In Paris
"Again, Nadya!"
On the ground, sweat pouring off her forehead, she glared intensely at the perfectly waxed wooden floor, unwilling to accept failure.
It was her third week in the city of lights and, in her naivety, it seemed far above her head when she arrived. Historic landmarks, markers of ancient times were a shock compared to the infancy of Indianapolis.
In fact, the Louvre itself could be seen from the Paris Marias Dance School, where she unfortunately was now. Where the training was rigorous, competitive and the instructor and students alike could only be described as cutthroat. There had been no learning curve upon arrival. In the States she had relative confidence in her abilities, she had worked long enough, had devoted practically every waking moment to it, and had been commended for her natural talent.
At Butler, she had always been in the contest for lead, had won it several times, and that seemed nothing to sniff at. But the girls here were doing plenty of it. Thoroughly unimpressed and ruthless, they made no subtle attempt at weeding her out.
Toes had been stepped on, "accidents" occurred, and instructor Giry had decided to leave her to Darwinism...survival of the fittest. It wasn't that the teacher was completely unsympathetic, but she was serious to a fault. Weakness or humility was not anything to be desired. Her expression fit her philosophy. With hair tied strictly back into a suffocating bun, soured lips, and a permanent glaring expression, Nadya did not want to cross this woman in an alleyway, let alone a studio.
After the first couple days, she had wanted to go crawling back, but a new, unexpected resolve burst within her. This meant too much. If she would be disgraced, it would be on the stage, on her terms. No foppish, gaudy group of brats would get in the way.
Panting hard, the wall of mirrors mocked her, and she caught a few of the girls sniggering callously in the reflection. After her tumble, they enclosed into a circle, leaning against the golden rail, and were now giving her sneers and sideways glances. Giry stood across from them but kept her piercing eye on Nadya, arms crossed, her severe expression growing sharper as she furrowed her brow.
Eventually Nadya pushed herself up, recollecting her pride, and immediately posed determinedly in fourth position. One arm gracefully above her head, with the other across her waist, and one foot pointed perfectly in front of the other, she awaited orders.
With an impressed glimmer in her dark eye, Giry started counting off again, a slight smile on her lips as she began pacing. The other ballerinas who had been guffawing now followed suit.
It was a back-breaking routine, the most difficult Nadya had ever attempted, but it was worthwhile. If she succeeded, if only once, she would prove it to herself that she belonged here. Each day she got a little better, with each practice she stumbled less, and managed to detect and avoid sabotage, senses keen.
The clock finally struck six, and Giry dismissed them. Pleased with herself, Nadya had only fallen once. It was a new record. As the girls all swarmed to their gym bags, she remained behind still trying to get her foot positioning right. No one noticed her. If any reaction was given, it was an eye roll followed by an insult she could not understand.
When the mass of people filed out, she took one more turn about the room, one more leap and land done right, and let herself finish for the day. Her bag was always the last to be dissected and re-stuffed, sitting sadly by the door. All the other dancers had glittery ones with high-end fashion brands painted braggingly on the side. She supposed they probably replaced theirs every year.
But she had a sentimental attachment to her sweat-stained, emerald green Nike one. It had been with her all the way through high school, college, had been there when her mother was diagnosed with emphysema, when her father died. It became a precious talisman.
Of course, she was probably ridiculed for it, but she did not mind. It was a little piece of her culture she brought with her, the grungy spirit of home. Quietly walking toward it, she kneeled and began unpacking her favorite windbreaker and yoga pants and replaced them with soaked headbands, tights, and shoes.
As she turned to leave, now alone, she caught a glimpse of herself in the adjacent mirror. Her dark hair, which she got from her mother, was tied in its usual messy bun, with thick strands trying to jump out. Her skin was sun-kissed around the cheekbones after walking around, seeing the sights, but remained stubbornly the same medium olive color. Her irises she also got from her mother, a deep hazel that jumped noticeably between green and brown, never making up its mind. Her father supplied the rest, and she saw his severity: Angular chin and definite cheekbones contoured in a long face, she would have come across as very sharp if it hadn't been for her round eyes.
Unfortunately she did not retain her father's height, so she stood petite yet strong.
Her parents always called her the "hybrid", for she seemed to split their features half-and-half. In America, the melting pot, no one noticed these combinations, everyone was a bit of everything. Yet, this was not the case here.
Pale yet rosy cheeks were the archetype, along with wide faces, unassuming chins, and soft, full lips. This was especially seen in the dancing world, where each girl was attempting to become a figurine, not an athlete.
Smoking was a constant, and thin was certainly still in. At Butler, the stereotypical ballet culture still held sway, but it was without question regarded as a sport foremost. Thus, in contrast, while the others were trying to be fluttery swans, she was a pouncing cat.
In the few weeks since she started, she had not changed her style, and they did not ask it of her, but it meant that she would be set apart from the rest. Yet another difference.
Heaving a sigh, she stepped out the door and headed back to her hotel. It, too, was a short walk, taking only about twenty minutes. The Hotel Scribe, which the school had generously paid for, was magnificent. From the 19th century, it was a cornucopia of opulence and heritage. Even better, it was just across the street from the Paris Opera House!
