Encore Page 7

  Slowly the room began to empty, the din to recede. The door opened once more, and Natalia, her feet tucked unceremoniously beneath her tutu, saw the blond man whom she had encountered months before in the darkened corridor of the Mariinsky. “Count Boris,” she intoned with amazement. It was not a greeting but rather an exclamation of surprise. The people in the room turned to him with interest, some executing curtsies. She did not move, her entire body as heavy as stone.

  He bowed, his mocking smile for her alone. “I see you know my name,” he said.

  “I couldn’t help but know it.” The implication, impolite in the extreme, made him wince. She cleared her throat. “I should not have said that.”

  “No, indeed. But you did, so why retract it? My own reputation is much tarnished these days, I’m afraid. Yours, however, is on the rise. My friend Svetlov finds you quite marvelous, Natalia Dmitrievna.”

  “Monsieur Svetlov has my profound gratitude.” She was still stunned and knew that her conversation, directed as it was from her position on the floor, contained an element of absurdity.

  “Your Aspitchia was a most intelligent young woman,” Boris commented. “But I prefer your funny little Sugar Plum Fairy. In that ballet you were quite remarkable. Perhaps, when you finish with this nunnery, you will accept an invitation to have supper with me. I should like to toast you properly with the best champagne.”

  “You are most generous, Count Boris. But I am not to graduate for a long time.” She could not help smiling at the idea of drinking wine with this elegant man suggestive of scandal. She said impulsively: “Your rosebuds have brought me good luck. Thank you.”

  “And did you press them in your Bible?”

  “I don’t read the Bible,” she replied with some asperity. “But yes, I pressed them. I am not a sentimental fool—but I am a dancer, and they were a memento of my first serious performance. Even Satan’s wife would have found something to save from such an occasion!”

  In her confusion she had become angry, and he burst out laughing. “That is very good! Satan’s wife. I shall have to remember that one and tell it to my friends. But here, I have brought you something this time, too, although as a nun you won’t have much use for it, I’m afraid. But it was made by Fabergé—or rather, the oysters made it, and he put it together.”

  He leaned toward her, extending his finely manicured hand in a mock courtly gesture. She shook her head, bewildered and a little frightened, opening wide her brown eyes to encompass the red velvet case he was holding. “Don’t be silly,” he admonished. “Open the damned thing.”

  She took it gingerly. The velvet felt softer than anything she had ever touched, like a rose petal. She moved the little gold button in the center, and the case opened. She was staring at a row of perfect pink pearls held by a ruby clasp. Her lips parted, and her breath stopped on a sudden intake. “I can’t,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because there is no reason for this. I have never seen anything like this necklace. It is exquisite, and I have done nothing to deserve it. I—” She reddened, swallowed, then plunged in, looking him in the eye: “I am not your mistress.”

  This time he had to grasp the doorknob to keep from falling down with laughter. Natalia rose, holding out the box. He shook his head, no, but her eyes suddenly hardened with determination, and she did not slacken her arm. They had begun to draw the attentive glances of the others in the room. His blue eyes narrowed, became very cold. “Take it,” he ordered, and she shivered slightly. “Take it, little girl, and don’t cause a scene. I can afford such a gift, and if you knew anything at all about me, beyond tawdry gossip, you would have learned that I love all the arts and all good artists. What is the difference between the roses bought with hours of toil by a poor man in the gallery and these pearls purchased by a Kussov? I assume you would accept the former.”

  She remained speechless. He adjusted his cravat, and his expression changed back to one of mirth. “However—consider this, Natalia Dmitrievna: Many men will ask you to bestow your favors upon them. But before you decide to—shall we say—‘become a mistress’ remember me. You owe me first priority.”

  He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. The red velvet case was still in her hand. Natalia could not think. The room began to spin, and she faltered toward the cot, falling upon it blindly. Tears filled her eyes, overflowed, and filled them again. A sob was wrenched from her chest, then a second, a third. Uncontrolled trembling passed over her body in great, tumultuous waves. A woman came to her and touched her hair. Natalia felt as though she were in the very eye of a tornado.

