Svin’ya

The lingering orchestral music is drowned out by the sounds of applause. The claps and screams and my own exhausted breaths work to suffocate the stage as the curtains close.

I pull at the costume digging into my thighs, scrunching my snout in discomfort. It's stiff and sharp and stuck into me, like clothes sewn onto a doll. Beside me, Marie balances on one leg, pulling at her pointe shoes revealing blisters and blood.

'Ugh, great,' she huffs, 'It’s still so early too.'

From afar, Madame Dupont waves to her daughter, an older gentleman next to her with grey hair sticking to his head from the warm stage lights. He looks at Marie hungrily.

'Your mother has found you a man,' I say.

Marie slumps her shoulders, turning me away.

'I cannot stand to be with him,' she sulks, escaping backstage. Her eyes reignite as she pulls me in, eager to share her surge of excitement. 'At least I got to see Albert tonight, he brought me this!'

Marie reveals a small flower, carefully cradling it like the petals haven’t already wilted.

I raise my head in confusion. 'He picked it from the side of the road?'

Marie blushes. 'Isn’t it romantic? I don’t care if he doesn’t have money to buy me a bouquet. I will marry him and he will be mine.'

I pity her naivety as much as I envy it, bringing a rare smile to my face. 'There is no comfort to find in poor men, Marie. But if you are happy.'

'I am! Oh, I knew you’d understand Anna.' Marie gleams, and the flower is once again tucked away in a place only Marie could reach - hidden from the eyes of the world.

'And what about you? Will you see De Lucini tonight?'

'Yes. He has promised to bring me news from the East.' I answer, taking out a particularly sharp pin from my hair. I push against the pain like kneading dough. It squirms and aches beneath my skin like a thick writhing worm.

Marie shakes her head. 'They are just rumours. And even so, Russia is safe across the sea.' She does not understand the stakes I do. Her mother is on the other side of the stage. Her language is the song of the streets.

'I can’t pretend to understand,' she admits, noticing my pause. 'I’m sure the men will sort it out. As long as my dear Albert stays safe, that is all I can wish for.'

'If war does break out, would Albert not fight?'

'Of course he would!' Marie defends, adoration in her that can only be devoted to a poor man with no power for him to hold over her. 'He would fight to the death for France. Just as good—no, better than any upper-class gentleman!'

I have nothing good to say; I say nothing at all.

'How romantic it would be, Anna. If he returned as a war hero. Surely then my mother would approve of him. And we could get married in the courthouse!'

I nod, 'I wish you great happiness.'

'Ahh, so polite, Anna. No wonder the men like that mouth,' Elise joins our group, lips and breasts plump. She looks at me like a mother; like an enemy; like a mirror.

'You should go find Albert. I hear he is looking for you.' She says it in a knowing, suggestive tone. One of lust and seduction, but not for herself.

Albert Baudet, he is powerful, yes. With money and a fat mouth that he uses painfully and desperately. But my feet hurt from dancing, and there is no need to work for money tonight.

However, there have been murmurs of something beginning in the East, towards my homeland. That is where my priorities lie tonight.

I shake my head, 'No need. I will find De Lucini.'

Elise nods, adjusting her dress and breasts and looking around the room, 'Have you seen Louis? I hear he’s recently come into good fortune.' She whispers to avoid the ears of other girls. Not that a grudge would be held towards any girl who approaches Louis tonight.

There is no jealousy when it comes to these men. We all know our roles.

A pig does not envy the pig that gets chopped first by the butcher.

'Do not wait for me tonight,' I tell Marie.

She smiles. Hair pinned, perfectly porcelain.

I catch myself in the mirror, readjusting my costume. I no longer see my reflection as a sign of beauty. There is nothing to see that is not vapid and empty. My face is just skin and eyes that are brought to life by the spotlights of a stage.

As are all ballerinas, I am nothing until there is something to put on top of me.

I find De Lucini in one of the sitting rooms in a loud conversation. I avoid glancing towards Juliette and Alice sharing a younger nobleman on the seats.

De Lucini meets my eye when I walk towards him. My hand perfectly falls on his sleeve, fingers brushing the fabric and skin beneath.

'Emilie,' I beam. 'I was looking for you.'

Gloved hands grip my waist, and lift my face upwards.

'My dearest Anna. You looked radiant tonight, I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.'

'I’m sure.'

He has his way with me. Takes me where he wants, how he wants. In the stairwell with an inch between the wall and my face. I grunt and squeal to his pleasures. I look at the golden ring on his finger, my shoes between his boots, my own hand steadying me against the wall.

Some men take the ring off. Most leave it on. I don't pity their wives. They get the gentlemen who hold their heads high in the spotlight—with gloved hands and ironed lapels. I get the slaughters in the shadows of hallways—who hoist me by my hind legs and bleed me out.

