Encore (14 page)

At length the sleeping figure stirred, feeling a foreign presence. Pierre's hand groped on the neighboring pillow, and he turned his head toward Boris. He mumbled something, and Boris stiffened, then bent forward to catch the words: “Darling, darling.” Still he did not speak. Like all heavy sleepers, Pierre was taking his time to bridge the gap between dreams and reality. He was opening his eyes, searching. “Natalia?” he said.

“She's not here,” Boris replied clearly. It was better this way, knowing. He shut his mind to the searing in his stomach lining and said calmly: “Wake up now, Pierre. It's past ten. Breakfast time, you know.”

Pierre sat up and rubbed his eyes, the gesture of a small boy. “Borya?” he intoned. “I don't understand. What—?”

“You forgot Ivan, then,” Boris answered lightly. “How can anyone forget Ivan? He came to clean this hellhole. It's Friday. I promised you Ivan's services on Friday. And then I thought: ‘Knowing Pierre, after the supper party last night, and the opera, he will sleep late. Why not share a breakfast with him when he rises?' Was it a bad idea?”

Pierre's face grew red, and tendons stood out on his neck. “For god's sake, Boris!” he exclaimed, fully awake now. “Without warning? You come at all times of the day and night—I tell you, I can't stand it! This is my home, for whatever it's worth—mine, not yours! You may own the rest of the world, but not this hellhole, as you call it. You can take Ivan and—”

“And what? Would you discard my friendship in one fell swoop?”

Pierre's mouth worked silently. The hand that he had raised fell on the coverlet. “Damn it!” he cried. He glared at Boris, then seemed to remember something and searched the room with his squinting eyes. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Ten minutes. I told you, she's not here. She hasn't been here since we arrived. Little Oblonova?” Boris raised one fine golden brow and smiled.

Pierre's black eyes halted upon his friend's face. Boris read in them pain, bewilderment, love. The nakedness of this expression hurt him. Pierre shrugged. “No, someone—inconsequential. But still, damn it, if she'd been here—”

Boris started to laugh. “Go on, get up and conquer the world. Ivan is preparing coffee—though I wouldn't want to guess with what! Did you also forget that Fokine and Benois wanted to see you today? At Serge's flat.”

Pierre stood up, tall, massive, golden brown, and reached for a dressing gown. For a moment he hesitated, sensing eyes upon him, but when he wheeled about, Boris was idly examining the cufflink in the palm of his hand. Pierre thought: I shall think about you later, Natalia—when I am alone once more. But he did not understand where she could have gone, or why.

Count Vassily Arkadievitch Kussov stared at his son from beneath his bushy brows, and puffed on his pipe. “Why?” he asked. “Why is it so difficult for me to reach you these days? Your behavior troubles me, Borya. Believe me, I understand about Marguerite. They were not truthful with us. Even the Tzar understands now and has taken your side. Giving back part of the dowry has not hurt you much, I can see that. But still—there are other reasons why a young man should marry. It almost seems as though you were relieved that Marguerite possessed a flaw, instead of outraged, as any bridegroom should have been! But all that is past history. Today, you should be planning to leave heirs. You are thirty-three now.”

“That is young enough, Papa,” Boris replied. He was sitting on a love seat in the magnificent living room, with its chandelier of Venetian crystal and its delicate rose lamps and tapestried walls. His massive parent occupied a large armchair across from him.

“Perhaps. But Borya, there are other things that disturb me. Your friends. All fine young men, all aristocrats, except for Bakst, the Jew. But some of them have reputations. Teliakovsky tells me that several years ago when Diaghilev worked for Volkonsky, his predecessor at the Imperial Theatres, there was quite a scandal. Some of his colleagues gave the young man a powder puff to show contempt for his sexual preferences. And Lvov—Pavel Dmitrievitch—how well I know that family! There is none better in Petersburg. But the parties he gives—all for his male friends, his lovers! I find this very distressing. Why do you associate with men such as these?”

