Encore by Monique Raphel High

her.
    She earned sixty-five rubles a month as a member of the corps and contributed to the upkeep of the apartment and to the cost of food. Her clothes were simple, for she had no social life during those early working days. She had met other dancers, but their lives seemed far removed from hers, with families and friends she did not know. Lydia, of course, knew a great many people, but her older friends did not know Natalia and had no reason to include her in their reunions. Lydia invited some of her acquaintances to the flat; but when she met them, Natalia remained quiet, listening to this outside world that sounded no gong of recognition in her own experience. “Why do you saddle yourself with little Miss House Mouse?” one of Lydia’s friends mischievously asked her one evening. “Are you growing charitable in your old age?”
    â€œShe’s a great deal more than you think,” Lydia retorted. “Watch her.”
    And then, one day in the early part of November, the old nurse greeted Natalia at the door with an ivory-colored envelope bearing her name. The young girl was puzzled. She thought that the handwriting looked familiar: elegant, petulant, vain. She frowned and slit it open, removing a stiff card. “What’s a dîner de têtes?” she finally asked Lydia.
    Her friend was intrigued. “That’s something French; it isn’t usually done in Russia. It’s a dinner where the guests come in fancy headdresses. I suppose the Parisians have them instead of costume balls. For a supper, one could disguise one’s head alone, but of course not for a ball: That would look a bit ridiculous, don’t you think? Formal gown and strange headdress?”
    â€œIt seems I’ve been invited to one,” Natalia stated evenly. She handed Lydia the card. “At Count Boris Kussov’s. What an odd man he is: the pearl necklace, then nothing—and now this. I wonder why he suddenly remembered me?”
    â€œBoris Vassilievitch Kussov does nothing lightly. He is good at recognizing talent. Surely you do not think you will remain in the corps for long? Everybody knows you will soon be a soloist. Perhaps our fair count wants to give you a foretaste of the society that a Petersburg ballerina is supposed to keep. But this dîner de têtes, now. You will enjoy yourself. Boris Vassilievitch is a magnificent host, and if he has decided that the French have a good thing, then we must believe him. He forecasts trends before they become fashionable. The dîner de têtes will be a society staple within the year—mark my words.”
    â€œBut I won’t go,” Natalia replied lightly. “I am not a commodity, a display piece. I am a dancer.”
    â€œYou, my friend, are only a fool,” Lydia said. “A scared fool, too. You must go, and you must look beautiful and be clever. If you’re afraid of people, then you must face them squarely and overcome your terror. Human beings eat up those who are frightened of them, and you can’t avoid the world forever. A dancer cannot soar above herself if she does not know how she fits into the larger framework. Do not be afraid that those who touch you will automatically violate you: That is emotional frigidity.”
    Natalia stared at Lydia, her great brown eyes wide with outrage and panic. She felt as she had after the performance of The Daughter of Pharaoh, eighteen months before: like a cornered wild animal. But Lydia shrugged her shoulders and grinned disarmingly. “We must think up a head for you,” she said.
    As he had written on his invitation, Boris sent his covered troika to fetch Natalia on the appointed evening. She was sitting stiffly in the small parlor, her young body sheathed in a low-cut crimson gown that revealed the tops of her breasts and her graceful arms. Around her long, slender neck lay the pearl necklace. She had chosen to wear a traditionally Russian headdress, the