I Left My Heart in Moscow but My Love Waits in Pittsburgh

How long had I been crying after talking to Jordan? I had no clue. Long enough for my throat to feel tight and hoarse, my eyes to burn, my lips to chap and my face to feel sticky.

It finally hit me that the man I thought I was going to spend my life with was just a stranger to me now. Or maybe he always had been.

Maybe I never knew the real Evgeni.

My eyes were burning with tears that I was desperately trying to hold back. I wasn't going to cry anymore, I decided. Crying wasn't going to bring Evgeni back to me. I'd cried enough tears for him. I was going to be happy. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to be with someone who makes me happy and loves me.

I crawled out of bed and pulled my suitcase out of my closet. I took it out and opened it. In the very bottom, underneath the extra pointes, underneath the makeup bag, underneath the jewelery box was a bundle of letters, pictures, and various mementos from Evgeni and I's relationship. It was all tied together with a red, satin ribbon. I pulled on end of the bow. It all unraveled.

The letters were the hardest to get rid of. My first year in Moscow, I was awful. My dancing was a mess, whether it was because I was terribly homesick or I missed Evgeni, I'm not sure. Only Evgeni's letters got me by. They reminded me that I was not only dancing for myself but for him, too. I read each letter again. I was trying to find for a sign. A sign of anything that would help me make sense of his betrayal. I tore the letters up, piece by piece, throwing them into the trash.

The photographs were easier. Except for one. There were two that I had particularly cherished and held close to my heart. It was Evgeni's first picture in his Metallurg Magnitogorsk uniform; the picture that would be used in his player profile. He looked so proud in his uniform. I was the first person he gave the picture to, before his mother or father. On the back of the picture was Evgeni's messy scrawl, “I'll remember you when you are a prima ballerina, if you remember me when I win the Stanley Cup. Love, Zhenya.” He always asked me to call him Zhenya, but I never had the heart to. This too could not stay. It had to go. The other was the photograph of Evgeni and I by the lake. He had his arms wrapped around my waist and he was lifting me up off the ground, like it was nothing. We were smiling and happy. The sun made the photograph seem overexposed. It was Galina, Evgeni's sister, who took the photo. I loved this picture, how happy we looked and in love we were. Pictures are good at capturing moments in time. In that exact moment in time, I thought Evgeni and I were meant to be, soul mates. The edges of the picture were frayed. The deep creases made the paper delicate. Easier to tear. But I couldn't. I wiped a stray tear and carefully folded the picture back. I placed it in my wallet, not in the clear sleeve for pictures, not where I could readily see it but in the larger pocket for cash.

Perhaps the reason why I was able to get rid of the pictures so easily was that I imagined Evgeni in similar poses with Oksana. I could see other picture of him holding Oksana close to him. I could see Evgeni kissing her on the cheek. I could see him playing with her hair as she rested her head on his lap. But I could not see him holding Oksana the way he held me in that photograph. I could not see him looking at her with that same love and affection. I could not see him being that happy, with a smile that big, with her.

The little mementos were the easiest. I had convinced myself they were nothing but ordinary ticket stubs or pressed flowers. But the one thing I could not throw was the red ribbon. Evgeni had given me the ribbon before my first recital. I was crying about how I was cast in a large group where all the girls would be dressed identically. I was worried he wouldn't be able to see me that I would be lost in the sea of candy canes. He told me the red ribbon was for me to wear in my hair so that he will always know where I was and that I shouldn't cry anymore. I've always worn a red, satin ribbon in my hair for all my performances.

I decided that I wasn't going to throw away the ribbon. I was going to change it's meaning. Before, I wore that red ribbon for Evgeni, for him to see me, for him to notice me. Now, I was going to wear that red ribbon for me. I was going to wear it because I had the confidence to stand out. I was dancing for no one but me. The red ribbon would symbolize the change. The new me.



Anna, Alicia and I rode the bus to the Theatre in silence. The tension between the two usually jovial friends was thick. Usually, we would sit together, cramming into one of the seats. But today, we each sat on our own. Alicia in front of me, Anna behind me.

The silence continued when we reached the Theatre. On the schedule board, it was official. Anna was the lead in The Glass Slipper. The casting board, however, was not updated. On the casting board, Anna was still an ugly stepsister and Martha was still Cinderella. On the casting board, Anna was nothing but an alternate.

