Let it ruin you. It’s the only way.
The words rush between my lips on a stolen breath, and in my mind, Vivi’s face is still as lucid as the day she uttered that direction. She was loud and unintentionally poetic. Silky locks of raven hair, red lipstick, and cat-shaped glasses. These were just a few of the threads that stitched together my mentor and my inspiration.
Every dancer at the Met tonight would sell their souls for a career like Vivi’s. I was one of the lucky disciples chosen to study under her, but I doubted it had anything to do with luck at all. She had an artist’s eye, always looking for something different. And in a flock of pale sheep, I was the lone umber wolf. Vivi liked that. From the beginning of our time together, she spoke of her plight to create cultural diversity in a world of dance that still upheld strict ancient standards.
My half-blooded Italian heritage and a dash of my mother’s ebony skin elected me as the poster child for her cause. But regardless of her reasoning, I didn’t let the opportunity go to waste. I was not under the delusion that I was special, and Vivi would be quick to remind me of it if I ever got the notion in my head. Every ballet student wanted to think she was special. That she was pure talent and natural grace. That she was the best. But every dancer’s best was only as good as the dancer next to her, waiting to steal her shine in the spotlight. Vivi provided that lesson when she allowed another dancer to do exactly that. Her practice was brutal but effective. More than structure and timing, she taught me how to live and breathe my art. And most importantly, she educated me on what happens when a dancer becomes complacent.
I remember her warmly whenever I’ve put my body through hell, and I know that she would be proud. If she was here to witness the mangled state of my feet, she would tell me that I had gone to war, and I had won.
Flexing my toes, my eyes sweep over the desolate landscape of my thighs as I swoop forward in a meditative stretch.
There is no such thing as pain. There is only discipline.
Tonight, I will take the stage as a soloist for the New York Ballet Company, performing as Ceres in Sylvia. It is a hard-won role. A role I have fought and bled for. The years of study have not been kind, but there is no such thing as mercy in ballet.
The shelf life of a dancer is short, and for me, it’s even shorter. I am fortunate that the ballet has always pleased my father because it is the one amusement he would not deny me. He told me as a child that a dancer embodies everything a woman should be. When he took me to my first ballet, I came to a quick agreement. The heavenly creatures floating across the stage in shades of pale pink and white were the most beautiful sight I had ever beheld. At the age of six, I resolved that I would be one of those dancers someday. My lofty aspirations brought amusement to my father’s otherwise brash face, and he declared that if I wanted to be a true ballerina, it would mean accepting nothing less than principle. When I asked why, he explained that in the days of old, only the best dancers could earn the accolade of ballerina.
From that day forward, I resolved that I would earn the right to be called a true ballerina. And eighteen years later, I am closer than ever to my dream. Also, closer than ever to having it snatched away.
A muted whisper jars me from stillness, and when I open my eyes, the calm before the storm dissolves.
The standing agreement between my father and the artistic director of NYBC is that I must always have my own room to dress, even if it’s only the size of a closet. My father likes to say that the guise of religion can buy you many things, but the truth is, his name is what affords such luxuries. The artistic director doesn’t blink twice at the guards who shadow my every move. Unfortunately for me, the other dancers do.
I am kept separate. Hidden away and forbidden from socializing. The circumstances of my situation haven’t bred the warmest reception from my peers, but I’m accustomed to the isolation. Which is why it is no small shock to discover that Gianni has infiltrated my improvised dressing room. I’m not even certain how he snuck in, and when I look at the door where my guard is waiting outside, a knot forms in my throat.
“What are you doing? My father will be here any—”
“Tanaka.” He lowers to my level. We’re eye to eye, and there’s no mistaking his apprehension. Gianni is the poster boy for every Italian gangster costume that gets mass produced around Halloween. Slicked jet-black hair, gold rings on his fingers, and the stereotypical New York accent. I couldn’t take him seriously on my best day, but I’m taking him seriously now.
“What is it?” I curl my legs under me and rise to my feet, my stretching forgotten. He can’t be seen here with me and he knows it. So, if he’s here, it can only mean something’s up. I have the sudden urge to puke, and it has nothing to do with the impending performance. My stomach is a riot of nerves, and it’s all his fault.
“You promised me.” My spine sags forward as I clutch my waist. “You swore everything would be okay.”
