Under Midnight Lights: Part Two

By Bree M. Lewandowski

Lights on the stage are brighter than ever. But everything in Martina's music box world is getting darker...

Director of the company, Alan Jung, can't seem to pry himself away from his prima ballerina and his demands grow more and more intense. Intimate even. Afraid to damage a career she's worked so hard for, and only just begun, Martina is afraid to deny him anything.

Even if that includes her relationship with Maraav...

"The Wolf of the Mariinsky," Maraav Levondovska illuminates Martina. Around him, all the sweat and hardship of this world dissolves. It seemed so simple to let their lives on stage as lovers become their lives in real life. Dance imitating the life they want together.

But the music is twisted now. And the movements don't make sense. Their dance is off-kilter, Under Midnight Lights!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bree M. Lewandowski
• Release date: Nov 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386957249

Book preview

Under Midnight Lights: Part Two

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 1

CHICAGO WOULDN'T HAVE a white Christmas this year. Sure, a few weeks ago, snow fell in copious amounts, but now Christmas, only four days away, would not see the magic of a snow-filled metropolis this year. Inside the tiny apartment a Channel Nine News weatherman predicted a bitter holiday weekend: blowing winds and actual temperatures sinking below zero at night. He also suggested the next few days would be best spent sitting around the fire and indulging in all the treats the festive season brought with it.

The radiator clanked and banged.

You've gained weight, Miss Mariposa, he had said.

In the empty space of her studio apartment, Alan's words still were loud.

Martina peered at her reflection, lit with unforgiving light in the floor-length mirror hung from the back of the bathroom door.

While we here at The Bellus encourage our dancers to maintain their stamina, I will not have my lead ballerina looking like the Sugar Plump Fairy.

In front of Liv when those ugly words shot out, Martina felt her only mode of defense was to cross her arms in the hope they'd act as a shield. Liv looked genuinely shocked; those magnified eyes bore into the director of The Bellus as if she might reprimand him. Martina desperately hoped she would. A smart lash from her tongue could not penetrate the façade of Alan Jung, true. But at least Martina would not be left to drown before him in her own shame. However, Ms. Pugh said nothing and continued to make a small incision on the corset to allow Martina half an inch more room.

Because the truth of the matter was Martina had gained weight. Peering back at the young woman in the mirror's reflection, she couldn't deny it. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a desperate voice, not nearly loud enough, begged she realize the weight gain had merely lent a softness to her gaunt figure. Bony shoulders and an alarmingly visible ribcage were now less frail-looking. Less frightening. Yet, naked in front of the mirror, yellow light casting shadows in the most awful ways, Martina hated what she looked at. She was repulsed by the image in her mind's eye of a Sugar Plump Fairy.

With a hiss made of self-loathing, a snake of a suggestion coiled around her thoughts. Its voice was smooth and logical. Weight gained could be weight lost. On nights they went to dinner, she wouldn't have to lie to Maraav, maintaining she could not finish what was put in front of her. Eat, then come home and solve the problem. It's so easy. Just go in the bathroom, open your mouth, and stick your finger down your throat. No harm, no foul.

Martina shook her head to cast away the awful idea. The temptation. Although tonight was not the first time it haunted her. Currently, the only thing really stopping her from rushing to the bathroom before bed each night and hurling her despair of the situation into the toilet was the notion that if she committed the act, then something was really wrong. With her. With her grip on her life. And if it happened once, if Martina gave in the first time, in a certain sense, that meant it was okay to do again.

No. Better to drown in doubt than be pulled into the eye of the storm.

She walked away from the mirror and turned off the light.

Nutcracker debuted to a Chicago audience ravenous from hype, and they were not disappointed. Clara's toy soldier was a warrior brought to life, ready to brandish his blade for the young girl who loved him so. Rat King was terrifying and some reviewers described young children in the audience hiding their faces at his entrance. For the first time in a ballet usually stuffed with saccharine fluff, audiences gasped and cheered when dolls made the impossible seem tangible and Clara and Nutcracker Prince let their love rule. Some naysayers argued the timeless children’s ballet need not become a fable of love and war, but their snide commentary was keenly drowned out by the number of curtain calls every night and the shimmering reviews each morning.

Those nights on stage, the final fanfare in competition with thunderous applause, were moments Martina wished she could relish forever. Bright lights obscured her vision, but she heard people cheering her name from beyond the reach of those powerful overhead bulbs. Roses thrown up from the audience seemed to materialize before her eyes. The little dancer from the white-washed school emblazoned in a technicolor cacophony. It was wild and heady, like being loved by a summer storm. Some nights Martina grinned so much, the sides of her mouth hurt. Other nights she knew joyous tears trickled down her cheeks.

But how often do wonders come at a price?