Alicia, Anna and I started stretching with the rest of our group, sans Martha. Her absence felt all the more real with Anna's blue pointe shoes peaking out of her bag. The blue pointe shoes Martha was going to wear in The Glass Slipper. Was. Anna will be wearing them now.

The void created a palpable unease among us. We chatted among each other but it was just idle chit-chat. No one dared bring up Martha or Anna's new role. Since Madame Stiefel arrived early, no one had. The minute she entered the room, we had bolted to the barres.

I was absolutely exhausted and sleep-deprived but I danced with vigor and precision. I loved dancing and I was acutely aware of the longevity of a dancer's career, or lack of it. After all, I witnessed it first hand with my mother. She retired when she gave birth to me. She was 28. My grandmother danced until she was 35, when the arthritis set in. To me, it felt as though, if I weren't dancing every possible minute, I was wasting time. If I wasn't dancing, I was thinking about dancing; I was going over steps in my head, visualizing the routine, or humming the music. Perhaps that was what made my relationship with Jordan and, as much as I hate to say it, with Evgeni significant and special. When I was with them, I wasn't thinking about ballet.

After class, I had stage rehearsal with Charlie and Alejandro to test the lighting and the staging. Our number had been put right before Intermission, which is always a difficult position. By that time in the show, the audience feels anxious and jittery for the break, making it difficult for them to focus on the performance. Alejandro and I would have to work extra hard to captivate the audience. The rehearsal went achingly slow because it was stop and go, stop and go. Parts were done over and over so that the lighting crew could get the cues perfectly and Charlie wanted test out which lights best fit his vision. Finally, he settled on a dark blue lighting and the use of the spotlight. To me, the overall look of the lighting resembled the night. It looked like the night sky, at that magic hour when it bathed everything in a navy blue light and the moon shining it's opalescent glow. Or perhaps, it symbolized the cover for my character's adulterous affair and the spotlights showed the holes in that cover.

Lunch was, well, lunch. It was like a repeat of class, except we ate, where talked about anything but Anna and Martha. One would think with Anna going out for lunch, we would be more vocal with our opinions. Sadly, I was mistaken. It reached a point where we had actually talked about the weather and how it was getting colder. I wished that everyone would say what they wanted to say and get it over with. But no one dared be the one to bring up the taboo topic.

It would take me till the end of the day to realize that Anna was giving me the cold shoulder. She was just plain ignoring me. She always had her back to me and angled herself away from me. Whenever I would catch her gaze, Anna would look away or, worse, narrow her eyes at me and her jaw would tense. When I talked to her, she pretended like she did not hear me and walk away. I was blind and naïve then. I had convinced myself that she was simply stressed and tired over having to learn a new role in less than a month, in addition to the choreography for Curtain Call, unheard of in the States, apparently. In Russia, it was not uncommon for someone to learn a new role in three weeks notice with only oneself and a coach to help you.

Saturday was usually a relaxing day. It was usually a half day and we mainly focused on refining techniques and placement or we did pilates or yoga. I had barely toweled the sweat off my brow when Leah came rushing in.

“Mr. Orr wants to speak to you, Svetlana. Now!” She must have ran from Mr. Orr's office to the studio because she was out of breathe, with her words coming out it in huffs.

I quickly stuffed my towel and water bottle into my bag and tied my pointe shoes to the outside of my bag as. I followed Leah to Mr. Orr's office, “Is he mad?” I asked in hushed whisper.

Leah didn't say anything or give any signal that confirmed or denied my question. She just kept walking, her ponytail bobbing with each step. Leah was not in a featured role but she was an alternate. Being an alternate is perhaps the worst feeling, you are expected to learn the routines but not physically rehearse with the group. Being an alternate is like a slap in the face, it means you are good enough to play the role but not as good as the main cast. Being an alternate means you're just an afterthought, a just in case. Leah stopped abruptly when we reached the now ominous-looking door. Without a word, she kept walking. Walking, walking, walking till not even the soft shuffling of her shoes on the tile floor could be heard.

I took a deep breathe trying to calm my nerves. But not even the deep inhaling and exhaling could calm the butterflies fluttering nervously in my stomach. I placed my hand on the door knob and twisted it slowly. I pushed the door open.

“Ah, Svetlana, you're here. Please sit,” Mr. Orr gestured to the empty seat in front of him.

