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  With all her will power, she had blocked her small, persistent questions about Pierre. She never saw him; Boris never mentioned him, and she never asked. Yet many times when Boris left her to go to meetings of Diaghilev’s committee of artists, she thought: Yes, he sees Pierre. Pierre and he could not have stopped seeing each other because of me. Pierre was central to Boris’s life—what had happened to all that? Still, she did not ask. It was better to pretend to have forgotten. She sensed, too, that Boris would be very angry if she mentioned Pierre—he had certainly discouraged the slightest relationship between them in earlier times.

  One of the aspects of her life with Boris that she most appreciated was their mutual respect for each other’s privacy. If she kept the door to her boudoir open, it was a signal that he could come in and chat with her. He would frequently enter in his silk dressing gown, while she would already have donned hers, trimmed with Belgian lace and ruffles. Their lack of embarrassment seemed to indicate: We have gone beyond all this, haven’t we? But he never intruded if the door was shut, and it would not have occurred to him to come into her bathroom during her nightly preparations. Neither did she ask him where he went alone. Presumably Ivan knew, but she was not even certain of that. Their comings and goings were clothed in courtesy and delicacy.

  One afternoon, upon arriving at the Mariinsky for a rehearsal, she met Nicolai Legat, the premier danseur who led a class of soloists and sometimes choreographed, too. “Tell your coachman not to leave, Natalia,” he said to her. “We’ve reorganized this week’s program, and Kyasht will be dancing Aurora this Sunday instead of you. Next week, you’re to do Giselle, and I didn’t think you ought to strain. Go home and rest. A day off won’t hurt you.”

  She inclined her head. How different life was from six months before, when an enforced rest had meant the possible end to her career! There were still many steps to go before becoming a prima ballerina, but the one from coryphée to second soloist was the crucial gap to bridge, the one most often missed by female dancers. She was not quite nineteen, but secure now at the Mariinsky—in part because of her talent and hard work; in part, too, because of Boris Kussov’s patronage.

  Yuri took her back to the boulevard in the warm carriage. It was winter again. Christmas was coming, with its bright memories of the Sugar Plum, her first triumph. It had been three years ago—more like an eon. She had matured in that time, firmed up. Even her face had acquired a sensitive beauty, or maybe it was only that Luba knew how to dress her hair in a more becoming fashion.

  It was freezing in the stairway. When Ivan admitted her, she indulged herself by letting her mantle drop to the floor in one long shudder, crying delightedly: “I know, you’re not expecting me home so soon! But I can smell the fire in the salon. Is His Excellency in?” Before the surprised Ivan could reply with his customary deference, she ran in little leaps into the sitting room, calling: “Borya! I have a free afternoon!” The thought of Christmas had turned her back into the small girl she had never been, but could still become, at eighteen.

  Suddenly the mirth vanished from her face. She became a pillar of marble, her lips parted, her heart racing beneath her blouse. Die now, something told her. Faint, do anything. But don’t look, don’t look.

  Pierre was alone in the salon by the red and gold fire. When he heard her voice, he rose quickly, upsetting the portfolio of drawings which lay on his lap. He rose instinctively in a swift, savage motion, his face reddening. There was such an aura of danger around him that she was filled with fear, and for a panicked moment she considered calling Ivan. Instead, she entered the room, slowly, carefully. There was no escaping him, no escaping the questions that had nagged inside her—no escaping the knowledge that in spite of her pretense, Pierre continued to live and breathe in this world.

  She walked up to him, but he drew back fiercely, as though afraid she would contaminate him by her proximity. The etchings lay scattered at his feet, ridiculously vulnerable on the Persian carpet. “You came to see Boris,” she said finally, to fill the electric air.

  “I didn’t know you would be here,” he said, looking away.

  “Then I shall go to my room and have Ivan call Boris.”

  “He isn’t here!” Pierre cried. “D’you think I’d wait in this house if it weren’t important?”

  “Then, you never come here?” she asked.

  “Never! The idea of you—of this place—it makes me ill to think of it, to think of you.”

  Hardly daring to breathe, she whispered: “You hate me that much?”

  He looked at her and for a moment said nothing. His eyes were like flaming orbs, surrounded by black lashes. “You can ask me such a question?” he said.

