Letters from Yelena (7 page)

I admit that with these letters we are trying to achieve something brave and perhaps also foolish. When we first agreed to do this, I felt inspired by the sense of possibility. I felt inspired
by the thought of mapping out the wilderness inside me. In theory, I knew that it might sometimes be painful to do so. But practically speaking, I did not know the extent to which that would be the
case; hence my delay. Although you did not intend your last letter to cause me pain, it did. And at times, in the last few days, I have feared how this process might irreversibly disturb the
finally stilling waters of my mind.

Please do not be frustrated at me for admitting this. Both of us knew that this process would not always be easy. I hope it is not impulsive of me to think that in time I will reveal things
about my past lovers, which you too will find it difficult to read. If I am to properly tell my story that time will inevitably come. And when it does, I will not shy away from the truth. Because
you have shown me that honesty is essential if we are to achieve our purpose. And to be honest, I have refrained from replying sooner because if I had done so I would have written to hurt you. And
I know that I must write instead to impart the truth, which is an entirely different matter.

I didn’t realise how soon it was after Catherine left that you and I met. I knew that you and Catherine had a passionate affair, and that when she suddenly vanished from your life, without
reason or warning, it caused you great upset. I knew that this pain caused you to isolate yourself, as at times I have had to do in my life. Catherine sounds intriguing; and I must admit that your
description of her caused me some jealousy. She sounds mysterious, empowered and wilful. In many ways, the opposite of me. Like a force of nature; untroubled by self-doubt, completely focused in
realising her desires. Although the thought of you lustily entangled with her causes me pain, I know that her abandonment set the stage for me. Her lack of commitment caused a void in your life,
which I was soon to fill. It meant that when we met you were finally ready to love completely, as you never would have been permitted to with her. It comforted me for you to write that you never
felt such devotion for anyone as you felt for me. For you to say that intrigue pales in comparison to love, with all its permanent realms, that only grow more distinct and detailed with time. And
when I occasionally loathe myself for what I lack, I think of this.

You mentioned that as a writer, it bothered you to think you could not express yourself absolutely through the written word. Do not think of that again. It is not our fault that the
world’s social conventions force us to relate to one another only sporadically, and in such fragmented ways. It is part of our bind, on our trawl through this partial, compartmentalised
world. Put aside your frustrations at the subjective nature of life. Trust me when I say that your hunger for an objective, definitive world is nothing more than a mute protest. To me, the
world’s beauty comes from its evasive, slippery quality. From the futility of trying to pin down petals, which whip and whirl in the wind. Because when you do catch one, it finally all seems
worth it. And that is what we are trying to do with these letters. And if we do not manage to catch any petals, we should be mindful that it was still an admirable way for two people to spend their
time. That it was beautiful to live in flagrant disregard of reality for the short period that we were writing to one another.

I find it so fascinating that I am beginning to gain a reputation as a ballerina. If only you had seen me in my youth, at thirteen perhaps. I do wonder what you would have made of that underfed,
sulky little girl in cheap Western makeup. Her bruised little thighs poking out of a tiny skirt, her face constantly screwed up at something small. She desperately wanted to be a ballerina one day,
she knew that much. But she wanted it in such a hostile way that it didn’t seem very likely to happen.

My mother died when I was six. She was a flighty, small town girl, idealistic and naïve. She was English, and she ensured that I was raised speaking the language that she loved as well as
Russian. This meant that although I retained a slight Ukrainian accent with some English words, my dialect did not possess the usual plummeting vowels that most Ukrainian bilingual’s possess.
As you know, my Russian background was not easy to detect. If anything, I spoke with a slight County Durham accent, for that is where she was raised. As a student, my mother studied English
literature, and one of her first legacies to me was to pass on her love of this language. I collected and treasured English words as another child might collect stamps, and I delighted in writing
and speaking the language at every opportunity. Whereas I found Russian to be a restricted and proud tongue, I found English delightfully exact. I seemed able to express myself better with it.
English represented my mother, it was artistic and expressive. Russian represented my father; purposeful and determined. This was perhaps the reason I wrote my diary, from the age of eleven, in
clipped and vibrant English.

