She’s past youth but hasn’t quite reached the greying temples and wrinkles to command respect from her gaggle of giggling students. But Pelageya Andreyevna needs little save her height and steel-hard, fiery glowers to quell her students in a neat line at the barre. 

The height and fiery glare she inherited from her father, much to her chagrin- and advantage. Her height, though not deemed suitable for the daintiness of her profession in dance, has lent to some impressive stage presence and impressive sissonnes. Her legs are shapely, long- perhaps too long for strict standards- but workable. Her stage career was brief, but her teaching profession will last her all her days, so she determines. 

Before she begins the day’s relentless class, her students, all tender girls of their second level, stare at their intimidating force of a woman with wide, expectant eyes. Novokshonova is fierce, they know. That’s why the Firebird was her favorite and known role.

“Pelusya, damn it all, Father is dead! They found at the Railway in Novocherkassk. Died of a stroke.” Matvei manages to rasp out. His voice is like gravel. “ No, he really died from crashing his head on the pavement when the stroke took him, that’s what did it.” 

The strength abandons the tall dance teacher. Her knees quake and knock for a second. Tears attack her eyes, much to her anger. “I don’t believe you! I talked to him last night! He was going to visit Mama’s grave- he told me he just boarded the train to Novocherkassk last night! He was all right, he was even laughing!” Outrage at that old menace Death, has erupted a torrent of fury from Andrei Danilovich’s daughter. 

Her previous evening was spent on the phone with him- an episode of 20 minutes, juxtaposed with memories- some raucous and making both laugh till tears stream down, some causing tears for others reasons. But since her mother’s death, Pelusya always expects her father to make that visit- like a pilgrim on his pilgrimage, to her grave in *****, on the way to Novocherkassk.

This was no different. He could not be dead. He is not. They’re mistaken. She knows it!

“You’re mistake, you simpleton! I’ll get a call from as soon as the train arrives there!” She retorts. But even she, some 50 miles north, in ******, knows he would have called her by now. The train schedules, her husband oversees. He’s the manager of the Railway in their town. 

“Shouldn’t your father have called you by now, my Palasha?” Her husband inquired this morning over papers and tea at the table. 

Only he, the small timid worshipper he is of her, is allowed this name of hers.

“Well, that old codger! He gets too sentimental whenever he passes through the Old City. I’ll let him pine a bit. Tonight, he should call me, that soft old man!” Pelageya asserted with an assured laugh, steeped in fondness and familiar of her father’s ways. 

It should not have been any different. 

“Pelusya- they found my business card in his wallet. Dad died!” Matvei croaks. 

“It can’t be, he was just fine!”

“He died, Pelusya.”