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

The two of us walked out of Mr. Orr's office. I lagged behind Anna, still in a daze of what had happened. Did Anna really accuse of me of all those things? Did Anna really think I would do such things? Did Anna really want me to be punished for “my actions?”

I thought we were friends. Thought.

Much to my chagrin, when we arrived at the bus stop, the bus was nowhere to be seen. I sat on the cold iron bench, while Anna stood, leaning against the post. I wrapped my blush pink cardigan tighter around my torso, trying to ward off the chilly wind. “Why did you say those things about me?” I asked,

“God! Stop acting so innocent and perfect. You know perfectly well why I did what I did. I did what I had to,” She had this look of victory on her face, a smugness in her features.

“You knew those things weren't true,” Despite my efforts, I couldn't keep the hurt from seeping through my voice and in my face.

“So? It hurt your reputation and ruined your character,” Anna said with a shrug of her shoulders.

“But, Mr. Orr. He didn't even believe you.”

“Hmph, that's what you think. I don't need him to believe me. All I needed was to plant that seed. He has a kernel of an idea, that inkling. He already knows about Jordan and, now, he has to be wondering what else you're doing on the side. He's probably sitting in his big, comfy chair staring at the cover wondering how exactly you got the cover.” Anna dug through her bag and drew out a carton of cigarettes and a lighter.

“I thought we were friends,”

“You can stop with that sick puppy dog look, okay? It doesn't work on me. We weren't friends Svetlana. Just because we live together, doesn't mean we're friends. We're anything but. You came here with your perfect turnout, your great feet, your amazing natural ability and just became the star. I've been here forever. This is my Theatre, this is my Company, this is my City. You can't just come here and take that all away from me. I was a soloist, I was a principle, look at me now because of you. I'm stuck in the back of corps and you're in the spotlight. You're the beautiful princess and I'm just another ugly stepsister. Well, guess what maybe this time, when the clock strikes 12, there's no glass slipper. Just plain Cinderella covered in rags.”

Tears blurred my vision as the words sank in. The words that pierced me like a knife. What was worse was that Anna was being completely honest about the way she felt. She truly hated me. I stared at her casual form leaning against the post, smoking a cigarette. I wrinkled my nose at the smoke, “I didn't know you smoked.”

“I guess you didn't know me, then,” Anna blew smoke in my face with a smirk as the bus arrived. She looked back at me with an evil smile that reminded me of the evil stepmother. Except this time, the evil stepmother was beautiful and blonde and green with envy.

I didn't dare get on that bus with her. Not with that savage jealousy in her eyes. Not with the way her arms and hands were tightly coiled and ready to attack like a cat. Not with the Anna, I thought I knew, destroyed. Not with our friendship destroyed.

I didn't, even, dare to go back to the apartment. I once again felt like the lost little girl I was when I first arrived in Pittsburgh. A girl without a home and only a dream. Except now my dream was different. I don't know how long I sat on that bench, how many buses came and went, how many people stared at me with odd looks. All I knew was that I couldn't go back to the apartment.

It all just sank in. Evgeni gone. Anna gone. Did I ever know those two? I guess not. Right now, I concluded, the only sure things in my life were ballet and Jordan.



The locker room was always a place of controlled chaos. There were pads and jersey strewn about the floor. There were hockey sticks being taped. There were hockey players hustling and bustling, doing this and that, in the same pattern they've done since Tyke. Someone was always doing something. Everyone moving in an almost clockwork. Except for Jordan Staal.

Jordan Staal was sitting by his locker and despite the fact that practice had been over for over a half hour, his chest was heaving up and down, gulping in large, deep breaths. He was in deep thought, thinking about a million and one things, but one stood out above the others.

He could not get a svelte, Russian ballerina out of his mind. It didn't matter that the season was starting. What mattered, at least in Jordan's mind, was that he would be leaving Svetlana alone, when he went to Sweden. It didn't matter that the pressure was on to win a Stanley Cup. What mattered was that the Sweden trip wouldn't be his last trip away from Svetlana; there were road trips. Oh the road trips! Those 3, 5, 7 game road trips away from her seemed unbearable. But perhaps what mattered most to Jordan was that he wasn't even sure what the status of his relationship with Svetlana was.

Did he have the right feel this way? Of course, they were friends. But did he have the right to tell her that his heart skips a beat when she's near? Did he have the right to tell her that he's been calling home, asking his mom for advice about her? Did he have the right to tell her that they should be exclusive? Did he have the right to tell her wants her to be his girlfriend? In Jordan's mind, no, no, no and no.

His head was throbbing, whether it was from thinking about Svetlana or from the sheer exhaustion from the two-a-days, he wasn't sure. He shut his eyes, trying to block out the shuffling of feet, the laughter at bawdy locker room humor, the loud conversations about last night's exploits.

