Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
A shiver moves through me, and Papà clears his throat. “Time to go, Dante.”
One last kiss on my cheek, and Dante does as he’s told.
I give my father a weak smile, hoping he will go now. The show will start shortly, and my nerves have not abated. I need more time to warm up. I need to re-frame my thoughts and calm the chaos eating up my focus. My father’s uneasy behavior. Gianni’s unspoken warning, and now, Dante’s swift exit. An atomic energy is building in the air with every passing second, and I don’t like it.
I force my beating heart to calm when my father gestures for his men outside, and Gianni is the one to enter. He’s here as a guard tonight, and his face is completely devoid of emotion when my eyes flash to his. He gives nothing away, and I know it’s important that I do the same.
“Tanaka,” my father says brusquely. “I’d like you to meet an associate of mine.”
My eyes move to the door, a new threat lying in wait. The associate is introduced as Nikolai, but he is hardly an associate from what I can see. The man is from a different world entirely.
The first thing I always notice about a person is their posture. I was raised to believe that good posture conveys good manners, as well as respect for those around you. Nikolai carries his posture like a casual “fuck you.” There is no decorum in his leather jacket, jeans, or his haphazardly laced motorcycle boots. Everything he wears is black, but the small glimpse of flesh beneath is a riot of colors. Tattoos cover every inch of his exposed skin, including his throat. I’m not sure which is more offensive—the ink or the fauxhawk atop his head. This is not the way you attend a ballet, nor is he the type of man I expect my father to keep company with.
“Tanaka.” He reaches for my hand and kisses it in a way that few men would ever dare to do in my father’s presence. “You dance beautifully.”
The words are unmistakably accented. Russian. My composure wavers while I struggle to make sense of this situation. My father has always been protective of me. His own men know better than to speak to me or look at me, but for this stranger, somehow, it’s okay.
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.