  The pearls slipped from their case onto the floor, where the yellow light captured their myriad hues—blue, green, pink, gray. Natalia did not see them, for she was weeping. She wept as never before and did not know why. But her body seemed to warn her of a cataclysm before which she knew she possessed no power.

  Later that night, Boris sat fingering his mustache. He would have given half of his fortune to have seen Pierre’s portrait.

  August in the Netherlands was not as suffocating as it would have been in Russia, Pierre Riazhin thought. It was such a small country, and so near France—but how different, how self-contained! A tiny paradise of clean, bright charm, with its planned canals, its varieties of tulips in bloom, and its neat redbrick houses with pots of colored flowers in every window. It might be the 1600s—except, of course, that I never lived then, Pierre reminded himself with sudden amusement. I remain solidly anchored in 1907.

  He was strolling with Boris along the quiet streets of The Hague. Now his companion turned to him and, catching the smile, said, “I can see that this trip has done you some good, at least. You seem less bored than the diplomats, I must say.”

  “The countryside is beautiful, Boris Vassilievitch—a place that could spawn the Great Masters and Vincent Van Gogh could hardly bore me. The peace is almost soporific—I could remain here forever. Though perhaps after some years I might grow restless.”

  Boris stroked his mustache and idly contemplated the symmetrical perfection of a small town house. “You can dispense with the patronym, really now, Pierre. We are friends, aren’t we? No need for formality. I shouldn’t say this—God forbid that it should leak back to good old Nelidov!—but if it weren’t for the refreshing atmosphere provided by your artistic appreciation of this little flatland, I, on the other hand, would wither away from lassitude. For the life of me, I cannot understand what possessed Nelidov to ask for me to join his delegation to the Peace Conference.”

  Pierre looked at the blond count in his elegant gray suit with its stiff collar and stock, gaiters, and gold cufflinks. “You are the picture of a dapper diplomat,” he answered, smiling.

  “It’s all a front. Underneath, I couldn’t care less.” Boris burst out laughing, his mirth so engaging that Pierre, although somewhat reluctantly, had to join him. The young man was still wary of his elder. Now Boris said pensively: “Nelidov and my father are friends. Nelidov, you know, doesn’t believe in this second Hague Conference. Neither does the Tzar. Peace will not be accomplished by a lot of stuffy little men who purposely choose to skirt the very heart of the peace issue: a slowdown in armaments. Yet you mention the words and these men pale, cough with embarrassment, and change the topic very rapidly. Poor Nelidov did not wish to be president. I suspect that he did not know whom to bring along for pleasure and so chose me because I can amuse him between sessions.”

  “Yes, and my role is the same, isn’t it?” said Pierre. “You amuse Nelidov, and I amuse you. The men behind the scenes.”

  Boris appraised the young painter shrewdly, thinking that he detected a note of bitterness in the repartee. “If I had to be pulled away from more interesting pursuits,” he replied, “and get stuck with two hundred fifty pedants inside a musty hall of the Dutch Parliament, surely your lot is not comparable. A pleasure trip to help broaden you in your field—now isn’t that the traditional gift of a patron to a talented artist? Cheer
up, or I shall regret my investment. Rembrandt wouldn’t have complained.”

  They walked along in silence for several minutes. Presently a man approached them, and Boris visibly paled. Pierre saw a middle-aged gentleman, tall and thin, with gray-blond hair parted in the center and pale blue eyes that squinted slightly. The man came up to Boris and bowed very stiffly. “You are Count Kussov, of the Russian delegation?” he asked. He spoke a guttural French, clipped and unmelodic.

  Boris had regained his perfect composure. He smiled and inclined his head. “Baron von Baylen, am I correct?”

  The other nodded. Switching to Russian, Boris said: “Baron, may I present Pierre Grigorievitch Riazhin? Pierre, Baron von Baylen is here with the German delegation, but he is the first secretary at the Petersburg embassy, where I met him several years ago. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Baron?”

  “Indeed it has. You are taking a constitutional?”

