Coming of age, coming out and finding your kind of role in life and on the stage. A tale about drag, rabbits and found family. Happy Pride!
Site-19's Company Housing
December 1999
The winter had set in, holding the modest bungalows in a cold grasp. It made the old Soviet defector almost nostalgic; perhaps even for a different kind of Cold, one his sentimental soul romanticised at times. Well, how else are we meant to bear those memories if we cannot lighten them up a little?
Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnikov took a deep drag on the little stick of mental relief, as he walked over to the Kondrakis' mailbox. It hadn’t been emptied yet, and there was no room left among the holiday cards to put the little package of quilting needles he'd borrowed. The house, he noticed at that point, was also not in its usual state: the windows were open, the loud roars of a vacuum reaching the outside, and peeking out from behind the bushes was what looked like an animal enclosure, missing its roof and cloaked in fresh snow.
He flicked the cigarette onto the snow-covered sidewalk and walked to the front door. One knock, two knocks, and finally the vacuum turned off. A moment later, the door swung open and the haggard face of Carmen Kondraki greeted him.
"Miss Rikki, you are not right!" he exclaimed, using her preferred name. Without awaiting a response, he gently brushed past into the house, beckoning her to follow. "Come come, I fix you soup. You have the good broth, I am sure?" He casually tossed the package on the hat rack, stamped the snow from his boots and draped his overcoat on the rack before moving straight to the kitchen with the same scripted determination of every mission or scene he entered. He pulled open the freezer, searching for the prepared bone broth he had gotten in the habit of donating.
"I’m not sick, Dmitri," she said, her voice betraying exhaustion. "It's allergies."
Two small bowls of dry kibble and water were on the floor — a clue he pretended to not have noticed. "Allergies like grass? Like flowers?"
"Rabbit," she confirmed, pointing at the bowls he feigned just now discovering.
"Ah." He fired up the stove and began heating a pan. "So it is rabbit that troubles you. How did it come?"
"Ben." She sank into the chair next to the kitchen table, propping a weary cheek on the palm of her hand. Of course this was Ben Kondraki’s doing. The unilateral decision to dump a new and huge responsibility into the household bore all of his hallmarks.
"I shouldn’t be angry, it was sweet and-ah-AH" She sneezed once, twice, three times in rapid succession before burying her face in hand towels. It was a long minute before she emerged, face reddening. "I mean, would it have killed him to at least check with me first?"
"Ben, not known for think and act at the same time." Dmitri avoided her gaze and focused on fixing her meal. One sequence at a time.
"You’d think that after decades together, he’d know I was allergic." Carmen’s passions bubbled along with the soup, threatening to boil over. "Now I am the bad guy. It’s always the same with him, so stuck in his little world that -" She continued venting the frustrations simmering in the pressure cooker that passed for the Kondraki household. Dmitri rapped the spoon on the edge of the pot and poured a bowl, hoping food might lower the temperature of the room a bit.
"It’ll be fine soon, when he finishes the enclosure outside."
If he finishes it, Dmitri thought, but he was wise enough not to say it out loud. He knew his friend too well, and he’d already seen the rust forming on the saw leaning against the house.
"A bowl of soup, fix you right up. Is nice and hot," he offered, placing the steaming liquid in front of her. At least it would clear out the sinuses. Next would be figuring out how to clear up the other hot mess Mr. Kondraki Sr. had created.
"I’d like to make that rabbit into soup," she groaned quietly.
A soft shuffling of feet came from behind them and her expression froze. Standing silently there was Draven, rabbit clutched in his arms.
"No, honey, that’s not — I didn’t mean —"
But it was too late. Once loose, the arrow could not be recalled.
Draven was gone before she even rose from her seat, locked in his room, to which neither heaven nor earth would convince him to unbar that door. She sunk back into the chair, wallowing in misery.
It was quite the mise-en-scène; Carmen reached for another tissue only to find an empty box, and she groaned. That was his cue; he pulled a roll of paper towels from the nearby kitchen counter and placed them in front of her, then stepped gingerly to Draven’s door. A soft knock, no reply.
"Draven," he rolled the 'R' heavily, "it is me, Dmitri. You remember me? I was there for your birthday."
A pause. He could hear movement on the other side of the door.
"The radar spy glasses didn’t work," the small voice came barely audible through the faux wood door, "but the invisible ink does!"
Dmitri’s eyes sparkled and he smiled at Carmen, who was once again waylaid by sneezes. He had made an opening, now to exploit it.
"Yes very good, you always need to test what does or does not work in the field." It was never too early to sow the seeds of good fieldcraft. "I saw the bunny, I can meet him? Or her?" he added quickly.