  Tears stung her eyelids. “You ask, then, Pierre. Ask whatever you want. Do whatever you want. You can’t kill me with questions.”

  “I have only one question,’ he said. “Why? I wanted to marry you. You wrote that there was no room in your life for a man. But he—he overcame that reticence, didn’t he? I know all about you. The jewels he gives you could purchase my father’s vineyard. You used to despise me for not breaking a friendship that was oppressive, my friendship with Boris. But you! When will this stop? When he has made you three illegitimate babies?”

  “Don’t!” she cried. “Stop, you don’t know what you’re saying. That isn’t at all how it is between us.”

  “Then you tell me. Is he a better lover? Is that the secret? What is it, Natalia, that has turned you into this man’s whore? I want to know. God, how I want to know! You have killed me, both of you. But you, especially. At least he never knew how I truly felt about you. I never actually told him. It may have amused him to win, thinking it was an inconsequential game with me too—but I think he was friend enough that had he known for sure, he wouldn’t have done it. But you? To do this? With him?”

  “He’s not my lover!” she exclaimed and burst into tears. “Ask him, if he’s your friend! He—and I—we’ve never—”

  “I don’t believe you,” Pierre said. He sat down on the sofa, his hands trembling. He bowed his face into them, and horrible, muffled sounds came through his fingers—dreadful, inhuman sounds from the bottom of his gut, from the hollows of his chest. She was silenced, then bewitched by this open pain, this agony that wracked him in front of her eyes. She could not move. She could not go to him, touch him, undo what had been done.

  “You shall please leave us, Natalia,” said a quiet voice at her back. It was the voice of normality, Boris’s voice. Mutely, she nodded, relieved. He would take care of this, do something. She turned and fled to her room.

  Presently Luba came in with a tray. “Camomille tea, Madame,” she said, pouring it. “It soothes the nerves. There now, let’s get you into bed. Let’s get your head up on those pillows.” But Natalia could not close her eyes.

  Boris sat alone with Pierre. The dying fire provided the only light in the room, darkened early in the Petersburg winter. Pierre seemed oblivious of the older man, and Boris sat opposite him in a wing chair, his chin propped in the palm of one hand, staring at the weeping figure and thinking. His impatience showed in occasional twitches, the biting of his lower lip. At last he rose and went to the sideboard in the far corner of the room. From a bottle on a silver tray, he poured a thimbleful of white liquid into a small glass, then walked to the sofa.

  “There,” Boris said in his quiet, clear voice, placing a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “Drink this.” It was such a cliché that for a second a glint of amusement pierced his blue eyes. With more compassion he added: “Pierre, for God’s sake, no woman is worth dying for. Not even Natalia. Drink the vodka, it will restore your sanity, put some fire into your stomach. Then we can talk.”

  “What’s there to say?” Pierre asked. He looked up, accepted the glass, and drank it down in a single gulp. His shoulders had stopped heaving, but he was tired, so tired, as if the life had been drained out of him. He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I should go home now—home to Tiflis. The who
le thing was stupid. I’m stupid. A bloody fool.” He stood up unsteadily. “I’m going now. The sketches—”

  “The sketches be damned!” Boris stood up too. Putting a hand upon Pierre’s arm, he said: “Look, let’s go somewhere for dinner. We should talk. I won’t have you speak nonsense because you’ve had a shock. Let’s go to the Aquarium. It will distract us. I tell you, there’s no one like a pretty tzigane to soothe a wounded heart. To hell with the world!”

  “I loved her,” said Pierre. “And you are hardly my friend.”

  “We can discuss it in the landau,” Boris cut in peremptorily. He put his arm firmly around Pierre’s shoulders and pushed him forward. “Ivan!” he called, before Pierre could recover from his torpor and change his mind. “Tell Yuri to meet us in front. Quickly, please.”

  Under the thick quilt in the carriage, sensation began to return to Pierre’s limbs. He blinked. “Couldn’t you have picked someone else?” he exclaimed angrily, turning to Boris. “Another dancer? You did know—you knew from the beginning. There isn’t a thing in Petersburg you don’t know, so tell me the truth!”

