“Maya, what are you doing here?” she asked, glad to see me. “You look wonderful.”
“I’m here to see you.”
She must have known something was up, because her smile vanished and she put a hand on my back and guided me off to a corner. I had known Fyodora since I started ballet at the conservatory at eight years old, and she had always been kind to me. A mentor.
“Did you see my message? I’m so sorry you had to quit the company.”
“I did see it. Thank you. But that’s not why I came,” I said.
“Is everything OK?”
I took the photos out of my purse and showed them to her. “Do you know this guy who’s with my mother?”
“Honestly, no.”
“He looks like a student. See, in this picture he’s wearing tights.” I pointed to a stairway in the vestibule. “Those are the same steps, right?”
“They are.”
“And you were already teaching here when my mother was a student. Is it possible you taught this guy? Does he really not ring a bell?”
“I’m sorry, Maya,” she responded. “I have no idea who he is. Maybe he wasn’t a regular student. Maybe he was just here for a summer class. Why are you so interested, though?”
“I think he’s my father.” Fyodora was astonished. I continued. “I need you to help me figure out who he is. If he was here, maybe there’s a file, a name, an address…something that can help me find him.”
“That’s against the rules, Maya. You know I can’t give out personal information.”
“It’s been decades,” I argued. “Please. That could be the only clue as to who he is and his whereabouts.”
“What even makes you think he’s your father?” she asked.
“Take a look and tell me he’s not.”
She looked at the photos and licked her lips with their pretty pink lipstick. Then she sighed.
“You do look a lot alike,” she mused.
I begged her, “Fyodora, I realize maybe this is a dead end, but what if he’s my father? I have a right to know.”
She hesitated, and in her eyes I could see a flood of contradictory emotions: anxiety, loyalty toward me, the need to do the right thing, uncertainty as to what the right thing was.
“Fine, I’ll try. I’ll call you if I find anything.”
“No. I’m going to wait here,” I insisted. “My grandmother wants to leave Madrid, and they’ve already rented out the apartment. I’m basically on the street. I have no idea where I’ll be tomorrow.”
“Olga’s leaving Madrid?”
“She made the decision as soon as she found out I couldn’t do ballet anymore.”
I couldn’t quite gauge her reaction. She looked alarmed but unsurprised, as if she couldn’t have expected anything different from my grandmother. One thing was clear, though: learning that had tipped the scale in my favor.
“Wait for me at the café in Puerta Bonita, I’ll do what I can do find out who the guy in the photos is. You deserve it, even if I’m not sure it will get you far.”
“Thank you.”
I walked to the café, ordered a tea, and sat outside. I don’t know how long I sat there, almost twitching from anxiousness, but it felt like an eternity. I asked myself questions: What if I got a name? An address? Would I just show up there out of the blue and tell him,Hi, my name’s Maya and I think I’m your daughter?
It wasn’t perfect.