Another pause, longer than before. The door cracked open just enough for Draven to peer out into the room, confirming that his mother was seated and not about to make a move. She smiled weakly by way of apology, opting to blend into the background to let Dmitri take centre stage. He imagined her as she’d been back in her fieldwork days: a human voice behind a radio turning detached orders into personable directions, guiding people to a successful outcome and receiving none of the glory herself. Well, he’d received his orders.
The door opened a bit further, just far enough for the Russian to squeeze through and then shut fast behind him. The rabbit squirmed in Draven’s arms, nose sniffing the air and investigating the newcomer. Dmitri scratched her behind the ears, and she wriggled her tail.
"I think, bunny like me."
"Yeah." A small voice, like the fluttering of a bird’s wing. He clutched the rabbit fiercely, protecting it from any imagined harm. The rabbit idly chewed on a piece of Draven’s long shirt sleeves.
"Draven," he said, looking the boy in the eyes. "Your mother, she is getting very sick, keeping bunny here in the house. Is very hard for her, you know."
Draven nodded, and he was the second Kondraki whose eyes started to water that day. But the boy swallowed his tears when he pressed his head down in the bunny’s coat, and mumbled: "I don’t want to give up on my friend."
"If bunny is your friend, then bunny is my friend," he said, jabbing a thumb into his own chest. So that was where the scene had been heading. "You know, I learned about long American tradition of sleepover for friends. What if bunny has sleepover at my house, so your mother can rest? And your father can finish the bunny home."
The boy looked at his little furry friend, and a sequence of emotions flashed over his face. Before Dmitri could decipher them, Draven nuzzled the rabbit’s head, gave his friend a kiss, then handed him over. He grabbed a backpack and started to collect a bunny quilt, a carrot shaped pillow, and a bag of treats.
"Bunny will need a good place to sleep then," the boy said resolutely, his lip quivering before he bit down and suppressed it. "I’ll help you find the right enclosure."
The front door had barely closed behind them and already Carmen had fired up the vacuum cleaner. She had sent her little soldiers on a mission, resolving the disturbance in her life without saying a word. Once we find our roles in life, we rarely outgrow them, Dmitri thought.
[☀]
The nearest town was only a short drive away, which Draven spent petting the rabbit’s soft, floppy ears and whispering it'll be okay from time to time. He was still comforting his friend when they arrived at the pet supply store.
It should’ve been a sure hit with any kid his age, but Draven had no eye for the talkative birds flapping through their enclosures, or the colourful fish dancing in their tanks. Not even the furry creatures of all shapes and sizes would catch the boy’s eye. He made a beeline to the animal pens, and Dmitri dutifully followed.
"Which one, you think? Maybe foldable, for when bunny moves back home, yes?"
"You don’t have to lie, Mr. Dmitri," the boy started out soft spoken, then his voice took flight. "I'm just… I am so angry at adults lying all the time. I know bunny isn’t coming back. I just want to make sure that, wherever she is, she gets the best home."
Dmitri had been about to pull a foldable unit from the shelf, but withdrew his hand.
"They lie to me, they think I don’t know," said the boy. "I can hear mum and dad fight, but when I walk in the room they just smile, tell me to go back to bed or to go play. I am eight and a month! They don’t think I’m smart enough to get it." He pulled the rabbit close again, pressing his chin against its forehead. "Why do all adults lie?! Even you!"
Dmitri’s mind turned over quickly. Draven had good reason to feel hurt; maybe it was time to level with him. We all have to grow up sometime.
"I am sorry. I did not intent the lie. Adults, we tell stories to make life more bearable." He took a deep breath. "They not think you are dumb, no. Is just — world is a cold place. And sometimes, lie can be like warm hat." He snugged his hat tighter on his head. "It feels comfort, helps for a little bit, but is still just story — or maybe you call lie. Your parents, they just want to keep you warm for little bit longer."
"If they’re not happy together, why are they together?"
"It can be hard to be together, but is often much harder to be alone. You discover this yourself maybe, someday." He slid a large, sturdy enclosure from the shelf and shouldered it. "This reminds me, bunny will need a friend. No bunny should be alone."
The distraction seemed to at least partially work: Draven's eyes lit up at the sight of a half dozen tumbling, hopping and frolicking bunny rabbits. Maybe the old Russian could admit he didn't just do it for the boy.
"That one, right there," Dmitri pointed. "Very good bunny. I just have the feeling." As Dmitri took the bunny out of its enclosure and held it to his face, Draven cocked his head. He knew that look at any age: an observation had been made. Perhaps the little one had figured out what made a "good bunny" so he didn’t have to.
"Your accent is your hat," he said candidly, wearing the smile of a kid writing the answer on the school blackboard. "I'm sorry for being angry with you, Mr. Dmitri. I was upset at being tricked, because you thought I wouldn’t realise the voice is fake. I understand now you were doing it for yourself."
