December 4, 1961
Maxim,
I apologize for the way I left things back in Leningrad. Now, I know it’s no excuse for poor behavior, but you must realize this year has not been kind to me. I know brighter days are to come, but without Karine I feel lost; like a ship at sea with no lighthouse to bring me back to shore, I drift along turbulent waters hoping that I will be protected.
You inquired into the children’s wellbeing last time we spoke. It should delight you to know that the kids are fine. Perhaps a bit confused, but nothing they cannot withstand. They’re young and they’re resilient, but sometimes I wonder if . . . do not pay me any heed, my thoughts have been clouded by the the current situation.
I’m heading to Moscow to meet Karine, I hope you will join us, who knows when we will to see each other next. When we do see one another, I hope it does not end with you marring my face with spit again — however much I deserved it. Knowing you however I suppose that is one thing I will have to make peace with. Regardless, you are always welcome to visit.
As you know, Karine was recently given a job at the Bolshoi Theater, her talents were recognized by a chairman who passed by the cobbler shop. It has something to do with a partnership between our great nation and the Americans. I don’t know too much about what is happening exactly, but I consider it to be a supreme act of generosity. Our luck is turning, brother, yours is next to come.
To the best of times,
Sacha
I wanted to kick off the RP with a task rather than an event to allow time for those who applied in the second round to not miss an important event !! I also think this task will help develop your character voice since everything written in it will be from your character’s point of view.
You can write your letter as a tumblr post or in a google document.
Your letter should be addressed to someone your character knows, or would reasonably send a letter to. In game, this letter should be written between September 15, 1961 ( when the NYCB arrived in Moscow ) — December 15, 1961 ( one day before the first event ).
The contents of the letter may contain anything you wish, but be mindful that this letter has the chance to be looked at by someone else (aka the Soviet Union).
You may write the act of your character penning the letter, but you need to include the actual letter itself as well.
This task is due January 14 mst at: 11:00 pm mst.
Happy writing everyone, I can’t wait to read what everyone’s characters will talk about!
Should I call you by your name, now that I am grown? I imagine you would hate to be addressed by that old word now, so many decades removed from motherhood as you are. It’s true you could have borne another child since last we met; you were young enough then, beautiful in a way that is not interrupted until death but only — perhaps — slowed by time, like those winged seeds that drop from certain trees. But I know the truth. There have been no others, nor could there ever be; to assume otherwise would be to delude myself of your very nature.
I think sometimes of how I shall never have children, and how you might love me for it. You would think it an act of selfishness, of which you taught me was a symptom of resourcefulness, an advantage consistently undervalued, and therefore inherently woman. Well, now I am woman, and I suppose selfish too — for if I am to become prima at the close of the season, and assoluta in due time, there will be no allowance for a swelling belly or time away to watch a babe. So I have chosen, than, if only incidentally, if only by circumstance — my body over another, smaller one. My career over anything else. Perhaps you are in me after all, if not in the flesh than in the base: like the dark pit of a stone-fruit.
I consider this every time I am called beautiful — for my performance, or for that which I am. Sometimes they are incensed enough to speak it as a superlative, but I can only accept such a remark if it is made of my time on the stage. If you are alive, there can be none as beautiful as you; not even I, who is only half your blood, half your resolution, with the remainder something other. Even now, I know it to be true — it seems I am collecting thoughts and truths both these days.
The Americans have arrived for our joint tour, beginning here in Moscow. Their principal is shorter than I, dark-haired, only a few years older. They say she was hand-selected by Balanchine, that in America they call her the swan. She will play Odile in Moscow, then Odette in New York; I the reverse. It’s a very easy idea, the black swan played by the foreign dancer in a city not her own — but such will be the only undemanding part of the collaboration.
I wish you could see it.
Have you heard them call my name from the theatre? The rest do.
I have no way to end this. There never is. Maybe next time I will know what to say.
I shall write to you again, as always, as ever.
Do you remember how I used to talk about someday seeing Moscow? The summers when we would sit in the garden beneath the great magnolia trees and fantasize about all the places we would see together feel so faraway. Almost dreamlike. And yet now I am here in Moscow, the snow-laden streets and buildings and the Bolshoi Theater are as real and beautiful as the stories have promised. As always, ballet has given me another world to dream in.
