Dirty Desires: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

We passed a small room, where several dancers warmed up together. Some stretched. Others twirled. The rest practiced their routines in the small space.

Akiva and I continued on.

One ballerina hurried by, mumbling over and over, “Where’s my hairpiece? I can’t go on without it. I can’t. I can’t.”

Two seamstress had another dancer on the right, rushing to sew together a tear in her tutu.

I always found that the costume department was the most stressed during a performance.

La Bayadere demanded a lot from everyone. The ballet called for over ten costume changes. Each one had to be executed in seconds. While there was no set order for who jumped into their new costumes at any given time, somehow the seamstress and designers got everybody into their costumes, hair pieces, and makeup. For ballerinas who performed multiple roles like me, it meant costume and makeup changes in small, curtained off areas backstage several times throughout the night.

Akiva stopped us in front of the entrance to the stage.

We remained behind the curtains.

Anxious, I pulled some of the thick material away and peeked out. Already the musicians had taken their places in the spacious orchestra pit. Instruments sounded here and there, as they did their own warmups, before the show.

The stage manager roared behind me. “Five minutes!”

Chatter ceased.

All the ballerinas for the opening scene took their places.

I looked past the curtain into the audience. Every seat was packed. Some people stood in lines far in the back.

They’re going to stand, during the whole performance? No way!

I gulped in fear, never seeing anything like this in my life.

“Everyone’s here,” Akiva said on my side. “They all want the pleasure of bragging to their high society friends how they were here on the historical night. The moment St. Petersburg announced its first African American prima ballerina.”

Still scanning the audience, I inhaled a long breath and then exhaled.

And then, saving the best for last, I looked up to Misha’s balcony.

Wait. There’s Misha, but. . .who’s with him?

My heart stopped for a moment. My breath caught in my throat. Where I thought I had all the surprises this evening, Misha had out shown everyone.

My voice cracked. “Grandma?”

I stepped forward to get a better look. It had to be her. A black woman sat right next to Misha.

On the other side was a black man. I remembered seeing him from last night’s performance.

I turned back to the black woman sitting next to him.

That’s grandma! It has to be.

Even though there was some distance, I knew the way she sat, the way she turned her head, marveling at the sights as she took in the audience and stage. I’d watched her all my life. She was the most beautiful and strong woman I knew. I’d spent hours just sitting on the floor, gazing at her as she read on the couch in our small living room.

It has to be her. Please say so.

All my life, grandma had been my everything—my mother, my father, my inspiration, my preacher, and my healer.

Tears spilled from my eyes.

It’s her.

I stepped forward again, walking onto the stage and gazing up at the balcony. “Grandma?”

“What are you doing?” Akiva rushed to my side and whispered, “It’s not time for us to come on yet.”

I continued onto the stage, just to get a better look.

People gasped as a few spotted me.

Whispering rose.

But I didn’t care.

With a closer look, I knew it was her.

My grandma is here!

Tears spilled from my eyes, surely messing up my makeup.

I stepped on the stage further, right in plain view of the audience.

Only God knew what Akiva was thinking as he waved at the audience and nodded, trying to appear like this was part of the plan.

I didn’t even walk to the center of the stage. I headed over to the edge close to Misha’s side. And then grandma rose in her seat, raising her hands in the air like she would do in church as she screamed Jesus’s names.

Oh. My. God!

And then more tears came because she was the reason why I stood on that stage. Her heart had brought me here. Her prayers. Her love. Her sacrifice. All those goddamn toilets that she’d scrubbed for me. All the times, she’d come home exhausted. Feet sore. Eyes red from weariness.

No way. No fucking way.

She wore an impeccable gown. Flawless. Breathtaking.

“Jesus Christ, Misha,” I whispered. “I owe you forever.”

“Ava!” Grandma yelled and waved.

I knew Akiva was cringing next to me. All of this was inappropriate for theater behavior. The prima ballerina did not step out before the performance, crying and wandering to the edge of the stage like a maniac. And surely no one in the audience was supposed to stand and scream about.

But I gave no fucks!

“Grandma!” I waved and even jumped a little.

Akiva cursed next to me.

The audience glanced around, probably trying to see who I was talking to.