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  No wonder then that Galina did not always feel at home within her own skin. Her experience, and her observant mind that weighed and judged carefully before reaching a decision, allowed her to see good and bad in each segment of society with which she had been in contact. She hesitated most about judging herself. Galina thought that she could learn to become a stage designer, but that she lacked the special gift that might otherwise have propelled her to become a great one, like Pierre or Gontcharova. She had come to respect the Moldavian tziganes, with their particular, inimitable brand of music. If she had found herself unable to sing well among them, it had been because of her upbringing, she thought. As a well-controlled young princess from St. Petersburg, she had been taught to tame the wilderness from her heart—and it was precisely this wilderness, voiced in snatches of song and in the twang of violins, that the tziganes expressed to their listeners, reaching inside themselves to connect with other men and women through a common, basic humanity, animal and divine at once. Galina found herself healed by their music, although she could not have explained why.

  Sometimes, when she felt betwixt and between, unsure and prey to nagging doubts, a scorching loneliness would set in. It was particularly bad that spring of 73, with Natalia and Tamara gone. Galina was a practical girl and had often occupied herself with projects that turned her away from herself, from her concern with her own mental state. For Galina the best outlet was being with Tamara, playing with her or showing her how to do things. Now, with the small girl gone, the gray moments came more frequently and proved more difficult to chase away.

  The house was empty most of the time, except for the servants. Uneasily, Galina prowled from room to room, wondering about Pierre. Whenever she thought of Natalia’s note, a hot flush would rise within her, and something inside her constricted for Pierre. She worried about him. He was gone so often, without explanation. True, he was master of the house and of his own life, and he owed her nothing. But there was an abstraction about him when he was with her that bothered her, an abstraction compounded with fierceness that kept her from approaching him for fear of intruding on a personal sadness. Then she would silently curse Natalia again, blaming her for what she saw as Pierre’s unhappiness.

  Galina missed Pierre. If anyone could have understood her vague feelings of alienation, surely he could have. She longed to sit with him in the comfortable semidarkness of a late afternoon, to tell him quietly what she felt and thought. She had sensed in him a dichotomy of self similar to her own. She understood his Caucasian pride, his flares of sudden temper, his passionate nature, for she had lived among people like him long enough to grasp their essence. She also saw his need for beauty, his struggle as an artist to wrench from himself the vague ideas that were born every minute of every day, seeking expression incoherently. On top of that was the sense of style that Boris Kussov had given him, the final polish that had turned him from an elemental painter into a master of universal scope, a pace setter as well as an unabashed explorer. He was a primitive who had risen above himself without denying his own uniqueness.

  After all these months she had discovered that Natalia was not the only one who had found it impossible to put Boris safely away in the past. Galina had methodically pieced together certain inferences about Pierre, certain bits of information provided by Natalia, and other odds and ends that had wafted her way, and reached the conclusion that Pierre had resented his mentor for the control that he had exerted over Pierre’s life and career, while at the same time grudgingly admitting that no man had so thoroughly touched his soul and influenced his art. Sometimes the young girl actually caught a glimpse of Boris in Pierre: his love of opaline lamps from China, for example, or a particular way of nonchalantly crossing his legs. She could understand how such a man such as her uncle might have branded the lives of others who had intimately known him.

  At first Pierre had taken her to the cafes of Montparnasse and the Île-St.-Louis, but, beginning the preceding fall, he had introduced her to something quite different: the Russian cabarets. There were several of them, modeled on the all-night restaurants that had abounded on the outskirts of Moscow and St. Petersburg, each with its chorus of tziganes, with its atmosphere of outrageous risk, where vast, limitless fortunes could be lost in an evening. She had found it fascinating to watch Pierre’s face, especially at the Château Caucasien where Tcherkess tribesmen would perform the lezhinka of his youth, the dance of the daggers. There had been something almost sexual in the rapt attention that Pierre gave to these fierce Cossacks, as if they had unlocked his heart in front of a room full of strangers. Yet she had also thought of her Uncle Boris in his costume of the Division Sauvage. She’d seen him in Petersburg before he had been sent to the Caucasus, resplendent in his black and silver uniform, and had found this image of him the most compelling one of all.

  Now, wandering through the magnificent house where only the maids crossed her path, Galina felt a powerful urge to find something familiar, something to draw her out of her gloom. She had come home from the Académie des Beaux-Arts, swinging her portfolio in the balmy spring air, raising dust on the bridges and the quays as she stopped to peer into the open bookstalls by the banks of the Seine. She was tired but felt revived by the sun, by this city that she had grown to love, by the beauty of her fellow students’ work. It was evening now, and still she was alone. When Chaillou came to ask her if she cared to have supper, she shook her head with sudden impatience. Tonight she would not be the genteel young princess, controlled and wise. “I’ll just take a bite before I leave.” she told the startled old man and smiled warmly to dispel his shock. Then she threw off her afternoon’s clothes and put on a cool cotton middy blouse and a pleated skirt. Before leaving, she seized a long strand of colored beads.