I envy the lives of farmers' wives. To cook the feast, and not be the meal on the platter.

There is heavy breathing in the aftermath as he buttons his pants. Under the guise of lust and idiocy, I ask, 'There is talk of Germany gaining eastern allies. Will you continue to come to the ballet if they make a claim for Paris?'

My stupidity humors him to laugh, 'The Germans will pay for Alsace-Lorraine.'

'What do you mean?'

De Lucini glances towards the light in the hallway, lowering his voice. 'The British are agreeing to stand by us, so long as the German navy is taken care of.' He scoffs. 'Those pesky Germans think they can ally with Austria without consequences.'

'Austria is unstable, is it not? The Serbians are fighting against the country.'

'Hmm,' De Lucini strokes a thumb to my collarbone. It lingers dangerously, before a gentle pat. 'A girl like you doesn’t need to worry about such things. As long as Russia keeps sending their beautiful girls to Paris, I will be happy.'

My homeland. My duty. Russia. And this impending war that is brewing in the East and spreading its poison to the rest of the world.

De Lucini presses a kiss to my neck, 'We can’t talk here.' He whispers through my skin. 'I will take you somewhere we can be alone.'

The day will come when men stop sending boys to their deaths. The sun will shine on a newly reformed world, and we will have survived.

Only then will I believe in God, and men.

~

The hotel room is stuffy with cigarette smoke that escapes from De Lucini’s lips. He does not care that it will burn my throat when he shoves his tongue down. He does not care about anything, so long as I please him.

'You look beautiful by the window,' he muses. Like an artist envisioning a painting. Like I am oil, he can brush any way he wants. 'My Anna,' he says, patting the silk sheets, 'Come here.'

There is nobody here to call me by my name. The memory of the name Anya lingers on my tongue, like an apple gone rotten.

All I was taught to do is dance. In Russia, I dreamed of dancing on stage. Also of starting a family. I do not dream anymore. I am a ballerina, I do what I am told.

De Lucini’s hands cradle my whole face. If he splayed his fingers wide, they could stretch from my forehead to my neck. He could grab me at any time. I can see my father in the way he holds me. He too was a tall man with the wrong kind of love.

You will make Russia proud, Annyushka. I know this. I remember him saying to me the day I left.

'Tell me what you’re thinking about.'

'Russia.'

'Ah,' De Lucini looks satisfied that he’s managed to crawl further into my brain. Like his large hands have pried open my skull and are feeling inside.

'Always Russia with you. You are in Paris now, that is something to celebrate,' he says.

'I suppose.'

My accent is thick. The words gurgle from my mouth like sludge moving through molasses. I could take the ribbons from my shoes and swallow them. And tie bows around the words in my throat that come out wrong. Then they will be pretty like the rest of me.

'You always talk so little,' De Lucini says, amused. I picture snapping his neck like fresh pointes.

'We always talk in French,' I say.

'Maybe you could teach me some Russian.'

With my slender finger I unbutton my blouse. 'Maybe I could do something else.'

How dare he ask for that. For a part of me that even I don’t fully have. Russia is the fog in my breath on a winter morning. It comes from my chest, but I cannot grasp it within my hands.

It is easy now, not to show my anger. My features hide it well behind a smooth mask of indifference. That does not mean it doesn’t burn me from the inside out.

He could not have my Russian. But he could have me.

The curtains pull back on stage, and I am bathed in a golden spotlight. A memorised routine of footwork and choreography. He grips my hair and pushes my face into the mattress. My legs stretch to reach my mark. I let loose a whine from the burn it causes to my thigh. He shoves his fingers past my lips. I am beautiful. I am ugly.

My lips curl, snout scrunched, expression hidden as he takes me from behind. My tongue snarls around bleating words, 'I hate you.'

'You know I cannot understand you.' A slick clap accompanies each grunted movement.

'I know.'

'Mm. It is sexy though. When you speak Russian.'

'Sexy but not lovely?'

'Like that, yes. Keep going.'

'Please do not find me sexy. Please find me lovely.'

He moans to words he does not understand. Emotions he cannot even begin to. It is the only pleasure I find in all of this mess. With his release, he falls back against the pillows, stroking my thigh with a calloused finger, 'Oh baby, you have no idea what that does to me.'

I don’t understand why he says that. I am the only one who understands. I am the one taking the brunt of it.

~

The bathroom is a warm haze of steam and moonlight. The air is thick and wet to breathe. Caught in my throat, like a drain clog I am pulling to free.

My toes curl in the fibres of the floor mat, soaked from the previous girls who washed away the night's activities before me. The mist of the room escapes from a high window, small enough only my hand could pass through. My naked body drips damply before I’ve even stepped foot beneath the showerhead.

