My Prima Ballerinna

With Shanghai left behind us and Beijing yet to come, we settled in for a lovely train ride.
It looked as if we would have the compartment to ourselves; then a man and a woman opened the
door, double checked their tickets, and sat down across from us. I smiled at the woman. She
returned by bowing her head, then whispered something to her companion, her husband I
presumed, and bowed her head once more.
Well, we would sleep most of the trip anyway, so there probably wouldnt be any need for
conversation. I looked at her. She had taken off her boots and was rubbing her feet with long,
elegant hands, sighed, and continued to rub the calves of her legs. Was she in pain? She looked so
mournful. I had never seen such big, such sad eyes before.
She is not Chinese, neither is the man, but what are they? I whispered.
The question was answered when, Jim, my husband, leaned forward and said something so
quietly to the woman. I couldnt hear what he said, but it must have been the right thing, for she
turned toward her husband with a big smile.
They are from Russia, on their way to Beijing for three days to visit with friends. Ah,
Russians, and Jim had been able to recognize their language and used the little Russian he
remembered from his college days. It always brings forth a smile when one tries to speak to a
foreigner in his native tongue, however little it might be.
The woman continued to rub her ankles and took out a pair of slippers from her overnight
bag. She turned to me.
I speak English no good. The first sentence almost any foreigner uses.
I cant speak Russian at all. I smiled I am sure I shall be able to understand your
English.
She looked fondly at her husbandso why those sad, sad eyes? They were luminous
brown with tiny golden speckstoo large for her delicate face. The high cheekbones made her
look undernourished, but her body, although thin, didnt show signs of hunger. She was wearing a
green turtleneck sweater and a pair of brown woolly slacks, a little worn, but of a good cut. No
make up, but a pair of dangling earrings gave her an exotic look.
Her husband rose to shake hands with us. Ivan, he said.
And I am Natasha she smiled. Ivan speaks no English. I will do for both of us. We are
going in to get some supper. We havent had anything to eat since six this morning.

They left us pondering over what had brought them to China. Could they speak Chinese?
Were they just coming to see their friends in Beijing, and then only to stay there for three days.
What was their story? Was it similar to ours?
Jim had been teaching English at a business college in Shanghai, and I had helped by
having small conversations with his students to make them familiar with the language. We were
only going to stay for one semester and were now on our way to the capital. We had previously
been in China for three years but had to leave after the Tiananmen Square Massacre. A dream
about seeing Beijing had never been far from our minds. That dream was about to become reality.
Lets go into the dining car. Yes, I know we had our dinner, but a glass of wine will give us
a better sleep. Jim took my arm and led me in the direction of the dining car. Natasha and Ivan
had already been served. They motioned us toward their table.
Please sit. Natasha pointed to the seats across from them. Ivan pointed to his beer. We
nodded. Two more beers were brought to the table, and we toasted one another. To what, I
wondered, as I looked into Natashas eyes.
You not American? she said to me.
No, I am from Denmark.
Oh, Danmark, such a great, great country.
I must have looked dumbfounded. Denmark looked like a mere smudge of a thumb on the
big map of the world. What did she know about it? Even to pronounce the name of the country as
a Dane would.
Small, so very, very, small, I said.
The ballet, oh, but the ballet. The Russian ballet would never have been where it is today
without Danmark.
Ah, I began to understand.
Bournonville? The great choreographer, I smiled
Yes, Auguste Bournonville, but no, so much, much more.
I went to school with Charlotte Bournonville, a descendent. She danced with a lead foot,
but oh, how she could make us laugh. She would have made a wonderful actress.
Natashas eyes were gleaming. The sadness had disappeared. I had to take a few more steps
down the memory lane of ballet.
Every Christmas my parents took me to Copenhagen to watch the Nutcracker Suite.
I have danced it more often than I wish to recall, whispered Natasha. It was in younger
years, in better years. The sadness had returned to her eyes.