The last time I was in his office was my first day in PBT. Then it seemed welcoming and warm but now I wasn't sure what to expect. I balled my hands into fists to keep them from trembling as I took a seat.

“We have something to discuss.” With his hair streaked gray and his bristly mustache, he looked like anyone's uncle or father. Mr. Orr was a far cry from the Terrence in the ABT press photographs adorning the walls. His appearance, then and now, was deceptive of his power. The power he held over us. One minute you were a star and the next you could be sent to the back of the corps. It was all in his hands.

He didn't seem mad. But then again, he didn't seem to dislike Anna.

“We do?” I asked. I may not have been calm on the inside but I was determined to at least look the part.

“Yes, we do. We, the Theatre in general, has been very impressed by your performance in rehearsals, as well as in class and in the Showcase. So, as artistic director of the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre, I would like to congratulate you on being promot-”

Before Mr. Orr could even finish his sentence, the door burst open with a violent sound of wood slamming against stucco. Who opened the door with such force? Anna. She stood there seething, her chest heaving and her teeth gritting against each other.

“Anna, what are you doing here?” Mr. Orr took off his glasses and his eyes held a look of pure annoyance.

“You know! Both of you!” She shrieked. She was sweating, probably from running down here and from the exhausting rehearsal. She was wearing her favorite mint green leotard with the turtleneck and the open back. It was Saturday so she was allowed to wear it.

“Well, what is it?” The words rolled off my tongue slowly as if testing the waters.

“Don't act all sweet and innocent with me!” Anna growled. “You know exactly why I'm here!”

“I really don't,” I looked towards Mr. Orr to see if he had any inkling of what was going on, but he kept his face as stoic and blank as ever.

Anna's face was flushed red with anger. Her straight rows of pearly white teeth were bared. Her arms looked ready to strike. Her mint green leotard suddenly seemed all the more appropriate as her narrowed eyes glinted with envy. She threw a magazine onto the desk. Jaw tense and fists balled, “This! This is why I'm here!”

It was a magazine called WHIRL!, one of the local magazines here in Pittsburgh- I only know this because Anna has the issues sent to the apartment. I was so tired and confused. I took in the colors of the cover languidly. The soft lighting that seemed to almost washout the entire cover. The model was balancing in a Y-scale position. One hand gripping the barre, the other holding her ankle. Her hair was thrown haphazardly into an unraveling bun, like she had been dancing for a long time and her hair was coming loose. Her face was in profile and her long, swan neck added to the ethereal cover. She was wearing a casual, white off-the-shoulder top that hung loosely on her willowy frame. It looked as if the exposed, razor-thin strap of her bra was exposed on accident. She wore only short shorts that were a printed, geometric pattern in varying shades of gray. Gray leg warmers covered her legs from the knee down. The bold, white font of the title was used for the subheadings. One of them reading “Raising the Barre: Svetlana Khitrova” in a smaller, finer print below it read, “Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre's new star, Svetlana Khitrova, is adding a distinctive Russian flavor to the Steel City's art scene.”

I rubbed my eyes after reading the subheading. I looked back at the model. I followed the slope of her nose, the shape of her lips, the curve of her chin. The golden eyes looking far off into the distance. All the features were mine. I was on the cover. Vague memories of the photo shoot flashed into my mind. My mind felt like it was exploding, “I don't understand.”

“I'm afraid neither do I,” Mr. Orr said. “Anna, why are you here?”

“Isn't it obvious! She's working the casting couch. How else would she get the cover?” Her eyes were wild, “This was supposed to be a small piece focusing on the Company as a whole. Not a feature on PBT's mail-order bride!”

“What are you suggesting Anna?” Mr. Orr's voice was even, not a single hint of his widely known dislike of Anna.

“That she slept with the photographer!”

“What!” I exclaimed. How could she make such an outrageous claim? I thought we were friends. Were. “I did not sleep with the photographer!”

“Oh, then the editor? The writer? Who?” Anna's voice was full of accusations as she stared daggers at me.

“No one!” I looked to Mr. Orr but his face was still as stoic as ever.

“Anna,” Mr. Orr's voice held an undertone of annoyance. “You have no grounds to make these sorts of accusations. You have no proof other than your own psychosis and if anything this reflects wonderfully on the Company. Being featured in a prominent magazine such as this one generates lots of publicity and interest in the Showcase and the upcoming season.” His tone had a finality to it that meant both of us had to get out.

Now.