CREATURE

・chapter 32・

She blinked wordlessly at him, feeling a grapefruit-sized lump wedging itself in her windpipe. It was beautiful, the way he spoke about his artform. Not like it was merely a physical feat or a torturous chore, but like he... Like he too could spend hours and hours explaining what made it absolutely incomparable to anything else in the world.

'But don't get me wrong, Baryshnikov was a brilliant performer. He understood the physics of this job like no one else, I think.' he continued. 'And both of them quite literally wiped out an entire generation of male dancers with their talent. Next to them everyone else sort of looked stupid, you know. I liked Baryshnikov's stunts and tricks as much as the next person, but Nureyev... His dancing was a language far deeper than words, maybe even deeper than movement.'

She was trying to form thoughts, a response or even just a nod to confirm she still had control over her body, but she was momentarily frozen. Because granted, as beautiful as his phrasing was, the person saying it was even more unnerving. She was sitting across from Roman Zharnov, who many a critic had argued to be the so-called 'holy trinity' of male dancers. The physical prowess of Baryshnikov, virtuosity of Nijinsky, and immaculate classical technique of Nureyev. A culmination of three generations of legendary Russian men in one terrifyingly gifted body.

And as the critics also liked to point out, so far each of his predecessors had their faults. Baryshnikov was significantly shorter than most male dancers, Nijinsky went insane before his career fully matured, and even Nureyev had been criticized for being built more like a powerlifter than a dancer.

Roman, on the other hand, won the genetic lottery in every way that counted. He had his towering height, gorgeously long limbs, supple joints, and slender frame, which the Bolshoi had filled out to absolute perfection with some of the finest training in the world. Maybe next generations would pick out Roman's faults too, but for this century... He was about as groundbreaking as it came.

And the way he spoke, goddammit the way he spoke. With fondness, admiration, humility, and fascination, like he could feel his antecedents breathing down his neck with expectations. In moments like those, it felt uncanny even for her, because as much as she talked shit about him there was no denying who and what he was, and god only knows what he had yet to do.

When she finally regained control of her vocal chords she cleared her throat and, 'You sound like you have Nureyev memorised.'

'With the number of tapes I watched as a child, I better have.' he snorted.

The irony of his Nureyev preference wasn't wasted on her. Because like Nureyev, Roman had little regard for rules, formality or hierarchy, and like Nureyev, an air of scandal almost always trailed in his wake. Or that, like Nureyev, Roman had ditched the Russian ballet and found his way to London.

As if he could read her thoughts, he flicked his gaze to her and said, 'If you're wondering what I think of Fonteyn and Nureyev, I, along with everyone else, am still wondering if they were sleeping together.'

She let out a low laugh at the mention of the famed English prima ballerina. 'I think it's probably less about the did they or didn't they debate and more about that gripping stage dynamic that made everyone want to know.'

'Fair enough.' he relented.

She let her gaze rest on his outstretched frame, thinking back on the day they'd met. An odd comment he'd made popped into her mind.

On whether I find what I'm looking for.

At the time it had been easy to assume he meant a fresh start, away from his troubled history. But now, with everything she'd found out since, she couldn't help but wonder if Roman had come to the Royal Opera House to follow in the footsteps of his childhood icon, and find his Fonteyn. Everyone knew that Margot Fonteyn had been to Rudolph Nureyev what the moon was to the stars.