  “What truth?” Boris demanded, suddenly harsh. “All Petersburg knows I’ve been living with Natalia. Don’t tell me you were the only innocent around!”

  “To know is one thing, but to see is quite another,” Pierre said, his voice trembling. “One can brush aside rumor—but not this! This is a betrayal!”

  “You can’t blame me for your troubles,” Boris replied. His eyes were narrowed and he seemed quite severe in his evening apparel. “You never thought fit to share your feelings with me. I merely thought we were both admirers of the same woman. Even she is not reason enough to question our friendship. No woman should be worth that. A man who puts a woman at the core of his life is less than a fool—he is a thoughtless animal. In their proper place women can add a dimension to our life—but they can never truly understand a man. We remain strangers to them forever, and the more we beg for a connection to their innermost being, the more we demean ourselves in their eyes.”

  Pierre said nothing. At length Boris continued: “Does it occur to you that perhaps that very thing happened to you and Natalia?”

  “How can you speak about her so glibly?” Pierre cried, outraged. “What does she mean to you? You would not marry her—but I would have, then. Not now—”

  “No,” Boris remarked. “She is a lovely, intelligent girl, but I have not surrendered my soul to her—and neither should you. She isn’t worth such an outpouring of emotion. You are an artist, Pierre. Put your feelings into your work. Let women alone. Natalia is not in love with me, if that’s what bothers you—but she doesn’t love you either. She is in my life precisely because of that: She is a wise girl, who knows better than to waste her creative urges on a man. I can accept that—but you can’t, and you know it. To have her on those terms would sap the very life out of you. Perhaps today was necessary: You needed to come to terms with who she is, how she acts, what she does. I can accept her, all of her—but for you it is either black or white, pure or impure, wife or whore. Natalia operates in the gray areas of life—my kind of areas, not yours. Yes, you needed to come and see her and face the facts as they are, not merely as you chose to interpret them.”

  Again Pierre did not utter a word. Boris turned to him. ‘There is no going back,” he said. “Pierre, you are the most important being in your own life, not this woman. Respect yourself! Have a good time, play—but don’t waste your precious heart on a self-centered young girl with whom you had a single night! If it could make a difference—if she were right for you, or if she cared for you—I would tell her to go to you, I would release her willingly. Pierre, friendship is more important than this senseless blood lust. But no—she isn’t right. Let this sink in, though it may be a harsh lesson to swallow: she wouldn’t go. She—would—not—go—to—you.”

  The carriage was stopping, and Yuri was opening the door. A sheet of snow blew into their faces, hard flakes that stung their skin. The Aquarium stood outside the confines of the city, and the drive had been long, tortuous. The two men went in, shaking out their pelisses.

  The main hall was gaily lit and warm. It was still early for the after-theatre crowd of Petersburg’s golden youth, but Boris was well known, and they were settled at a small table where they ordered supper. But Pierre was not hungry. So much had happened, so many confusing emotions. A group of tziganes, beautiful dark-haired gypsy women clothed in flowing, clinging cloth-of-gold, undulated in sultry, languorous dances. They had throaty, velvet voices. “Isn’t that one splendid?” Boris asked. “That’s Mashenka.”

  Pierre looked around him. He could not help being sucked into this atmosphere of sensuality, of abandon. He could not eat, but he could drink the champagne that was brought in great quantities to their table. Boris sat back, observing him, a thin smile on his tan face. Finally Pierre said: “No, she isn’t worth it. I’ll be damned if I’ll return to Tiflis because of this!” Then, almost as an afterthought, his black eyes filled with tears.

  Boris placed his hand on Pierre’s: “Come on,” he said, coaxingly, “pick out the one you like and let’s go upstairs.” He signaled to the waiter: “Set us up in a private cubicle,” he murmured.

  Upstairs were a series of small, enclosed rooms, and Boris and Pierre found caviar and more champagne awaiting them. Boris noticed that Pierre seemed to be reviving. His eyes were bright, his cheeks aflame. He had had too much to drink, but then that was why they had come, that was precisely what was called for. The waiter stood discreetly by the door. Boris said: “Summon Mashenka and Rosa.” To Pierre he added: “Since you could not choose, I did it for you.”

