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He returned to true form with a grin and talked incessantly for the entirety of the class.
Chapter 2
Iwatchedhisfeet.I listened to his brief instruction and was left totally confused. The barre section of class had been difficult to follow, though it had contained a fascinating talk on the importance of the exercise of battement tendu, and how its proper execution stretched us in all sorts of ways. It was far more than a simple point and close. The pressure of the instep against the floor was proclaimed as the most important part of class, or perhaps even life. Will had interrupted the talk by whispering, “Dude, no it isn’t,” loudly behind me.
But the fast amalgamation in the centre was utterly incomprehensible. I put up my hand to query it, but Aleksandr Zolotov didn’t notice, focused as he was on marking, or walking through, a complex end sequence. I stepped forward and touched his arm. The tall man spun round in surprise, confirming my suspicion that everyone else had been too much in awe of him, or too afraid of looking stupid, to question anything yesterday.
“Could you demonstrate more slowly, Mr. Zolotov? I can’t pick it up from this.”
Simone sniggered, but Aleksandr Zolotov touched his chest and said, “Is Aleks,” and demonstrated the combination again. He kept checking with me after that, even for the simplest of stretches: “You have it?”
It didn’t take long for a little awe of my own to form. Aleks’s stance, the movement of his arms, and even his roughly marked footwork, had a quality I’d never been in the presence of before. And when he danced alongside us in encouragement, I wanted to stand still and stare, to applaud, and to ask, ‘Why are you here? Why aren’t you on a stage somewhere, wowing your fans, enchanting the masses as you are me?’
The time between his classes dragged. He was intense and demanding: our stamina increased, and our brains learned to memorise at great speed. His face transformed for a few fleeting seconds now and then when he smiled, crinkles appearing round his mouth and eyes.
His early arrival in the studio each morning effectively did away with my daily quiet time. He always got there first. He always played the piano. He’d always been smoking. I could smell it, but didn’t experience the usual revulsion. Instead, the smoke mingled with the aroma of my hot chocolate in an earthy and thoroughly pleasant way. Aleks was the sight, sound and scent of the morning, the provider of contrapuntal melodies to stretch through, his wordless presence in the corner, strangely nonintrusive.
Will’s plump partner arrived, along with Simone. They looked at me as if I’d been up to something nefarious. Things weren’t going at all well for Simone in the new lessons. The speed of the combinations threw her, and Justin dropped her. I, on the other hand, suddenly had the best partner in the world. Over the years, my partnership with Will had become familiar and easy, but we still wobbled when faced with something new. Nothing was new to Aleks. All he had to contend with were my off-balance moments, and he was adept at catching and correcting those before they went too far.
We worked on arabesque penchée. Standing on one leg, the other high behind, fingertips almost touching the floor, the world seemed to stand still around me in a perfect moment of balance and extension. Aleks obviously thought something good had been achieved too, and he summoned the others to look. With ill grace, they did.
“See the line,” he said, running a finger between my fingertips and toe. “Is perfect. Elongated in two directions. Everyone go do just like this.”
They scurried off. He took my hand and raised me. “This, the arabesque, it shows much about your character, Amalphia. You must go straight for what you want. Never let anyone else be telling you what should be.”
Simone glowered at me. I glowed at Aleks.
After class, once Aleks had left the studio, Justin had plenty to say. “That wasn’t about the arabesque. He was holding your hand very close to what he wants you to go straight for, darling. He has a reputation, you know. Now…” He held up a hand to quell protestation. “I know you have a little crush.”
“I don’t do crushes.”
“Okay, well, he’s your new special interest, then. I know you’ve been watching videos of him online.”
“Yes. To get the most out of his teaching.”
“You look him right in the face when he speaks to you.”
Granted, that was unusual. “But, you see,” I said, trying to find sense in that too. “His face is pleasing. The line of his nose fits the angles of his cheekbones so well. It’s really quite lovely.”
“No, not lovely,” argued Justin. “Try, really quite old. Thirty-eight. Exactly twice your age. His cheeks wrinkle up when he smiles.”
The beginnings of rage pulsed red behind my eyes. “Justin, I’m an adult, and I can make my own choices.”
“He’s your teacher.”
“So?”
“Any relationship or naughtiness with him would be against college rules.”
“Oh, and you’re such a stickler for those?”
“Well, more than you, Phi. I mean, this isn’t the first teacher that you’ve—”
“Nothing like that is happening,” I said quickly.
“Read up on him,” advised my friend with a sigh and an eyebrow raised in scepticism. “He’s not for you, my sweet. There’s an angry woman writes a blog about him.”
“I don’t want to look him up online, other than in ballet videos. How can you tell facts from bitter rubbish?”
