Danielle Steel - Zoya

It was January when Zoya walked from West Seventeenth Street all the way to Sixth Avenue at Forty-ninth Street, with a wild scheme. She knew it was crazy, but it was all she could think of. She had applied at several restaurants, but the proprietors had seen too many other women like her. What do you know about being a waitress? they asked, she would drop their trays, break their plates, and be too refined to work the long hours for tiny wages. She had insisted that she could do it, but they had turned her away, and there was nothing else she knew how to do, except dance, but not in the ballet, as she had in Paris.

More than once, in desperation, she had even considered prostitution, others had turned to that too, but she knew she couldn't do it. The memory of Clayton was too strong and pure, he was the only man she had ever loved, and she couldn't bear the thought of another man touching her, even to feed her children.

Dancing was the only thing she knew, but she knew just as clearly that at thirty, she could not return to the ballet, after more than eleven years without dancing. She was still supple and lithe, but she was too old, and she felt a thousand years old, as she walked into the theater she had heard of. She had already been to the Ziegfeld and they had told her she wasn't tall enough. So there was nothing left but to try the burlesque halls. It was five blocks south of the Ziegfeld Theater. Not surprisingly, when she walked through the stage door, the theater was filled with half-dressed women, whom she tried not to stare at while she looked for someone she could talk to.

“Yeah?” the woman in charge said, amused, “you a dancer?”

“I was.”

“With who?”

She swallowed hard, knowing she looked too prim in her simple black Chanel dress. She should have worn something brighter and more racy, but she had sold all her evening clothes long since, and all she had were the somber, warm dresses she had salvaged from her closets at Sutton Place, the ones she knew she might have use for in the freezing cold apartment.

“I danced with the Ballet Russe in Paris. I trained in Russia before that.”

“A ballerina, eh?” The thought seemed to amuse her beyond words, as Zoya stood quietly, her red hair pulled tightly back, her face without makeup. “Listen, lady, this ain't a retirement home for old ballerinas. This is Fitzhugh's Dance Hall!” She said it with fierce pride, and Zoya felt a sudden surge of fury.

“I'm twenty-five,” she lied, “and I used to be very good.”

“Yeah? At what? You ain't done nothing like this before, I'll bet.” That much was true, but she was willing to do anything to save her children. She remembered suddenly her audition for the Ballet Russe thirteen years before in Paris.

“Let me try … just once … I can learn … please …” Her eyes filled with tears in spite of herself, as a small round man with a cigar walked past, glancing at her only briefly and then shouting at two men carrying scenery between them.

“Stupid jerks! You're gonna break that thing!” And then, in obvious annoyance he waved the cigar at the woman talking to Zoya. “Goddamn girls got the measles … can you beat that? I've got myself a bunch of old hoofers on my hands and they get sick like a bunch of goddamn kids … three of them out last week … seven more now … shit, what am I supposed to tell people paying good money to see the show? That they can watch a bunch of broads with spots waving their asses at them. I'd even do that if they'd come to goddamn work.” He waved the cigar at Zoya and then beyond her, as though she didn't exist, and to him, she didn't.

Without waiting for him to address her directly, she spoke up for herself, “I'd like to audition for a job as a dancer.” Her accent was slight now but still obvious, but neither of them recognized her as Russian. The woman had thought she was French, in her expensively cut black dress and her elegant airs. That was one thing they didn't need at Fitzhugh's Dance Hall.

“You a hoofer?” He turned to look at her appraisingly but he didn't seem impressed.

“Yes.” She decided to spare him the explanation.

“A ballerina,” the other woman spoke up with obvious disdain.

“You had the measles?” he asked her. That was far more important to him with ten dancers out sick, and God only knew how many exposed and due to come down with it in the ensuing weeks.

“Yes, I have,” she murmured as she prayed that she could still dance. Maybe she'd forgotten everything. Maybe …

He shrugged, and stuck the dead cigar back into his face. “Let her show you her stuff, Maggie. If she can stand up and do anything, she can stay till the others come back.” He left them then and the woman named Maggie looked annoyed. The last thing they needed was some fancy-assed, pale-faced broad who thought she was too good for a burlesque show. But he had a point, with the others sick, they were in big trouble.

‘Okay,” she said reluctantly, and then shouted backstage. “Jimmy! Get your ass out here and play!” A black man with a broad smile appeared and looked at Zoya.

“Hi, baby, what you want me to play?” he asked her as he sat down at the piano. And she almost laughed in nervous terror. What could she say to him? Chopin? Debussy? Stravinsky?

“What do you usually play for an audition?” she asked him, and he smiled into her eyes. It was easy to see that she was high-class white folks fallen on bad times, and he felt sorry for her, with her big green eyes and wistful smile. She looked like a kid as she stood there, and he wondered if she'd ever danced before. He had heard of others like her who'd gone to work in nightclubs, doing acts they made up themselves, like Cobina Wright and Cobina Junior.

“Where you from?” Maggie was momentarily talking to someone else as they chatted. And Jimmy decided that he liked her.

She smiled openly at him, still praying that she wouldn't make a fool of herself, but even the risk of that was worth it. “From Russia, a long time ago. I came here after the war.”

And then he lowered his voice and glanced nervously over his shoulder. “You ever danced before, baby? Tell me the truth, while Maggie ain't listenin’. You can tell Jimmy. I cain't help you if I don't know if you can dance.”

“I was in the ballet when I was young. I haven't danced in eleven years,” she whispered back, grateful for his assistance.

“My, my, my …” He shook his head in distress. “The Fitzhugh ain't no ballet …” That was surely the understatement of the year, as two half-naked chorus girls wandered past them. “Look,” he said to her in conspiratorial tones, “I'm gonna play real slow, you just roll your eyes and smile, hop around a little bit, shake yo’ bum and show yo’ legs, and you gonna be just fine. You got a costume with you?” But he knew from the look in her eyes, that she didn't.

“I'm sorry, I …”

“Never mind.” And with that Maggie turned her attention to them again.

“You gonna sit on your fat black ass all day, Jimmy, or are we going to do an audition? Personally, I don't give a damn, but Charlie wants me to see her do her stuff.” She looked malevolently at Zoya, as she prayed that she wouldn't fail dismally. But she followed his suggestions as he played and Charlie, the director, wandered past again, muttering as he watched her. He wanted her to hurry up so he could audition two new comedians and a stripper.

“Shit. Just what I don't need here … a lady.” He said it like the ultimate insult,“… Shake your ass … there, that's it … let's see those legs … more …” She hiked up her skirt as she blushed and continued to dance as Jimmy rooted for her. She had beautiful legs, and the grace that had come from thirteen years of dancing had never left her. “What are you for chrissake?” The short fat man bellowed at her as she blushed, “A virgin? People don't come here to pray. They come here to watch broads dance. You think you can do that without looking like you just been raped?”