  Boris laughed. “Just enjoying the scenery. My young friend is a painter and has had a better time here than I. Than any of us.” They began to walk again, three abreast, and Boris commented: “A strange time for such a conference, don’t you think? The Kaiser is not well disposed toward peace, is he now?”

  “Unlike the Tzar he was not recently defeated, both abroad and at home. Not that the Tzar did not succeed in quelling the rebels in ‘05—but that was a close call, wasn’t it? The Kaiser wants to be a friend to the Tzar—they are cousins by marriage, aren’t they?”

  Pierre thought: For gentlemen, smiling and bowing graciously, they are not mincing words. He wished he were back in his room, near his palette. Why had he agreed to come to the Netherlands with Boris?

  Baron von Baylen said smoothly: “Ah, but there will be no war. Look at this world, at this European continent! Prosperity, everywhere prosperity! Right here, see that incongruous motorcar in this Renaissance town? Yet in several more years we shan’t find a single coach to ride, I’ll wager! Russia will always lag behind, I’m afraid, because of its icy winters. Motorcars won’t properly invade it for a while . . .” He turned to Pierre: “And you young artists! Flourishing! The French Expressionists have captured my fancy, so bold and bright! You creative spirits will not permit war, will you?”

  Pierre did not know how to reply. Instead Boris said: “My friend, like most artists, lives in a glass tower removed from politics and economics. But I am certain you have seen the clouds, Herr Baron. Right now they are still fluffy white lambs, but one day in the not-too-distant future, they will turn gray and hide the sun from our eyes. For the moment, I prefer to avert my gaze—to the Ballet, for example. Do you enjoy our Imperial Ballet, Herr Baron?”

  Later that day in their hotel, Pierre asked Boris: “Do you really feel that the Conference is a waste of time?”

  “Undoubtedly. We shall all disperse soon to our various home grounds, rubbing our hands with great smugness. But to no avail. Ah well, my dear boy, let us not be gloomy. That damned Baron was like a cup of warm water on an empty stomach—I still have not gotten him out of my system.”

  “Who is he?” Pierre questioned.

  Boris drew back his lips from his teeth. “My ex-wife’s new husband. I wish to God he’d kept away.”

  Pierre raised his eyebrows and laughed. “It’s so unlike you,” he said, sudden mockery in his voice, “to allow another lowly mortal to disturb your equanimity. I must admit, it does my heart good to see a touch of human vulnerability in you!”

  “You don’t think of me as human, then, Petya?” Boris asked.

  For a moment there was silence, a palpable discomfort. “You play with others’ emotions,” the young painter finally said, looking away. There was an edge of resentment in his words.

  “And you, mon cher? You don’t?”

  The silken tone, with its undercurrent of irony, was like a slow tease. Pierre wheeled about, suddenly angry. “How can I?” he asked. “Only the very rich or the very powerful can manipulate their retinue. The rest of us have to learn to survive, and that’s difficult enough!”

  Boris folded his hands together behind his back. “Pride is a dangerous commodity, Petya. We can only handle it if we’re willing to use it responsibly. It seems to me you use it at will. It’s easy to act the protégé, dear boy, when you want to obtain a favor or two. But what of the attendant responsibilities? They exist, you know.”

  The two men stood examining each other, Boris a tall, haughty exclamation point, Pierre on the defensive, his nose twitching, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. “Goddamn it!” he finally cried, the first of them to break. “What do you want of me, Boris Vassilievitch? A display of loyalty?”

  Boris inclined his head in mock approval. “Gratitude,” he enunciated carefully, the syllables ringing like cool bells in the night. “A little bit of gratitude. I could suggest something, perhaps. You have a masterpiece in your possession, and I want it. Now, it would make a perfect gift of thanks to a beloved patron—but I shan’t ask that much of you, Petya. You’re too poor, as you so eloquently reminded me just now. I shall pay you for it. I’m speaking of your portrait of the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

  Pierre’s black eyes widened, his lips parted. “But—it’s not for sale!” he exclaimed. Rage constricted his throat.

  Boris raised one golden eyebrow and smiled. “Oh? Well then, I’m doubly honored. Thank you, cher ami. I shall accept your gift after all. And I shall tell everyone about the generosity of my protégé. You are a dear boy, and I shan’t forget your largesse.”

