automobile—back before the war, when a friend’s cousin was visiting and took them for a drive in an old German Opel. Now Nina supposes the cousin must have gone off to the war, wonders, with that familiar, vaguely sick feeling in her chest, if he made it home or ended up in a steel box. Or maybe he is like thebeggars she sees on the streets, with stumps for limbs. Nina always stops to give them a few kopecks. In her
Now it is December. Winter darkness, like a candle blown out. All month a flu has stalked its way through the company, as always, just in time for the endless Shchelkunchik performances, half the corps shivering with fever, mucus flung from noses with each pirouette. Tonight all three principals are ill, and Nina at the last minute finds herself dancing the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy, holding forth well enough in the big adagio but still worrying the audience might begrudge this eleventh-hour switch.
Her pulse continues to rush after the heavy curtains have swung shut, and then she is back in the chilly dressing room she shares with Polina now that they have both been promoted to first soloist. Polina is Nina’s age, with freckled skin, spidery eyelashes, and a long, thin neck. Tonight she danced the part of the Snow Queen and has glitter all through her hair. Peeling off sweaty tights with trembling hands, trying to hurry, hoping the silk doesn’t snag. An official from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs has requested two dancers for a reception tonight, and in the absence of any principals, Nina and Polina are to perform.
Only after company class this morning did the director explain: a foreign delegation; a Party official’s private residence; a car and escort to be sent for them…
“You of course understand what an honor this is, to entertain our leaders.”
Of course she is honored. While the top-tier dancers (and actors, writers, singers) often perform at government functions, not until this year has Nina been included in the lowest reaches of this category. Yet even now, as she quickly washes and powders herself, shehears the implication in the director’s words: that it is her duty to perform, that both she and Polina are at the service of the state. If only she weren’t so tired, if only the hour weren’t so late. Already this week she has performed double her usual bill. Her pointe shoes, crusted with rosin, are starting to wear through.
“I’m so excited,” Polina is saying, stuffing pink tights and leg warmers into her drawstring bag. “I just wish I had something better to wear.”
“They’ll only see our costumes, anyway.” Changing into her one good dress, though, Nina too feels plain. Just last week her mother fixed her coat up for her—sewed a yard of braid to the cuffs and hem—yet the elbows are so worn, they shine. At the last minute, though, she has an idea.
“Well now, where did that come from?” Waiting in her own shiny-elbowed coat, Polina raises her overplucked eyebrows.
“Where do you think?” Across Nina’s shoulders is a fur, white and lush, taken from the costume stash. “I’m just borrowing it.” She rubs her chin against the animal’s small head as she and Polina, carrying the hangers with their costumes, and the drawstring bags with their shoehorns and leg warmers and rubbing alcohol, and the clutch purses with their perfume and lipstick, make their way outside, where their escort—a shivering, glum-looking man in a thick-shouldered coat—waits.
The snow has been coming down since afternoon, wet flakes beginning to turn icy. Polina keeps exclaiming about the weather as she and Nina are driven along in a long black ZiS limousine. This is the first time either of them has ridden in one. Only once has Nina been inside a private automobile—back before the war, when a friend’s cousin was visiting and took them for a drive in an old German Opel. Now Nina supposes the cousin must have gone off to the war, wonders, with that familiar, vaguely sick feeling in her chest, if he made it home or ended up in a steel box. Or maybe he is like thebeggars she sees on the streets, with stumps for limbs. Nina always stops to give them a few kopecks. In her
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