  In the kitchen she sat down and ate two apples and a piece of Dutch Gouda cheese, to the consternation of the cook and two maids. “If Monsieur comes home before I do, just tell him not to worry,” she said lightly and touched the cook on the shoulder. “Mmm …very good, those apples.” Then she took her flowered shawl from the wardrobe in the entrance gallery. She let herself out with a little sigh of infinite relief. Since Tbilis, she had found certain atmospheres confining, claustrophobic. Being alone in the lilac-scented Paris night was like floating on a pool of clear, cool water after a hot day.

  Sometimes Galina was cerebral, weighing matters carefully; but there was another side of her, that half that gave itself up to sensation, unimpeded by thought. In the taxi she simply knew that she would spend the evening at the Château Caucasien, that this was where it would feel good to be. She was not embarrassed about being alone; at nearly eighteen, Galina had experienced sufficient adventure not to feel the need to be chaperoned, as befitted her station as an unmarried girl of good family. Paris was full of unmarried Russian girls, and of American girls and French girls. The flapper generation was in full swing.

  The cabaret had been built on three levels, so that its patrons might enjoy three kinds of entertainment. It was early yet, and Galina went to listen to the tzigane chorus and its soloist, Nastia Poliakova. The large floor was dotted with small tables and was shaded to reflect yellow lights. The effect was intimate and rich. Galina ordered something to eat and sat back, her golden hair falling thickly about her shoulders. She looked around as the music enveloped her, transporting her above Paris to some remote region beyond sight and sound.

  It was intriguing, from an artistic point of view, to watch the patrons here. There was a table filled with young American girls, their hair bobbed and their hands studded with rings. They laughed, their rouged lips parted, and they spoke in a strange twang, slouching in their seats. Brand new mink adorned their collars, and their hair shone with cleanliness. Their lovely legs were sheathed in colored hose, and when they regarded the chorus, it was not Nastia who caught their eyes but the male tziganes. Galina was rather amused at their open flirtation: They wanted to appear so worldly, in such control.

  A tzigane would gently mock
them behind their backs while smiling at them with his limpid black eyes.

  To Galina’s left sat an unusual woman, with a tower of red hair and lashes ringed in kohl. The girl judged her to be at least sixty years old. Pear-shaped diamond earrings dropped dramatically from her flaccid lobes, and age spots and emeralds stood out on her hands. “That’s the Countess Tereshenko,” the waiter whispered to Galina. “She can’t believe that here in Paris she’s a nobody.” Galina looked away from her, embarrassed.

  In the dark but joyful room Galina lost her awareness of time. The American girls were joined by some young men, beardless, hatless, and sporting crew cuts that she found very unattractive. The young men ordered whiskey. Then the tzigane chorus disappeared and was replaced by the Tcherkess dancers. In their white tunics and dark pants, a cartridge belt slung around each of their chests, these incredibly tall men and their serious women silenced the assembled patrons by their entrance. Galina ceased to notice anyone but them.

  Pierre had told her that his mother had been born within the Tcherkess tribe. As a child, he had often watched the men and women dance, the men hitting the floorboards with their heels, and throwing daggers within inches of the women’s moving feet. The women danced on, nobly confident that the daggers would miss them each time. The frenzied pace of the clicking boots and flashing daggers brought a kind of animal tension to the room, a tension that Galina could now breathe. A jeweled dagger fell in front of her, and she raised her eyes to one of the magnificent dancers. He had intended this gesture to show homage to her for her great beauty, and she blushed, immensely embarrassed.

  When the show was over, the aura of feral danger, of suppressed violence and sexuality, still lingered, indefinable in the night. The Countess Tereshenko narrowed her eyes and beckoned with one gnarled, jeweled hand to a young waiter with wide, dark eyes, who came to sit with her at her table. Galina felt someone near her, and looked up, surprised. Two of the American men were standing in front of her, wobbling slightly in their well-cut gray suits, their faces glistening with youthful perspiration. One was massive and blond, with a crew cut, and the other was dark, with curly hair and a wiry body. “Buy you a drink?” one of them asked, winking. His French sounded slurred.

  She shook her head, the muscles tightening in her arms, legs, and neck. A vivid image passed through her mind of herself fighting off a large drunken client, at one of the traktirs of Tbilis. The curly-haired one, who seemed more a boy than a man, now blinked and pulled up a chair, falling into it with a small giggle. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t drink alone,” he remarked.

  This was not going to be pleasant. Galina rose and in one swift motion scooped up her bag of Moroccan leather. But the man with the crew cut seized her other wrist and held it down on the table. “We don’t mean any harm,” he said softly. “What are you, anyway? Russian?”

  “Let me go, “Galina said, trying to pull away.

  “Lots of li’l Russian gals around, these days. Here, I’ll bet that’s what you are—look, Louie—costume jewelry. This one’s poor, too.” With his free hand he held up Galina’s necklace. “Come on,” he added, “we’ll treat you nice. Take you to the Ritz. Bet you haven’t eaten well in years. That right?”

  Looking first at one man and then at the other, Galina said in a low, guttural voice: “God—damned—bastards, leave me alone, or I will scream and have you thrown out!”