I slide my hand across the moist mirror. Catching only a glimpse of myself in the thin streak.

I lean in close, the taste of warm condensation on my lips. The steam from the shower and my own breath work together to cloud the mirror.

I hear the chatter of girls from beyond the wooden door.

'...You’ll never guess what Charles brought me tonight…'

I envy their tongues and teeth. The necks their heads stand upon. My hand touches the bare skin of my chest, bruised and beautiful in its bareness. Nothing to obstruct it from being free, nothing to protect it from being hurt.

'...Oh! How beautiful!...'

'...He’s such a romantic…'

There is no hesitation in their speech, no moment of pause to translate. Every word they speak is perfect and polished, while mine squeal like piglets.

French is pulled through my throat like a rope I choke on, while men tug for the pleasure of my gags and cries. Speaking feels like a sin, an admission of betrayal to my Russian being ripped from me.

'...he wants me to marry him…'

They talk. And I shut up and listen. Each lip-curled syllable is spat and served to me on a chopping board. And by the time I have sat at the table, the meal is finished.

'Anna.' I whisper. My voice fights to be heard over the rushing water that shatters against the porcelain tub.

Like a fog over my eyes, I lose more of my reflection. The icy colour of my iris, the shape of my jaw, the slope of my nose.

I press impossibly closer. Fighting to find my face in the haze. The pads of my fingers push against the mirror. Hard. Cold. I fight to push through to the other side.

'Anya.' I say louder. My ears try to recognise the name. I try to find my mother's soft tone in my own, but my tongue has long since gone sour from cigars and sex.

I press my skin against the sink basin, the tap stabs into my stomach, pushing against the empty space I fill with spite, and hatred, and beauty.

'Annyushka.' I say.

She is gone. There is nothing in the mirror but a misted layer.

No mask to slip and break, only an endless spiral, and a further depth to fall.

~

It is a cold evening when the news reaches the Paris Opera. Whispers spread backstage like wildfire.

Serbia has killed an Austrian prince. Russia is allied with Serbia. Germany is supporting Austria. France and England support Russia. A great war is inevitable.

I waste no time after the performance. I ask until I’m pointed down a hallway of smoke and laughter. I pass the smell of sex and sweat until I turn the corner into--

'Emile!'

De Lucini looks taken off guard to see me. His tie and top buttons are undone, hands and cheeks a sticky pink.

'Anna,' he looks around. 'What are you doing so far back here?'

'I am hoping to talk with you,' I whisper, the words kept between us. Like so many other secrets. 'About the assassination of the Austrian prince.'

'How do you--'

I round us to a dark dressing room. De Lucini backs into his own mirrored reflection as I approach.

'What do you know?' I persist. 'There is talk of Germany declaring war on Russia if the Serbs refuse the--'

'Not so fast,' De Lucini stops my mouth with a messy kiss. Filled with saliva and possession. I taste cigars and alcohol and the tongue of another girl.

I push him away, my mouth slick and dribbling with urgency, 'Tell me!'

'I have never seen you so worked up before, my Anna.' De Lucini sits back against the vanity, a hand loosely touching his chest where I pushed him.

I see him thinking about my touch. His eyes sharpen like a butchering knife ready to plunge into me. There’s darkness in him that I only see in rooms dimmer than himself. He pats his lap where he wants me.

I obey.

It takes only a moment. There is only force as he shoves me into the wall. His fingers push beneath my dress. He cares nothing for how I squeal and squirm. 'I wish you would always get this excited to see me.' His breath is hot and wet in my ear.

His fingers stretch me apart, tracing inside of me like his tongue along my throat. I grab his hand and hold it to my breast.

'I will give you all of me,' I promise. 'Tell me what’s happening.'

De Lucini gleams, rubbing himself on my stomach. It prods into me like a sink tap. The feeling of being clean is a hazy memory. 'That is your reward. First, you have something I want.'

He looks down on me; I look up at him. 'You are a vapid and cruel man. And I would love to kill you.'

'So passionate,' De Lucini muses, stroking a finger across my lip. 'I wonder if you will ever say I love you, Emile. I would love to hear those words from your beautiful lips.'

'I love you, Emile,' I indulge. 'I will die before I love you, Emile.'

'Then prove it.'

I have nothing to prove; I have everything to prove.

He tears me apart like a starving man. Licking his fingers, savouring the taste of me.

He turns me around. My vagina rips as he thrusts into me. My head is crushed between the wall and his hand. The mirror fogs with each strangled breath I release with his thrusts. Perhaps if I wiped the mirror, I would see a face like my own staring back.

On one side a ballerina, and on the other, a pig.