He felt a fool in white tights and the thin Capezio slippers.
Zoritch walked around him, inspecting his body from all angles as though he was a sculpture.
“Turn out your leg, like so,” said Zoritch. “And arms thus.”
He did as directed, watched the mirror as the master studied him.
“You want my opinion, then?” said Zoritch.
“Please.”
“You have an ideal physique for ballet, but at eighteen you are far too old. Boys at the Kirov start when they are five, six. Physical attributes, yes. But the mental toughness? It is doubtful.”
It was the perfect thing to tell him.
This is a true story.