The one thing Alex hated about life as a dancer was living out of a suitcase and the regular changes of base. Each year as a dancer he had toured and made occasional guest appearances, racking up his airmiles. He had no reason to complain as he'd been a nomad his entire life. The longest he'd lived anywhere was London with the four years at Cheyne Walk, between the ages of 11 and 15 and other four years split between Deptford and Chelsea, between the ages of 18 and 22. Even so, his true home was New York. The place he had been reborn as Sasha Makarov, like a phoenix rising from the embers left of Alex Rider.
He had already sent the majority of his belongings direct from Moscow to Sydney, where they would stay in storage until he got another apartment. He had decided to rent a room during his six month probationary period, with a get out clause if things did not work out for either dancer or the company. Nothing placed in storage meant much to him anyway. It could all be easily replaced. His father's medals and the few Rider heirlooms had been left in a lockup in Vauxhall, along with a few dodgier items including a stash of cash and false documents, if he needed to run to ground.
He was a rolling stone, when he had left New York in 2005, he had less than 20kg of belongings. After leaving London, it had taken him four months to ship out his furniture, art, tv and sound system to his place in Siberia. Several items had been left there, after walking out; making a clean break of all he had shared with Tania. Of all his possessions, it was his iPod and hard-drive of photographs which meant most to him. Those were always in his hand luggage. The only thing left of his years with Manfred were pieces of music and photos and videos of performances and practices. Bernd had tried to keep everything in his brother's house in Deptford, only allowing Alex to take his clothes and personal items. The twenty-one year old Alex had produced a receipt proving the hard drive was his with grim satisfaction. The only reason he had it was that his late lover had no real interest in technology beyond tapes, CDs and DVDs and really preferred to his beloved vinyl record collection.
Yesterday, Alex had bought a second hand iBook laptop and was in the process of editing together a slide show with the help of Pyotr. He had permission to use his chosen piece of rock music. His choreography was shaping up. It was good to be working hard.
….
Of all things Luci hated, it was the fact Sasha was neither home frequently nor for long enough. His short stays and long departures left a hole in their lives. Small things, like his baking, which was adored by all her children. The fact he had instilled the necessity of tidiness and sharing chores in her boys. Even so Sasha spoiled Nina atrociously. He was a breeze of energy electrifying their lives. She could not be sure if they were as important to him as he was to them. She was almost sure, because he came back. Luciana Stavenkov was shrewd enough to see the fear in Sasha's eyes; fear that this idyll would also be ripped from him. A hard life had taught him to cut and run; he did run but came back. Now, he was running off again.
Vladimir had tried to reassure her that all children left, that Aleksandr was a fine young man. They could only be proud of him for his accomplishments and support him over hardships and failures. He was strong. After many rejections he had become the dancer Maria had placed her faith in. Teaching can only take you part of the way, a start and no more; nerve, steely determination, hard work and more than a little luck were what drove you to make a career in art and theatre. In many ways the cuckoo in their family was braver and more resourceful than any person the Russian born American had ever known. Sasha who had danced on the streets, mixed circus and humour into his own pieces; while he had still been truly in love with classical dance for him to keep trying again and again to gain acceptance.
Maybe after this stint in Australia, Maria's boy would settle in his home and dance in New York.
In a strange way, the boy from London had made his own children love Russian things. Vladimir had embraced America, had never returned even to visit Russia. Sasha talked in Russian to the children, making them effortlessly bilingual; made kasha, apple sharlotka, borscht and pierogi, although Luci drew the line at Hunter's stew once she found out it actually meant hunting vermin. That had been one of those hilarious arguments that made the rounds at dinner parties of her going into the kitchen to make breakfast to find Sasha skinning a cat for their supper. Several rats were already in the stew pot at that point. Aleksandr had tried to placate her by saying he would maker her a hat from the pelt. All skills learnt from Prima Ballerina Maria Makarova.
…
At six in the morning Pytor was explaining social media to his brother from another mother, although Aleksandr was stubbornly old school at times. "You need to use FaceTime, Twitter, Facebook, Skype and Instagram. Mom goes spare when I use her phone to call you. Its more like texting and photo sharing than emails. An open dialogue for all to be connected to. You can even post videos. Look I'll set things up for you. Then you can keep in contact with us, well not dad. Maybe if you start using these things he might."
The eleven year old then stopped playing with settings on the laptop and got serious. "Your photos in your back projection… some of them, you were young and well… naked. I know Mom and dad talk about you when they think we're asleep or not listening in, but we, Grishka and me, know you had a shit childhood. Worse than dad's, he says ballet saved you both. Mom talks of her life growing up with dance lessons, her ponies, social engagements and I get that we're very lucky. Mom worries about you. That you're still getting hurt, because something bad happened over those photos in Russia."
