Encore Page 29

Boris’s eyes narrowed. “I suspected it,” he answered directly. “But if you’d been a little more secure within yourself, and if you’d capitalized more cleverly on your growing reputation, I could not have harmed you. In a way, Pierre, I hoped that you’d be strong enough to withstand me, and I was disappointed in my easy victory.” He sighed. “You haven’t lived up to your potential, Pierre. Something is missing inside you: a fibre of determination, a sense of mission. Natalia’s always had it about dance. You don’t, and more’s the pity because you are truly a genius.”

  Pierre shook his head. “Everything that you touch you contaminate,” he said. “I simply wanted a patron. You made yourself much more, more than I’d hoped for, but also more than I really wanted. Why didn’t you just leave me to my own devices, Boris? I could have managed better without your playing with my life. It was my life, and you made it your game. Why?”

  “Isn’t the answer self-evident?” Boris asked. “Don’t play the innocent.” Without removing his eyes from Pierre’s ruddy face, he said: “We’re none of us innocents, are we? If we agree to play the game, then it’s fitting for us to be graceful losers if such is our fate. You, Pierre, have never learned this.”

  “I would hardly call you a graceful loser. To have me dismissed from the ‘committee’—”

  Boris put up a hand. “No, don’t confuse the issue. I was not the loser there. The game wasn’t over yet. There was still a card left to be played, and I played it.” He opened his eyes completely again. “I may win more often than most players, but I’m still human. Nobody likes to be despised and hated. You should have known me well enough to have realized that.”

  Pierre burst out: “What would you have had me do? Love you? For having cheated your way into Natalia’s life—and ruined my own?”

  Boris smiled. “Love and war are really not so far removed, are they? What possible difference can it make who the love object is—man, woman, dog? As long as one can hope for an end to loneliness, love is elevating and sanctified. But once the hope dies, love becomes war. Didn’t it occur to you, my young fool, that a man does not turn his life around for another unless love is involved?” He made an ironic, self-deprecating gesture of uplifted palms. “Mon cher Pierre, I even married Marguerite Tumarkina, poor ignorant soul, to provide extra funds for the Paris exhibition. I suppose I was the ignorant soul, too, then, wasn’t I? But you, my young friend, were merely a self-serving egotist on a treasure hunt. You haven’t changed in nine years, have you?”

  Pierre’s dark eyes flashed with maroon reflections. “And you have? What about Natalia? You married her to take her away from me, and that’s all. You can’t love her! A man like you doesn’t change—and she’s as female as they come. I know! Or didn’t you know that?”

  Boris nodded slowly. “Oh, yes, of course I knew. You don’t have to rub it in with such glee, Petya. Your sexual prowess doesn’t impress me. Perhaps once it impressed her—I haven’t asked. It’s not my business. But yes, some people change. I don’t say I’d like every woman, or any woman.” He laughed shortly. “But the fact is that Natalia is my sort of woman, and we are happy together. I have no idea quite how it happened—only that it did. And that’s been my life.” He smiled and said: “Now, be a good fellow and tell me how you’re doing. Happiness is contagious. It would do me good to think that you had put the past behind you, as well.”

  A strange smile flitted across Pierre’s full lips. “You brought up Marguerite,” he said. “Now I’ll proceed with her. Did you wonder how I ended up here in Darmstadt? This house belongs to her—to Marguerite von Baylen.”

  Boris’s blue eyes widened, and he threw back his head and burst out laughing. “How marvelous! Marguerite is keeping you? Poetic justice, don’t you think? I find this wonderful!”

  But Pierre was not laughing. A dark flush had spread over his cheeks. “She isn’t ‘keeping’ me, as you so insultingly put it. I painted her in Kiev several years ago. She liked my work. Some of her Berlin friends liked it, too, and I went there to paint them. More work came my way. It seemed absurd to return to Petersburg—as you know, things were chaotic there for me in every sense—so she suggested that she build me a little house in an artists’ colony. As I possessed no reserve funds for such a construction project, I accepted. In return I paint her two large pieces of work a year. So far the arrangement has been satisfactory for both of us—and for the baron, who likes to think that he has become a patron of the arts. The second husband wants to imitate the first.”

