Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,19

proper sprung floors, a barre, a mirror, and a CD player for music.

We have live accompaniment in the bigger studios.

Mr. V. walks in right at two o'clock. “I'll need a few minutes,” he says, sitting down at a table in the corner and unpacking a lunch of his own.

I stretch some more and wait while he eats.

“What were you wanting to learn?” he asks, in between bites of a chicken salad sandwich he picked up from the same cafe I just returned from. I should have asked if he wanted me to get his lunch. If this is more than just a one-time pity session, I'll pick his food up for him next time.

“The first solo and the first pas de deux.” I say it more like it's a question than a statement because I know just how presumptuous it sounds.

We both know I need a partner for the pas de deux. And while he may for some reason be feeling generous with me, he's not going to pull Frederick or his understudy away to engage in fruitless practice that won't turn into anything. It would raise weird questions. This will probably raise weird questions—the fact that he's even in this private studio space with me at all.

Mr. V. doesn't comment on this. He just eats the rest of his sandwich and drinks his iced tea. “All right,” he finally says. I'm not sure if he's agreeing to my syllabus or if he's merely stating that he's ready to begin.

I stand, and he stands. I'm surprised when he opens his bag and takes out a pair of his own ballet shoes and puts them on. He does a few warm-up exercises and stretches at the barre. He's been retired from the Bolshoi for ten years, but he doesn't move like someone retired for a decade. He moves as though he performed with us yesterday. It makes me suddenly wonder if he still dances for himself in his off time. Maybe he has a barre at home like I do.

Mr. V. spends the first hour teaching me the solo. It's easy to pick up because I've seen it so many times. But since I've seen it in rehearsals and not on stage, there are a few parts I've missed. He spends extra time on those parts, making sure I have it down before moving on.

He plays the music and lets me do the entire solo once I know all the parts. He shouts out a couple of corrections as I go. I fix them on the next run through.

“Very good,” he says. “We've got another hour. I'll teach you the pas de deux.”

“I need a partner.”

“It's been a while, but I think I can manage,” Mr. V. says.

I worry I've offended him, but when I look up, he's smiling at me.

“Okay,” I say.

He's still an amazing dancer. So much better than Henry, though I will never ever tell Henry that. It would hurt him even though he knows he'll never get out of the corps. He's a solid corps dancer, but he's not principal material. As far as I can tell, he doesn't seem sad about this. He accepted the truth of it long ago.

“Do you miss it?” I ask Mr. V. when we finish for the day. Another rehearsal is starting in Studio B, and both of us need to be in there.

“Sometimes,” he says. “But I also love teaching. Two p.m. next week?”

“Yes.” This time I manage to contain my squeals and hugs.

By the time Wednesday night rolls around, I’ve practiced Odette's solo more times than I can count in my private studio space at home, and I've done what little I can of the pas de deux alone, marking all of the parts as well as I can.

I'm wearing the plum leotard today and all the other things he requested.

“I want you en pointe tonight,” the voice says over the speaker system.

I strip off my outer layer of clothes, finish getting ready, and put my pointe shoes on. I pull on my leg warmers and stand at the barre to begin my warmups. I want to ask if he was at the show opening night, but before I can find a way to phrase the question, he speaks again.

“I saw the mistake Thursday night. I'm sure no one else noticed it, but I noticed it.”

I swallow hard. He doesn't say anything else. I'm finished with my warm-ups before he speaks again.

“I want to see the solo, now.”

I move