That infamous place, she hadn't managed to squeeze in a visit yet, for it was a popular attraction. But she was determined to fit it in sometime this week. The very thought of touring it sent shivers of anticipation down her spine. The day was looking up.
Yet, as she walked humbly out onto the crowded street, there was someone waiting for her. At first, she kept her head down and didn't notice, lost in her planning.
He wouldn't be ignored, however, and soon she felt a presence directly next to her. Turning her head, she gave a slight cringe. People did not regard personal space here, but it was clear this was more than a cultural phenomenon.
A tall man, with a bold complexion, he seemed unfairly pretty. Honeyed hair with darker strands of copper, a tan face and piercing blue eyes, she hadn't the faintest idea of what to say, and he was staring right at her, their elbows an inch apart.
Mystified, she peered right back, unable to break the odd spell as they strode symmetrically.
"Uhh..." was the only thing she could utter.
Snapping the connection, he replied:
"I thought that was very brave of you."
Surprised that he was not French, but certainly from Eastern Europe, she was caught off-guard by his sporadic compliment. She reeled, trying to brainstorm exactly what she had done that could be considered remotely heroic or confident. Nothing came to mind.
Too tired to lie or figure out the riddle, she sighed:
"I think you've got the wrong girl, sir."
Puzzled for a moment, he furrowed his perfect brow, but then smiled.
"You don't remember?" he asked innocently, a chuckle escaping. "It was only a few minutes ago."
Now really stumped, she stopped her progression, annoying a couple behind her. But she paid them no mind, even when the woman gave her a slight shove.
"Look, I don't have any idea what you're talking about, but thanks I guess," she explained, crossing her arms.
The city was starting to come to life, the infamous lights flickering, signaling the emergence of a new crowd, a second dawning. The odd stranger only grinned more at her weak clarification, his whitened teeth shimmering against the twilight backdrop. Believing him to be rude, she was getting angry. So she pulled him subtly to the side, trying to avoid the glares and throng coming her way. He complied weirdly enough. Stopping, they were now profiled against a brick wall, next to the many smokers who leaned on it casually.
She pressed her lips into a hard line as she faced him.
"If Marcy put you up to this, you can tell her to go to hell," she fumed, too drawn out to play these games.
Again he acted the fool.
"Who is Marcy?" he questioned, smile faltering. "I think you misunderstand. I was only trying to pay a compliment."
"Ha-ha, I get it," she said a little harshly, this was not the first time she had been the butt of a joke. "But I didn't do anything."
She started to turn away, her peaceful night beginning to sour. Unbelievably, he stopped her, grabbing her arm, she whisked back and gave him a baffled brow.
Was this guy serious?
"Please, just listen," he offered, and she relented, trying to get this conversation over with.
"Yeah, ok," she replied, turning her head away and crossing her arms.
Pleased that he had succeeded in diplomacy, he took a moment to formulate his words, converting whatever his native tongue was into English.
"I don't mean to sound..." he paused, mulling. "...like a creep? Is that how you Americans say it?"
She nodded, getting a little satisfaction from his struggle.
Again, happy with his apt translation, he flashed a smirk. She rolled her eyes.
"It was very strong of you, not letting the princesses," at this he jerked his head backward, and she understood he meant the other dancers. "Embarrass you. You are very...determined, and that is an admirable quality."
Her jaw dropped a little. There was nothing venomous or of a jeering nature in his eyes, which was even more of a shock. She almost expected the other ballerinas to come jumping out of a bush, laughing hysterically at her.
Nothing happened. She blinked a few times and gave him a tiny smile back, signaling a white flag.
"Oh," she admitted, softening her gaze. "Thanks. You're the first person to actually say something nice to me here. So, sorry about being so harsh."
He put a hand, a long graceful one, up courteously.
"It is no trouble," he said, a gleam of mischief in his cerulean eyes. "Pretty girls should never trust the French."
Despite herself, she laughed, feeling a knot loosen in her chest as she did. It had been a while since she allowed herself the pleasure. He imitated her, chuckling cutely, his dormant dimples peeking out.
Then, he bowed, and she wondered if she wasn't just making the whole exchange up. He took her hand in his and held it to his face. She gulped.
"Pardon my rudeness," he said. "For I have not told you my name. I am Rurik Chernov."
So stunned, she barely noticed when he let it go, and it flopped back to her side.
"Chernov?" she squeaked. "The critic?"
"So you know of me?" he wondered, mouth pulling down.
"Well, yeah!" she gushed. "Me and mom would read your columns all the time! The way you write...it's like I'm there with you. It's really beautiful."
Apparently he had expected a diatribe, for an acute sense of relief flashed on his face.
"You and your mother would be the only ones who would think so," he responded sheepishly, rubbing his neck. "I am not very popular around here."
Unsure of what to say, he thankfully made it easy.
"Well, enough of that talk," he chirped, flashing his pearly whites again. "May I escort you to wherever it is you were going?"
Tickled by his charm, she nodded warmly. A flurry of feelings mingled in her chest, and she didn't know how to separate them out. But, for the moment, she was happy to have a friend in a strange land.