  Boris was still laughing. “Marguerite, a painter’s sponsor! She couldn’t differentiate between a Gauguin and a Van Gogh! Has she become any better?”

  Pierre unexpectedly smiled. “No. She’s pleasant enough, in a hysterical sort of way: aristocratically demure, and genteelly uneducated. But I don’t expect the fellows from the Foreign Ministry in Berlin notice the lack. They’re too busy swaggering with their rows of medals.”

  Boris’s face darkened. “Yes, I see your point. But these days it’s men like them who rule Europe. Illiterate, bombastic fools. Someday we shall all die at their hands.” He stood up. “Speaking of dying, are you still prepared to kill me, Pierre? Bare hands and all?”

  The two men looked at each other. Boris took in the taut, well-built body, the dark curly head, the expressive face with its black eyes. How easy it had been to love him! How easy it would be to love him again. For a moment he hesitated, unable to move. Pierre stared back at him, his own emotions warring inside him: resentment and hatred, but also respect, admiration, bewilderment. How could one simply dismiss Boris Kussov? It was far easier to detest him than to forget him.

  Pierre looked away first and said: “I don’t know. If I don’t, you might destroy me again, this time permanently. Or could you? You already have everything I really wanted: the woman I loved, the child I should have had, and the power to make me famous. I can’t say I’m grateful. But it’s the old Caesar-Brutus thing, isn’t it? Brutus felt guilty once he’d done away with his former mentor—and found himself surrounded by fools.”

  Boris raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Quite a speech, coming from you, Pierre. Roman history, no less—or are you quoting Shakespeare? I’m quite impressed by the analogy. It lifts me to a level higher than I am usually placed in your estimation, dear boy.”

  Pierre shrugged moodily. “I’m not entirely without culture,” he retorted brusquely.

  Boris suddenly stiffened and clamped a fist to his mouth. “Oh, God,” he cried. “Natalia! I’ve got to go, right now. I should have left ages ago!”

  “Yes,” Pierre answered in a strained voice. “She’d better be all right, or I shall truly kill you, I promise you that.”

  Boris turned to him at the door, and Pierre was struck by his expression of raw anxiety and anguished concern. Natalia. Pierre opened his mouth and licked his lips. One’s whole life—He raised his hand and quickly touched Boris on the arm, then pulled away. His voice cold and distant, he said: “It’ll be all right.” Then he added, with effort, “Good luck,” and turned away from the door.

  On his way out, Boris suddenly stopped. “Pierre—why are you living here under a pseudonym?” he asked.

  Pierre shrugged, his back still to the other. “I was tired of Pierre Riazhin,” he replied thickly. “I was tired of being hurt, too, as Pierre Riazhin, the Russian. Here I am Swiss, and they notice me less. And Marguerite is pleased. Should the Tzar turn against the Kaiser, she will not be embarrassed by harboring an enemy of her adopted country.”

  With odd warmth Boris said: “Well, Petya, I wish you all the best. Some day you won’t need Marguerite, and you won’t need me. Perhaps you can join Serge again. Did you know he’s rehired Fokine as choreographer for the Ballets Russes? You were good at that kind of artwork—sceneries and costumes. Benois and Bakst liked you. If Serge could rehire Fokine after all their quarrels and bad feelings, he would surely take you back, too. He never had anything against you.”

  “No,” Pierre replied. “Onl
y you did.” It was difficult to tell whether his tone held bitterness or simply hard realism. Boris took a deep breath and closed the door behind him. Outside, he mopped his brow. It was over—or as over as it would ever be until he learned to forget Pierre completely.

  He unhitched Banditt and swung onto him. But as he started him off at a brisk canter, his heart knocked within his chest, sending discomforting pulsebeats into this throat, temples and wrist. On the open road he urged Banditt to a gallop. Would she have understood the need to lay this matter to rest? The need to do it now, perhaps while she was having his baby? Another spurt of tender urgency filled him.

  Almost as soon as Boris had left the inn, Natalia awakened, and Fräulein Bernhardt plumped her pillows and served her hot tea and toast. “I sent your husband away,” she said conspiratorially. “His pacing would have driven you crazy. What a handsome man he is, though, isn’t he? Dr. Fröhlich has not told us much about you. Is the Herr Graf a diplomat?”