For the first part of our world tour, I am to dance Odile to the Russian principal's Odette. If it was any other ballet, if I did not know Swan Lake like I know my own heartbeat and the shape of my spine, I would find her intimidating. They say she is perfection incarnate, the shimmering Jewel of Moscow. The Tsarina of the Bolshoi Ballet, where they train the best of the best. It may well be the crowning achievement of my career. There are those that say this about all of my roles but I believe this time the statement rings true. Even after we are long gone, ours will be a performance remembered throughout the ages.
I wish you could see it. I wish you could watch me dance one last time.
On stage, I dance like each show might be the last and there is no other feeling like it in the world. Almost as if I could dance myself into fairytale, into the storybooks you used to read me when I was small and thought your eyes held the stars.
Above all, beyond all, I dance for you, Mama.
They say it gets easier with time, but the truth is I do not want it to. I do not ever want it to get easier. The aching makes it real. It is a constant, reliable and ever-present, and it fills some part of the absence you have left. The physical space it seems to have carved out in me, amidst everything else that is yours.
Sometimes, for a moment, I forget. I will be in the middle of a faultless sequence, and for a single moment in my brief triumph, I will forget you are gone. And then I reset, exhale, and I awaken, and the guilt of forgetting floods my veins with ice. It terrifies me, the thought of forgetting you, the thought of time smoothing away all the edges and shadows of you, blurring and eliding everything I try to remember into the same echo of past tense. I do not want you to be only memory but memory is all I have. That, and my music box and the locket inside it with the photograph of me.
I will write you again next week, and the week after that. I will write you always, and I imagine that you forgive me for it. You understand more than anyone what it means to love someone from afar, powerless to touch them or speak to them truly by their name. I think about all those times you called me little bird and darling girl, when really what you meant was daughter. I think about how I have written you a hundred times over calling you Mama, when I never once had the chance to say it aloud.
These letters are for all those moments when I held your name in my mouth not knowing.
Folded, left upon the writing desk for her to find. Undated.
I know I ask much of you. Yet, I hope that you might reconsider.
Ardently yours,
Emilio
—
“You should go.” She’s strewn lazily across her bed, the silken murmur of her voice half-muffled by her pillow. It’s nearly midnight, she should have been asleep hours ago. Yet she will bend her rule when it comes to them. Sometimes. On nights like tonight, she does, as it is not uncommon for principals or soloists or members of the corpse de ballet to fall together in a lustful tangle of limbs— yet always so careful to not leave a visible mark. However, they do not rise from the bed and instead have their hand rove lazily from the nape of her neck down to the small of her waist. The motion is warm, firm, and lulls a soft breath from her lips, head turning to brush her mouth against his temple. She nearly leans into it. But, she knows if she does not kick them out now, they’re likely to stay the night. And if they stay the night, people might talk or they could be late to rehearsal or— Alina leans up to press her lips against theirs, capturing their mouth in a heady kiss.
Then, the cold air cuts between them. She pushes them away from her.
“Do not make me call security. Goodnight.”
—
The letterhead of the hotel’s stationary has a hastily dashed line put through it, black ink through cream paper. Dispatched to Paris 10 December 1961
Written in French:
7 December 1961
Emilio,
Would you spoil me with your presence by traveling to Moscow to attend the opening of the grand tour? The collaboration has come together nicely, and I am proud of what we have accomplished here. Dare I say, you may love the show. It was not an easy task to ask of the dancers to work with, create art with those that they have never danced with before. We are creatures of habit. Imagine if they had asked me to dance with anyone other than you during my prime— oh, the fit I would have thrown especially if you had not been my Prince Florimund for my final performance.
Do you remember how you’d held me afterwards? When everyone else had gone home and I had wandered back to the stage? Indulge me, surprise me with your arrival again, as I miss your warmth terribly as we approach midwinter.
There are days, I admit, that I yearn for the stage. However, I believe my retirement has done this tour good: the language barriers between us and the American dancers sometimes calls for demonstrating what corrections I ask of them. Sometimes, I catch members of the Bolshoi smirking at this and I wonder: is it because the American Ballet-Repetiteur is not capable of doing as I do, or is it their judgement and scorn that I am physically capable yet have abandoned the stage? I do not regret my choice in retirement as it had spared me the humiliation of public decline, and it brings me such joy to have a hand in cultivating the talent that exists within the theatre. There are a certain few especially, as you know, that I adore.
If not Moscow (as honoured as we would be to have you in our audience, and doubly so to host you at the Hotel Moska), I hope to see you in Paris. You did promise me, once, that you would give me a tour of your beloved city, and perhaps then we could discuss what you asked of me.
