Gary threw me a quick look.
“They’ve been through a lot together.”
“We all have,” I said softly.
Ash
We walked slowly through the thick snow, our boots crunching and our breath misting around us. My hands hurt, the stump throbbing, the broken fingers aching.
I was comfortable with silence and despite everything, being out of the city felt good, like I could breathe.
“This reminds me of home,” Yveta said after a few minutes. “Although it’s warmer here,” and she shot me a quick smile, her hair sliding across her scar. “I grew up in Siberia. Like Galina. I didn’t know her then and we didn’t meet until we both moved to St. Petersburg when we were 14. We didn’t have much, it was hard, you know? Our apartment was an old Soviet concrete block with fifty other families. You found a way out by working hard: ballet, chess, math, gymnastics, dancing. I practiced every day for hours, before and after school. Dancing is all I’ve ever wanted.”
She snorted in sour amusement.
“But who wants to see a scarred dancer? No one, I think.”
I didn’t disagree with her because I knew she was right. My own scars were less obvious.
“What about plastic surgery?”
“Maybe,” she sighed. “If I had the money.”
Then her eyes darted to mine.
“Do you love her? Or is it for a green card?”
I’d expected this question.
“At first. But now, yes, I love her very much.”
She stared, as if she wasn’t sure I was telling the truth.
“We should be getting back.”
“To your wife?” she sneered.
I ignored her tone and turned around, retracing our steps.
After a while, she tugged on my sleeve, and I looked up to see her apologetic expression. I sighed and linked our arms together so we were walking side by side.
“I thought about you all the time we were in that terrible place,” she said, her voice soft. “When those men . . . I shut my mind to it. Instead, I thought about dancing with you—how happy we were when we were allowed to duet: you and me, Gary and Galina. It seems a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. I think I died in that place with Galina. She was my best friend. But Las Vegas was my idea. She’d still be alive if . . . I hate myself. I don’t know who this ugly person is now.”
“You’re not ugly,” I said sharply.
She gave a hollow laugh.
“Don’t lie to me, Alja?. I’m a monster. No one will want to look at me on a stage. No one will send their child to take lessons with me—they’d be terrified. My life is over.”
I stopped walking and tugged her around to face me. Carefully, I drew my finger down her scar, then tipped her chin up as she tried to hide her face.
“You are scarred, but you’re still you and you’re still beautiful, Yveta.”
Her eyes glossed with tears, but a smile trembled on her lips.
“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” I said, looking at Gary and Yveta in turn.
I held Laney’s hand under the table, and she gave it an encouraging squeeze.
“After I talked to that reporter, I kept thinking that it wasn’t enough. The FBI is breaking up Volkov’s network, for now, at least. But, we can do more. I have to do more.”
“Don’t tell us you’re joining the Marines,” Gary deadpanned.
“I want to tell our story. I say we tell our story our way.”
“And what way is that?” asked Gary skeptically.
I sat back and stared at him. “Through dance.”
There was a long silence, then Gary shook his head.
“Nice idea, showboat, but it would never work.”
“Why not?”
“Because people go to the theater to be entertained, not made miserable.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t remember a lot of laughs in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ or ‘La Traviata’.”
Gary looked thoughtful, but didn’t answer. I leaned forward, wanting . . . no, needing them to understand.
“We can do this! We tell our story, everyone’s story: Galina, Marta, the girl. We show what happened to us, and we show that we survived.”
I could see that even Yveta was intrigued, her eyes alive for the first time since . . .
Gary shook his head.
“We’d never get backing. All the money is in tried and tested shows—the freakin’ hills are alive. Nothing like you’re describing has ever been done before.”
I grinned at him. “Yes and no. People go to the ballet, yes? Well, we’ll take them to the ballroom instead. We just have to get someone interested—a backer. But guess what—we know a journalist who wants to help us.”
“And what are you going to call this extravaganza of blood, sweat and dance?”
“Slave—A Love Story.”
Gary smiled and clapped his hands together.
“So we make them cry into their popcorn and candy because they get their happy ever after. Hmm, it’s got legs, honey. But what about music? What about performers? Rehearsal space? A theater?”