Encore (18 page)

“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 whole 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 the 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.

Toward dawn Natalia awoke, her entire body distressed, kinks in her arms and legs. She had slept fitfully, dreaming of fires, storms, and men lurking in passageways, ready to kill her. Misery filled her. How impossible it was to live a simple life, to choose a safe existence with a man who demanded nothing of her. Damn Pierre, damn him! She had dreamed of him, too, dying of a knife wound, dripping blood in Boris's salon, accusing her of murdering him. Natalia's hair clung to her temples, and she got out of bed, nervous as a hunted doe. Ivan and the cook kept biscuits and apple cider in the pantry. Maybe some food would soothe her nerves, calm her down. If only Luba were awake…

She opened her door and went into the hallway. She wondered when Boris had returned home. She had imagined noises—probably another nightmare. She turned on a light, walked into the pantry, and found the biscuits, the cider. She placed her snack on a tray and carried it gingerly into the salon. There she hesitated: Something was wrong.

She looked around her, turning on more lights. A small stand on which Ivan stacked the art periodicals to which Boris subscribed had been knocked over. But Boris never got drunk; he could drink gallons of Dom Perignon or bottles of vodka, and they never even clouded his mind. She straightened the stand, rearranged the periodicals. A rectangular rug caught her eye, its corners turned under. She smoothed it down. What had Boris been up to?

Concerned now, she walked back into the corridor. Boris had left the light on in his bathroom. She turned it off carefully. There was a small candle in its holder and some matches on the table. She lit the candle: It would provide enough light to make sure everything was all right, but not enough to awaken or alarm Luba or Ivan, if they should hear her footsteps at this hour and stir in their sleep.

Natalia tiptoed to the door of Boris's room. It stood slightly ajar. She thought: I can't intrude, but if he's ill, or if he needs me …She remembered stories of men who had suffered heart attacks in the night and been unable to call for help.

She gently pushed open the door and went in quietly, holding the candle. She could hear breathing, but it was odd, almost as though there were two people in the room, not one. She stiffened: But no, if he had wanted another woman, surely he would have gone to the woman's residence and not humiliated her, Natalia, his
maîtresse officielle,
in front of the servants. A tremendous curiosity swept over her, quelling her scruples. She had to see! She lifted the candle, and looked at the bed.

As if sensing her presence, Boris awakened, sat upright, and blinked in the candle's glow. At that moment horror overtook her, and she screamed, one loud, piercing shriek. The candle fell to the floor, and Boris, naked, jumped out of bed to retrieve it before it could start a fire. Pierre stirred, mumbled something, and rolled over. Boris held up the candle, and Natalia saw Pierre's own nudity. She fell against the wall, her fingers groping behind her for support. Soft moans escaped from her parted lips.

Boris said, “Natalia—” and the urgency in his voice broke through her realization, pushed back the reeling pain, the elemental passion of her reaction. She jumped up, fiercely. Pierre had opened his eyes and sat staring at her and Boris in disbelief. She put her hands out before her face, as though to protect herself from both of them, and then she finally cried out: