There's a lot an audience doesn't see.
Crooked toes. Protruding ribs. Bruised feet.
If they did, they'd never watch another ballet again.
But there's more they don't see. Things no one ever sees.
Pain. Anger. Struggle. Discipline. Failures. Fear.
But these are words that have been hammered into Asya's bones until she knew them like her own name, until they had sunk into every part of her being and she understood nothing but ambition, had a taste for nothing but perfection.
One other word echoes through her, a distant, soft promise, usually indiscernible, but enticing enough that it lures her deeper into her art every time she hears it calling.
Prima.
Prima, flashed before Asya's vision as she pushed herself off the floor. She pulled her legs into a grand jeté and angled her head over her hand, tightening the muscle in her lower back to execute the powerful jump. Energy surged through her veins as air rushed between her fingers and she felt gravity cut her loose for a few fleeting moments.
With a soft thud of her pointe shoes she landed and stepped cleanly into piqué arabesque to break the jump's momentum, clenching the tendons in her ankle to hold her balance. Spotting to the corner of the stage, she flicked her leg to retiré for her ending triple pirouette, swivelling her head around to keep her spine straight. The turns spilled out of her one after the other, the piano music building up to a staggering crescendo of notes as she ended the solo in a kneeling position.
Near-perfect.
Near.
The pianist played the last few notes of the Lilac Fairy's variation, and Asya smiled out to the empty auditorium as her piece ended.
'Good!' her coach, Debbie, called from the front of the stage. 'But you need pacing, Nastasia. Pacing and control.'
The ballerina nodded, her stage smile dissipating as she relaxed out of her character. She got to her feet and pushed a loose strand of hair out of her face with her palm, trying to steady her ragged breathing with some deep inhales. Despite looking deceptively gracious, that variation always managed to knock the wind out of her.
Debbie was running a final rehearsal with her before that evening's Sleeping Beauty performance to iron out any remaining uncertainties and get her comfortable on stage. As a newly-promoted soloist, Asya was lucky to get the part of the Lilac Fairy on opening night and had been rehearsing the choreography as if her life depended on it.
It was just so important.
The role had been given to her to prove herself, and she knew exactly who would be watching her that evening: the artistic director, photographers, choreographers, the board, the people to impress. Along with over two-thousand audience members, of-course. Her stomach churned at the mere thought of it.
'You're done for today.' Debbie called. 'Grab some water and come back for notes.'
Asya did a quick curtsy and left the main stage, hobbling to the corridor that led to the dressing rooms in the upper levels of the theatre. Once in the safety of the passage she slumped into the carpeted floor and began undoing the ribbons on her pointe shoes.
She pulled her throbbing feet out of the shoes carefully, fingering some nasty-looking welts on her ankle bone. She'd have to ice her feet before the show, and by the looks of things, she'd need some numbing gel too. Not the end of the world, she was used to dancing on battered feet, but not altogether promising either, given that it was only opening night and she had another eight shows to get through.
She tucked her pointe shoes into the side-pocket of her bag, stepped out of her tutu and pulled on some wool shorts and a shrug to keep warm. Using the wall to pull herself up, she tucked her tutu under her arm and padded back to the stage.
Under the harsh lights she could only just make out some movement in the front of the auditorium. Strange, she thought. There weren't usually people watching the afternoon rehearsals.
Debbie waved her down, beckoning to the chair next to her. Asya took out her notebook and pen, titling a new page with the date and part. Writing down her corrections probably seemed like a stupid teacher's pet habit, but it was one her mother had insisted wasn't optional, and once she joined the company she learned why.
Keeping track of her faults paved the way toward abolishing them, and her coaches always seemed more attentive with corrections because they knew she was taking notes. Asya took down her coach's notes, watching attentively as Debbie explained which parts of the tricky solo she needed to pay careful attention to that evening.
Making eye-contact with the court attendants, listening to the accents in the music, maintaining the Lilac Fairy poise and pacing herself toward the end.
'Good luck out there tonight, Radzevich.' Debbie smiled, dismissing the young ballerina with a nod of her head.
Asya thanked her coach and disappeared off stage, all the while unaware of an additional set of eyes on her.
・・・
Roman Zharnov lounged lazily in one of the auditorium seats, watching the on-stage rehearsal with mild curiosity. One of the company's coaches was running some final drills with the soloists and principals performing that evening, presumably to straighten any remaining issues with their pieces. Nothing particularly amusing as it turned out, but perhaps he was just too tired to care.
He'd arrived in London that morning, jet-lagged and exhausted from the hectic days since leaving Russia. Having been off stage for six months to try and sort out his personal life, he'd hoped the press would have forgotten about him.
But no dice, when the news broke that he'd resigned from the Bolshoi after his alleged back injury, he was harassed around every corner by some journalist hoping to get a titbit on his turbulent lifestyle. Mercifully, the press had yet to find out that he'd signed as a guest artist with the Royal Ballet in London. Knowing them, it wouldn't be long though.
Their artistic director had made him a very generous offer a few weeks ago, with a promise that the arrangement would be kept discreet for the time being, at least until the press inevitably found out about it. He'd accepted the offer, although reluctantly, and packed up his life in Moscow for the last few days.
He got invited to come watch the afternoon rehearsals in the theatre, and despite craving sleep and solitude, Roman figured the sooner he got a feel for the English ballet, the better. He'd picked up the keys to his new apartment in Covent Garden, dumped what little he'd packed on the living room floor and taken a cold shower to wake himself up. Not that the icy water had really helped, it seemed. With a bored sigh he sunk deeper into his seat, stretching out his long legs in front of him and resting his chin on his palm.
One of the coaches called the Lilac Fairy on, and moments later a lanky girl in a grey leotard and white rehearsal tutu emerged from backstage. She walked with a dainty grace, her feet quick and precise as she placed herself on stage and waited for the pianist to start playing. To douse some boredom and perhaps satisfy his curiosity as to who got the Lilac Fairy on opening night, he squinted into the harsh lights to get a look at her.
Delicately-boned features, dark hair, pretty. A good fit for the role, he supposed.
The ballerina sunk into a preparatory forward bend, then a quick flick of her feet, and a graceful step into arabesque. Her limbs floated through the air, her eyes following the path of her hands as she dragged the movement out. She stayed weightlessly suspended between notes and counts, savouring every last fragment of music before lowering herself off pointe.
Mildly intrigued by her, he tilted his head critically and kept watching. The Royal Ballet was a world-renowned company, their dancers all impeccably trained by the finest teachers the industry had to offer. And naturally, they're held to the highest of standards when it came to their performances. He had a rather impressive track record himself, having worked with some of the most celebrated ballerinas of his generation and hailing from an elite company as well.
His sudden interest in her was definitely a little misplaced. She was just rehearsing her piece, which happened to be a soloist part, not even a principal role.
She drifted through the solo with less effort than a sigh, her long limbs turning to liquid as she moved. Strength poured out of her fingertips as she got comfortable with the stage and fell into a heavenly harmony with the music, completely in love with the variation and lost in concentration.
He kept watching, transfixed by her presence on stage and still unable to pinpoint what exactly he found fascinating. It wasn't even fascination, he realised. He verged on unnerved, unsettled.
'Stunning, isn't she?' a voice asked from behind him, startling him slightly.
Roman turned around to see the Opera House's artistic director, Bastian Acton, smiling at him. So far he'd been the only contact the Russian dancer had with the company, having met Bastian once backstage at the Bolshoi. They stayed in touch just in case future offers were to emerge, and as it turned out, the head-splitting media nightmare Roman lived through last year put him on the market for a fresh start far away from the Bolshoi.
'We have high hopes for her.' Bastian said, turning his attention back to the stage.
The ballerina stepped into her ending triple pirouette, her body gliding neatly through the air as the rotations built up momentum. She ended the variation with a tentative smile out to the auditorium and waited for the last of the piano music to fade before relaxing out of her character.
'Good.' one of the coaches called from the front of the stage. 'But you need pacing, Nastasia. Pacing and control.'
The ballerina nodded and pushed a strand of hair out of her face, listening attentively while her coach spoke.
'Name?' Roman asked over his shoulder. The artistic director raised his eyebrows at the Russian dancer.
'Nastasia Radzevich.' Bastian stated. 'Graduated from the Upper School last year, and naturally we scooped her up right away.'
'Only a year ago?' Roman frowned. She'd looked young, her coltish limbs still a little disproportionate to her lean frame, but that would make her, what? Eighteen, barely nineteen?
'Oh yes, she was quite something even at White Lodge.' the director affirmed with a nod of his head. 'I used her in my Nutcrackers a few times, and promoted her to soloist at the end of last season.'
Nastasia emerged from backstage again. She'd changed out of her rehearsal tutu and put on a pair of shorts, presumably to get some feedback from her coach.
God, she was beautiful. Her hair was swept into a neat bun, some loose strands framing her striking features. The definition of her abs showed through her grey leotard, her toned shoulders peeking out from under a shrug she had put on. Maybe he was still jet-lagged or simply bored, but he could honestly say he wasn't exaggerating when he claimed she was pretty, even for a ballerina.
She hadn't seemed to notice him, but he couldn't take his eyes off her.
.
.
.
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Hi everyone! I hope you enjoyed chapter one! Please feel free to drop a comment if any of the ballet terminology or content is confusing, I'm more than happy to help. P.S. I've linked my favourite Lilac Fairy variation in the comments if you're interested in watching it✨.
If you have one, what's your favourite variation? ☕