  As Pierre stood open-mouthed before him, his face drained of color, Boris said lightly: “Come, it’s time to dress for supper. I’ll be by in twenty minutes.” He walked out of the room, humming an aria from La Traviata.

  On his way to his own quarters, Boris ran his dry hand through his hair and thought: It’s his own fault. He’s still an innocent, but he keeps trying to pretend he’s not—and until he learns the rules of the game, he’ll always be the loser. But the hollow sensation within him contradicted his conscious mind and spread like ink upon a blotter over his sense of triumph.

  Chapter 4

  On September 1, 1907, Natalia Oblonova officially entered the corps de ballet of the Mariinsky. Before the summer she had made her debut in a tableau from Swan Lake, then had left the Imperial School for good and gone to live with Lydia Brailovskaya in her apartment. Katya Balina still had one year to go before graduating, and although her parents had begged Natalia to make her home with them, she had preferred the freedom that Lydia’s offer gave her. Katya found this decision somewhat shocking; Lydia’s spinsterhood, and her lack of family, had given many proper Petersbourgeois the impression that the coryphée was only slightly removed from the demimonde. Only the presence of the old nurse, Manya, reassured them. But to Natalia, there was no shame in the demimondaines, who were richly kept by members of the aristocracy. She found them more honorable than women who allowed their families to hand them over with a dowry to men who would later betray them in the beds of more assertive females. Marriage, she thought, stripped women of their humanity and turned them into serfs forced to bear children. At least, when a demimondaine gave her body to a man, she did so honestly, and by choice. Or so Natalia believed at seventeen.

  Her last year as a student had been marked with much professional excitement. Her performances as the Sugar Plum Fairy and as Aspitchia had brought her to the attention of Michel Fokine, the young dancer who aspired to choreograph more fluid, less contrived ballets than those of Petipa. In February he had staged a benefit performance at the Mariinsky for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. His selection of Natalia to appear in his lyrical accompaniment to music by Chopin, entitled Chopiniana, had been strangely appropriate. Natalia had danced with fifteen other women, and her own part had not been spectacular. But she had felt the “rightness” of Fokine’s simplicity, his rejection of extravagant effects.

  Afterward, patrons had come backstage to congratulate the dancers, and Natalia, young and unk
nown, had been virtually eclipsed by the stars: Pavlova and Siedova. They were all to be fêted at Cubat, but she, still a student controlled by Varvara Ivanovna’s rigid rules, was not to be included. She had been fascinated by the admiration lavished upon the other dancers and had unobtrusively drawn near a cluster of bejeweled grandes dames to look and listen as they praised her more illustrious seniors.

  All at once one of the ladies, a woman whom Natalia had never seen before, had noticed her, and touched her friend on the arm. “Look, Ludmilla Karlovna! It’s the little ballerina from the Grand Palais! Isn’t that so?” The other had nodded with enthusiasm. Natalia had blushed in complete bewilderment. “What’s your name?” the first woman had demanded.

  “Oblonova. Natalia Oblonova.”

  “Well, young Riazhin certainly captured her, didn’t he? Is he a friend of yours, by any chance?”

  “I don’t know anybody called Riazhin, Madame,” Natalia had demurred.

  “But there can be no mistake. Your portrait hung in the Grand Palais in Paris last year. We all noticed it. That young artist, Pierre Riazhin, made quite an impression. All the Russians who were in Paris for the art exhibition fell in love with your portrait. Didn’t you know that it existed?”

  “No,” Natalia had answered, perplexed and silent. The women had made quite a fuss, and then Natalia had been taken back to the school. She had asked Lydia what this meant—but her friend had only told her that there was indeed a new artist called Riazhin, a follower in the frenzied steps of Vrubel and Bakst. Lydia had not seen his work—he was only just beginning to become known in St. Petersburg—but she assumed he must have painted a ballerina who bore a vague resemblance to Natalia. Yet Natalia was a woman: She had not forgotten, or dismissed the incident so easily.