My mother met my father at university, and moved with him to his homeland in Ukraine to start a family. I don’t think she had expected to stay there as long as she did, but his business
began to flourish and she found herself drawn into nursing his mother through her final years. She was dutiful and protective of his mother, just as at times she could be over-protective of me. I
think she felt I was not tough enough for the world, and she wanted to hold me back from it slightly. Tragically, she did not outlive her mother-in-law by very long. She was hit by a bus while out
shopping with a friend. I remember the hysteria in her friend’s eyes when she came to tell my father what had happened. My father had been utterly devoted to her, and her death caused a
rupture inside him, which he never recovered from. He lost the will to fight after that, perhaps he felt there was nothing really to fight for now. I remember the utter confusion I felt about what
had happened to her; it seemed no-one could give me a proper answer. Her sudden disappearance left a void in my life, which was never fully addressed. I think perhaps that my love of England became
an expression of my frustrated love for her.

My mother’s second legacy to me was ballet. She started dancing late, and I often wonder if she encouraged me to begin early so that I would have it all my life. When I was five she took
me along to the local folk group, which danced at the village hall. I think they hoped she would become more involved, but her focus was only on nurturing me. She saw that I had a talent before
anyone else did. I think she wanted me to have the glamorous, and in her eyes artistic life she never had, and I have always strived to fulfil that wish of hers. I can only imagine how she would
have felt if she’d have known that one day her daughter would dance the part of Giselle.

It seems hard now to imagine how she would feel about anything. She has retreated into time, become idealised. She no longer feels like flesh and bone, but like a half-forgotten dream, one that
I feel perpetually guilty for not fully remembering.

The only video we still have captures her as gamine and fragile. A sunny, natural happiness shines from her face, which does not seem strong enough to deal with it. I look most like the
mysterious woman on that video when I am upset or ecstatic. In it she is standing in the living room of her and my father’s first home, and my sister and I are still dots on the horizon. My
father is picking out the notes of a slow waltz on the piano and she is dancing lightly along to it. Even to my eyes, she looks green. Many times I have feared how this waiflike woman would have
reacted if she had seen what was to happen to her two precious daughters. I don’t know enough about her to know if she possessed any fight. But the fight I have found in me, when my back has
been against the wall, suggests that she would have done. She certainly would not have taken what happened next lying down. I know she would have fought with every ounce of strength in her body.
Either way, without our mother, life suddenly became very difficult.

Nine months after she died, Bruna Zlenko discovered my father. Bruna met him during the sale of some offices that she part-owned the lease on, when he was first starting a business with my Uncle
Leo. Bruna wiped the dust from my father’s eyes and promised to raise his two daughters if he kept her in return. At first it was little more than a contract, born out of my father’s
desperation. He felt utterly overwhelmed at having to raise Inessa and me alone and Bruna seemed like a solution, albeit not a particularly romantic one. But over the years Bruna gained a hold on
him, and she became almost a wife to him. He feared her, but he became convinced he needed her in a way that I could never quite fathom.

Bruna could not have been more different to my mother. She had a flat, almost feral face, and a naturally downturned mouth. Her eyes were always narrowed and she was quick tempered. From an
early age my sister and I proved that we were tenacious enough to fend for ourselves, and that my father was capable of filling any gaps, but it was this essential truth which started the troubles.
Bruna knew that her best chance of keeping my father was to convince him that his daughters needed extra attention. Without finding such a role to play, Bruna would have had little chance of
keeping a man like my father – an enterprising and handsome businessman. At first, my father was reluctant to accept that his daughters were especially troublesome, but battered by
Bruna’s persistence he eventually acquiesced and at least outwardly accepted that Inessa and I were difficult children. Any of the usual misdemeanours reported by the school took on a
sinister edge when Bruna relayed them. I have always found the tendency to colour information in that way a rather sickening trait. Bruna knew that Inessa and I had a natural intelligence that
would one day render her presence redundant. And knowing that, she loathed us from the start. She knew it would be one hell of a challenge to prove to the world that we were useless. Her way of
doing it was to constantly talk down our abilities to our father, and to seal us off from him enough so that he could hopefully not realise the truth. At first she was only able to do this by
pretending it was done out of affection for my father, who seemed permanently weary from work. Consequently he allowed Bruna to have more access to us than she should have done.