For a moment Dmitri felt like Carmen, wheezing and coughing on the words he barely managed to keep in. It bought him just enough time to process the kid seeing right through him.
Years and years of cover work do not quite prepare you for the sudden terror of it being blown. The curtains drawn apart before he had his lines prepared — a devastating moment of exposure. But there is artistry in revelation, too. An excitement in the script being rewritten on opening night. A freedom in being able to choose your own lines, without the cues and lights forcing you forward.
"I am sorry, I -" This had been his voice for so long that it had very nearly become him. The scrambling for a response quickly turned into a fit of laughter as he tried to remember what he sounded like underneath the name Dmitri.
Draven was ahead of the curve. One his own father hadn’t even cleared in more years than Draven had been alive. And it was beautiful.
"I suppose I was, indeed. Allow me to take the hat off, then." The exaggerated Russian accent was replaced with an odd mix of English and American diction, with the rough German rasp and some Dutch flatness thrown in, dancing to the cadence of his Soviet roots. "I did not intend to trick you specifically. It feels — I feel better when the world doesn’t see me."
"Why?"
He didn’t have an answer. But when had that ever stopped him?
"Because the world is cold and dreary," he said. "And I didn’t want to make that anyone’s problem but mine."
Draven frowned, shifting the weight of the rabbit against his shoulders.
"You can keep the accent a little bit," the boy said. "I don’t want you to feel…" he paused, frowned, then settled on: "cold."
Dmitri smiled down at the boy for a long moment. "Come on. Let us get these two home."
[☀]
The sun had set by the time they finished assembling the new enclosure in a corner of Dmitri’s living room. He brewed a pot of tea atop the antique samovar, and settled back in an armchair to watch Draven. The boy was fussing over the rabbits, flapping about like a fledgling that had just figured out his movement. There it was: the smile worth a thousand troubles. Maybe even a million.
"So, you choo- did you choose names for them yet?" he stumbled over his own voice. It would take some time to become comfortable with it again. Draven’s smile grew.
"I thinks, we both name one, yes?" His mockery brought laughter to both of them.
"Very equitable. Names are my speciality." He prided himself on finding the right ones for the right moment. A name should be more than a cover or a callsign; it was part of the performance. A little story of its own. "I have found the right one: Krolic. It is Russian for bunny, and it sounds like frolic, my favourite English word. A very good name."
Draven nodded, pressing his fingers to his lips as he contemplated a name of his own. With a flash of delight Dmitri realised the boy had mimicked his posture.
"Paul," he said.
"Of course. Paul. A very good bunny name."
The boy curled up on the floor with a rabbit on each arm. "Mr. Dmitri? Will you be okay?"
"How do you mean?"
"Are you not scared? Like mum and dad, or Krolic and Paul," he said. "You don’t have a friend here, like they do."
"I — not all humans are like bunny." Reflexively, he drew back the curtain a little bit, his accent a little thicker. "Some of us, better on our own."
Because who would count on you? Said a voice from another life.
Draven frowned again, and he could imagine the cogs turning. The boy would make a fine intelligence officer; even at his age he was miles ahead of Dmitri. He hoped the coming generation would be able to make good on the follies of his own. Watching the boy think, he realised that it was more important than ever for the old guard to share the stage.
Maybe he should do that more. One day, he'd have to pass down the sceptre.
"What makes you different from everyone else?"
ублюдки1 like you stand alone. Arkady's face loomed on the edges of his mind, a spectre that never left him. And he hadn't yet found an answer that refuted his father's judgement.
But a seed had been planted. The question was still on his mind long after the little officer-in-making had hugged all three inhabitants of the Strelnikov household goodbye. Long after Ben had assured him in the usual short, brusque sequences that the little creatures wouldn’t bother him long, that he’d make time this weekend to finish the enclosure. Long after Carmen had smiled and waved at him from the sidewalk, sinuses clear for the first time in what might’ve been days. Long after he had sat back down in his chair, the furry little companions warming his lap until he finally dozed off.
The question would be on his mind. It would stay there, unanswered, for a great while longer.
The Adams/Strelnikov Residence
June 2006
The Singer’s needle rose and fell in time, like the bows of a string section churning furiously through an overture. The orchestra was discordant, however; no two stitches were alike. The stack of discarded samples grew steadily, along with a pile of cigarette butts in the patio’s ashtray. The machine needed servicing; rough use from other members of his theatre troupe had taken its toll, and now it had come to avenge that mistreatment.
He sighed deeply. A younger version of himself would have tried — and probably failed — to take it apart and tinker with it himself. But with age comes wisdom, as they say. Today the machine had beaten him, and he was no longer too proud to bow out with grace. He slid on a thimble and prepared to engage the garment in hand-to-hand combat when the doorbell rang.