  Natalia laughed. “No. He’s a patron. He dabbles in all the arts and sponsors many artists of genius. Politics is far too serious for him—” She hesitated, then plunged in: “He helped to sponsor me. I’m a ballerina.”

  Fräulein Bernhardt’s birdlike countenance quickened, and she sat down on the edge of the bed. “Really? Tell me about it. What a life of excitement that must be!”

  But all at once Natalia felt a tremendous pain throughout her body. It was far stronger than the one the previous night, and she thought: I am splitting in half. Fräulein Bernhardt’s easy, lively words continued to flow, but Natalia’s consciousness began to fade. Such awful discomfort had taken possession of her that only the sensations inside her registered on her mind. She was hardly aware of the noise that was coming from the front of the inn and that Fräulein Bernhardt had summoned Frau Walter and gone into the bathroom. Several people entered, carrying pails of hot water and clean white sheets, and then through her dim perceptions she heard a vague commotion in the bathroom. When they brought her in they placed her on a high bed surrounded with iron rails, which had not been there before, in the middle of the bathroom. She saw Dr. Fröhlich and felt him place her fingers over the bars on each side of the cot. She gripped them and concentrated on the pain.

  If I try hard enough, I can let myself yield to it, she thought, knowing that her awareness was blotted by the sharp red agony that came and went in waves that grew stronger and stronger. She thought of the stretching exercises of ballet, of the body’s adaptation to new positions and motions. She thought: I am not going to faint. I am going to get through this, I am going to survive no matter what. She bit into a fist, sweat breaking out on her brow.

  It was interminable, the pain, the near loss of consciousness, the thoughts that were like hallucinations. She saw a face and shrank, thinking that it was her mother. She panicked and began to cry. Boris was gone, and he was not going to return. Bernhardt had sent him away; he had grown disgusted with her anyway. She was all alone. She screamed and screamed and knew then that surely all her insides must be pouring out of her.

  When Boris returned, he left the horse by the front door, calling to a servant to lead Banditt back to the small stable. An incredible din assailed him from the large hall. This was all so unreal—the ride, the interview with Pierre, the worry, the anticipation, the fear—and now all this ungodly noise. He opened the door and found himself facing gaily clad dancers moving to the rhythmic pounding of a large drum and the strident sounds of an accordion. The swirling peasant couples made him blink, and for a moment he was paralyzed, pushed against the door by the joyful confusion.

  Then, with a spurt of force, he shoved aside two whirling waltzers and almost ran across the room to the staircase. He took the stairs by threes and, toward the top, was struck by the smell of disinfectants. A piercing female yell tore through him from beyond the partition, freezing his senses and sending him rushing into the bedroom. Frau Walter met him, and when he attempted to avoid her in his path, she placed an iron hand on his arm. “Don’t go in there,” she warned him. “It’s not your business.” Her face had lost all its ruddiness and was stark white and lined like sheet music.

  In the bathroom the pain was receding, pulling back, and Natalia felt herself slowly slipping into oblivion. The whole bottom half of her body was one gaping wound. But she could hear Dr. Fröhlich saying: “It’s a boy, and how like you he looks! He has your big eyes.” With desperate effort she tried to raise her head but could not move at all. Weariness swept over her like a delirium. It was over. But he had not shown her the baby. Maybe it had died!

  Before losing consciousness, she fought for her grip on reality. The most awful anxiety had penetrated to the center of her being: The baby was dead! She tried to voice her fear but had no strength left. Someone was touching her where it hurt most, aggravating the pain. She made a noise and heard Fräulein Bernhardt say: “It’s all right, I’m washing the baby and the doctor is stitching you up. Try to relax!” Stitching her up? Then she had really ripped? A whirlwind of nausea overcame her, and she blacked out the room and its various people.

  It was almost an anticlimax when Fräulein Bernhardt came out to the bedroom with the blanket. She was smiling, but Boris could neither speak nor move. He was afraid to look at the small bundle, overwhelmed by a feeling of complete happiness. He could not look at the nurse, but with the most tentative fingers he pushed back the soft cover and peered with wonder at the tiny face. It was not red, as he had expected, but white and unlined, as white as Natalia. Two little fists were balled up near his head, which was matted with dark hair. “You can hold him, Herr Graf,” the nurse said and handed him the bundle.

