Killing Swans

Chapter 1 - Swan lake is frozen

Present

"It's a nice painting" I said, just to fill the silence. I had been sitting in this office for ten minutes now, just watching Mister Richard's hands, as he signed paper after paper, his reading glasses slowly slipping down his nose and I was just waiting for the moment they would fall down in front of him and he would finally look at me. I could be training right now. I could be in the studio, working and getting better. Why wasn't he talking? What was he waiting for?

"Mhm, yes, old but nice" he mumbled, pushing his glasses up again and there goes my hope, that at least, that little incident I had dreamed of, would get him to look up at me. It was hard sitting still and waiting, patiently, though I wasn't a very extroverted person to begin with. I was thankful oh so thankful, that I was even allowed to sit here, but still, it was rude to leave me hanging like this, wasn't it?

"Are you glad Mister Holland that we took you on?" he finally asked, not even looking at me, but at least he lifted his head, turning around in his chair to stare at the painting behind him, that I had just complimented. Sure, it was a nice painting. A little plain if you ask me. I used to love impressionism, but over time, I lost interest in things like...art all together. If you still enjoy simple things like a beautiful rose garden, you clearly haven't felt any kind of pain in your life yet.

"Ah, yes Sir, very much so. I still can't believe you chose me of everybody from my class" I said. That was a lie. I knew I was a good dancer. After all, I spend basically all my time in the studio, it would be a waste if I wasn't actually getting any good results. But still, I was fortunate enough to get picked by the New York Ballet Company...after getting to learn at the New York Ballet School for years. Staying in New York was important to me and though I was good didn't mean that it was easy to get into this Company. It was easier this way...but maybe, if I would have gotten to work somewhere else....maybe things would have worked out differently for me.

"We see great potential in you. Miss Cartier said you were the best of your class. But we expect nothing but the very best of you. That means being on time. Listening to what the choreographers and directors tell you. And if you get hurt, on or off stage, you better hope that you can still dance the next day. Of course if it's a broken leg, we will see what we can do, but an overstretched ankle is no reason to skip training" he stated, still not facing me, but looking at the damn painting. All of that were no news to me. Ballet school wasn't much different. I was used to it. And I could take it.

"Of course Sir, understood" I nodded, devoted as ever. Now finally he turned around, looking at me. He was maybe sixty, so not that old for the manager of a company as big as the New York Ballet. He had a mustache, that did not suit him well, but it made him look more serious than his soft face, dipped in wrinkles, normally would. He looked at me and I could only hope that he wasn't one of those managers, that forced desperate dancers to perform sexual acts with him, just so that they would get to keep their job or get one to begin with. I wouldn't be able to do that for....numerous reasons. But he didn't seem like the type. 

"Good...That's why we decided to cast you in this year's production of the Nutcracker. That is a big responsibility Mister Holland. Around the holiday time, families from all around the world come to watch our Nutcracker. James Malroy will direct it this year and he will decide which part you will get, but I hope you will prove yourself Mister Holland. I have no problem letting you dance in the last row until your contract expires by the end of the year. I hope you won't disappoint me" he said and I was no newbie to the concept of pressure, so though I was a bit nervous, I knew how to deal with it.

"I know I won't sir" I nodded, faking the courage I was showing him. That brought a smug smile to the old man's lips, as he folded his hands on his round belly. My hand was nervously holding on to the holders of my sports bag, as if I was getting ready to run away. He was quiet, just looking at me and I was getting uncomfortable. But then again, I was easily getting uncomfortable. It wasn't all that new that I had a problem talking to people, especially strangers. And though I was putting on a brave face, I would have much rather left and sat out in the autumn sun, being at peace.