Behind the door stood a slender boy with striking green eyes, shoulders slouched and backpack dangling. Dmitri’s eyes watered at the sight of the boy’s bright clothes, wondering whether it was just his age or his Soviet roots preventing him from "getting it."
"Draven! How good it is to see you." He swung the door wide open. "Come in!"
"I’m not interrupting you, am I —?"
"Of course not!" he said, throwing his arms wide open. "I was just thinking: I should take a break. Come, I fix you drink. You look like you can use one."
Draven slid out of his backpack and let it fall to the floor, shedding some of the high school anxiety along with it.
"Mitya, I’m 15. I can’t drink for a couple more years."
"Ah, American drinking laws." He waved it off with a frown. "It is alright. Andrea bought very nice tea. I make it for us."
Andrea had learned very early on that there was no way to cut short her boyfriend’s fiery flights of passion, but there were ways to temper them, and she stocked up on those. The samovar had been heated for most of the day, its contents the only thing keeping Dmitri’s ever-thinning patience in check. When he returned from the kitchen, he carried a tray with two ornate cups of tea on matching saucers, a fresh carrot accompanying each.
"I thought you might want to say hello to Krolic and Paul?" Dmitri said as he put the tray on a side table. "They have not yet had their carrot snack."
"Bunnies still on a diet?" Draven asked, grateful the carrots weren’t his uncle’s idea of an appetiser. "They’re looking pretty healthy."
"Andrea and I talked very long. I said: happy bunny is fat bunny. She said: happy bunny is healthy bunny." He slid open the door to his patio and carried their tea outside, the two rabbits flopping along behind. "We agreed to disagree, and go with her decision."
Spring had chased away the last remnants of winter. Flower petals drifted on the breeze, and it seemed as if the whole world was alive with colour. Fresh shoots poked from Dmitri’s garden, almost as bright as neon green in the warm sunlight. He looked again at the boy’s attire.
"Your hat is very colourful. Very fitting for the time of the year. I like."
The boy smiled faintly, rubbing Paul’s side.
"They often say: colourful cover hides a dark presence. What worries are on your mind, little crow?"
"I —" The boy started, before his cheeks flushed and he looked away. "Can’t I just come by to chat?"
"I love it when you do. And Paul loves the attention; she works very hard at being bunny," he said. "We can do nothing more than enjoy spring day, if you prefer."
They fed the rabbits and sipped their tea, silence prevailing. Draven looked up once or twice, opening his mouth but not interrupting the quiet. Trying to string his thoughts together, but the stitches kept missing.
"How do you know whether you like someone?" he finally managed to say. "Like, more than like."
"Ah." Dmitri put down his saucer and lit a cigarette, resisting the habit of offering one. "That is very good question. Very important."
He leaned back, as he always did right before his story started, smoke enveloping his persona as he slid into the role of narrator.
"Is like a melody that keeps playing in your head, day and night," he said. "It is beautiful and clear, and all you can think about is hearing her play the notes, sure that it can never live up to what you’ve built in your head. But then you see her, and somehow you realise, the notes you managed to mash together never lived up to the actual music."
"I see."
"Someone caught your eye?" he said with a sly smile. "A nice girl from class?"
"Y-yeah." He didn’t look up. His shoulders tensed, his expression froze.
Oh.
Well, no need to smoke him out. He’ll share that when he’s ready.
"I am sure she’s wonderful." Dmitri gently pushed Krolic away from his boot, eyeing the fresh bite marks in the leather. Ridiculous bunny.
"What if I’m wrong?"
"How do you mean?"
"What if it’s just — what if she’s— " a subtle inflection, easy to miss for an untrained ear, " — just a friend, and I’m going to ruin our friendship for no reason?"
The boy was getting better at lying! Dmitri’s training in the skill of subterfuge had paid off. But that flair of pride quickly dimmed when he realised he hadn’t trained his nephew just for fieldwork; not every person was safe to come out to. He'd have to know how to lie now more than ever.
He'd known how lonely that had been. At least Dmitri had been afforded the luxury of choice.
"What if she like you too?" Dmitri set down his tea.
"I just —" Draven sighed.
For a moment Dmitri just observed the boy, the big curls falling around his face like a curtain drawn, the bright colours of stage light. A theatrical façade Dmitri had worn himself until he had almost lost who was underneath. A kid hiding in a role, burying a soft, caring soul under layers of camouflage. At least he had not made the same mistakes as his father: carrying on in gruff and growl.
Maybe Draven was not his own, but must you share blood to see yourself looking back at you?
"Let me show you something." Dmitri gently placed Krolic in Draven’s lap, and rose. Back inside, he walked to a solitary shelf. Dust and rabbit fur might linger in the nooks and corners of his home, but this shelf was a sanctuary. A monument built from the cornerstones that had built him, not in pictures but objects. Little beacons, signalling the way back to moments lost in an ever-cleansing ocean of time. He lifted a box, one he cleaned daily, but rarely dared touch.
