As the weeks passed, the Opera House started to dim from her thoughts. It was replaced by Rurik. Devilishly charming with an innocent wit, it was hard not falling head over heels for him. Instead of dancing, instead of her father, she thought of him often. After each lesson, she would hurry just like all the other girls, pushing her way to the front.
As always he would be standing outside, waiting for her. He hadn't been lying about being unpopular, the ballerinas hated him almost as much as they despised Nadya. One particular soloist was still burned from a nasty review he wrote, and she organized the others into a solid front.
They had rudely ignored the American before, but now there was no mercy. Instead of stepped-on toes, it was blatant tripping. She tried her best to be vigilant, to put on blinders, but when she did, they outright attacked.
"Little whore," they would jeer in broken English.
It got to the point when Giry had to step in. Banishing girls left and right, Nadya felt like a parasite. The studio was split, with one large bloc adamantly opposed to her relationship, and a much smaller section who were too apathetic to care. It still didn't make sense, their hatred.
Rurik was an honest critic, did he really deserve this? As she mulled it over, she wondered if it was something more.
A childish part of her asserted that they were just jealous. He was undoubtedly handsome, a prize, and she was seen as the opposite: A silly, backwater hick who masqueraded as a dancer.
The more suspicious, realistic side of her believed it was more than just petty envy or revenge. It was specific kind of animosity, one that signaled a deep emotional trauma: a broken heart.
She was building the courage to ask him right out, for he didn't know the drama of the studio, she purposefully left him out of it and he never asked.
But looking into his eyes, laughing carefree with him, was golden. How long had it been since she had had a friend? Did it matter if his past was muddled? Sure her time may be even more stressful, but it wasn't like it was a huge change from earlier. It only meant any hope of befriending a peer was down the toilette.
Yet, the days grew exponentially longer. It was pulling teeth keeping up a cool facade when rabid dogs were biting her heels constantly. On one particular morning, it had started terribly.
Determined to make her a fool, a lanky, crooked nosed ballerina outright pushed her out of a one-foot stance. Nadya fell, hard, a pained gasp echoing in the silence. Without even wasting a breath, Giry expelled the assailant, and then offered a hand.
Nadya took it, but as she came to her feet, an unexpected twinge stung her ankle. She limped to the rail and tried to have a decent look at it. It didn't seem too swollen, but she wasn't sure if she could continue practicing.
Giry came to the same conclusion and snatched a bag of ice, thrust it into her Nike gym bag, and ordered the injured girl to take the rest of the day off. This was a shock to the others, who had never seen Giry take a sick day or accept one.
Thankful, Nadya did not look back twice as she hobbled out.
Instead of walking, she had to take a cab. Her French was coming along relatively well and she managed to explain to the mustached driver where she wanted to go. In five minutes, she was in front of the grand hotel.
Her ankle was insistent on aching, so she was relieved when she stumbled back into her room. It had a brilliant view of the city, especially breathtaking at night. It was a mix of modern chic and 19th century gaudiness with white as a dominant color. Golden trimming was also the norm, but the shower was hilariously out of place with its sharp, futuristic features.
Instead of using it, she made a way for the small bath that sat unassumingly next to it. Downing a pair of pills and filling the tub high with steamy, soapy water, she plopped in. After only a few minutes, it was doing wonders for her nerves and bones.
Time passed lazily and she could feel a pruning coming on, so she finally pulled herself out of the water, her ankle ridiculously better. Satisfied, she changed into a comfortable pair of loose jeans and her favorite leather jacket. Whisking her wet hair into a familiar bun, she wondered what she would do for the rest of the day.
Although it seemed forever since she had been at the dance school, it was only just after noon. Then, a glimmer of something flickered in her peripheral. Curious, she wondered where it came from so she waddled over to the window, scanning.
It took only a second until the source and inspiration hit her like a train: The Opera House!
Its golden statue stood superbly above the rest of the buildings, beckoning to her as it shimmered in the bright sun.
Taking no more time to consider, she threw on a pair of sneakers, snatched her purse and left.
It was far better than her expectations. A timeless yet glorious place, every crevice of it was covered in something interesting and artistic. Twisting, writhing statues guarded the staircases while mosaics colored the high ceilings. The actual theater was massive, bigger than she thought it would be by far. Its scarlet velvet cradled the booths, and drew all attention to the sleek stage, the heavy curtain drawn, adding to the mystery.
If only her parents could be here! she wished.
She was sure her father would teach her new phrases and provide background while her mother would regal her with tales of the performers who had graced the stage.
Each aspect of the place made her chest swell with pride, a deep-seated joy broke free from her heavy heart. Here was her father! She had found him again!
Unfortunately, tourists were everywhere, but she remained somehow untouched by them, trying to absorb everything happening around her. After a few hours, she still hadn't sated her thirst to memorize every inch. There were dark hallways that no one was even exploring. It had the aura of being off-limits, but the guards were so busy tracking down sticky-hand toddlers and pointing directions, they didn't notice as she gallivanted down one of the ominous corridors.
Portraits of famous patrons, singers, and dancers lined the passage, their frames practically weaving together. It was creepily, yet invigoratingly dark, and she used it to flit from pane to pane without being seen, analyzing every face, noting each one's significance.
As the passageway grew narrower, it turned sharply to the right. Without thinking, without looking back, she giggled quietly as she hopped around the corner, spirit light as a feather. Yet, this section was different from the others.
It seemed as if the artist had abruptly stopped here. Only a few decorations highlighted the walls, and they were not as light-hearted. There was a story painted on the right-hand side, and it was obviously depicting a tragedy. Inspecting it closely, for it was hard to see in the gloom, she recognized a familiar scene.