Unfortunately, the more she learnt about us, the more she found reason to despise us. Her ability to distance us from him gave her many opportunities to express her venom. I don’t want to
go into this too much, Noah, not because I won’t tell you, but because – and I hope you understand this – I have fought so hard to escape what she did. Bruna was given an almost
free rein in raising us, and over time she found very inventive ways to express her hatred of us. She created a secret culture, away from my father’s eyes, in which she constantly bullied,
taunted and abused us. With my father leaving early every morning to work, Bruna would wash and dress us, arguing that my sister in particular was unable to do this well enough on her own.
(Thinking of my sister now I realise how laughable this is, for she is a successful businesswoman, tactful and assertive, and unscarred in a way that suggests great resilience.) Bruna was so able
to convince my father that she was a problem that she was still bullying Inessa to wash and dress even when she was six and seven years old, well after she would have been able to do this alone. By
that age, I would be getting ready in my own room, but that part of the day would still be traumatic for me. I could hear Inessa crying in the other room, and at the back of my mind painful,
glowering memories of the times Bruna had beaten us preyed upon me. On a few occasions, which I was too young to properly memorise, she sexually abused us, after her ritual mocking of our bodies
got out of hand. This culture of abuse gave Inessa and me a sense of worthlessness that it has been difficult to shake, particularly for me. I wonder now when she learnt to do this so
proficiently.

I can only think of that time as one long smear of pain, which obscured the rest of my childhood. I struggle to recall the abuse exactly, but at the back of my mind I remember periods of
unendurable pain. The way her attention would often focus on my little sister, and the way she would enjoy it if I tried to stop her. The hour or so that Bruna had with us in the mornings were
periods in which I constantly feared the ways her unhappiness might be expressed. As time went on, I’m sure Bruna saw those early morning routines as a brief reprieve from her own inadequacy,
her time to express all her anger and frustration at the world on two little girls. And yet she did it carefully, so that my father was just about able to convince himself that nothing untoward was
going on.

It was not that my father didn’t care for us, merely that he did not know how to express his love in a day-to-day manner. He deeply wanted to believe that Bruna had our interests at heart,
and so overwhelming did he find it to make a living and also deal with the loss of our mother that he did not have the strength to face up to what was really going on.

From an early age his love was manifested through his ambition for us. After my mother died, he continued taking Inessa and me along to the local folk group, which met on a weekly basis. I used
to love him taking us there; I adored all of the colour and the laughter and the singing. It was like a new world; so separate from the drab reality I was growing used to. It was my escape. It was
probably only a simple hall with very little decoration, but in my eyes it represented happiness. Even though the dances only took place in the local village hall, there were good links to local
ballet schools and I was talent spotted at seven and began ballet soon after. My father, perhaps seeing somewhere to finally put his love for us, worked extra long hours (thereby giving us more
time with Bruna) to pay for the classes. At this stage he’d focused so absolutely on his business that he was starting to make very good money for us, even if we rarely saw it. By nine years
old I was practicing in long sessions at least three times a week, sometimes five. After school the day would begin for me in a way. When most children wanted to play, I found I only wanted to
dance. When I danced, people used words like ‘gifted’, ‘special’ and ‘talented’. I forgot all about Bruna and was able to escape her. Dancing became my world.
When I was part of it people fussed over me and praised me. When I danced, I finally felt like I had value.