Transcript June Grandwells Stories Phobia

Task
Compose a short story titled “The phobia.”
Copyright © 2007 June Grandwells. This story is protected by UK Copyright Service registration.
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THE PHOBIA
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Copyright © 2007 June Grandwells. This story is protected by UK Copyright Service registration.
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I thought I sensed a thin ray of dim light coming from
someplace behind me. I was about to leave the building.
“I switched off the light, didn’t I?” I wondered, going back to
the studio where I had been. Everything was in complete
darkness. “Of course it is. There can’t be anyone else here at
this time of night. Someone might have forgotten to turn
the light off, though.” As I went down the stairs, it became
clear that the light was coming from the end of the corridor
in the basement. Creeping towards it, I caught a strain of
Tchaikovsky, one of the pieces used in the competition which
was being held then. “Could anyone still be rehearsing?
Who on earth would be as foolish as I am?”
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I opened the door a crack, and gasped
in utter incredulity. It seemed as if I had been shifted to
the strand of a limpid lake in a virgin forest. There was
a swan floating by. Her plumage was immaculately soignée
and her snow-white wings radiated her regal majesty. Still,
her countenance of despondency pierced my heart. I had
never conceded that a swan could possess such an exquisite
sensibility. I was mesmerised. It was as if everything else
were embraced in a moment of eternal stasis.
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As she glided across the studio to have a glass of water from the table
in the corner, I noticed that the music had stopped. I eased myself through
the slim space between the doors. So frightened was she by my presence
that she now stiffened, fastening her other-worldly gaze on me. “I am sorry,
I didn’t mean to scare you. My name is Feodor. How do you do,” I said
as gently as I possibly could, moving hesitantly towards her, explaining
how I had been invited to that studio. As her tension gradually faded, I felt
as if we had already been acquainted somewhere before. “How do you do?
I am Irena. I didn’t realise anyone else was in the building. Are you
leaving now? I think I am going to rehearse for a few more minutes,” she
said with childlike vivacity. “May I be your prince? If you wouldn’t
mind ... I mean I would like to …” Before I could form a proper sentence,
she had agreed with the brightest smile I have ever seen.
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She guided me to the lake and I, the prince, fell in love with
the swan princess there and then. Our destinies as dancers always
demand that our roles in fantasies be played as if they were real.
I was, however, unwillingly to believe that this love was just a mirage.
Whereas everyone tried to juxtapose an evil and its victim in this
piece, she unveiled the true identity of the evil as weaknesses hidden
in every human being. When she was transfigured back to the swan,
her weightlessness was breathtaking and planted the fugitive idea of
my asking her to dance Giselle next. I almost forgot that we both still
had the competition on the very next day. She surpassed any dancers
I had seen in every facet, from her technique to a spiritual level of
discipline. She was a genuine prima ballerina.
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When we had finished the play, she bowed to me and said, “Thank
you very much.” “No, I thank you. I was the one who asked you to dance
with me.” “I know but … I feel so ecstatic about having danced with one
of the most redoubtable contestants, Mr Feodor Leopoldovich Nikolayev.”
“My goodness! Do you remember all the names?” “Of course not. But you
are famous around here. I will keep my fingers crossed for you tomorrow,”
said she. I was about to ask her what time she was due to perform.
“I assume you too are participating?” I paused, waiting for her answer.
Her twinkling jet-black eyes showed a trace of wistfulness. “I am only
a volunteer here. I long ago withdrew from such a grandiose world.
It is too fatiguing to continually fight against my own imperfections.
Never mind. Thank you for tonight, though. You have been a tremendous
inspiration.” Hardly had she finished her speech, when she evanesced as if
she were indeed a fairy.
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I was sceptical about what I had heard. Under no circumstances,
could a dancer forsake the ballet shoes they had once worn, let alone
my princess. I went back to the office, fortunately unlatched, to look for
some clues on the competition's notice board. Nothing. Turning a pile of
documents page by page, I finally found a list of volunteers.
Irena Konstantinovna Liadovsky. There was no one in the ballet world
who did not know the family name of this genius choreographer.
A daughter of Konstantin Mikhailovich Liadovsky, a real thorough-bred.
I then remembered having briefly read a small article in a local paper
while visiting the museum that had exhibited Mr Liadovsky's
photographs a few days previous. The article was about the life of
a dance teacher at a children’s ballet school. That must have been her,
perhaps using her mother's maiden name while teaching.
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I could only imagine what her father meant to her;
her expectations of herself achieving artistic supremacy would
augment the impalpable pressure to bear whilst performing. It was
impossible for me to identify with such trepidation. Furthermore,
her conscience was burdened with the onus of not impairing
her father's reputation. I was fortunate that I did not have anyone
whose existence filled me with such diffidence. Yet, there was one
period when I, myself, had struggled for so long to overcome
an ethereal force of anxiety. It had been spreading uncontrollably
inside me because I had been too demanding on myself, until I finally
subjugated it.
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I called her name loudly as if she would hear me, “Irena!”
It reverberated back and forth across my mind. I now understood that
it was through her passion for ballet that she had found her vocation
as a teacher and I admire her strength for that. I wanted to tell her that
this very fortitude had already disentangled her from a web of phobia.
She would not have, otherwise, projected the enchanting performance
which was indelibly impressed upon my memory. “Where shall I
escort her to when the competition is over? My favourite Literature Café
(Литературное Кафе)? Or would Metropole (Метрополь) be more
appropriate?” I thought. Sauntering by the Moyka Canal (Мойка), I
pledged silently to offer her my reassurance that it was a propitious time
for her début.
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Antique Frames
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Wallpaper
www.wallpaperdirect.co.uk
“Swan”
http://www.freefoto.com/preview/01-19-31?ffid=01-19-31&k=Swan
“Lismore Tumbler & Carafe”
http://www.waterford.co.uk/products/product_list.asp?collectionId=2&sortBy=&page=10&search=
Waterford
“Swan Lake”
http://www.ballet.org.uk/index.php?option=com_content&task=blogsection&id=12&Itemid=81
English National Ballet
Photo by ROSALIE O'CONNOR
http://www.abt.org/gallery/detail1.asp?Image_ID=811
“Alessandra Ferri in Jerome Robbins' Other Dances”
American Ballet Theatre
Photo by MARTY SOUL
http://www.abt.org/gallery/detail1.asp?Image_ID=716
“Michele Wiles in George Balanchine's Ballet Imperial”
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