To Live and Die for Dance

TO LIVE AND DIE FOR DANCE

BY

FRANCINE PAINO

Copyright © 2011 Francine Paino

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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This is a work of fiction and is not based upon any person or persons living or dead. Any resemblance to any person, alive or dead is strictly coincidental.

Prologue

Lightning streaked the sky with the intensity of hundreds of flashbulbs. She blinked and began to count aloud to see how far away the storm was: One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi, A crack of thunder reverberated through the air. Natasha tightened her already white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. The storm must be about five miles away, that’s how many times I counted Mississippi before it thundered. Where am I?

Natasha was having difficulty reading the road signs through the heavy downpour. The rain pelted the windshield faster than the wipers could push the water away. The only momentary relief was provided by the shelter of an occasional overpass. Natasha tried to stay calm but storms always made her nervous and this close, they disoriented her.

She was driving much too fast on the rain-soaked highway, but the exasperation of being sent on a fool’s errand on the most important day of her life masked an underlying sense of foreboding that caused her to be heavy on the gas pedal.

They forgot the tickets and the cash in Mom’s safe. How could they be so dumb? She asked herself over and over. Only she, Oleg and her mother knew the combination. Her mother, the renowned Alexandra Romanova had to remain at the theater preparing her dancers and reviewing lighting and sound settings with the technicians. Oleg, who had made a last minute but important correction in the programs was at the print shop picking them up. Natasha shook her head in disgust remembering the fight between her mother and Oleg the night before over the stupid mistake. The Romanova Ballet Company had a world class leader and great dancers but it was still a smalltime, mom and pop operation. But this ballet is going to change all of that.

Natasha’s mind was racing. When I get back to the theater I will have less than one hour to warm up, do my make-up and focus on what will be the most important performance of my life. Her grumbling was clearly audible although no one was in the car.

Arriving home, she parked the car askew on the driveway and left it running. She charged through the pelting rain into the house and clattered up the stairs to the second floor where she and her mother lived. Above the noise of her shoes she heard a distinct thump from the direction of her mother’s bedroom. Natasha hesitated momentarily and thought, the cat, but her impatience to retrieve the tickets and the money and get back to the theater overpowered her caution. She rushed through the door to her mother’s bedroom suite and froze. Stunned, not recognizing mortal danger, she asked, What are you doing here? Realization was too late. Damn you . . . A deafening burst of thunder drowned out the name she screamed. Those were her last words.

July 21, 1996

BALLERINA MURDERED

Premiere Cancelled

Natasha Romanova, the eighteen year old daughter of legendary dancer Alexandra Romanova was murdered last night when she unexpectedly returned home to retrieve money and tickets for that evening’s scheduled performance. Miss Romanova was found dead in her mother’s bedroom, which had been ransacked. A neighbor, Janet Conroy, noticed the Romonova car running in the driveway for over half an hour with the door open. She tried repeatedly calling the Romanovas and became alarmed when no one answered. Ms. Conroy then called 911. When the police arrived they found Natasha Romanova’s body.

A statement issued by Sgt. Leonard Renzi of the Homicide Division said the police are examining all possibilities, but they believe the motive was robbery by a person or persons familiar with the Romanova’ schedule. There was $20,000 taken from the safe which had been broken into.Last night was to be the premiere of Madame Romanova’s Capriccio Maestoso. Many in the dance world believed this ballet was a masterpiece that would have launched the Romanova Ballet into a world class company. Natasha, who has often been described by critics as a young dancer to watch, was to perform the lead role.

Immediately after graduating from high school the promising eighteen year-old Natasha, joined her mother’s company as a full time dancer in the corps-de-ballet. Alexandra Romanova was one of the great stars of the Kirov Ballet in the 1960s and 70s when, like so many other outstanding Russian dancers, she defected in pursuit of artistic freedom. She was hailed for her fiery brilliance and passionate dancing and she is still a powerful force in the dance world both on and off the stage.

A shaken Tom Lucas, a member of the Board of Directors and spokesperson for the Romanova Ballet Company, said that upon being told of her daughter’s death Madame Romanova collapsed and is being kept under sedation. Upon completion of an autopsy, the funeral will be held at the Sea Cliff Russian Orthodox Church and burial will be at the Russian cemetery in Spring Valley, New York.

CHAPTER I - Present

. . .There is a severe thunderstorm watch in effect for the entire tri-state area until five p.m. Dangerous lightning and heavy rains are expected. The radio announcer’s voice crackled with static from the impending storm that was moving closer. The mid-day sky over Hempstead Harbor became progressively darker as the early summer squall approached, accompanied by the sounds of rolling thunder.

I took no pleasure in the view of the rocky coast surrounding the water as we drove around Hempstead Harbor from Port Washington to Sea Cliff. The distant rumble of thunder and the occasional streak of lightning over the water made it apparent that the gale was headed in our direction. Soon the north shore of Long Island would drown in the downpour.

Storms always made me nervous but I felt like a cat ready to jump out of its skin. My mother and I hadn’t spoken a word to each other since we left the house. The tension was a hard wall between us. The effects of the approaching storm and the argument with my parents before my audition for the greatest ballet teacher on Long Island had my stomach in knots.

I had waited a long time for a chance to audition for Alexandra Romanova. Whenever I brought up the subject, however, my parents refused to consider letting me dance with her. They feared it might interfere with my academic studies. Romanova had a reputation for being extremely demanding and there were many stories in the ballet world about her eccentricities since her daughter’s death. I knew Alexandra Romanova’s story. Who didn’t? Who could blame her for being peculiar after everything she had been through? First defecting from Russia, then being deserted by the man who fathered her one and only child, leaving her to fend for herself and her daughter; then her daughter’s terrible death.