Alex sighed and tried to explain how harsh life was, is in; when the veneer of politeness and respectability is stripped away. "Your mom has a very black and white view of life. Which is quite innocent in a way. Her mom died when she was young which gave her inner steel and made her strong, but also a little sad, always. Your dad, he has bad things in his past, he sees the authorities in Russia as the worst. Well, they're not so bad, considering. I've seen a lot worse. Nietzsche says what does not kill you makes you stronger. Maria was a little more blunt, victims are the ones without voices, the ones who died, who are in shallow graves, unloved, unmourned and forgotten. To survive, you walk away from those same situations, having witnessed death, murder, pillage, desecration, the horror of pure hatred and destruction. There is good and evil in everyone. Try to do the right thing, protect others, love when you can, fight and not give in. Sometimes even the good destroy… soldiers kill…. the good and righteous still die. Bad things happened to me, but I survived to fight another day. I'm hard, in a way I hope you never are. I have done brutal things. I use my body as a weapon. Once you have been used… sexually… without love or affection… its just another thing you can use to get something or to barter with. Just because I do these things, that's my problem. One of those situations stupid adults say do not follow my example. I started on this path by trusting and loving the wrong person. To survive loving a person with no morals, you lose yourself in the process. Hence my problems with drink and drugs. You may face similar situations, but getting high does not make those problems go away. You just have double the problems as you are addicted to shit as well as being up shit creek without a paddle. Pray you never face what I've faced. Hopefully I'd be around to protect you, Gregori and Nina." Alex did not add, he had no mercy for anyone who tried to hurt or exploit Luci's kids.
"So, yes those photos were taken of me when I was still innocent, against my will, I'd been drugged unconscious. I wasn't the only one, there were other boys at that school also affected." Alex smiled "It happened, nothing I can do or say can undo that. I'm putting those photos into the show to let everyone know that I'm fine with that, I've moved forward. I survived. Just as your dad survived, moved forward, now he's a happy and made a family. Even if he knows nothing of social media."
…
The bond haired eleven year was putting on ballet shoes and was scowling trying to hide the fact he was petrified. "How did you persuade me to do this?"
"You wanted to try acting. You get to pretend to be me, when I was sort of normal. You were game for it. Do this and the school drama club will have no problems taking you. Quick deep breaths, focus. Larry is going to be there as your foil. Knock 'em dead." Alex then ran around to his starting place for this full dress rehearsal.
As a performer, Alex never got nervous or ill in anticipation of going on stage. The whole getting in costume, putting on make-up and waiting was calming as he pulled himself into his given role, it was not him on view on stage. He was an observer pushed back in his mind as he mimed, acted and moved. Above the stage, the dancer watched the acapella group finish their recital and the stage went dark. A single spotlight then illuminated Pyotr, who was seamlessly going through positions as if at the bar, when Larry the assistant stage manager came and manhandled him off, the American boy's London accent was perfect as he pleaded to be allowed to dance. Then the back screen projection started, cycling through photos of young, exploited and abused Alex Rider from the school photos from Years 7-9 at Brookland, illicit photos taken in Paris by Miss Stellenbosch, to a group shot of all the boys at Point Blanc, only his face was the only one not obscured. A school photo taken in 2002, just after he got back from Kenya, bruised, emotionless with hard eyes. Then the photos taken by Edward in California of a sullen teenager. The next was the police shots from Miami and his cue to grip the rope and descended to the stage as the music started.
He moved and the images on the back projection changed to images of Manfred, Maria and Vladimir's careers and finally the one photo of all four of them together, Alex at sixteen; a lanky frail and skinny youth with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks , the look of a teenager ravaged by months of existing on a diet of cocaine and alcohol.
There was an eerie silence from the audience as Alex loved forward to take a bow. Pyotr edged onto the stage and broke the silence, "Its was OK wasn't it. I thought I nailed the accent. Didn't I? Dad?"
Alex then stepped forward trying to see the five spectators in the audience and said "Yeah, too biographical? Maybe I should just do my Shostakovich set piece tonight?"
Vladimir came on stage, looking devastated. "We're taking five. It was wonderful. Both of you were fantastic." The artistic director moved to hug his son and then Maria's boy. "I had forgotten about that photo. I had disapproved of her taking in a feral child as she was getting old, but you gave her a second lease of life. She said you needed space from Manfred as he was not a father figure and I was spun into her schemes." He stood back. "Do not change a thing about your piece. This is the reason for the Arts Centre. To give children such as you other options than gangs or drugs or in your case worse."
Pyotr then piped up "Which is PC, rent boy or sex worker? Sasha was a kid though? He says he's not a victim so survivor of sexual exploitation? Need to get the terminology right as I'm writing a piece on this for the school paper."