“You okay, Gronk?”

Jordan opened one eye, looking at the source of the voice. Tyler Kennedy. “Fine,” Jordan responded in a huff as he started gathering his stuff into his duffel.

“How's Sveta?”

The question seemed innocent enough. How was she doing? But Jordan knew Tyler better than that. What Tyler really meant was: have you been friend-zoned yet? Have you had sex with her yet?

“She's fine,” Jordan answered dully.

“Doesn't sound like things are all that great,” Tyler added bluntly. “Haven't been able to get it in?”

Simple annoyance developed into a simmering anger. Jordan was ready to snap at Tyler, when his phone rang. Speak of the devil.

“Hello, Jordan?” Her voice sounded shaky, almost scared, like she was on the verge of tears.

“Sveta? Yeah it's me. What is it? What's wrong?” A million thoughts ran through his head, each one worse than the one before it. I'm a hockey player, I'm fearless. Except when it came to Sveta. Worry and fear racked through his body as he remembered the promise. I’m not going to let anything hurt you, ever.

“I'm fine,” Her voice cracked and sniffling could be heard, “Can you pick me up? I'm at the Theatre.”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem. I'll be there as fast as I can.”



She looked so fragile, so delicate was the line of her frail shoulders, so ethereal was the high cheekbones, the long, swan neck, the plump, red lips, the impossibly, bright gold eyes. She looked like one of the sylphs she portrayed on stage, light and airy, intangible. Who would of thought, a fairy wrapped in a light pink cardigan, a duffel bag pressed firmly to her side, would be sitting at a bus stop in Pittsburgh's Art District?

Jordan did. He saw the sadness in her eyes, carefully veiled and masked away. He felt that familiar pang in his chest. The yearning for her to just tell him what was hurting her so much. Why can't she just tell me?

As much pain and hurt there was in her eyes, all of it seemed to disappear, when she saw looked up and saw his SUV. Her eyes sparkled with a happiness, and, perhaps, a sense of relief. A wide grin spread across those lips that Jordan wished to kiss over and over. It was real smile, too. Not one of those coy ones she gave to Max or Tyler. It was a smile that brought out her dimples and showed her teeth. Her eyes crinkled up at the corners and her whole face lit up. A special smile. A special smile just for him.

Svetlana sprung to her feet and dashed to his car, as if not wanting to be seen by anyone. “Thank you,” Her voice was barely above a whisper. And with that quiet whisper, they were off. “Can I stay with you? Anna's,” There was sharp intake of air, followed by a heavy sigh, “Anna and I are not on good terms, right now.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure thing.” Jordan's chest heaved as he let out a frustrated sigh. He scratched the back of his neck. He paused and took a deep breath as if he was preparing to get punched in the stomach, “Just tell me already.”

“Wh-what?”

“Just tell me what's wrong. Be honest with me.”



Evgeni. How desperately I wanted to tell Jordan about Evgeni. I needed to tell him. But I couldn't . How can I tell him that I came to Pittsburgh for Evgeni? That I loved Evgeni for all my life? Would I ever be able to make him understand that you don't just loving something? You don't give your entire life to someone and just stop thinking about him- stop loving him.

“Tell me,” His voice broke her thoughts. “Tell me.”

“It's Anna,” I lied, lying became easier and easier the longer I was in America. Well this wasn't exactly lying, I guess. I mean Anna was contributing to my awful mood. “I thought she was my friend. I thought I knew her. But I guess I didn't. I never did.”

“Is it 'cause of the magazine cover?”

“You saw that!”

“The whole city has seen it,” Jordan gestured to the back seat, where a stack of magazines laid. “And soon enough, my family will too.”

My cheeks warmed to a pink flush as Jordan flashed his typical mischievous grin. “Why?”

“I enjoy embarrassing you,” Just his jaunty smile would have made me blush, “Besides, why wouldn't I want my family to know that I'm friends with a big-shot ballerina?”

“That's exactly why I lost a friend,” I added gravely. My eyes casted downward and bit my lower lip. “Or maybe never had one. Anna tried to sway me out of Mr. Orr's favor. She made up these awful lies and-”

“Don't worry about it, Sveta. When girls like Anna hate you, it's just whatever, you know? So what, if she doesn't like you. It doesn't really matter. Her hating you doesn't make her a better dancer, or you a worser one,” The car eased to a stop.

“Thank you, for everything,” I smiled as Jordan threaded his arm through mine while we walked to his apartment.

