On Monday afternoon, the Vittorio Emanuele Theater in Messina was a hollow of dust and anticipation. The Russian teacher, Madame Olga, paced back and forth across the stage, tapping a wooden cane against the black linoleum to dictate the tempo. The girls, in black leotards and pink tights, looked like flocks of frightened birds.
Madame Olga was a woman of indeterminate age, all muscle and a few wrinkles born of thinness; she was not tall, yet she seemed so to the eyes of her students, who both feared and admired her. Her rehearsals were always conducted barefoot to stay "in contact with the ground," as she put it. She had raven hair and eyes of ice, kept short perhaps for practicality given the endless rehearsals and countless post-session showers. She never stopped; she taught dance from nine in the morning until ten at night across various classes. She was renowned in her field, and her lessons—though expensive—were always money well spent. Furthermore, she never spared herself, often staying half an hour longer than required.
Azzurra sat in a corner, in the shadow of the wings, finishing her preparations. When she pulled out her "modified" slippers, her classmates began to whisper. "Why do they have purple reflections?" one asked. "And why do they seem so heavy when you set them down?" added another. Azzurra ignored the questions. She stood up and headed toward the center of the stage for the warm-up. Upon the first jump, the unexpected happened.
Instead of landing silently, Azzurra produced an impact that made the wooden floorboards tremble. Madame Olga stopped abruptly, her icy eyes fixed on the feet of her best student. "Azzurra! What have you put in those shoes? You sound like a horse trampling rock, not a sylph!" the teacher shouted, approaching with a menacing air.
Belinda, sitting in the shadows of the front rows of the stalls, felt her heart race. She feared the secret would be discovered, that the teacher would force Azzurra to take off the shoes, breaking the magical bond that had just been forged. But Azzurra did not flinch. She looked Madame Olga straight in the eyes and said, "Maestra, let me finish the variation. If you do not like it, I will change them."
The music restarted. It was a piece by Tchaikovsky, dramatic and pressing. Azzurra began to dance, and within moments, the theater fell into a hypnotic silence. The weight of the lead did not slow her down; on the contrary, it allowed her to defy the laws of physics. Her jumps were higher because the thrust had to be greater, and her descents possessed a supernatural stability.
As Azzurra danced, the walls of the theater—old and scarred by time, just like in her dream—seemed to vibrate in harmony with her. Belinda, in the stalls, closed her eyes and began to visualize air and water, just as Samuele had taught her on the beach. She felt the flow of energy streaming from the stage toward her—a bridge of silk and metal that united her daughter's body to her own ailing blood.
Madame Olga remained motionless, her cane raised mid-air. She had never seen anything like it. It wasn't just technique; it was a manifestation of primordial force. When the music ended, Azzurra remained in a sculptural pose, one hand toward the sky and the other toward the earth. The Russian teacher did not yell. She simply gave a small nod of her head.
"I do not know what you have done to those points, but today you did not dance for me. You danced for someone who is not in this room. Go and rest."
Azzurra stepped off the stage and reached Belinda. They were both sweating, both exhausted, but in their eyes shone the same golden light of the Shimmy doll. "We're going to make it, Mama," Azzurra whispered, squeezing her hand. Belinda took a deep breath, and for the first time, the air did not taste of lead, but of hope.