  The young waiter with the countess was looking at them, squinting. Cold sweat began to trickle down Galina’s temples, under her arms. That was it, he didn’t see that she didn’t want them, didn’t want this. In Paris the Americans reigned supreme, gave the best tips and propositioned countless willing Russian princesses. Nobody cared about the Russian patrons, their funds were nonexistent compared with those of the Americans. Some of the Russian princesses were, in fact, surviving by going from one American bed to another. She could feel tears forming at the base of her throat, and she swallowed hard to press them down. “Go away,” she pleaded.

  To her amazement a third party pushed his way among them, and the young man with the crew cut dropped her wrist and backed away, blinking. Galina stared into an unknown face, older, some forty-five years of age. He had a straight nose and thick brown hair. The gold and green eyes surprised her by their beauty, for he was not a handsome man, but rugged and lively. A gold pocket watch caught her eye, and a signet ring. He turned to the small, dark youth and seized the lapels of his neat jacket. Shaking him, he brought his face close and said: “You no-good son of a bitch, get the hell out of here before I call the cops!” This time he had spoken in English, and Galina, who did not understand it well, could only gather the gist of his words through the harshness of his tone and gesture.

  “Look here—” began the man with the blond crew cut. He poked the bearded man in the ribs. “This’ our gal, you go get your own!” Without warning the older man swung at him with his right fist and smashed him wordlessly in the jaw. The youth crumpled to the floor, whimpering, and the older man offered his hand to Galina, saying quickly, in French: “Get your wrap, mademoiselle, and I’ll take you home.”

  Without pausing to consider, Galina tossed her shawl over her shoulders and accepted the man’s proffered hand. The commotion had finally begun to draw waiters and other clients around them, but the bearded man cleared a path through them and led her away, down the stairs. She was breathing in small, swift gulps, her face red with tension and embarrassment and the haste of their exit. On the street it was cool, and she stopped to look at her savior. “I can’t thank you enough,” she said gravely. “But I’ve ruined your evening.”

  He laughed, a low, gentle laugh. “I apologize for my inebriated countrymen, my dear. By the way, it isn’t really safe to go out alone like this, you know. I’m not a prude, so don’t look at me like that. But men can be quite nasty sometimes. I know,” he added, shaking his head humorously, “because I’m one myself. Now—shall we take a taxi? I’d like to see you safely home.”

  In the taxicab they did not speak. She was still breathless and somewhat disoriented, and when they reached Avenue Bugeaud, he helped her out, told the driver to wait, and walked with her up the steps to the front door. He took the key from her trembling fingers and unlocked the heavy wooden panels, then escorted her inside the entrance gallery. As she turned to thank him, he suddenly scratched his head, and said: “You know, there’s something familiar about this house. I know I’ve never been inside it, but I believe it may have been described to me once. Tell me, you’re a Russian, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Galina Stassova.”

  He shook his head. “No. Not Stassova. Only a Countess Kussova. But that was years ago, in the States. Natalia Oblonova, the dancer. You wouldn’t happen to know her, would you? One Russian to another?”

  Galina smiled. “Oh, yes. She’s my aunt. My mother was Count Boris Kussov’s sister—Natalia’s first husband. But”—her smile dimmed—“she’s in Monte Carlo right now.”

  The man sighed. “Ah well, such is life, c’est la vie, and so on, and so on. It was a pleasure rescuing you from those college-boy Don Juans, I assure you. But mind what I said: Wait for your aunt to return and go out with her!”

  Galina laughed and offered him her hand. He took it, shook it gently, and then bent down and planted a small kiss on her forehead. At that moment they both blinked, disoriented by the strong beam of light that had been turned on overhead. The bearded man stepped back, and she instinctively drew her arms to her sides, rigidly. Pierre stood framed in the doorway of the darkened salon, dressed in his shirt sleeves, his hair tousled, a haggard expression in his bloodshot eyes. “What’s this?” he demanded, his voice harsh and aggressive.

  “I was just leaving,” the brown-haired man said tactfully. “I’m Stuart Markham, and there was a bit of unpleasantness, nothing serious—”

  “What are you talking about, and who exactly are you?” Pierre demanded.

  Galina blushed, and stepped between the two men.
“Mr. Markham’s been so helpful, and so kind, Pierre,” she said in her clear, pure voice. “There were two drunken boys who were bothering me, and he pushed them out of the way and brought me home.” Looking directly into Pierre’s face, she added, “We should be terribly thankful to him, shouldn’t we?”

  “Yes, well, I’m leaving now, the taxi’s outside waiting,” Markham demurred, and Galina quickly held the door open for him. He patted her shoulder once, eyed Pierre, and darted outside to the taxi. It whirred its motor and started off, and Galina shut the door and leaned against it, looking at Pierre. Something was not right, and she felt on edge, from the American boys and now from this head-on encounter between the nice man and Pierre, whose mood she could not read.

  “Where were you?” he asked, and she could see the cords standing out on his powerful neck. He was still framed in the doorway, and beyond him she could make out the sofa, a coffee table, the piano. She felt the threat of his anger, and suddenly sensed the lack of reason behind it.