Boris sighed, then smiled and shook his head. “Really, Papa! I am certain that some of Nina's friends, or Nadia's and Liza's, may be committing adultery. One continues to see one's friends because they are interesting, talented, or simpatico. Besides—today homosexuality is not seen as the great shame it was once considered in Petersburg. Truly, it has become—like adultery. One knows homosexuals and adulterers, and while one may not approve of what they practice behind closed doors, one pretends one doesn't know. It's that simple.”

“For lower echelons of the nobility maybe, or for those who do not dwell among their kin. Diaghilev's family is from Perm. But Lvov has brought pain to his people, that is a certainty. And while we may not be like the English, who condemn outright, we have our standards, nevertheless. Your proximity with men of dubious morals has brought me sleepless nights. If you were married, tongues would not wag.”

“And my other friends? Benois is a happily wed father, and Nouvel, too. Bakst adores women. Why are the majority of my companions forgotten for the marginal minority? You are not making sense, Papa. Should a man marry in order to move freely among talented men who amuse him, simply because not all of them conform?”

Count Vassily sat up, suddenly stern and imposing. “Boris, you are glib with me, and satirical! Keep whatever friends you wish. I do not question your own integrity or your morals, only your well-being. Is there a reason why you do not pay court to any particular woman of society? Are you afraid she may turn out to be like Marguerite? Tell me about yourself. I am your father, and you shut me out! Talk to me. You are my own comfort in life. Talk to me!”

The old count's strong voice reverberated in the delicate room. Boris sucked on his upper lip. At length he said: “There is someone I care for, enough so that I do not want to marry another woman. Marguerite—what a disaster that marriage was! I admit that I gained from it, financially. My part of the dower settlement can support several years of artistic endeavors without my needing to touch the balance of my personal income. There is no further need for me to form an alliance based on greed, shall we say. So I shall not marry at all.”

“But why can you not marry this woman? Is she already married?” his father asked.

Boris looked at a painting of a Madonna and Child by Raphael. The Madonna was young, with enormous soft brown eyes that reminded him of someone, and the picture was round, encased in a frame of blue lacquer. He stared at it pensively, then appeared to make up his mind. “No, she isn't married,” he said. “But she isn't of our sort. She is lovely, gifted, brave, but not a gentlewoman, as you would say.”

His father's eyes rounded. He smiled. “I see. In other words, marriage to her would bring nothing more to you than you already have. I can understand that, Borya. A mésalliance would surely be wrong. I pity you in your predicament. And yet—what if a child should come?”

“I would not worry if I were you, Papa,” his son replied. “However, should the unexpected occur, I would do right by her. I would certainly recognize the child and make it my heir. Does that satisfy you?”

“Naturally. You are an honorable man. Shall I ring for tea now?” The older man bent toward his son and patted his hand. “Still,” he added, “the whole affair's a damned shame. I would have preferred it otherwise. But then, so should you, so should you.”

Boris nodded, but he thought: How could I have permitted him to trap me into a corner like this? Now what am I to do? The Madonna was looking at him, and now he fancied her mocking. He welcomed the tea tray because food and warm liquids always relieved the burning in the pit of his stomach. But his fingers on the glass shook slightly.

Ivan cleared his throat and repeated: “The young lady is in the salon, Your Excellency. I took the liberty of bringing some fruit and tea. She seems at her wits' end.”

Boris stood in his bathrobe, drying himself. “You did well, as always, Ivan. Please tell Natalia Dmitrievna that I shall come out as soon as I can.” He waited as his servant removed the empty pitcher and the bowl of sudsy shaving water. Then he poured some toilet water into his hand and splashed it over his neck, into his hair. He was smiling. There was a silk dressing gown ready for him on the small settee, and he put it on. She had come unexpectedly: Let her, too, be surprised! When he stepped out, he resembled a splendid bridegroom on his way to the bedchamber.

He found her in the living room, eating an apple. She was very small, ensconced in the large Louis XV armchair. Her brown hair was in disarray, strands escaping from her topknot. There were purple circles beneath her large eyes. Her attire was, if not shabby, then certainly hastily chosen and donned. She seemed like a waif from the pages of Dickens, and he smiled. Then he felt a flash of cruelty: He knew where she had been this morning, and if she was now suffering, so be it. He took a deep breath: “Natalia Dmitrievna! I thought you would have been rehearsing today!”