My sympathies were with Madame Romanova. She had not only built a successful school but she also built a professional company in a location where it is next to impossible to succeed because of its proximity to New York City. People who are serious about the arts in Nassau County simply jump on a train and they have easy access to some of the best dance companies in the world. Well, Romanova was not like everyone else, she was a force to be reckoned with even outside of New York City.

My reverie and admiration for Madame Romanova was broken as I glanced sideways at my mother who was staring intently at the road. I decided that another attempt at civil conversation was the right thing to do.

Mom, Anya Lechov was wonderful. I wasn’t unhappy studying dance with her and performing in her concerts but she is retiring and you know there isn’t anyone else on Long Island who could do anything for me, other than Romanova. Maybe you and dad would prefer that I study in the city.

Rachele. My mother never called me by my full name unless she was exasperated. You know we don’t want that. All the travel time would interfere with your school work. You will be a senior in September and you need to keep your grades up for college. I knew my parents would have preferred that I quit dancing altogether. I felt the anger rising again. Of course, my parents and my brother John picked this morning, the day of my audition, to approach the subject of college and law school. This was getting so old.

I don’t want to be a lawyer. I don’t want to go to Lavine University. Just because you, Dad, John and grandfather all graduated from Lavine and became lawyers doesn’t mean I have to. Why can’t you let me be who I am? I almost shouted the words. Mother’s sigh was dramatic but she didn’t answer. I shouldn’t have snapped at her. I knew she was torn between what she and the family thought was best for me and what she knew I wanted.

We arrived at the Romanova Ballet Conservatory as the first drops of rain splattered on the pavement. We parked in the parking lot at the bottom of the property; I jumped out of the car and moved swiftly toward the steps of the house. When I looked up I stopped abruptly frozen by the sight of the Victorian house sitting at the top of a gently sloping hill, as if on a pedestal, looking down as I approached. It’s waiting for me. I shook off the thought. Beyond its slate gray clapboard siding, white shutters, white posts and wrap around porch, I glimpsed the wind-whipped harbor waters through trees and lush green shrubbery. A gust of air swirled around me. The rustling sound of the leaves seemed to whisper, I need you Rachele, I need you. Goosebumps rose on my arms. In the dim light of the brooding sky I suddenly had an overpowering sensation that I was crossing a strange threshold.

This must have been a really elegant home, my mother said, running up behind me, almost crashing into my motionless body. Chelly is something wrong?

No, I was just admiring the house, I lied.

Together we climbed the porch steps and walked into a wide, brightly lit center hallway, bustling with children and dancers getting ready for their classes. There was a waiting area to the right where parents were standing and sitting in groups, some whispering, some talking loudly, most of them gossiping and throwing around names of current ballet stars as if they actually knew these people. Just like any other ballet school. The commonality of this made me smile and the strange sensation I had experienced outside disappeared, to be replaced by awe, excitement and nervousness.

A high pitched voice rose above all other sound and found my ears. You must be the girl Anya Lechov called about, the one for the audition. With that announcement the parents who were busy talking became silent to watch and listen. I felt their eyes on me as I moved down the hallway toward the voice. Out of a doorway stepped a tall blond woman standing like a wall, legs slightly apart, erect as a general with her hands on her hips. You know, Madame Romanova doesn’t usually allow auditions outside of the normally scheduled times. My mother and I stood speechless, while she rambled on. Consider yourself fortunate and hurry or you will be late and she doesn’t allow anyone to enter class once she has begun. The dressing rooms are back there, she said, pointing to the rear of the house, and you will take class in Studio A, across the hall, there, she said, pointing toward the first set of doors on the left. That’s where the advanced students and professionals dance, most of the time.

My heart lurched and I scrambled quickly through the throng of students but I was still close enough to hear this woman’s bossy tone directed at my mother. I’m Lisa, Madame Romanova’s manager. Come into the office. I need some information about Rachele and you will have to sign a contract in order for her to study here.

Shouldn’t we wait until Madame Romanova decides whether or not to accept her? My mother answered in her best lawyer’s cross-examination tone. I walked into the dressing room stung by my mother’s word. Thanks a lot. That’s what I needed to hear before this audition. My feelings were hurt that my mother expressed doubt, even though I knew she was reacting to that dragon, Lisa, and not to my dancing.

I had finally gotten this audition appointment but I struggled to stay focused. The family argument still whirled around in my head. In spite of my thoughts running wild with bits and pieces of conversations or should I say fights with my parents about college, my hands quickly worked my long, curly hair into a neat bun at the nape of my neck. I wore new pink tights and my most flattering black short-sleeved leotard: high front, low-cut back. It gave my neck a longer look. Peeling off my jumper took no time. I slipped my feet into ballet slippers, grabbed my pointe shoes and raced back down the hall to the studio where I was to take class.

For a moment, my eyes seemed out of focus, everything appeared hazy. Other dancers were stretching and getting ready to dance, eyeing me with the usual curiosity that dancers feel when someone new joins a class. Will the newcomer be good enough or better; will the teacher like him or her? I stretched my legs, listening to the sounds of conversation but not hearing the words. I was so nervous my legs felt like jelly and I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. I faced the barre, and took some deep breaths to break the grip fear had on my ribcage. When I finally calmed down enough to notice my surroundings I was amazed.

This must have once been a huge living room, now it was a spacious dance