-Alina Filippova
—
The note has worn creases and corners, revealing a tale of longing that she refuses to speak aloud. He is a lover. Was a lover in the time he had spent in Moscow. He was beloved. He is a ghost to haunt her, a spectre she is glad to be free of yet so sorely misses from the corners of her suite. What she keeps tucked away is more than a year old, more than two. It is the only one that she has kept. What he asks of her, after decades of partnership in the only way that had ever mattered to Alina (as dancers, as artists), is too much. It is impossible. But, then, why keep it?
A thought is not a crime until actualized — a report is not complete until the subject has had investigated thoroughly. Freedom does not come easily, nor does it come silently. The revolution had paved way for a greater society, a place where all could be equal. No person mattered more than the next; no life that would try to ruin that is worth protecting.
“Is this necessary? I can attest to anyone’s character I — ”
“We have reason to believe that a handful of the Bolshoi’s employees are spreading false rumors about the State. Unless you wish to meet the same fate as Sacha, I would suggest you turn away.”
She picks up a letter, recently sealed, and holds it up to the light.
“ If you ever find yourself in Moscow, perhaps you will not find my presence so unsavory. It would be nice to see you. “
The letter is placed in the same location as it had been picked up. There is nothing more important than camaraderie.
Simultaneously a line of doors shut, and a voice shouts out above all others.
“Next.”
While the writing above does not correspond “directly” to this task I thought it would give you all a bit of insight as to what was happening while you away at the event. For this task however, you are required to tell us what your character would have in their “bag” aka what’s their essentials,
Must have at least six (6) items written about. Name & brief description and/or history. Maximum of ten (10) items.
Feel free to use images !
For spy gadgets, they should be cleverly disguised items. In your post let everyone know what it appears to be, but in my DMs please let me know what it really is. I do have the power to reject any idea if it seems too unfeasible / unreasonable. Feel free to DM me any ideas you have.
Task is due February 8, 2021 | this is a mandatory task.
The next event will begin February 11, 2021. It’ll be a doozy.
[ 📰 ] — Name a The Onion headline for your character
[ 🎻 ] — Your favorite song / piece?
[ 🎹 ] — When has your character been injured?
[ 🕯 ] — What’s one rumor about your character that has been circling around?
[ 🦢 ] — What is your wake up routine?
[ 🗝 ] — What are three things you cannot live without.
[ ⚰️ ] — Your favorite childhood memory?
[ 🌊 ] — Would you prefer to be able to fly, or breathe underwater.
[ 🎖 ] — Besides ballet, does your character know how to dance?
[ ⚜️ ] — When was your character’s first kiss?
[ 🔏 ] — What flower would your character be?
[ 📿 ] — What’s a habit of yours that you do unconsciously.
[ ☁ ] — What was the last dream you remember having?
[ 🕸 ] — What’s your favorite piece of clothing you own?
* This is an optional task, but if you do answer a meme you must send at least one meme to three different people. This is an honor system and I trust every1. Also, feel free to reblog your own ask meme posts !! Memes plz stop by Jan 31.
I’ll admit my surprise to see your name on this envelope. Although, perhaps given your message, I shouldn’t be. He always favored you, whether or not either of us were willing to acknowledge it. I suppose I can say that now – can write it, at the least. I won’t have to see your face when I do.
I can only assume you’ve chosen to write to me in this way to spare me the decision. Should I thank you? Will it matter?
If it requires saying, I will not be attending the funeral. In my stead, I’ve attached some money and if you need more, my father kept a box in the third stair from the top, and another in the shed hidden as a toolbox. Take if you like, I have no use for it. Consider it compensation for the task you’re doing in my stead. If you don’t know already, there’s a plot for him beside my mother, though by the time this reaches you you’ve likely already made a decision. Whatever it is, I do trust you with these things.
If you’ve read to this point, I suppose this is the place where I should begin my apologies. That’s what polite company would do, wouldn’t it? You were always more . . . knowledgeable in the pesky details of etiquette. Tell me, Valya, is that what you would like from me? If not, then what? It’s the only thing I can imagine – why you’ve wrote to me rather than pass off the responsibility of a phone call to the funeral home, or my father’s superiors. Since no one has shown on my doorstep, I can only assume your choice of difficult, drawn-out communication is purposeful.
Once again, I must disappoint you.
If you need anything more from me on the matters of my father’s unfortunate passing, please do not hesitate to call the next time. If you ever find yourself in Moscow, perhaps you will not find my presence so unsavory. It would be nice to see you.