“Don't mention it,” Jordan winked playfully. Some how with me still pressed to his side, Jordan was able to unlock the door. Suddenly, I felt very aware of the closeness of our bodies. I was aware of how his body felt like marble against mine. I was aware of how my knees felt weak with his arm wrapped around my waist. I was aware of how I didn't want to tear myself away from him.

It felt odd. The whole ritual of getting ready for bed, in Jordan's apartment, in Jordan's clothes, with Jordan. It felt oddly comfortable. The way we moved in an almost clockwork pattern, each of us taking just the right amount of time so that the other wasn't left waiting. It was as if this was a pattern we had perfected over years together, when it had only been months.

What was even more odd? How we both climbed into bed together, no questions asked. No 'I'm sleeping on the couch's or 'I'm the guest, I'll sleep on the couch's. We just slid under the covers and laid there, completely warm and comfortable.

“I'm going to do some light reading before I go to bed,” Jordan announced as he plucked something from off his night stand.

In the fluorescent light of his lamp, I could easily make out the cover. It was, of course, the latest copy of WHIRL! “Really! Do you have to?”

“Of course I have to,” Jordan flipped through the glossy pages of the magazine finding the article with ease. After making a great show of clearing his throat, he began to read the article aloud: “In the minimalistic, rehearsal rooms of the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre, Sveltana Khitrova's captivating femininity and girlish spontaneity are reminiscent of a young Audrey Hepburn. Tall and thin with weightless limbs and an elongated torso, she draws attention to herself with her strong technique, luxuriant musicality, and supple, easy grace.

Making predictions about a dancer's future can be a tricky business. But even in the mundane, repetitive motions of barre work, she emits an unmistakable aura. Apart from the obvious-she's tall, attractively thin, with long, expressive limbs, a graceful neck, and a face Raphael would dream of painting-the wisdom of what she conveyed onstage seems positively preternatural. Flickering memories of past Russian ballerinas came to mind: the joyous musical phrasing and innocence of the young Anna Pavlova; an elongated, eloquent torso similar to Uliana Lopatkina's; and a mysterious allure uncannily reminiscent of Galina Ulanova. Beyond a rare coupling of vulnerability and technical confidence, Khitrova allows her sixth sense of the ballet's dramatic subtext, prompting plenty in the audience to fantasize about the possibilities ahead for this nascent ballerina.

While only 21 years old, under the artistic direction of Terrence Orr, Khitrova has a surprising maturity. In 2001, she received the junior division gold medal at the First International Ballet Competition in Moscow. In 2002, she won the junior division first prize in the Nagoya (Japan) International Ballet Competition, and the gold medal at the Vaganova Prix in St. Petersburg.

Khitrova's talent arrives with an impressive pedigree. Her mother, Aliya Kapranova, was a beloved soloist with the Bolshoi Ballet and guested with the American Ballet Theatre and the New York City Ballet, and a hand-picked favorite of George Balanchine during her tenure in New York while reuniting with former partner Mikahil Baryshnikov. Khitrova's maternal grandmother, Svetlana Bessonova, was on-stage and good friends with Natalia Dudinskaya and Galina Ulanova. Bessonova would also go on to coach stars like Maya Plisetskaya and Natalia Makarova. Makarova would, coincidentally, coach Khitrova, with fellow amazonian ballerina, Uliana Lopatkina. Khitrova's fraternal grandmother, Vera Khitrova, was too a dancer, but she would become famous not for her on-stage performances but for her off-stage ones. When she defected from the Soviet Union to England with the help of Margot Fonteyn, the drama would make headlines with the famous pictures of Vera holding on to her son Valeri, Khitrova's father who was only a toddler then, as she left the Soviet Embassy with Margot Fonteyn on her left and Rudolf Nureyev on right. Going back even further, Khitrova's maternal great-grandmother developed a deep friendship with Anna Pavlova and would play muse to Marius Petipa and Michel Fokine, with several roles being made just for her. Two generations are not uncommon in mother-daughter dance careers, but four generations is more than rare. Watching the energy in Khitrova's long, feminine back, the focus of her gaze, and the reach of her port de bras right through to her hands, it is easy to spot her lineage.

"My theatrical life has always been full of unexpected but happy occurrences," says Khitrova, who graduated from the Bolshoi Academy in 2002. It seems that Khitrova was the only one surprised when she broke the records for scores on her graduation exams. After her second year with the Bolshoi Ballet, Khitrova received invitations to join the The Kirov Ballet, Paris Opera Ballet, The Royal Ballet and Berlin's Staatsoper unter den Linden. "I chose Pittsburgh because it was like home. My hometown of Magnitogorsk was based on the city plans of Pittsburgh. The repertoire had a mix of modern and classical ballet, which allows me to fully explore my artistic capabilities" she says.