All I can think about is my dreams going up in smoke. Principal won’t matter if I’m dead. Nothing will matter if I’m dead. The years of training, the countless hurdles I’ve overcome, they will have been for nothing.
Gianni glances at the door. “I came to warn you.”
“Warn me about what?”
The conversation screeches to a halt when there’s a knock on the door. The knock I’ve been dreading since his arrival. I knew it would come, and there isn’t time to finish what Gianni started. He curses under his breath, bolting for a chair in the center of the room. I wave at him frantically while he pulls himself up through a displaced ceiling tile.
“Principessa,” my father calls through the door. “Are you decent?”
The tile slides back into place, and I clear my throat. “Yes, Papà.”
The guard opens the door, and my father enters. I meet him halfway as a sign of respect, and he kisses each of my cheeks. The ritual is predictable and familiar, but the uneasiness in his dark eyes is not.
Impeccably dressed in a suit and trench coat, my father remains steadfast in his old-fashioned ways. He will always look his best, and everyone around him should too. But even he can’t hide the grimace in his step as he paces the perimeter of the room with a keen eye. It could mean one of two things. A business deal gone bad, or his debts are worse than I had imagined.
I don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell. A father does not discuss these things with his daughter. At least not in our world. My days, weeks, and hours are slave to a dancer’s regime, while criminal activities consume his.
At first glance, the man is an improbable source for my paternal genes. He is a throwback to his Italian roots with dusky eyes and sooty hair. My complexion is far more coppery, and my eyes a more forgiving shade of amber. He is stocky in stature, and I am willowy like my mother.
I am grateful to have inherited her features, believing that in some small way, she lives on through me.
“Sei Bella.” Papà roosts on the chair that Gianni used for his escape only moments ago. “Tonight, the audience will see a genuine angel.”
I smile at the compliment, but beneath his words is an undercurrent of despair, and it worries me.
“You know you must give this up soon, Principessa.”
My answering nod is stiff and obedient. “Yes, Papà, I know.”
Soon sounds quicker than I anticipated, but it is not entirely surprising. Dante has been making quiet preparations to marry me, and the moment I agree, my life will change entirely. Dancer’s accolades are of no significance in a man’s world. A mafia wife has one sole purpose, and it is not outside the home. I’ve been raised to know the challenges that await me. The sum of my life is only as great as the man’s name that I take.
“Dante would like to have a word with you,” Papà says.
I comply with a quiet, “Okay.”
After one short command from my father, Dante enters dutifully. He greets me with a respectful kiss on the cheek and nothing more. It is as much contact as we ever have under the watchful eye of my father. I am to remain pure for my husband, and only on the wedding night will my virtue be taken. This is the way of my world, and one of the many reasons for my constant guard.
“You look like a goddess.” Dante squeezes my hand. “I expect you will mesmerize the entire theatre. I am only disappointed I will not be able to see it.”
My face crumples. “You aren’t staying?”
Dante looks at my father before answering. “I wish I could, but business calls.”
I nod because it isn’t my place to argue. Business is business.
“Thing is,” Dante says with undisguised bitterness, “the business is overseas. I could be gone for a couple of months.”
A couple of months? This is news to me, and it’s the first time I’ve ever known Dante to resent his marching orders. Orders undoubtedly handed down by my father. In a bold display of ownership, he slips his hand over my cheek and leans in to whisper in my ear. “When I return, I’ll be making you my wife.”
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.
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.
But Vivi would be quick to tell me that nothing in life is certain.
The first blow comes when I rise en pointe. White-hot agony pierces through my toes without warning, and warm, sticky blood fills the toe boxes.
I close my eyes and attempt to breathe through the pain while I come to terms with one unwavering certainty. My shoes have been sabotaged. There is nothing I can do but go on with the performance and pray I don’t bleed onto the floor. Whatever tore through my flesh is already embedded there, and I don’t care. I must finish at any cost.
I must not falter.
It is with this grand intention that my entire world topples in a matter of seconds. One leap and one failed landing, and it’s all over.
As I crumple to the floor, the fear at the forefront of my mind is the snap I felt in my ankle. Logically, I’m aware an entire audience is present for the worst moment of my life, but I have disengaged. Clouded by disbelief, I attempt to get up, only to collapse again. My ankle no longer functions. It doesn’t move.