Ah, I should have guessed when you massaged your ankles so tenderly. Are you still
dancing?
Jim and I had just watched Swan Lake at the theater in Shanghai. It wasnt the Bolshoi, but
a lesser company. An excellent performance. They had not been accompanied by an orchestra but
had to dance with recorded music. There was no money to keep the Russian Ballet dancing. My
eyes had filled with tears. Tears for an unfair world.
So, I asked Natasha, what are you and Ivan doing in Shanghai?
We are teaching at the Art Institute. Most of the Russian dancers are teaching. We teach
Chinese children eight hours a day, while their nouveaux riche parents dream of fame. I noticed
the shadows had returned to her eyes. The Chinese believe that one can become a ballet dancer in
four years. Their poor ankles will not support such a hurried pace. In Russia we had at least eight
years of hard training. Even then, not everyone made the stage.
And what a gift you gave the world, I thought
Russia is kaputkaputkaput, Natasha sighed.
We had wanted to pay for the beer, but Ivan wouldnt hear of it.
We will go to bed now. Natasha rose from her chair. Beijing is only eight hours away,
and we had to teach until five oclock this afternoon in order to get off for three days.
For what salary? I thought, and if I had understood it right, they sent most of it home to
their families in St. Petersburg.
We said, Good Night, and Jim and I settled down with another beer.
Oh, what a world we have created, I whispered. We might have met a prima ballerina,
who never again will be a swan on any stage of the world. How unfair. We brought them to their
knees, Jim, didnt we? And Russia stopped dancing.
The second beer didnt lift our spirit. Jim settled with the waiter, and we returned to our
compartment. Natasha appeared to sleep. Her eyelids flickered, and her exquisite hands fluttered
across the blanket.
She is dancing, I whispered. She is somewhere in a place where people will appreciate
every move she makes. Oh, how could we have created such a world? And the Chinese are
waiting in the wings, hurrying through their education. They will never, ever, produce a Pavlova.
Jim already had his foot on the bottom step to the berth. Dont use the night to put the
world in order, he whispered, and kissed me lightly. We should be in Beijing at 10:00 a.m., and
the hotel is a couple of blocks from the station. Do try to remember we only have three days and a
lot of ground to cover: The Wall, The Summer Palace and The Forbidden City. Tiananmen we

wont go into, just walk around it. How could we possibly stand where so many have fallen? The
last came as a whisper, an echo of a trauma which would never disappear.
Ivan and Natasha had left for breakfast when we woke up.
Let us wait till we are in Beijing, Jim said.
Fine with me. My stomach is so out of order anyway. We should be there in less than two
hours.
When our travel companions returned I thought Natashas eyes seemed less strained. She
was looking forward to seeing their friends, who were teachers of the ballet corps in Beijing.
Oh, it has been so good for me to speak English, she said. I have one student, an
American, but I am always short of words. I am so ashamed.
You neednt be, I said. Your English is good. Oh how I wish that I could see your feet
dance across the stage in St. Petersburg, in Moscow, yes, anywhere in the world. We were getting
close to Beijing. I looked frantically in my purse for an ever so small thing I could give to Natasha.
Just a little something in return for the grateful present she had given me. Without Danmark the
Russian ballet would never be what it is. I had nourished and cradled the sentence, folded my
hands around it during the night when Natasha was sound a sleep. The decal of the Bolshoi Ballet
on her nightshirt was dancing gracefully up and down, up and down, in harmony with her shallow
breathing
We are rolling into Beijing, she said, and opened the window as she looked for their
friends, who had indicated they would be at the platform. I threw my arms around her.
Kaput, you said last night. kaputkaputkaput, but, dearest Natasha, a country who
gave birth to a Dostoyevsky, a Tolstoy, a Tchaikovsky, a Solzhenitsyn, not to forget The Pavlova.
How could it ever be kaput? For a while, maybe. But it surely will rise again?
I kissed her cheeks the Russian wayfirst one, then the other. I knew I had said good bye to
a friend whom I should never see again