“I always wanted to be a dancer,” Her sweet shyness appearing, “That dream is not uncommon, every girl in Russia dreams of being a ballerina at one point in her life. For some the dream does not always come true.” But a ballet career always seemed to be in the stars for Khitrova. At 6 years old, she dreamed of attending the famous Bolshoi Academy, like all the women in her family, and prayed that she would get in. Khitrova's mother would coach her until she was accepted into the school. “My parents never pushed me but dance came naturally to me. Mama always talks about when I was a baby and a piece from Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake drifted in from an open window. According to her, I went into this trance and started moving to the music.”

“I was always tall for my age, by the time I was 10, I was almost too tall for the Academy.” she adds. “I was lucky, at the same time I was auditioning another boy had come in Ilya Kuznetsov and he was quite tall as well. Also, tall ballerinas were becoming quite fashionable.' Fashionable in deed. With Uliana Lopatkina guiding her, Khitrova made use of her long, slender limbs. While she lacks the quickness of her smaller counterparts, Khitrova has a fluidity and fragility. Under Natalia Makarova's tutelage, Khitrova made use of her womanly curves. 'When she dances, you see a woman. Not a young waif playing a princess but a true lady. She is somehow both real and fantasy, innocent yet sensual,' Makarova remarked. Though she may never play the role of young Clara in The Nutcracker, you can easily imagine in Don Quixote or Manon.

Terrence Orr, artistic director of PBT, first spotted Khitrova in ballet class in Russia. He was visiting old friends at the Bolshoi Academy. "From the first moment I saw her, I thought her line was beautiful," says Orr. "And I just understood she was a ballerina. A true artist." Even though Sofia Golovkina, Khitrova's teacher and the director of the academy until her death in March, tried to draw his attention to another student, Orr could not take his eyes off of Khitrova.

Orr is not the only one mesmerized by Khitrova's willowy limbs and graceful demeanor. “It was meant to be a small piece, focusing on the Company as a whole,” describes Elle Wintour, editor-in-chief here at WHIRL!, “But once I saw the pictures, my eye was immediately drawn to her.” As John Testino recalls, “It was a terribly frustrating day. Dancers were coming in-and-out so fast that sometimes we weren't getting the shots we needed. I remember shooting Svetlana vividly, though. She was the absolute last dancer to be shot. The lighting was quite bad as the sun was setting and I was quite irritated and tired from the day. But when she came in, it was magic. The awful lighting seemed to suddenly work. It gave her this ethereal, floaty quality and she just glowed. I rarely say this, but I felt that Svetlana and I were making art.”

Though Golovkina may not have been sweet on Khitrova, Bolshoi artistic director Vladimir Malakhov valued Khitrova's professional readiness and artistic individuality so highly that during her first season with the Bolshoi, he gave her lead roles in The Nutcracker and La Bayadère, one of her favorite ballets. During her second season, Khitrova danced The Young Lady in The Young Lady and the Hooligan the role she has grown to love above all others. "I danced The Young Lady with such enjoyment," she says. "There is so much to work on in that part."

Onstage Khitrova is an actress beyond her years, and the interplay of light and shadow on her face highlights the details of her performance. "Kuznetsov is a very emotional artist," says Khitrova. "As a result, I am very different when I am with him. I am much more emotional than with other partners.”

"I'm amazed they [the Bolshoi] let her escape and it will be fascinating to see how she develops," says Orr.

Ballet lovers can look forward to seeing Khitrova's career unfold in the Steel City.”

“That was nice,” I said plainly. It felt odd hearing my quotes read back to me. It felt odd hearing my story in such a way. The emphasis they put on my heritage put me back where I did not want to be. In my family's shadow.

“There are some cool pictures in here. Like one of you doing this split jump and stuff, it looks like you're floating. Wanna see?”

“No thank you. It's alright. What did you think of the story?”

“It was nice,” He mocked, “But it was a little boring.”

I may not have liked the story or the attention particularly much but boring? He basically called me entire career nothing but a snooze. “Boring! Really?”

“Yeah, I mean I already knew all this stuff about you. You were too tall. You came from a family of ballerinas. Your dad grew up in England. Your mom danced in the US. You love La Bayadère. You grew up in Magnitogorsk,” His smirk grew, “In fact there are some other things they should have included too. Like how your dimples come out when you smile. Or how your hair smells like strawberries,” His face came dangerously close to mine. He paused as he inhaled, “Or how your eyes aren't really gold at all but flecks of gold, amber, and bronze mixed together to form gold. Or how your lips are softer than anything,” His lips brushed against mine, chastely. Then our kisses grew hungrier, deeper. Jordan pulled away, “Or how I'm hopelessly in love with you.”