Martina understood now that Ballet offers fantastic rewards, with only a brief respite before she dominates and punishes again. But it wasn't the physical pain. By now, her body remained and functioned at a constant dull ache. In fact, if that were all, Martina swore she could endure. But there were nights, mumbled through tears and muffled by a pillow, she offered all the pain up. To beg for an exchange.

If only everything offstage could go as well as life onstage. Part of her feared she did not deserve both. Part of her quaked that it might be one or the other: her heart or her soul. And if she lost one, the internal bleeding from the survivor would be more than she could bear. 

Letting a nightgown tumble down to her ankles, Martina also pulled on a thick pair of pajama pants and sat  in front of the TV. She didn't have to get ready yet. Fumbling with the remote before that familiar blue glow radiated outwards, a little puff of fur jumped onto the sofa with her and curled up in a bundle of purrs. 

With the run of Nutcracker in progress, Martina hoped Mr. Jung would be too busy to make time for anything else, especially and hopefully her. After all, the daily lessons finally stopped. But the opposite proved true. Each morning an email appeared on Martina's phone requiring her presence at a charity auction, a local radio station interview, or an early morning news program. Sometimes a few other dancers from The Bellus were there. Often not. But always Alan and the black Cadillac.

Never Maraav. 

In the blue of the television's light, Martina reached for a small plastic bottle of green coffee extract capsules Alan had given her. To aid in the loss of the weight. Her hand quivered. That happened a lot now. The large gel pills were glorified doses of caffeine, substantial amounts her body, severely lacking in protein and carbohydrates, certainly did not need. Quaffing back one of the pleasantly green-colored vitamins, Martina waited for that unsettling buzz to overtake her insides and make her feel weak.

Or perhaps confirm how weak she was.

She could have told Mr. Jung no tonight. The great director of The Bellus Ballet looking down from behind those metal rimmed glasses, his gaze was magnified and unwavering. If Martina had an ounce of backbone, she could have told him no. No, she did not want to accompany him to this showing of La Jeune Homme et la Mort.

La Jeune Homme et la Mort.

The Young Man and Death.

The Art Institute of Chicago commissioned The Bellus to perform the ballet for their art in motion segment during a one-time ticketed charity event concerning domestic violence. Entitled Spectrum, artists of all mediums were commissioned to bring their unique perspective on the often shadowed subject. La Jeune fit perfectly.

Originally choreographed by Roland Petit in 1946, the ballet is rumored to showcase his wife, Zizi Jeanmarie, who eventually danced the piece opposite Rudolf Nureyev five years later with the American Ballet Theater. Set to Bach's Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor, it might be more commonly recognized as the opening piece in the Academy Award-winning film White Nights, starring Mikhail Baryshnikov and Helen Mirren. 

Despite a seemingly lovely tribute to a spouse, the romance of the ballet ends there. Bach's intense and unsettling score showcases a young man on the verge of despair over his unfaithful lover. The Bellus remained true to the original choreography featuring stark, abstract motions, illustrating what standing on the brink of insanity looks like. Only fifteen minutes long, the ballet concludes when the young man's lover urges him to end his life. A hanging rope, a skeleton mask, and the lover haunt the stage as the curtain closes. No one who has seen the piece forgets it.

Martina had seen it before. But the idea of sitting next to Alan while Maraav danced the part of the young man made her head throb.

In fact, he wasn't supposed to. Nothing should have gotten in the way of Nutcracker.  Understudies were dancing Clara and the Prince for tonight's performance. Unheard of! However, late in rehearsals for La Jeune, apparently Alan proclaimed the dancer Lubov chose for the part could not dance Petit's choreography with the needed abandon and panic. Knowing Maraav's gift for retention and that the ballet was in Mariinsky's repertoire, he mandated Maraav step in. After all, it was only one night and in Mr. Jung's words, The media would see how Bellus dancers can be full of magic in one moment and bleak anguish the next.

Glancing at the digital clock on her phone, Martina knew she ought to get dressed. Switching off the television, she rose and slipped on the dress Liv gave her to wear. Fittingly purple (the color of domestic violence awareness), the chiffon dress' gradient pattern of lavender sweeping into a rich violet was ethereal. Despite not feeling anywhere near as lovely as the gown, Martina was grateful to wear it instead of what Alan had chosen for her.

During a color swatch testing session Liv required on a semi-frequent basis for all Bellus company members, both dance and the opera, Alan entered the costume department with a black and blue mini dress.

For tonight, Miss Mariposa.

About to reach out and take it, Liv snatched the fabric before Martina could.

Alan, is this what you mean to have Mariposa wear tonight? Are you insane? She'll look like a cheap escort! Liv hollered. You have no sense sometimes. I'll find something for her.

Alan shifted slightly on the high-polished cane. I've always trusted your judgment, Liv. Miss Mariposa, I am scheduled to arrive early for the silent auction. The limo will be waiting for you at nine this evening.

Yes, Mr. Jung.