"Did I ever tell you how I started at the ballet?"
"You have. Romeo and Juliet," Draven answered, his smirk betraying every variation in his uncle’s numerous retellings of that story. "You saw it with mother or on your own, on a warm summer day in December, right after you returned from and were leaving for Afghanistan."
"Some of this is true." Dmitri sat back down next to him. "The other part of the truth, I never tell. I’ll tell you."
The old dancer’s fingers slipped over the corners of the box before handing it to his nephew.
"What’s this?"
"A gift from someone who made me fall in love," Dmitri said. "Open it."
The lid was stubborn, and Draven had to pry it up with a fingernail. Inside was an unremarkable piece of metal, plated in silver that had begun to wear and oxidise a long, long time ago. A delicate sunflower emblem adorned the top as its only decoration. He turned it over in his hands and looked at his uncle.
"I was your age, maybe little younger, when I was put to work at the Kyiv Opera by mother. She insisted I start by carrying the heavy stuff, mop and shine floors, keep the place clean so the artists could focus. Work. I think, she had hope I would fall in love with the art like she had." A long pause, his gaze focused on a place far, far away from here. "I suppose, she was more successful than she wished."
He smiled wryly, shifting in his seat.
"Mother was clever. She knew I was a dumb, young kid, wouldn’t want to admit my interest where anyone could see. So she arranged for me to work backstage, high up. I moved the curtain ropes, mostly busywork. But it did let me watch." His smile grew. "I remember one night. I had stayed behind a little longer, one of the ceiling pulleys had worn out and needed replacing, very stubborn thing. Pushed my patience to the point I was going to pull it apart, when I realised I was not alone. One of the dancers was still practising: one half of the pas de deux, retracing his steps, again and again."
"I put away my tools and sat down on my spot up high, on the gantry. Decided I deserved a rest, and who could say no to a private performance?" He could just about imagine the smell of dust that perpetually wafted out of the curtains at that height. "There was no music. No harmonies or orchestra, no lights. Just him, moving over the stage with vigour, with precision. Again and again, floating through air as if it had no effect on him. As if he was close to finding the sequence of steps that would let him take flight completely. I do not know how long I watched, but I was captivated. At that moment, I was lost."
A long piece of ash hung from his cigarette, bending with the weight of gravity.
"Of course, I could not admit that. Even at that age, I was talented at lying to myself." He shook his head, chuckled. "I found a reason to work late once more: reorganising the rope in the side wing, the corner where I could see the stage — see him. I think I must’ve been obvious, coiling the same ropes again and again, but where lying is a talent, deception was a skill I had not yet learned."
"It was like the night before. He practised in silence, retracing his steps again and again across the stage, in a form that was perfect to my untrained eye. The only sounds were his: the taps on the floor, the rustling of fabric floating with his form, the pace of his breathing setting the tempo as much as following it. From here, up close, I could hear the skips in his breath, could see the sweat forming on his neck, the tensing and flexing of each muscle and tendon as he flowed through air. Effortless." A sigh. "Of course, he noticed me at that point. How could he not? I was already as tall as you are now, and certainly not graceful or quiet in my work boots."
"Before he could ask, I confessed I had been watching his artistry at work, and he must have seen me blush. I don’t remember what he said in response. I just remember how his curls hung alongside his face, the bun in his hair astray from the intensity of the exercise. Next I knew, he had pulled me on the stage with him. Asked me if I had danced before, said I looked like I should — or maybe I dreamed that up. It certainly feels like a dream now."
"He went easy at first. One step at a time, move along with him. Find the rhythm I didn’t realise I had in me. I must’ve looked like a limp marionette, stomping about as my boots hit the wood — but he made me feel like I was the most elegant creature that ever graced the stage. Like I had found my moment, my reason for existing. I didn’t hesitate when he spun me around, didn’t fear when he leaned us both into a dip; I fell into it freely. I had finally heard the music play. " He swallowed, the cigarette pinned between his fingers just burning away, forgotten. "That was the closest to flight I ever got."
The old dancer sat quietly for a moment, his wistful smile fading with each breath.
"I had studied his movements so intensely that I knew we were coming to an end. He halted my flight, placed his hands on my hips, pulled me high up so I was balancing on the tips of my boots. My arms still around his shoulders, he leaned in, and at that moment I could do nothing but wish for his embrace, to welcome it as part of me. But when his lips finally touched mine, I realised —"
"What?" Draven had been listening breathlessly. "Realised what?"
"That I had fallen in love with the dance, and not the dancer." He smiled faintly. "I think he knew the moment I did, too."
The smoke still lingered, despite the spring breeze. Dmitri took a long drag.
"Was he not mad?"
