Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(3)
At least my manners are still intact, so I reply as I should. “You’ve seen me dance?”
“I like to invest my time in the arts.” The stranger flashes a boyish smile in contrast to the deepness of his eyes. Eyes as blue as an iceberg, and as enigmatic as one too. They invoke a feeling of shallowness in my chest. It’s an odd sensation, but it feels as though he’s laughing at me.
I look at my father, the most powerful man I’ve ever known. Everything has shifted as he stands beside Nikolai, suddenly dwarfed. I want to know the purpose of this meeting. Nikolai is not an Italian associate, and he has no business being here.
An assistant pops her head in to alert me to the time, and my thoughts are swiftly refocused. I have less than five minutes to be upstairs. Papà apologizes for keeping me and says they will leave me to prepare. But Nikolai doesn’t heed my father’s words. He lingers unnecessarily, his eyes examining my face with unsettling curiosity.
“Tanaka?”
“Yes?”
His eyes cut through me. “Break a leg, won’t you?”
“Merde,” I correct him. “You don’t tell a dancer to break a leg.”
He shrugs, and with that remarkable impression, he leaves.
My fingers tremble as I reach for my pointes. I’ve spent hours preparing these new shoes—burning, smashing, sewing, altering—and when this performance is over, they will be ready for the trash.
My feet are battered and swollen, calloused and on the verge of deformity. The severity of my practice has left me no choice but to use ouch pouches. But as I look around the room, I can’t seem to find them. I know they were here, and I didn’t forget them because I never come unprepared. But they aren’t here now, and I have less than ten minutes to curtain.
The decision has been forfeited. I have no alternative but to go without, since there isn’t even a cotton ball to be found in my bag. The other dancers would surely have some on hand but asking for them would be admitting weakness. I would rather suffer an eternity in hell than admit I was weak. A principal would do whatever it takes, no matter how much it hurts.
And it hurts mercilessly when I squeeze my feet into the toe box. I take three deep breaths and push until my foot is in position. The beautiful shoes don’t take away my pain, but they do hide the ugliness of the sport. I sever the mental connection with the agony of my body before joining the rest of the cast. My guard follows dutifully behind me, weaving through the chaos that is the Met. Throughout the halls, the structure is alive and buzzing with art in its many forms. In the basement, the Met orchestra rehearses “Mahler’s Symphony No. 1,” while on a separate level, a craftswoman paints hundreds of flowers for Madama Butterfly. Somewhere between the wig room and costume shop and the class where our ballet mistress whipped us into shape earlier, there is hair and makeup, which I skip since I always elect to do it myself. At one point, we pass by a statue being erected for Tosca, and a rapper/drag queen who is more well known for his role as Prince Coffee.
Upon arrival at our final destination, the stage is already abuzz with energy. Dancers in costume whip out the moves they struggle with most, practicing tirelessly while they still have the chance. Also busy at work are the conductor, lighting manager, master carpenter, and stage manager. Just a few of the cogs that make this giant ballet machine purr.
There isn’t enough time to prepare. The only faith I can subscribe to is my unwavering practice. I have lived, breathed, eaten, and slept with this ballet. My mornings are spent with the company. Warm-ups at the barre. Rehearsals and exercises followed up with more training on my own time. Yoga and Pilates for strengthening any of the perceived weaknesses jotted into my journal. I have subsisted with the intent that this moment would be perfection. That every chance I seize to shine will be perfection. If I am to be appointed principal, I must be faultless. Every role, large or small, is an opportunity to prove my worth. Time is not a dancer’s friend, and when you are the daughter of Manuel Valentini, it can only be your enemy. I have a dream, short lived as it may be. As long as blood warms my veins, I will fight for it.
There are no excuses.
So when I am called upon, I float onto the stage, and I dance. Sometimes, false bravado is all you have. You can only hope and pray that you’ve done everything right. I slept for nine hours. I ate some light protein. I’ve stretched, though not as much as I would have liked. Now, I have only my skill to rely on.
The initial shot of adrenaline flooding my veins buffers the pain, gifting me false confidence. But upon stepping into my first croisé position, I become aware that something isn’t right. The toe box is cramped, and I blame myself. I should have been better prepared. I should have tested the shoes one more time backstage to ensure everything was correct. But my duty was to my father. I must always do what’s right.
The choreography lives on, and so do I. Regardless of the distraction, my moves are flawless, but I don’t allow myself an ounce of arrogance. Every position is performed with care, each step precise and light. My father is watching from the audience, of that there is no doubt. I can’t disappoint him. Every performance is a justification for the countless years I have dedicated to my practice.
I need ballet like I need air to breathe. It is my life. My heart. My soul. And the thing I fear most is what will become of me when I am no longer a dancer. I’m on track. For as long as I can remember, this train has been moving in one direction, and I’m going to get there. It’s in my bones. It’s the only thing I know for certain.