him tomorrow.” And then in a hushed whisper, “Is he here?”
The older woman smiled. “No, but he will be soon. He is holding full rehearsal here on the eleventh.”
“I know. I wanted to audition for him. I want to be in the performance, and join his troupe.” She said it all at once and the woman laughed out loud.
“Do you now? And where have you been training?”
“At Madame Nastova's school in St. Petersburg … until two months ago.” She only wished then that she could have lied and said “the Maryinsky,” but he would have known the truth almost certainly. And Madame Nastova's school of ballet was also one of the most prestigious in Russia.
“If I get you a leotard and some shoes, will you dance for me now?” The woman looked amused, and Zoya hesitated only for a split second.
“Yes, if you like.” Her heart was pounding like an entire orchestra, but she had to get a job and this was all she could do, and all she wanted to do. It seemed the very least she could do for Evgenia.
The shoes that the woman gave her hurt her terribly, and as she went to the piano, Zoya felt foolish to have even tried it. She would look stupid on the stage all alone, and perhaps Madame Nastova was only being kind when she had said she was very good. But as the music began, she slowly began to forget her fears, and slowly she began to dance, and do everything that Madame Nastova had taught her. She danced for almost an hour tirelessly, as the woman watched her critically with narrowed eyes, but nowhere on her face was either scorn or amusement. Zoya was drenched when the music stopped at last, and she made a graceful curtsy in the direction of the piano. And in the silence of the room, the two women's eyes met, and the woman at the piano slowly nodded.
“Can you come back in two days, mademoiselle?”’ Zoya's eyes widened into two huge green saucers as she ran toward the piano.
“Do I get a job?”
The older woman shook her head and laughed, “No, no … but he will be here then. We shall see what he says, as well as the other teachers.”
“All right. I'll get some shoes.”
“You don't have any?” The woman looked surprised and Zoya looked at her seriously.
“We left everything we had in Russia. My parents and brother were killed in the revolution, and I escaped with my grandmother a month ago. I must find a job. She's too old to work, and we have no money.” It was a simple statement that spoke volumes and touched the other woman's heart to the core, although she didn't show it.
“How old are you?”
“Just eighteen. And I've studied for twelve years.”
“You're very good. No matter what he says … or the others … don't let anyone frighten you. You're very good.” Zoya laughed out loud then, it was just exactly what she had said to Marie, that afternoon at Tsarskoe Selo.
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” She wanted to throw her arms around her and kiss her, but she restrained herself. She was afraid to lose the opportunity she had. She would do anything to dance for Diaghilev, and this woman was going to let her do it. It was beyond anything she had ever dreamed. Perhaps Paris wasn't going to be so bad after all … not if she could become a ballerina. “I'll be better after I've danced again. I haven't danced in two months. I'm a little rusty.”
“Then you'll be even better than I think.” She smiled at the beautiful young redhead standing so graceful and poised beside the piano, and then suddenly Zoya gave a gasp. She had promised her grandmother she'd be back in a little while, and she'd been gone for almost two hours.
“I must go! My grandmother! … Oh … I'm so sorry …” She dashed off to change her clothes again, and returned in her navy skirt and sailor blouse, a swan having been changed back into a duckling. “I'll be back in two days … and thank you for the shoes! …” She started to hurry off, and then suddenly turned back again, and shouted to the woman who watched her go. “Oh … what time?”
“Two o'clock!” The woman called, and then remembered something else. “What's your name?”
“Zoya Ossupov!” she called back, and then was gone, as the woman at the piano sat down with