So there I was… hopeless and helpless, in a ballet class that was conducted in two languages that were foreign to me: that of Russian and that of dance.

But I loved it – the stretching, toning, and holding excruciating positions (in six months we didn’t do much else, the basics were not something to be skipped over in favour of something resembling movement). Plus there was the old cultural centre hall and the elderly lady who played the piano accompaniment… and I think in a strange way, my teacher came to love me for the big, foreign, pantomime elephant clown that I was. She was a hardcore dance teacher of the old Soviet mold, and as such, was not averse to giving the limbs of the students a little smack back in place. There’s nothing like a little violence to aid the learning curve.

With me, however, when I made a mistake, the students around me got in trouble for not paying attention. I would get place between two of the better students, and when I copied precisely any of their lapses in concentration, I would hear something along the lines of “Alyona, pay attention, you know Bettina is next to you, concentrate on what you are doing”.

A few swiftly delivered lines like this could reduce even the most accomplished (in my eyes at least) dancer to tears. I only had one such occasion, when – for once – I understood perfectly what was being said, but I just couldn’t get the hang of it.

The teacher approached to me, the whole class whipped their heads around to face me and I froze. With the kindness of a viper, the teacher said “Bettina, you have to do blah-blah-blah (I can’t remember now), with your legs. Do you understand…? You understand…?”

This was worse than first expected. Not only had my foibles been revealed, but I was going to have to speak in front of the whole class.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, it’s a pressure situation, but whatever you do, don’t cry…

I looked panicked, considered what I was able to say, and tried to project my feeble whisper of a response.

“Yes. I understand. But my legs… they do not understand…”

Like butter in the sun, my teacher’s countenance transformed from strained patience and exasperation. I think I hear the class issue a collective sigh. That was quite possibly the cutest answer I could have come up with, but frustratingly for me, it wasn’t a chosen expression, but a necessary conveyance of idea. Lost for words, I couldn’t express it in any other way.

The class continued and I think a few wanton tears escaped to the freedom of my cheek, but that was that, and I consider that I got out of it unscathed!


Not that I’m going to be gracing the stage with Kirov dancer Farukh Ruzimatov in Scheherazade any time soon…