  In his arms the baby began to writhe, and the softest whimpers came out of him, angry whimpers that made him turn crimson. But they were so soft, compared with adult cries. My son, he thought, a miracle of flesh, so minuscule, so perfect. He could not see for the sudden mist in his eyes, and he turned his back on Fräulein Bernhardt to be alone with his child.

  The baby’s rage shook his tiny body, stiffening it. Mine. My son, my child. Pulsating with life. I shall remember this day to the end of my life—but what lies in store for you, tiny bit of divinity, miracle of love? I shall take care of you and not let them hurt you, not let them mar your perfection. Boris could not stop his tears from falling on the coverlet, and tried to breathe normally, to regain control.

  Discreetly, Fräulein Bernhardt said: “You can go in now. Your wife is ready for you,’

  In his arms the baby opened his mouth and crammed a fist into it. Then the small body relaxed, and Boris saw that his son was sucking his thumb. A delighted wonder spread through him, a tremendous pride. He looked up, forgetting the moisture on his cheeks, and laughed at the nurse. “He’s sucking his thumb!” he cried.

  “Well, I’ve never seen that before,” the nurse commented, examining the sight. “At this age!”

  All at once reality returned to Boris. Joy was replaced by fear. He had forgotten Natalia! As quickly as he could, he handed the bundle that was his child to the nurse and rushed through the doorway into the bathroom. His heart knocked inside him.

  She was so pale, so small, a child also, with a hollowness to her cheeks and purple circles under her eyes. “She’s quite all right, just exhausted,” the doctor said and tactfully left the room.

  They had removed balls of sheets, but in the white bathroom he saw a dark stain of blood. Her blood! A shiver passed through him. He kneeled down next to the cot and touched her forehead. Her eyelids flickered, and the brown eyes suddenly found him, held him. He felt himself drowning in those eyes. The baby, too, had wide, dark eyes shaped like almonds. He opened his mouth but could not speak.

  “You came back,” she murmured. Color was coming into her cheeks. He took her hand and kissed the fingertips, lightly, gently. Then a spasm passed over her face and she asked: “Have you seen him? Is he alive?”

  Boris nodded. How to find the words…“He’s handsome and well and he looks like
you,” he finally said, feeling foolish.

  She drew away. “But he’s not supposed to! I wanted him to be like you—not me!” There was an edge of hysteria in her voice and in her wide eyes.

  “But I’m glad. He’s exactly what I wanted. What we both wanted, Natalia.” He caressed her cheeks, her nose, her temples. He smiled at her, regaining control. “I love you. Thank you for my beautiful son. You’ll never know how much I love you both—and everything I want to do for you. Are you all right, Natalia? They wouldn’t let me in to be with you.”

  Then she smiled. “It wasn’t so bad, really, darling. But I kept thinking you’d never come back—and that the baby was dead. Don’t leave us, Borya. Don’t ever leave us. We’ll never get in your way, we’ll be good. The baby and I shall always love you.”

  There was a soft knock on the door, and Fräulein Bernhardt appeared with the baby. She brought him to Natalia and deposited him in her arms. Natalia’s face bent over her son so that her nose caressed his cheek. “Such a lot of pain you’ve caused me, little one,” she murmured gently. “Such a lot of pain and all those months of boredom. Do you know what that is, boredom? No? Well then, we shall make certain that you never learn, all right? Your papa will keep misery and cold and hunger from you, and I shall keep the boredom away. You’re so little!”

  “Send up as many bottles of champagne as you’ve got on hand,” Boris said to Fräulein Bernhardt. When she had gone, he placed one arm around Natalia’s shoulder and put his other hand on the baby’s blanket. “We have to find you a name, little Count Kussov,” he said.

  Natalia looked at her husband. “We should call him Arkady,” she suggested. “For your father’s father, the one who bought the Kussov palace on the French Quay. You admired him a lot, didn’t you, sweet?”

  Boris felt something melting inside him. “Yes. More than anyone, I wanted to be like him. He was a man of honor and of taste—an aristocrat of the heart. I gave up trying to emulate him years ago, but that’s an old story. I’m surprised you remembered.”