Encore (39 page)

In the darkness she saw his face under the ghostly moon and his hands on the reins. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she placed her own hand on top of his. Arkady started to wail, kicking her. No words remained between them now, only the will to survive.

Above them the inky sky spread out like black velvet scattered with myriad sparkling diamonds that were stars. A sliver of moon outlined the countryside. Pierre drove in silence, his lips compressed with tension. Next to him Natalia sat with the baby. She had fed him from the paltry supply that was left of what the brakeman had given Pierre, and they had stopped here and there by a stream to obtain water. But neither adult had eaten anything.

In the middle of the night she finally spoke. “Here, let me take the reins, and you can rest for a while,” she said. They had been pushing on at a steady three to four miles an hour, including their stops to change the baby, feed him, and find water. Pierre shook his head and continued to drive.

When dawn pierced the sky, chasing away the stars, he turned to her and announced: “We should be near the border now. Another seven miles or so. I'm going to drive into that clump of woods, and we're going to hide the horse and cart there and walk the rest of the way. Then we're going to sneak across the border if we can.”

She nodded. The idea of having to walk three hours with Arkady did not appall her. She had always faced the inevitable with grim determination, undaunted. She had shot Ballhausen and, after this night of sleepless vigil, had come to accept this. It had been unavoidable. Püder's involvement was her only regret, but even then, she thought: I cannot continue to worry. It won't help him at all, and it certainly won't do Arkady any good. He needs me alert, and I need myself alert. Püder is not a sissy; he's a resourceful individual who will make do. I can't worry about Borya, either. The Division Sauvage is beyond my control.

A road sign said that they were approaching Saint-Louis, a small town near the Swiss border. Across it would be Basel, the longed-for haven. When Pierre climbed down from the cart, near some large, tall elms, she followed, holding the child tightly to her. He was sleeping.

They started to walk. Behind them the bewildered horse neighed. There was no time to wonder when someone would find it. Natalia and Pierre did not speak. They synchronized their footsteps, moving slowly because of Arkady's added weight. She carried him at first, then silently relinquished him to Pierre when, exhausted and famished, her body threatened to give way. Her feet, which had danced the Firebird and Giselle, were bruised and blistered. What if she had harmed them permanently? Anguish spread through her at the thought.

Soft, rolling hills curved over this rather flat land. When the sun had fully risen, they saw barbed wire in the far distance. The frontier. Without a word they exchanged a glance, and Pierre nodded. Relief, then anxiety, flooded her: They were so close yet had no guarantees.

From behind some bushes they observed a border patrol, six men carrying rifles. They were so close that their very breathing could be heard. Arkady uttered a sharp cry and Natalia, suddenly frightened, flattened him against her shoulder. But the small squad was moving away, toward the left. Pierre said under his breath: “Now!” He took Arkady from her and broke into a run. She followed, her heart in her throat. She possessed no reserve of strength and this final sprint made her chest constrict and the blood pound in her ears.

At the barbed wire fence they stopped, and with his pocket knife Pierre attempted to cut through the strands of mesh until he had created a hole sufficiently large for her to climb through. He held the wiring apart and she eased through, then stretched her arms through the aperture to grasp Arkady. Pierre could not squeeze past without considerably scratching his limbs and back. His hands were dripping with blood from every knuckle, the nails ripped in broken zigzags over the ragged skin. Once on the Swiss side, he pointed to an embankment with underbrush on their right, and they ran toward it, away from the returning border patrol. They collapsed among the heather, sounds of German voices echoing in their ears. The squad was going by and had missed their odyssey.

“Look ahead, Natalia,” Pierre said. “See that city? That's Basel, Switzerland. We've arrived in one piece!”

She looked at him, at his sweaty, tanned face, at his brilliant raven's eyes, at the curls that tumbled messily over his wide brow. His clothing was torn, and stained with perspiration. Arkady had soaked his diaper and the woolen jumpsuit he had been wearing, and that in turn had wet the whole front of her dress. She had not put back the pins that Heinrich Püder had shaken from her in the colonel's compartment. Her brown hair lay tangled about her shoulders. Dark circles made half-moons under her eyes. Suddenly laughter came rolling out of her, hysterically. She rocked back and forth on her haunches, tears streaming down her face. The last forty-eight hours poured from her in this stream of cascading mirth, and she could not restrain herself, now that they were safe at last.

