Letters from Yelena by Guy Mankowski Page B

meet me in the hall outside as soon as the audition had finished. As she left my side I hoped the next time she saw my face, it contained pride rather than shame.
    I was part of a group of seven girls that were shown around the academy before the interview by the director. We were then given a five minute break before the auditions started, and in that
time I shut myself in the toilet and tried to calm my nerves. In those desperate, jagged moments I told myself that this was my only option, my only chance. I simply had to make it good. There
would be no-one to comfort me if I messed up, and no-one to blame but myself. I imagined how I would feel if I danced well and was accepted. It was too painful to imagine the alternative.
    A few minutes later we were led upstairs into a great, high ceilinged hall. I saw that a black and white portrait of Nijinksy was looking over us. As I stepped into the room, I felt that my
every footstep was clumsy. From watching videos with Therese I knew what the protocol would be – we would simply dance a usual class that the director at some point would come along and
observe. The other girls seemed so much more assured than I at this point, and I wondered how many of them had already walked these historic floors. We each found a place at the barre. The door
closed with a great bang, and then six members of staff, some carrying clipboards, came in and stood at the other end of the room. None of them smiled, they merely raised their heads expectantly.
The girls consulted nervously with one another and looked to their feet, trying to find their first position. The maestro took to the piano in the corner of the room and one of the people,
evidently the ballet mistress, ordered us to prepare, in brisk Russian.
    The music began, and to my horror I felt suddenly overwhelmed by the turn of events. I missed the first step. Bruna’s laughter returned to me. Not now, I told myself. I felt the ballet
mistresses’ eyes upon me, but a moment later I sensed that her attention had moved on. I could see the panel conferring with one another out of the corner of my eye, and then one of them
motioned to the mistress. She ran over to the maestro, his music suddenly stopping before he began the piece again. It was only then that I saw, from the expressions on the other girls’
faces, that many of the others had fallen behind too. I was relieved beyond words to see that the music had not stopped just because of me.
    From practicing, I was used to sweating a great deal at the barre, but today I could already feel it pouring out of me and I had barely begun. I implored my mind to catch and then follow each
instruction, to be agile enough to also show grace and flexibility in every move. As the music began again the mistress did not show us the whole moves, but merely suggested them with a flick of
her hand. As we progressed through the pliés and the slow tendus I saw the mistress pacing around the room. Occasionally she would stop, and touch a girl gently on the
shoulder, and they would scuttle out of the room. I focused on staying on top of the music, and straining to hear every word that was said. A few minutes later I sensed the mistress at my shoulder,
and my body tensed as she leaned in. I could smell her expensive perfume. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when they opened she had passed me by. I had not yet been discounted, and I felt
determined to carry on.
    After a while the mistress motioned for us to leave the barre and move into the centre. I heard the panel mutter amongst themselves. Many of the dancers did not even look at one another as they
prepared to start again. As I began to dance, I felt my body relax, and to my surprise I began to dance fluidly. My body became a little freer. I attacked my pirouettes, and they seemed crisp and
confident. My mind had been sharpened by years of practice, and as the nerves faded my movements were as sharp as they had ever been. Once or twice I