I could think of a thousand ways I would rather die before someone finally takes pity on me and carries me off the stage.
“Have some mercy, won’t you?” Papà’s shadowed figure whispers from behind the curtain.
“Were you under any illusions that this might end differently when you made the agreement?”
“She is my only daughter.”
“Ahh, yes. That does pull at the heartstrings, I suppose. But I believe she was also your only daughter when the matter of collateral was explained to you. If you are not happy with this solution, then perhaps you should pay the debt and be done with it.”
“You know very well that I can’t,” my father says. “She is injured. At least allow her to heal, and then perhaps we can work something—”
“She can heal just as well under the supervision of my doctor.”
“But the bills,” Papà protests.
“You wouldn’t be able to pay them anyway. They will be added to your debt. And when you come to collect, as I know you will, she will be good as new.”
“I cannot stand for this. This is not the way she was raised. She is a good girl. Her reputation will be ruined—”
“What choice do you have?” the unforgiving Russian asks. “It is you or your daughter. And I’m afraid I have little use for you.”
Silence follows.
My eyes are still and closed, but sleep has evaded me. The trauma of this evening has drained me of my will to think, feel, or even breathe. I have pleaded with every deity I could think to summon. I have prayed. I have cried. I have swung violently between hope and despair.
Intellectually, I’m aware of what’s taking shape right now between my father and Nikolai. But I can’t find the presence of mind I require to care. What does anything matter when the only thing I ever wanted has been so viciously taken from me?
It still feels like a nightmare I can’t wake up from. No matter how many times it goes round and round my mind, I can’t force it to make sense. Certainly, incidents like these are not unheard of. Life in the world of ballet can be a blood sport. Jealousy is rife, and the competition is ruthless. But I never once thought anyone in my own company to be capable of such viciousness. The most I have ever been victim to is a dirty look or catty comment. Such an extreme measure has blindsided me, and I’m left to wonder how I didn’t see it coming.
A hand grazes my arm, and when I open my eyes, my father is at my side, his face grim. Beside him is Nikolai, unnervingly quiet. He doesn’t belong here, and I don’t know why my father allowed it. My world has always been small, but the only thing I’ve ever known my Papà to be is powerful. His men do what he tells them. I do what he tells me. Everyone falls into order when he speaks. But not Nikolai. In this new chain of events, Nikolai is the one giving orders.
“Tanaka.” Papà’s voice doesn’t waver, but it’s softer than I’ve ever heard it. “There has been a change of plans. You must be a good girl and do as I say. Do you understand?”
My only response is to blink. I’m too numb to argue. I’m too wrecked to give him a verbal response. Something he would chastise me for at any other time.
“Nikolai has graciously agreed to provide some accommodations for you while I am away on business. There is no need to worry, though, little lamb. It will only be for a short while.”
I don’t have the emotional capacity to accept this as my reality right now. For years, my life has been on a straight course that never deviated. Principle and ballet. Those were my only goals, and I had such little time to make them happen. I was supposed to marry Dante. That’s what I’ve been told. That’s what I’ve been preparing for. For my entire life, I’ve been sheltered. Schooled at home. Forbidden from having friends or leaving the house. I could not be alone with a man, ever. It’s what I’ve been taught and what I’ve always abided by. My father arranged my marriage, and it was set in stone. But now, he tells me he is sending me away with a man I don’t know at all. One who appears to have none of the values instilled in me.
For a fleeting moment, I wonder what Dante will say. And then my thoughts gradually drift back to my company. A tear leaks down my cheek, followed by another. I don’t know anything other than one unalterable truth. I’m a dancer. It’s all I have. It’s all I am.
When the doctor returns to discuss my fate, his face is clinical. Detached. And he barely glances at me before addressing my father as he’s been instructed to do.
“Mr. Valentini, your daughter has ruptured two ligaments in her ankle—”
“No.” I try to move, but one look from my father halts me.
“I’m sorry.” The doctor looks at me now. “Your injuries will require surgery to repair the ligaments and remove the glass still embedded in your toes.”
“But I’m a dancer,” I whisper.
His eyes betray the words his bedside manner won’t allow.
Not anymore.