Pierre watched her, his own energy finally yielding. Around him the countryside took on the colors of a dreamer's landscape, in purples and oranges and burnished golds. Her wild laughter pierced his consciousness and became maniacal. He tried to stand up and steadied himself against her shoulder. Then her laughter died in one spurt, and there was a strange silence in the heather. His arms went round her, avoiding the baby lying on the soft earth before her. She looked at him, her eyes wide. Then, almost violently, he bent down to kiss her, drowning out the sharp cry beginning in her throat.

A ray of warm sunshine fell across Arkady's vision, and the baby uttered an angry wail. From the damp grass her arms slid from his shoulders, rose between them like a wall, and pushed him away. She stared at him, the breath caught in her chest, and for a moment they remained frozen in position, her skirt pushed up to her knees, his hands still touching her sides. Then, her hair falling in her eyes, she swiftly scooped the child into her arms. “Let's go,” she said. “Arkady's hungry, and we must find refuge.”

T
he Russian consul in Basel
, Nicolai Medveyev, said to Natalia: “It won't be easy, but, given who you are, I think we'll be able to help you. I am familiar with your financial situation. Several years ago, when I was at the Consulate in Geneva, I had occasion to discuss some of the particulars with Boris Vassiilievitch. He wanted our people to be aware of how he had disposed of his funds, so that, should a problem ever arise to place you in a difficult position, we would know how to assist you. I think,” he added with a smile, “that this moment has come.”

“The bulk of our fortune is in Paris,” Natalia said. “Indeed. But the Swiss have always been excellent bankers. Boris Vassilievitch has set up a cache for you in Geneva. You should be able to live off it for some time. You see, when war was declared, a freeze was placed over all bank accounts in France, and so that much more considerable reserve cannot be touched.”

“Nicolai Petrovitch,” Natalia said, passing her tongue tentatively over her upper lip, “what about my legal status here? That is my real problem, isn't it?”

The consul coughed. “Yes. For you see, the Swiss are neutral and cannot act as a haven for Russian refugees. Had you actually been here when the war broke out—that would have been a different question. What I shall have to do is have some documents made up to prove that you entered Switzerland—in July, shall we say? With your son.”

“You would do this for me?” Natalia asked.

“I could not turn away Oblonova,” Medveyev said, bowing. “You are one of our national treasures. We diplomats can perform feats of magic, and in your case it would be my pleasure. I used to watch you at the Mariinsky, but I made a special trip to London for the Coronation gala to see you in Diaghilev's company. I have seen you twice in Paris and once in Rome. My wife and I found you exquisite in
The Firebird,
especially. Besides, your husband is a powerful man. Turning away Count Boris Kussov's wife and child would hardly sit well with the Tzar.”

Natalia was seated on a chaise longue in the Consulate's library. There were bandages around her feet, and a quilt covered her limbs. Her pale face seemed translucent, her eyes enormous, like burnt topazes. She looked away, wringing her hands. “Another kind person to risk something for us,” she said miserably. Glancing at her feet, she added, “You compliment me, Nicolai Petrovitch. But after tramping through the countryside, I have doubts about my ability to dance again.”

“We shan't ask you to perform tomorrow, dear Natalia Dmitrievna. Now listen to me—I have sent word to Russia about you. The Division Sauvage is at present in the Caucasus Mountains, protecting the area from Turkey. Your husband will be able to write you here, as he was not able to when you were hiding in Darmstadt. But the child must go to Doctor Combes in Lausanne. I agree with you, he is a fine specialist, worth your odyssey. And”—Medveyev examined his hands—“you should not waste time. I've already made arrangements to have work begun on your papers. But, since you foresee a lengthy stay, your status as a visitor could be improved if you purchased a piece of property, Natalia Dmitrievna. Then you would have little trouble having your status changed to resident. At that point we could all stop worrying.”

