Zoya

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” She wanted to throw her arms around her and kiss her, but she restrained herself. She was afraid to lose the opportunity she had. She would do anything to dance for Diaghilev, and this woman was going to let her do it. It was beyond anything she had ever dreamed. Perhaps Paris wasn't going to be so bad after all … not if she could become a ballerina. “I'll be better after I've danced again. I haven't danced in two months. I'm a little rusty.”

“Then you'll be even better than I think.” She smiled at the beautiful young redhead standing so graceful and poised beside the piano, and then suddenly Zoya gave a gasp. She had promised her grandmother she'd be back in a little while, and she'd been gone for almost two hours.

“I must go! My grandmother! … Oh … I'm so sorry …” She dashed off to change her clothes again, and returned in her navy skirt and sailor blouse, a swan having been changed back into a duckling. “I'll be back in two days … and thank you for the shoes! …” She started to hurry off, and then suddenly turned back again, and shouted to the woman who watched her go. “Oh … what time?”

“Two o'clock!” The woman called, and then remembered something else. “What's your name?”

“Zoya Ossupov!” she called back, and then was gone, as the woman at the piano sat down with a smile, remembering the first time she had danced for Diaghilev twenty years before … the girl was good, there was no denying that … Zoya … poor child, she had been through enough from what she'd said in her simple words … it was hard to imagine being eighteen again, and as exuberant as Zoya.

CHAPTER

10

At two o'clock on a Friday afternoon, Zoya arrived at the Chatelet with a small tapestry bag, a leotard, and a pair of brand-new ballet shoes. She had sold her watch to pay for them, and had told her grandmother nothing of where she was going. All Zoya could think of for two days was the extraordinary opportunity she was about to have, and she was praying to all her guardian angels and favorite saints that she wouldn't make a mess of it. What if she was awkward … if she fell … if he hated her style … if Madame Nastova had been lying to her all these years. She had been filled with dread, and by the time she reached the Châtelet again all she wanted to do was run away, but she saw the woman for whom she had danced two days before, and suddenly it was too late. Diaghilev himself arrived and Zoya was introduced to him. And the next thing she knew she was on the stage, dancing for all of them as they sat in the audience, and she even forgot they were there. She was more comfortable than she had been two days before, much to her own surprise, and the music seemed to lift her up and carry her away. And when she was finished» they asked her to dance again, this time with a man, and he was very good, as Zoya seemed to fly through the air on the wings of angels. All in all, she danced for an hour and a half, and once again she was drenched when she stopped, and the new shoes were killing her, but she felt as though she could have flown to the moon as she turned to them. They were nodding, there were unintelligible words. They seemed to confer for hours, and then one of the teachers turned summarily to her and called across the stage as though it were no very remarkable thing.

“Next Friday, four o'clock, répétition générale, right here. Thank you very much.” And with that, they turned away from her, as she stood with tears rolling down her cheeks. Madame Nastova hadn't lied and the gods had been good to her. She didn't know if it meant she had a job, and she didn't dare to ask them. All she knew was that she was dancing in the rehearsal next Friday afternoon. And maybe … maybe … if she was very, very good … she didn't even dare think of it as she changed her clothes and flew through the doors. She wished she could tell her grandmother, but she knew she could not. The idea of Zoya becoming a dancer would have driven her wild. It was better not to say anything, at least not yet. Perhaps if they actually let her dance with the Ballet Russe … perhaps then …

But the following week, victorious, having landed a job, for the time being at least, she had to share her good news.

“You did what?” Her grandmother looked shocked, stunned beyond belief.

“I auditioned for Serge Diaghilev and he is letting me perform with the Ballet Russe. The first performance is next week” She could feel her heart pound and her grandmother did not look pleased.

“Are you mad? A common dancer on the stage? Can you imagine what your father would say to something like that?” It was a blow below the belt and it hurt too much as she wheeled on the grandmother she loved with wounded eyes.

“Don't talk about him like that. He's dead. He wouldn't like any of the things that have happened to us, Grandmama. But they have, and we have to do something about it. We can't just sit here and starve.”