The delicate fabric made a delicious swishing whisper at Martina's smallest movement. Standing in the bathroom while she pulled her hair into a long fishtail braid, she hoped Maraav would see her in the audience and think the dress was lovely too. That hope was the only reason Martina applied any makeup to her face. 

It seemed like she barely saw him anymore. Before Nutcracker began, they were together during class every day, the long rehearsals, and then off to dinner each night. Maybe there wasn't time to talk, maybe Martina was too overcome with the concept of dancing lead for the first time in her professional career, but Maraav was there with that easy smile. And those soft gray eyes.

Yet nearly the same time audiences flooded The Bellus Theater, an email had gone out to all company members:

The times are constantly changing and we, as members of an art form, must move with them. We cannot and shall not allow ourselves to grow complacent and risk stagnation. It has come to my attention that members of The Bellus Ballet Company are too comfortable in their routine, too sure of how each day will go. This manner of thinking will quickly seep into the dancing and sour the energy and verve of the name Bellus.

Adjustments will come as I see fit. To start, though, warm-up class each morning will be split into two classes: one for the women and another for male company members. The change is not permanent, but I desire each dancer to reap the benefits.

~Alan Jung, Director.

That night, Maraav sat next to her at a diner and both stared in silence. Martina tried to still the sudden quickness of her heartbeat. Seeing the heave and fall of the small chest, he slipped his arm around her, his words soft while his thoughts ripped into Alan Jung.

A salad drenched in creamy ranch dressing instantly tasted bitter. Hot, crunchy mozzarella sticks dipped in steaming savory marinara, were soggy and tepid. A moment ago, she had been telling Maraav about the time she slipped during a high school performance of Bye Bye Biride, which caused him to relate a humorous anecdote about unintentionally dropping a fellow male company member to his knees one night on stage. But the email practically glowed off her cell phone's small screen. Instantly, Martina wanted to rush into the bathroom and force herself to retch. She wished Maraav would grab her and say everything would be alright. She wished he could yell louder than the awful fears in her mind.

At least I get to see you on stage every night.

With thoughts too hot and her words a sharp ache in his chest, Maraav pressed his lips gently to Martina's cheek, the cool feel of her skin quenching the heat in his mind.

At least they had the stage. And what a paperback romance novel line that was. 

Yet it had come to that. Back at the beginning of the month, everything seemed so full of promise. Her position in the company. The joy of dancing with him each show. The assurance of a passionate embrace, giving fully to emotions held in check. Yet now, Alan's demands on her schedule, the change in classes, Maraav suddenly being cast in La Jeune-moments on stage with him were all she had.

Resting in his arms beneath the bright lights while waves of music swept over them, there were nights Martina closed her eyes to pretend it might last forever. Poised in a lift, his strength supporting her, only to be cradled down to the floor and find herself before those eyes. Face to face, both chests heaving, his breath hot on her cheek as the next progression of steps began and they sailed across the stage–Martina drank in each moment.

Yet another moment loomed like an apparition. Maraav had been brought to The Bellus as a guest principal dancer. A favor to Lubov. Guest dancers do not usually gain a permanent place in the troupe once the run of the show has finished.

It wasn't enough to say it hurt. Suddenly losing him because that's show business made her chest constrict. Drawing a full breath those night felt impossible. Martina had rushed to her window several times, stifled and suffocated by the idea, to throw the frozen glass panel open and let the bitter air shock her system into functioning. Gasping, her breath like dragon's smoke in the night air, she'd press her hand to throbbing temples and try to talk herself off the emotional ledge she stood on.

Maraav leaving the company did not mean he was leaving her. Most likely, their relationship would fair better outside of their professional lives. They'd be free to be a man and a woman. Not dancers. But Maraav would surely join another company. Ballet burned in him. Another company with its own grueling schedule. And she here at Bellus. The quiet of the apartment hummed in her ears. Even if they lived together, despite how wonderful that sounded, the world of their respective companies would consume them. Martina did not subscribe to a heart growing more faithful with space.

But I love him.

Sometimes it helped to say. A declaration into the void. Control where she possessed very little.

Yet some nights, it only revived the rushing sound in her ears. And when that happened, Martina would press down on the remote's volume button till sound filled her apartment.

Tying straps on a pair of nude heels Liv also lent her,  Martina ignored the now typical tremble of her fingers. It meant the pills were working. That gnawing grumble in her stomach? It was applause. Standing up carefully because brief spells of dizziness were now part of her day, she made sure kibble filled Chat's bowl. Quaffing back a glass of water to quell any unpleasant noises her stomach might make during the performance, Martina glanced around the little box that was her home, with its constant smell of dust and age.

So this was what it meant to be a ballerina.

Don't cry. This is what you wanted, right? Don't be an awful mess just because it's hard right now.  The world of Ballet laughs at little nonsense girls