"I think, he was flattered he made me doubt," he said, exhaling through his nostrils. "He put me back down, slid that pin in my hair as a token to remember him by. I suppose it worked."
Instinctively, he brushed his hair back.
"My point is this: if I had not taken the leap, I might never have known. I would always have doubted whether he was that one exception," he said. "And I wouldn’t be here today, which would be a real tragedy." He stubbed out the cigarette, then smiled and squeezed the boy’s shoulder.
Draven was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing the delicate enamel petals.
"So I should just go for it?"
"Worst case, you learn something new about yourself. And that is good." He returned the memento to its box, avoiding the temptation to gaze at it for just a bit longer. "After all, how can you play role without fully understanding parts?"
As they watched the rabbits play in silence, their thoughts drifted in their own directions. Dmitri’s might’ve started at the boy, but soon slipped back to the face of a man he wished he could forget, whose name he still carried by tradition and choice. He might not feel what his nephew was feeling, but he could at least sympathise with that fear of rejection, that fear of knowing you are not what your parents might have prepared for.
Just like his own mother, Carmen would understand. Fathers, however — he himself could never forget Arkady’s scowl and the cold, condemning tone of his words when the mobilisation orders had called for him. Let’s see how well you dance when the bullets start flying.
He sighed, and wrapped an arm around Draven’s shoulder. The cycle always continues, but one can make sure it doesn’t retrace the same steps.
Draven’s thoughts, well, they were for once not spelled on his face. But it wouldn’t have surprised his uncle that Draven knew how Dmitri’s stories worked, how they painted a message more real than a memory.
"It’s not a girl this time," Draven said, finally.
"I see."
"You already knew that, didn’t you."
"Perhaps I suspected. Does it matter?" It shouldn’t, but deep down he knew it would. Not to him, but to the world out there.
"I don’t know." The quiver in his voice pulled on Dmitri’s heartstrings, ripping the seams.
"It does not," he said resolutely, his bravado back in full force. "All that matter to me, is that you are happy, and partner respects and loves you. The world, they are only audience, they have no say."
Draven didn’t say anything for a moment. In his hands he still held the wooden box, its glass cover still open. For all the world to see, but never to touch.
He placed it carefully on the tea tray, then wrapped his arms around Dmitri.
"What if dad doesn’t like it?" said a muffled voice against the fabric of the Russian’s shirt.
"Your father, complicated man. Has a lot to learn about himself, still. He’ll figure it out. If he doesn’t, you talk to me, and I talk to him. Understood?" He pulled back so he could look the kid in the eyes. "And if you need space, Krolic and Paul would be honoured to have you as their guest."
The rabbits frolicked around their feet, chomping at butterflies. Dmitri placed a kiss on the top of his nephew's head as they watched.
The wooden box remained open for the rest of the afternoon.
Site-19 Theatre Company's Prop Room
May 2013
"This is fucking torture." Draven spun on the two inch block heels he was trying to walk in, almost rolling his ankle. "Why do people wear this?"
"Because you said, it is part of the dragging." Dmitri was leaning back in his chair and visibly enjoying the reason they had cut their gun range visit short. "You walk wrong. Heel to toe, but no reliance on the heel. Imagine, you are dancing on the toes."
"Drag," he corrected, and Dmitri followed that up by inhaling more nicotine.
Draven shifted his weight forward, nearly on his toes, and took a few tentative steps. Stumbling almost immediately, he caught himself on a table and cursed under his breath.
"Falling, it is part of it. Otherwise, you never fly." Dmitri waved his cigarette in circles, drawing a pirouette in the air with smoke. "The audience, they must feel like they can access the art through you. They do not want to access the pain. It is not easy, I know this."
"Especially when you stick to the male role." His nephew mumbled.
"How do you mean?"
"Well, it’s the easier one." Draven grimaced as his ankle twisted, then bit down and tried to do a sidestep. "No shoes with a flat front, not literally on the toes."
"You think, I cannot do this? You challenge me!" He jumped up from his chair, dropping his cigarette in the ashtray and waving his arms. "I accept."
"Wait I didn’t — Mitya, I just need help with the steps," Draven sputtered, but his uncle had resolutely walked into Site-19’s costume closet and was riffling through boxes of retired theatre props and attire. Several minutes of rummaging through the history of the arts department and a series of soft grunts later, and Dmitri stood triumphantly in the doorway of the closet, wearing the highest heeled Renaissance inspired boots he could find.
"See!" he exclaimed, grinning broadly. "Now we are on equal ground." And to prove a point, he closed the distance between him and his seat with a chaîné.
"Why do you have those in your size?" Draven said, carefully balancing and finally managing a few steps that could almost be called graceful.