She jumped to her feet, and his anger diminished. She was a pathetic little bird. “I—” Her eyes took in his dressing gown, his still wet hair. Suddenly, she laughed. “Truly, I'm sorry,” she said. “My timing . . .”

“Your timing was off. You should have come sooner. I would have received you during my bath. Quite an enjoyable experience.” He twinkled at her, taking delight in his shameless speech. He wanted to say: There now, don't be embarrassed. After all, I know all about you. But even in his meanness he felt a flash of compassion. “What is it?” he asked, sitting down near her.

She looked away and blushed. “I should not have come,” she began. “I should not—but I did, for there is no one else who might help me. Boris Vassilievitch—General Teliakovsky has suspended me. I am still not certain whether
Nuits d'Egypte
will be shown at all. You see—it's Kchessinskaya. She wants to dance
La Fille Mai Gardée
instead, and she is angry with me, angrier than I ever thought she would be, because of the argument we had in your study.”

Boris's eyes had widened. “No
Nights?
Now that's absurd! Surely you are exaggerating, my dear.”

Natalia's face crumpled like used tissue paper. “I don't know what to do!” she cried, wringing her hands. She took a deep breath, composed her face, and added more quietly: “Forgive me, Boris Vassilievitch. This outburst—”

“This outburst is sincere. But Natalia—I may call you Natalia, may I not?—this is petty and childish on Mala's part. What would you have me do?”

“I don't know! Perhaps—perhaps you could reason with her, Boris Vassilievitch. You have been so kind to me in the past. I thought that maybe—Was it presumptuous? I would do anything, anything at all, to continue my career, to dance again as before. I am afraid that if no one intervenes, I will be allowed to return to the Mariinsky at the end of the month, but my progress will go no farther. Pavlova saw me and said some dreadful things—all untrue, but rumors do not help a sagging reputation. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Yes, he thought, I understand. His mind went back to his father. “My poor Natalia,” he said. “There may indeed be someone I can see. But not Mala Kchessinskaya. Only a member of the Imperial Family could influence her. I shall have to go to—yes, I believe that is whom I must see. Excuse me,
ma chère.
You stay here. Ivan will make you comfortable. I must go now but shall return later.”

Impulsively, she took his hand and brought it to her lips. “Thank you!” she whispered. His eyes swept over her with amusement. It was essential that
Nuits d'Egypte
be saved, and if, in the process, he could also manage to indebt this girl to him . . .

Yes, he thought as he tied his four-in-hand in front of his dressing table, it has to be
this
girl. His jaw tightened when he thought of Pierre and the tuxedo thrown haphazardly on the floor. He rang for Ivan. “Send a card to the Tzarina, please, with this message: ‘Your humble servant begs for a short audience with you, and so on, and so on.' Have Yuri bring it over now, while I am dressing. Let him bring back her reply. This is not a special afternoon for her, as I recall.”

To those who knew Boris Kussov well, nothing was a surprise, save, perhaps, his wedding to Marguerite Tumarkina. His impeccable appearance, his good taste, his generosity toward the artistic community of St. Petersburg—all these helped to create the impression of blond perfection, of intellectual and cultural nonpareil with which he clothed himself. But very few knew the inner Boris, what he thought and how he thought it. Now, in his carriage, he did not have to wonder what he would say to the Tzarina. He already knew. He had racked his brain for facts that might prove useful to him and had remembered Alexandra Feodorovna's schedule. This afternoon she would have time to receive him. She was the single person most able to help him accomplish his aim.

He was admitted to one of the smaller sitting rooms, for the Kussovs were received in court as friends. When he had first been introduced to her years before and seen her frigid, proud, and frightened profile, two thoughts had assailed him: That, as a foreigner who was not well liked by her father-in-law's courtiers, she would doubly appreciate those of the aristocracy who did befriend her. Also, that as Queen Victoria's granddaughter she would have a tendency toward harsh morality. She had condemned him, he knew, for his scandalous marriage. Had she had time to put it behind her?

“Your Majesty was most kind to grant me these moments of audience,” he said, bending over her hand. “I am most grateful.”