Letters from Yelena
Read Letters from Yelena Online
Authors: Guy Mankowski
Legend Press Ltd, 2 London Wall Buildings,
London EC2M 5UU
[email protected]
www.legendpress.co.uk
Contents © Guy Mankowski 2012
The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
Print ISBN 978-1-9090391-0-0
Ebook ISBN 978-1-9090391-1-7
Set in Times. Printed by CPI Books, United Kingdom
Cover design by Gudrun Jobst
www.yotedesign.com
Author photo © Mark Savage
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to
criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
P
RAISE FOR
G
UY
M
ANKOWSKI
*
The Intimates
– one of the recommended titles in New Writing North’s Read Regional 2011 Campaign*
‘a clever conceit and a compelling narrative’
Edward Stourton,
BBC Radio 4
‘An intricately wrought and enchanting first novel... a measured, literary piece of work as hauntingly evocative of its setting and characters as Marilynne
Robinson’s Pulitzer prize winner
Housekeeping
.’
Abigail Tarttellin, Author of
Flick
‘[Guy’s] ability to construct and develop his characters is formidable and the execution of this skill certainly added to the compelling nature of the
book.’
The View from Here
‘the book is unusually stylised for contemporary fiction, set in a glamourous, affluent world that seems to be decaying from within... [Guy’s] background in
psychology has a strong influence on his writing, which is rich with thoughtful, self-analysing dialogue... ’
Culture Magazine
‘Writing letters is actually an intercourse with ghosts, and by no means just the ghost of the addressee but also with one’s
own ghost, which secretly evolves inside the letter one is writing’
Franz Kafka,
Briefe An Milena
CONTENTS
Dear Margaret,
It must have been strange to hear that you’re the last hope I have of getting to know my mother. I suppose this is especially strange given that you never met her.
I know I became a little emotional when we met and I’m sorry about that. But I felt I needed to explain the lengths I have gone to, to try and find out about the mother I barely knew. The
fact that I have even visited places she once mentioned in off-the-cuff remarks, in the vain hope that I would find some trace of her there, I know may seem quite ridiculous. It’s been a
journey that has taken many years. Recounting all this led me to feel a little overwhelmed by it all, so I am writing now to apologise and to give you some of the necessary details I neglected to
mention that day. Perhaps also to explain why owning my mother’s letters would be so important to me. I have been searching for my mother for many years, and it seems that the letters we
discussed are my last chance of finding her.
Some people never feel like they truly know their parents. And just because a child comes from you, it does not necessarily mean you know them either. They are distinct. Never was this more true
than with my mother. She always seemed far away from me. Even in her old age she remained a mystery. I never got to know what made her tick; what led her to lead such an unusual and extraordinary
life. And exactly why she endured such difficulty. I would have done anything to hear the truth from her directly, but she was never a great talker, always too formal, too reserved. You would think
a mother who’d been a Principal ballerina would have had many stories she’d be only too ready to tell her daughter. Not my mother.
It was only during her final days that she admitted how little she’d ever opened up to me. I presumed that her pain had imbued her with silence. It was too late for me to ask why together
we had not felt able to overcome that silence, but she did at least offer me some hope. She told me she had only ever opened up to one man. A writer called Noah, who she had written to during her
career as a ballerina. After her death, I came to realise I could only make peace with her if I found a way to get to know her, a way to understand her. I contacted the few names that existed in
her address book, but the people who did offer to meet me had little to share about her. They depicted a closed, cautious woman, a woman full of contradictions and secrets. A woman who seemingly
came alive only when she was dancing. Her ambitions, her desires and her sufferings had always remained completely her own. Except, that is, when it came to Noah.
I don’t know what happened to the letters my mother received from this Noah. I suspect that she lived and died wanting to keep the contents of them completely to herself. But then one day,
three years after her death, I found amongst her belongings a single postcard signed by him. The contents of the postcard offered me little, but at least it gave me his surname. It required the
services of a detective over the course of two years before I was able to finally track him down.