"I do not. They are too small. But, I manage. Ignore the pain on the feet is skill I learned a very long time ago. Not just on stage: it also handy when on the long march." He balanced on one leg, stretching into an arabesque to see if he could still manage. "Now, you wanted my teaching. I will teach. Try, have smile. Enjoy."
Draven balled his fists, breathed out deeply, then painted a smile on his face and demonstrated his progress. Part of the costume is the expression, and in that sense the dancing wasn't that different from the theatre he'd been taught by the same teacher. Breathe out, be the role, move. His uncle's gestures of approval were always stern, but there was still a warmth in them.
Dmitri gave him a measured nod, repeated the steps and added a rond de jambe at the end. About half an hour of practise was enough to have Draven do something resembling a spin, and his teacher decided that would have to do for today.
"So, for the dragging, you need costume, correct?" the Russian said. He had raided the supply closet for anything and everything that looked remotely useful or Draven's size. For everything else, he'd wield his trusted Singer machine.
"Drag," Draven corrected again, and again his uncle inhaled deeply. It finally dawned on him: "You're fucking with me."
"Took you too long," Dmitri said with a sly smile, smoke circling him. "Just because you do physical activity, does not mean you cannot slip mentally. Keep mind sharp."
Draven shook his head as he slipped one of the heels off. Of course, every training session with Strelnikov was an exercise with hidden tasks. One day I'll spot them all, he thought as he rubbed the side of his footbed.
"Do not take them off! Once you do, your feet will not accept them back," Dmitri scolded. "You wear them while we do the make-up, for practice."
Draven let out a soft groan and got back on his feet, wondering what part of the instructor persona was inspired by his uncle's career in the army, and what part was the ballet.
"Did you think of a callsign for the drag?" Dmitri said as he was sorting through stage make-up supplies and props, organising them in a system only he could understand.
"My drag name, you mean?" Draven paused, pressing his fingers to his lips. "Paul."
The old dancer laughed as he arranged several wigs that hadn't seen daylight in a good while. "I think, Paul would appreciate her being remembered like that. What do you think?" He held up a sleek long, brown wig.
Draven looked at his uncle, then asked: "Do you have a dark blonde one?"
Greenroom of the
'Hansy Christina and her Son' Lounge
June 2013
Draven studied himself in the mirror, fixing his lipstick and checking the fit of the dress Dmitri had adjusted to fit him. He turned to the performer next to him, a dazzling drag queen who called herself Lauren Ipsum Dolores, to help him zip up over the chest plate and padding.
"I love the craftsmanship on this. You’re going all out on your first performance, Paul," she concluded. "Did I tell you about the last new girl we had? Drew her eyebrows with sharpie, the poor little miss."
"I have a good stylist," Draven laughed, more nerves than joy. "He kept all office supplies away from me except glue. Damnit, I wish I still had glue, the wig will not stay put."
"I can see if one of the other girls has some. Ladies! Emergency!" Dolores turned, her feathery dress catching air in the movement. She was so much more comfortable than Draven felt. Maybe this was a mistake, maybe he wasn’t ready, in over his head —
Before his train of thoughts could fully derail, he spotted a familiar scarred face in the mirror behind him.
"Nice dress," Draven turned around, rising to greet his uncle.
"From Shakespeare production of few years back." Dmitri gave it a twirl, lifted his hat and winked. "I think, I pull it off. Hat is mine, though."
Dmitri clapped both hands on his nephew’s shoulders, his peaked Soviet cap making them nearly equal in height. Drenched in the thickest version of his accent, he was wearing his Soviet hat both literally and figuratively tonight.
"You look ridiculous," Draven laughed. "I love it."
"Of course, that is what suit me," he said with that sly grin of his. "And it is good. Make you shine by contrast."
"Oh I love the look, honey. Very camp." Dolores had returned with a large can of hairspray and several pins. "I have some spare chest plates lying around if you want to fill out that dress more."
"I have eaten hearty dinner." Was the only response, spoken in his thick Russian drawl. "Still much full."
Draven chuckled when he saw Dolores’ expression, thrown off by the sheepish smile. When he was just observing, the tells were so much more obvious: the glint in his eye, the straightening of his back, the slight raise of the eyebrows. Of course, they were tailored for the audience Dmitri wished to throw off their game.
"I appreciate, but Paul here said, there no need," he continued, placing his hand on Draven’s shoulder. "He told me —"
"She." Draven corrected in a soft voice. "When I’m Paul, I use she."
"Ah, right. She told me: the way someone dress, body looks, or person feels, are all different things. I understand that now," Dmitri said. "I have comfort, but I will take the chance to wear good Shakespearian role any time."
"I’m glad you came," Draven said.
"Of course! I might not understand any of this, but I don’t need." He wagged his finger and drew his nephew in for a tight hug. "Now, you remember what I show you. The stage belong to you, all you must do now is act like it is yours." And after a final, extra tight squeeze, he added: "I am proud of you."