  The two gypsies who entered were fluid and dark, amber-skinned and heavily scented. They began to sing. The sad undertones of their music filled the air with poignancy. Pierre felt a knot in his throat. He wanted to cry out, “Enough!” but could not. The melody became rich and vibrant with unspoken promises. Pierre leaned forward. Mashenka’s body was moving, swaying before him, her heavy breasts entrancing him, soft and round like her hips. Rosa sat on Boris’s lap, and whispered something in his ear. Boris and Rosa left the room. Mashenka went to the ice bucket, withdrew the fresh bottle of Dom Pérignon, and poured it liberally into two glasses. She handed one to Pierre and kept the other for herself. Still she sang and swayed, sang and swayed.

  Suddenly a frenzy seized Pierre, and he finished his drink and threw the glass into the large mirror in front of them. It splintered. Mashenka began to laugh, a marvelously deep and resonant laugh, and handed him her glass. He threw it against the other side of the mirror and laughed, too. Mashenka examined the champagne bottle: It was empty. She handed it to Pierre and it, too, was hurled at the shattered mirror. She threw her arms around his neck, and pushed him back against the velvet settee. He rolled her over, covering her mouth with his own, searching for her breasts with his blunt fingers. It did not matter anymore that she was not Natalia, or that Natalia had betrayed him.

  The flat was discreetly lit, with several lamps shining soft pink and green in the salon and the dining room. The servants had gone to bed. Boris supported Pierre, who, being heavier and more muscular than Boris, was somewhat of a burden. Boris laughed. “You’ll have to learn how to drink, Petrushka,” he said. “Come, let’s get you on a bed.”

  A single light shone in Boris’s bedroom. The two men entered, stumbling. Pierre uttered a silly laugh. “There now,” Boris said. “This—is—a—bed, and we lie down on it. Good, that’s better.” He moved him onto the pillow. Pierre opened his eyes and looked about him in bewilderment. Boris sank down on one knee and removed the young man’s shoe, then the other. “For God’s sake,” he said, “help me get these things off. Don’t act like the helpless idiot you are.” His tone was congenial, amused.

  “Idiot? Yes, yes ...” Pierre mumbled. He sat up and let his pelisse slide off. Boris stood over him and loosened his cravat. “It’s all right now,” Pierre said thickly. He fumbled with th
e buttons of his shirt, and unhooked them.

  “Very well, then,” said Boris. “I’m tired. I’m going to change.” He left the room. Pierre methodically, ploddingly continued to remove his cumbersome clothing. He had to be a good boy, help Boris. Boris couldn’t do it all himself, Boris wanted Pierre to go to sleep, Boris was giving Pierre his own room, good night, good night. He dropped his clothes on the floor feeling dizzy, not distinguishing the shapes in the room, their edges blurring. Mashenka? A large looming breast, no face, just one breast. He laughed a little and lay back on the pillow. Sleep. Pain? Yes, pain. Seeing the other one. Boris saying what now? “She isn’t worth it, she wouldn’t come to you,” something like that, the whore, the damned bloody strumpet, Natalia, Natalia. Forms swam before his eyes and he closed them, closed out the world.

  Boris looked into the room. Moonlight fell on Pierre’s naked body. Stealthily, he turned off the lamp. There was a quilt at the foot of the bed, and he pulled it up to cover the young man. Pierre mumbled something indistinct. Boris sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him: pure, linear, strong limbs, the strength and beauty of him! Boris clenched his hands together, reeling suddenly with his agony, his manhood, his unassuaged desires and needs. Dear Lord in heaven, he thought, and hot tears came to the back of his eyeballs, burning them. Boris moved forward on the bed, toward Pierre, and touched the muscular back, gently, gently, with new fingers. Thickly, from a dream, Pierre said: “Who, Natalia?”

  “No,” Boris whispered, “she doesn’t love you. I do.” Silver moonlight danced over the two perfect male bodies, one strong, massive, asleep, the other lean, long-limbed, still young. Boris lay down next to Pierre and buried his questing lips in the crook of the other’s shoulder, thinking: Don’t mention her name, forget that she ever existed. And he alchemized his pain into pure, fiery joy.