I was panting and my feet hurt. My grandmother put on music again and stood in front of me with a frown on her face, scrutinizing me as she said, “One, and two, plié, passé…” Again, she went through the steps and I followed her directions, “Demi, demi, full, port de bras and up. Second port de bras, back. Four… Steady on your feet, Maya.”
I did as she said and kept moving, feeling my toes scrunched inside my shoes and my fingers tingling. I ignored the pain. I ignored my spine, overstretched, twisting until I thought it would crack.
“Plié tendu, three and four. Développé croisé, plié en arabesque… Maya, use the music, use the tempo! Shoulders down.”
I pursed my lips. I hated her shouting at me… It didn’t matter if I did a good or bad job, her voice rose until it bounced off the walls and struck me like a bolt of lightning.
“Come on, Maya, up, up… Extend your leg and jeté.” When I put my foot down, I twisted my ankle, and she cursed in Ukrainian. That meant she was starting to get pissed off. “Maya!”
My muscles were so tense, they burned. But I took my position again and repeated the steps. I watched her nodding almost imperceptibly as she walked around me, analyzing my movements.
“Don’t look at the floor, dear. Back, back, arabesque… Pas de bourrée, five and up until the passé…”
I continued struggling for another half hour, concentrating on dancing with my head because whenever I let go, my heart took over. And then I made mistakes, and she always noticed. I hated dancing and thinking about it: It just wasn’t fun.
When I first started ballet, what I liked about it was that it was a game, one I was very good at. I learned the steps and the choreography quickly and then all I had to do was dance and feel the music. Jump, turn, fly. Flap my wings like a butterfly without a thought in my head.
As I progressed, my grandmother turned my favorite pastime into a competition, and I ceased to enjoy it. Or I didn’t enjoy it in the same way. I stopped being motivated by what I felt when I danced and became addicted to the slight shows of approval she gave me every time I bested other girls and myself. The need for approval kept me always tense, always on the verge of cracking.
“Good…arabesque, pirouette, and finish in the fourth position.”
I stopped, chin raised, chest rising and falling quickly in search of air. I looked her in the eyes, expecting a reaction. I had done well, better than well, and I was sure of it. I was just twelve years old, but I was head and shoulders above most.
My stomach growled, my cheeks burned. I could control many things, but not my stomach, and I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten anything since my breakfast of an apple and yogurt. My grandmother’s eyelidssank a moment, slowly, showing no emotion but indifference. Or perhaps disgust.
“Repeat it from the beginning, and this time, try to move with elegance,” she said softly.
5
Matías and I wound up spending the day together. We ate in a bar close to El Retiro Park, had a shaved ice near a pond, and slept in the garden under the shadows of the trees. It was almost eight when I got a message from Antoine apologizing for not responding earlier. He was sorry about the bad news and asked me to wait for him at his place.
I put my phone in my pocket and tried to ignore the unease that was roiling in my stomach. No more rehearsals for me. I needed to talk with Natalia, the company’s director, and tell her what had happened. It wouldn’t be pleasant. She had trusted in me from the beginning and had done everything possible after the accident to keep my place open in case I got better.
“Are you all right?” Matías asked. I shrugged. “Was it Antoine?”
I nodded and forced a smile.
“He says he’s still got a few more hours of rehearsal.”
Matías looked away with a slight scowl. It only lasted a second, but I could see the tension in his spine, the way his head turned upward. I knew him too well not to read his mood.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he responded, grabbing my arm at the crosswalk. “I’llcall Rodrigo to see if he’s home and can open up for you. I left my backpack and keys in the changing room.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll go with you.”
“Are you sure you want to come?”
“Yeah, don’t worry, I can handle it. Plus it’ll give me the chance to talk to Natalia. The sooner the better, right?”
“Maya, it’s just so fucking unfair!” Matías said, looking upset.
I tried to smile. It was nice knowing someone cared about me.
Eventually, we got tired of walking and caught the bus. Fifteen minutes later, we were walking along Paseo de la Chopera toward the company’s building. When we entered, the lights were off in all the rehearsal rooms and nobody was there but the doorman. Strange, I thought: Antoine had only written me fifteen minutes before.
“They all finished early and left,” he said.