Natalia nodded. Her lips were tightly drawn. “As soon as I have spoken to Combes, I'll start to look for something in Lausanne, perhaps a small house near the hospital. Thank you, Nicolai Petrovitch. I am more grateful than you'll ever know.”

“I must say we were quite amazed when you arrived on our doorstep, with the baby and that young man, Pierre Riazhin—he's a painter, isn't he? I thought the name sounded familiar. But imagine our wonder upon discovering that the bedraggled girl in the soiled clothing was our own Oblonova! A fairy tale, my dear, to brighten our rather drab existence, don't you think? You're quite a courageous woman, Natalia Dmitrievna. A tribute to the Russian spirit.”

“You overwhelm me, Nicolai Petrovitch. I only did what had to be done. Arkasha is quite ill.” Gulping down the tears that were rising to her eyes, she leaned forward and said: “Pierre Grigorievitch—you'll be able to help him, too? He did a wonderful thing, hiding on that convoy train and then driving me and my son to safety. Can you arrange to have papers prepared for him as well?”

“Certainly. He's a friend of yours, isn't he?”

Her brown eyes met the consul's, and she answered unflinchingly: “Of my husband's too. Boris would want me to do something behind the scenes to make things easier for Pierre. Maybe you could assist me again. I should like to transfer some of the funds that are in my name to a new account to be set up in the name of Pierre Riazhin. But I don't want him to learn of this. Perhaps you could inform him that my husband had done this years ago, in a gesture of friendship? Boris was Pierre's first patron,” she added staunchly.

Medveyev's brow wrinkled, then smoothed out. “Of course, Natalia Dmitrievna. This can be managed quite simply. I'll send Bunin to you in a moment, for details as to amounts, and so on. Pierre Grigorievitch is resting upstairs and won't know a thing about this kind gesture of yours.”

“I shall be forever in your debt,” Natalia answered. As Medveyev prepared to depart, she closed her eyes. Another hurdle had been crossed.

Pierre said: “So you go to Lausanne tomorrow. After all we've been through, you might let me come with you, Natalia.”

“No. This doesn't concern you,” she replied, biting her lower lip. “I don't want to prolong this, Pierre. I'm here to consult Dr. Combes for my son. You and I have no further need to continue together.”

“You're afraid to be alone with me,” he said, his black eyes flashing. “You're afraid that you won't be able to control your feelings—that you'll discover what a farce your marriage really is! Tell me the truth!”

“Arkasha is my son and I want to take care of him,” she replied. “Right now he's the only link I have to Borya. I want them both back, to health and to me. You are not a part of our life. Don't you understand that? You bring back painful memories for me, for Borya. I wish it weren't so. Maybe in twenty years the three of us shall be able to remove the barriers around us and forget the bad times. I have the man I love, but it's still fragile, still tenuous—and when you're around I'm afraid. But not in the way you think.”

“It's jealousy, then! You're jealous of me!” He stood up again and began to pace the room.”

“I can't believe it,” he added.

“But it's true. I am jealous, I admit it! You came first for so long in Boris's life! Don't make me speak about it, Pierre: It's too cruel of you. We've built a house of love, stone by stone, and it means everything to us because it was gained at such cost. I'm jealous of you, but do you know what it would do to Boris to learn that you were here, accompanying me to the doctor, holding his child? He'd suspect the worst—he'd think we'd become lovers again! Because you came first for me, too, and he's more jealous than I! I don't want that, Pierre! It isn't worth it to me. I'd rather never see you again because he means life itself to me—he, and my son, and the dance! Please, Pierre, go your own way! You don't need us.”

The young painter stopped in his tracks, wheeled about, and looked at her.

His own anger was such that he did not see the wretched expression in her eyes, her frightened mouth. Under the brave front Natalia was quaking, her world uncertain, threatened. Toward the end there had been something in Boris that she had not understood, a desperation, and now it was she who was desperate. “You don't need us,” she repeated, but her lips quivered.

“No,” he said. “It's time I learned the truth of that. You're right, Natalia. I don't want to be a part of this sordid little
ménage á trois.
It disgusts me! But don't worry, darling: If your husband finds the temptation too great to resist, it won't be with me that you'll discover him! I was never one of his little boys, in spite of what you believe. You go to Lausanne, and I think I'll go in the other direction: to Locarno, perhaps. It has beautiful landscapes, a marvelous lake.” He glared at her: “And what's this about Boris setting up an account for me here? That's ridiculous! I don't believe it!”