He was now a reclusive and very elderly writer of some repute, living in a large house on the south coast. I wrote to him, and his reply suggested that he felt intrigued by the woman who was so
desperate to meet him.
When we met he gave his memories of my mother, even to me, with some reluctance. I got the sense that their exchange had somehow been sacred, and that he wanted to keep it that way. When I
mentioned the letters she had sent him though, his eyes lit up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Your mother revealed herself completely in those letters. It was as though she finally made
sense.’ He then confirmed that he had in his ownership a small box of letters that my mother had sent him during her lifetime. Towards the end of our conversation he admitted that he had
become an ‘almost totemic’ figure to my mother during her life, for reasons he still could not quite fathom.
Feeling so close to the prize, I asked with some trepidation if he would allow me to read the letters. But unsurprisingly, he expressed reluctance to do so, saying they were often very intimate.
When I explained that these letters were my last hope of ever getting to know her, he finally admitted that he had made a promise to protect her letters for all his life, and he simply
couldn’t break it. I tried reasoning with him and imploring him and eventually, just as I was leaving, he said that he would leave the letters for me when he died. It seemed there was light
at the end of the tunnel. Even if I would only reach it with the passing of this frail but considerate man.
I am so glad now that I taped that conversation with him. I could never have imagined the contents of the tape would be required as evidence. I only taped the conversation because I did not want
to forget any scraps of my mother that he might offer up to me. When I saw his obituary in
The Times
a year later I began to try and trace the letters, which had automatically passed into my
ownership. I soon learnt that all of his work, including the letters, had become a part of his literary estate. An estate, which you yourself manage.
It was disheartening to hear that he had not legally entrusted the letters to me before he passed away, though I can understand this. As a creative type he did not seem
au fait
with the
legalities required in such a case. He probably thought I could just turn up and claim them back by asking nicely. Which is why I was so grateful when you agreed to meet with me and hear the
contents of the tape, and even more grateful that you subsequently agreed to find a way to ensure that the letters are entrusted to me.
I understand that the contents of the tape are currently being verified. I hope that the promise this man made to me will allow you, in time, to alleviate my desperation, and offer me the
letters my mother once sent him. It is the only way I can foresee that I can make my peace with the mother I barely knew.
I eagerly look forward your response.
Yours sincerely,
Natalya Christensen
Dear Natalya,
Please find enclosed in this package the letters sent from your mother to Noah Stepanov during their period of correspondence, which began just after she had graduated as a
Principal ballerina. With the exception of a single handwritten note, which is referred to in the letters, I believe they do comprise everything she wrote to him.
Given the financial and emotional effort you have invested in retrieving these, I hope you now feel satisfied that all the letters from Yelena Brodvich are in your possession. Due to the fact
that Mr Stepanov gave very few verbal interviews in his lifetime, the authenticity of his promise to you on tape took some time to verify, but that process is now complete. It is possible that in
due course some objections might be raised if these letters do not become archived property, as they do relate to Mr Stepanov’s literary estate. I trust that the two of us will remain in
contact to negotiate that situation if and when it becomes salient.
I am glad I was able to be of some service to you. I understand that this whole enterprise has been personally taxing and you have undergone many sacrifices to reach this point. I can only hope
that these letters will allow you to make peace with your mother in the way that you described.
With my very best wishes and regards to your family,
Margaret
ETTERS
F
ROM
Y
ELENA
B
Y
G
UY
M
ANKOWSKI
Dear Noah,
I dreamt of you again, watching me rehearse for the ballet. In the dream I am standing three or four feet from the other dancers. The door to the courtyard is open, revealing
that bright shaft of the city. It is summer, or early autumn. There is a certain sequence of chords that plays every time, and though there is a melody there it is distant and vague and I
can’t recall it when I awake. I recognise it instantly though, every time I have the dream about when we first met.
The melody is haunting and expanding, and it plays over and over again, that same refrain. The other dancers stretch, and I compose myself. I feel the heat of your gaze on the back of my neck.
We haven’t spoken yet, but I already feel I know you so well, simply from your gaze. It seems to search for so much and find even more. I think I knew even then that eventually we would come
together.