"I know, Mitya," Draven mumbled, swallowing hard.
At last they broke apart. Dmitri’s eyes darted up to the wig, and Draven sighed in frustration.
"Did it shift again?" He grabbed the can of hairspray. "You were right, I should’ve taken the other one."
"It is fine. I might have solution."
For the first time Draven could remember, Dmitri looked shaken in his presence as he carefully pulled a wooden box from his dress pocket, and pried it open. A shimmer of oxidised silver flashed across his vision as a tarnished hairpin was pushed onto his wig, securing it.
"Are you sure?" Draven stammered. "What if I lose it?"
"No matter," he said resolutely. "This, it belongs on stage, not on shelf. You do its memory justice."
And with that, Draven realised the mask had slipped. Underneath all that bravado and pretend, lurking in the shadow of the golden flair as bright as the sun itself, was a deep melancholy his uncle rarely showed: the dark heart of the sunflower.
He wanted to say something. Something meaningful and deep, something to capture the depth of what this ridiculous man meant to him. But just when he was about to reach the words, he heard a voice that could soar above any crowd. A loud, gruff growl.
Dad?
Dmitri noticed the exact moment his nephew had — or maybe he just saw the change in posture.
"It is okay, little crow," Dmitri said, grabbing the face of the man who momentarily felt like that boy who'd realised the rabbit pen would never be finished. "He will not drink. Alto looks after your father, and I am here for look after you. You just enjoy, yes? Remember the steps we practise."
Dmitri kissed him on the forehead before being ushered out. Light was dimming, the stage was calling. Final preparations. He returned to the mirror, adjusting his pearls but avoided looking directly at himself.
"You look like someone spat in your coffee." Came another voice from beside him. O5-69 was still finishing her makeup. "That doesn’t suit the magnificent Lady Paul Krolic."
"I’m just nervous," Draven answered, "now that I know my dad is here."
"Don’t be, he seems like he has the spirit." Dolores leaned out the door and watched Dmitri as he exited backstage, dress swaying. "Your dad available, by any chance?"
"He’s not, and he’s not my dad," Draven paused. "He’s — I call him my uncle but I guess he’s not really that either. Not by blood. But he taught me to dance for the act."
"Ah, so he’s your drag mother." O5-69 nodded approvingly as she fixed up her blush. "Let me tell you something about Family, honey." She turned to Draven, grabbed both hands and said solemnly: "Family are those that show up. The ones that take you in when you are at your lows. I for one wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for my haus, and I ain't just talking about drag."
Draven chuckled. Haus Strelnikov. He should lean more into the gun part of their crest next time.
Outside, the music started and the crowd roared in anticipation.
"Showtime, girl," she said, pulling him along.
Nothing quite prepares you for the moment when the curtains open. The lights hit, blinding you with their dazzle, and suddenly the role is real.
The stage, in all its forms, had been part of both Draven and Dmitri since their respective boyhoods. It had been family that had instilled a love for it; a guardian who showed the freedom found on the wooden boards before the lights and harmonies brought it to life. And both had fathers who never really got it, for better and for worse. There were lessons in that, too: someone who taught them to dance on eggshells.
Fog drifted; whether intentionally or from the perspiration of close packed humanity, she could not tell. For a moment there was no sound, no music. No harmonies. Just that calmness before the flight. It was Draven who took a deep breath in, and she let Paul breath out.
The music started, the steps moved. Everything that she’d been taught. Lights bounced over the small crowd, the faces close enough to recognise. She scouted as Draven always had — a sad little boy, an anxious teen, trained to always look out for the man who fell short — until she spotted his father. Can in hand, fist balled, surrounded by a swarm of butterflies as he always was.
Her stomach turned. What was in the can?
Paul felt her heel miss its landing and slowly, as if in a dream, she felt the stage slip away. The moment froze, the tune left her.
Falling, it is part of the dance. How else can you take flight?
She took a deep drag of air, and just like a story Draven was told long ago, she released herself into the fall, pivoting when she found her momentum, and softening the landing. A single leg pointed skyward and she propped herself up on one elbow, grinning as if it had been her plan all along.
Paul kicked, using the motion to pull herself up and back to her feet. As she rose, the lighting changed. One flap of a butterfly’s wing. A suffusion of blue, then pink, then purple enhanced the shine of the silver dress and matching pin. A small gesture of approval.
Elsewhere in the same crowd, an old, scarred ballet dancer who was moulded into a soldier watched in delight, swaying to the tune as he spun Andrea around. For the first time in years, he didn’t think about bullets flying when the dance began. Didn’t hear his father’s voice telling him he’d always stand alone. For the very first time, the old spectre's voice was silenced.
You cannot fly if you dare not to fall. But once you let go, you can find those willing to catch you.