It was recounting the myth of Persephone and Hades, the infamous tale of when the god kidnapped the daughter of the harvest. It had been the civilization's explanation of the seasons.
Nadya traced it from the beginning, where the daughter of Demeter sat innocently playing with flowers, reveling in springtime. Lurking in the shadows of the surrounding forest was the king of Hell, his bright eyes lustful as he watched her secretly.
Then, it became chaotic, Persephone was being dragged away ruthlessly by Hades. Flowers gone from her fingers, she was ripping grass trying to hold onto freedom. From the clouds above, Demeter looked on sadly, unable to save her daughter.
Progressing softly, she saw the goddess trapped in the rocky bowels of Erebus, crumpled and crying as Hades held out his hand to her. In his palm were pomegranate seeds, and in her distress, Persephone ate them, sealing her fate as queen of the underworld.
Grieved, Demeter caused a remorseless winter and withered fields. The gods were concerned, so a deal was struck, allowing her daughter to come up for four months at a time, saving the crops.
The final pane was a somber Persephone, with one hand reaching toward the bright sky littered with doves and clouds, and the other being held onto by Hades, who anchored her selfishly, the souls of the dead thronging around him.
Seeing the poor woman's face sent a foreshadowing chill down her spine. The radiance it once had was gone, replaced by solemnity. It was the face of someone who had reached a devastating epiphany: Even Olympus couldn't stop fate.
As her fingers brushed against the faded wall, the corridor came to a halt, and another undiscovered area awaited. Hesitant to leave the poignant scene, she made a promise to return to it, knowing it would be a favorite of hers.
The message of the myth hung with her, however, and her step was not as sprightly as it had been. Seeing Hades stare, the way he remained unseen, how he sprung out of hiding and stole Persephone made Nadya look over her shoulder.
The hallway she now walked had a variety of doors, and she guessed that they were dressing rooms. Shaking off a foreboding sense, she made sure no one was following her before she picked one at random. Deadly quiet, she could no longer hear the people, and the end of the hall was masked in obscure shadow. Barely breathing, she turned the dusty knob and pushed.
It opened with a creak and she sucked in a breath, praying no one heard it. After waiting for a reaction and receiving none, she exhaled in relief and pressed into the room.
As soon as she entered, she quickly shut the door behind her, gently nudging it back so as not to make a peep. Back against it, she surveyed the space with wonder. It was relatively small and probably filled with cobwebs, but she could completely imagine some famous performer resting here after a brilliant show.
Two mirrors faced one another. The one on the right was small, with a desk and quaint chair in front of it, fairly typical. The other took up the entire left wall, and it was this one that intrigued her the most. Framed with an intricate, metallic lace, it was in pristine condition. A lovely, burgundy cloth shrouded the top of it, resembling an opening stage curtain. It even had a golden rope wavering beside it.
Cocking her head to a side, she wandered over, trying to get a better look.
Her reflection was crystal clear. It was almost surreal that such a perfect object laid in the murky dust, completely untouched by the years. It wasn't possible.
That's when it hit her. For some reason, someone was caring for it. The image of Hades flashed in her mind, but she shook her head.
It was just a story.
Unwilling to let her rising unease ruin her good fun, she searched for a light. Did they have switches back then?
When none presented itself, she sighed a pulled out a lighter. In her first few days she tried to make friends by keeping one with her at all times. But the scheme didn't work, and it now sat unused in her purse.
Triggering it on, the room became slightly less unsettling. Thankfully, she spotted a pair of dirty candles on the desk. Tenderly holding the little flame to it, one of them actually lit up. She repeated the process with its brother.
Now we're cooking, she thought proudly, appraising her success.
It was so much prettier illuminated. She hadn't noticed the soft, pastel colors of the faded wallpaper, or the rusting gold of the mini-chandelier above her head. For some reason it reminded her of home, of singing with her dad in the dead of night, of a safe den to be herself.
A feeling she thought had died began to revive within. Surely, no one would hear her if she just sang a couple verses? The magic of the day was certainly doing wonders, this place seemed the closest thing to her father than anything had been in two years.
Closing her eyes, leaning against the table, she felt the warm flickering of the candles, could see her father's smiling face in her mind. Inhibitions floating away, she started by humming. The acoustics of the room were better than she thought, the sound echoed lovingly back.
It gave her a mounting courage, and she strained to remember the melodies. One came to her, and it seemed fitting. It was a song about a woman's heartfelt farewell to her only love. A smile playing on her lips, she gave a cough to clear her throat. Even though she hadn't even dreamt of singing again, her voice had not abandoned her, it rose to a poignant tenor, picking up where she left off.
Taking it as a sign, she put more buoyancy into it, freeing her abdomen as she relaxed. The resonance of the notes filled the room, engulfing her. Tears began to well, for all she could think of was her father and his love. In some ways, she changed the meaning of the lyrics. It wasn't a plea but a prayer, one she hoped would be heard wherever he was.
"Think of me, think of me fondly, when we say goodbye."
"Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you'll try."
Then, the final verses left her lips, and the glow of them faded into silence. Burdened with his vanishing memory, she skidded to the floor and held her head in her arms, trying to hold onto the moment.
Yet, as all the other times, he slipped away. Now desperate to keep his spirit alive, she raised her somber head, tear drops beginning to spill down her face. She repeated the song.
She sang until she her throat could take no more, until the sobs overtook the tune, and she broke down. It was the first time that acceptance peeked its head out. Anger had been with her for so long it seemed, but now the hurt was scarring, beginning to heal as she cried.
In her state, she did not feel his eyes, did not sense that her performance had attracted someone to her. From a place unseen, his inquisitive stare saw a weeping girl, the one who had been the source of the sound, a beautiful sound, like a siren call. Beholding her, investigation was becoming intrigue.
Was Fate beginning to spin his wheel?