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The night flickered, engulfed in a violent blaze of searing flames, trembling whole with the inconsolable cries of a single baby girl. She thrashed, a tiny soul forlorn, cinder violently raining over her rosy cheeks.
A man was rocking her, mere silhouette among the shadows, wiping her tears away before they smudged the ash. He held her close, although stiffly, tucked away under his woollen coat where it was warm and safe.
“Все хорошо, Наташенька,” he whispered, stepping away into the darkness and letting it consume him.
***
Ivan Petrovitch sat on a bench, blissfully smoking his cigar despite the chilling cold. His ivy cap hung inconspicuously low over his forehead, cloaking just enough of his eyes to let him keep his vigilance. Snow fell in heavy tufts around him, quite picturesque if he weren’t busy fixing the wrinkled edges of his newspaper, too busy, in fact, to notice the fury of red coming his way.
“Look, Papa,” the voice came hushed, muffled behind a long thick scarf “Kitty.”
There was indeed a cat in his Natalia’s arms, a gaunt black feline, trapped desperately in her iron grasp. It hissed, claws stuck deep into her sleeve, its beady eyes darting between the two of them and freedom.
“Keep him, Papa?” there was a longing in her gaze, pure in a way only a child was capable of displaying. Sometimes he wished to entertain her naivety, to split the world in two and never let the red seep in. Yet, reality, in all its ugliness and postulated glory, was all that he could offer her.
“Perhaps another time.”
He marvelled at her drooping smile, at the hope that dashed away in the slender body of a street cat. She wasn’t ready yet, to keep the tears and her runny nose at bay, to face betrayal and a shattered heart and never bat an eye.
“Come on, Natalia,” he offered her his hand, quickly fixing his cap back in place “You have ballet class to attend.”
***
Plié, passé, assemblé, arabesque. Over and over, until perfection.
Natalia’s knees quivered, the thick slicked-back bun disrupting her balance and weighing her small frame down towards the hardwood. Every time she jumped, her leotard dug deep into her skin, tight, uncomfortable, stuck to her back over a layer of hot sweat.
The shoes were no better, their leather rough and unpolished, often drawing blood after just two hours of dancing and a thorough layer of plaster. She couldn’t fathom, why all three pairs of shoes had to be white. Didn’t they know, how hard it was to scrub the red off? She’d sit with Irina Fyodorova every other Sunday, watching it bubble in the bath, the crimson fading to pink as if she’d poured magic in the water. Yet, during practice, she never dared look down, despite the searing pain in her toes. Madame would’ve raised her cane at her, made her start over, and she couldn’t have that, not when her Papa was watching.
They’d go inside her cabinet for a while, just the two of them, while Natalia struggled to peel the clothing off of herself. Some of the older girls were nice enough to help her, gently tapping her nose to distract her from the ache.
‘Иди сюда, Наташенька,’ they’d kneel before her, spraying her with a vile full of flowers before waving her goodbye.
And then she’d dutifully wait, legs dangling from the bench, for her Papa to appear and take her home.
***
“Are you ready, Natalia?”
Ivan was staring sternly out the window in a freshly ironed suit, a red star pinned above his heart and glowing in the morning sun. He waited patiently to hear the footsteps, nodding with approval at the pristine white blouse Irina had put the girl in.
“Sit down so I can finish your hair,” she urged, though with kindness in her voice, following behind her with a brush and a couple of hair ties “And for the love of God, straighten your back.”
Breakfast was simple, steam gently swirling over a bowl of porridge still. Natalia knew to wait until everyone was seated, until Papa put the radio on and Irina said her prayer. She bit her lip, swallowing the mild pain of her hair being pulled back, breathing in the earthy aroma of black tea until it nauseated her.
There was a suitcase in the hallway, her coat carelessly thrown over its handle. They’d told her she’d be joining Papa on his business trip this time and Natalia had been excited, yet she couldn’t decipher Irina’s solemn face. She’d been like that all week, tending to her extra carefully, even now sliding a piece of toast dripping in jam her way.
“Amen.”
The porridge burned her tongue, but she kept going, mindful of staining her shirt and potentially dousing her braids with it. A song came on, to fill the silence that hung over the kitchen table, something about two lovers and a war and more obscure words Natalia could not grasp yet. It felt like time had stopped, everyone’s eyes buried in their plates, unmoving, even the tress outside perfectly still and seemingly stuck in the loop.
And then it was time to go. Natalia remembered little of her last day, only Irina crouching before her and cupping her face.
“Be strong, малышка,” she fiddled with her scarf and brought Natalia’s small hands to her trembling lips “Remember who you are.”
***
Moscow. A city of fable, grandeur and violence.
It was so sudden, how the endless frozen fields, so haunting in the small hours of the night, gave way to a surge of buildings, monoliths, each more imposing than the last one, glowing, as it seemed, with the light of a thousand stars. Natalia stared, awe-struck, at the passing mausoleums, theatres and fortresses, at the restaurants and store windows, and the ornate street lamps.
She smiled against the window when their car passed by the cathedral, its whimsical colours so vivid even beneath their coat of ice.
“Are we going to see the ballerinas, Papa?”
The girls at the academy never stopped talking about Bolshoi, allured by its velvet seats and golden chandeliers. A place of glory, that’s what they called it, a place for stardom and glamour. Natalia was too young still, to dream of such things, her mind replaying the exquisite wardrobe of Swan Lake instead. She wanted to wear one of those tutus, one encrusted with rhinestones so they would glimmer while she spun. Her eyes were full of hope again, the little fists balled up with excitement in her lap.
But the car swerved, dissolving the fantasy and dimming the light in her gaze.
The change in landscape startled Natalia. She’d imagined them stopping at a hotel, soft linen and a fluffy pillow awaiting her for the night. Instead, the car kept struggling up a hill, painstakingly slow in navigating along its narrow path.
Where the city had offered her comfort, inviting with its shining lights and endless quaint streets, the woods appeared that much more disturbing. Shivers crept up her spine as she suppressed the urge to seek her Papa’s hand, fearing something that surely lurked within the darkness, to taunt her and observe her.
Finally, the car grinded to a halt, just outside the hollow fencing of a massive building. It towered over her, leaden and standoffish, too perfectly symmetrical amidst the dense forest. She felt like an intruder, unwelcome in this wasteland, as if with her very being here she was desecrating the grounds.
Seconds passed. Then a minute.
Car door.
Crunching snow.
A cloud of icy mist.
Ivan’s gloved hand in hers.
And then there was Red.