Defiantly, she cried: “I don't care what you believe! Boris once loved you, and thought of your well-being. You can take the money or not, as you so choose. I don't give a damn!”

“Unfortunately, that's all I possess in this country at this moment. Of course I'll take it. But I'm going in the opposite direction from you—you can bet on that!”

For a moment their eyes locked, hers proud, his furious. He turned his back on her and left the small sitting room. When Madame Medveyeva came in, she found Natalia with her head in her hands.

Dr. Louis Combes was a bony man with a sallow complexion. Natalia had first heard of him years before, in St. Petersburg. He had cured a little girl of a stomach ailment, and the mother had brought back songs of his praises. Afterward she had heard many other tales of miracles performed on children's small bodies, and even on those of larger adults. Now she sat in his spacious office overlooking Lake Geneva. She said: “At first I refused to have him transported out of Germany. Then I knew I had to risk a journey, to bring him here. What do you think, Doctor?”

Combe's mournful face took in her elegance, her anxiety, her exhaustion. “My dear Countess, don't blame yourself. You did the right thing. None of this is your fault. It's too early to tell, but I suspect a kidney deficiency. It was probably congenital.”

Natalia's eyes filled with animal fear. “The kidneys? What can you do about it?”

Combes said: “I'm going to hospitalize Arkady, keep him on a special regimen under constant care and surveillance. But I must warn you: Kidney problems are very hard to treat. I must run tests on him. He's terribly thin and underweight, but he's been retaining water. Edema, Countess. Have you ever suffered from edema?”

She shook her head, her breath coming in little gasps. “Should I have?” she asked. “Has all this come from me? It's my fault, isn't it, Doctor?”

“No, no, don't think this way. We shall find a method by which to treat Arkasha. My secretary tells me you are looking for property? Around here? A wise decision, my dear lady. This way you can come to see the child each day, yet live in a house of your own. May I suggest Sauvabelin Hill? You will find it lovely. But you know this already, for aren't you at the Hotel du Signal?”

Natalia regarded him with amazement. He was about to separate her from her son, and he was speaking of properties and hotels? Blinded by tears, she rose quickly, tripping over the foot of the chair. “May I see him?” she whispered.

Combes stroked his chin carefully. “I'm afraid not, Countess. I had him taken directly to the children's wing. The nurses are feeding him now.”

She blinked. Just like that. Her hands began to tremble, and she took a deep breath. Arkady had to improve. He had to grow strong and healthy. Otherwise she would lose her grip on reality. This was her fault. Edema. Kidneys. Congenital defects.

When she was once more outside, having left her child in the hands of these strangers, she allowed a hospital attendant to call a cab for her to drive her back to the Hotel du Signal. But her mind was a blur of horror.

She was thinking of Boris. How will he feel, thinking that if he'd stayed away from me, none of this would have happened? Will he leave me? I am defective, I am not whole. I should not have been permitted to have this child, to bear him only so that he might suffer.

In her hotel room she could not sleep. Clenching her fists so tightly that her nails dug into the soft palms, Natalia scourged herself with recrimination and anguish. She had never been superstitious or moralistic. But now she thought: My father was a bad man, an evil man. My mother was a total weakling. Something bad came to me from them, and now I have passed it on to Arkady. And there is nothing I can do but wait and trust the doctors.

She remained dry-eyed. Even the catharsis of tears, she thought, was more than she deserved.

Lausanne was built on the side of a hill, and all its streets, even those parallel to the crest and to the lake, went up and down unevenly. After crossing the Bessière Bridge, which straddled a large and deep ravine, the road continued to climb until it reached the University. Beyond the school was a plateau with fields, villas, and gardens, but to the left a steep cliff rose, the Sauvabelin. Here Natalia purchased a small house on some wooded land.

One could climb to the top of Sauvabelin in a cablecar, by driving up a winding road, or even by following a path on foot. At the edge of a vast blue-green forest stretched a magnificent panorama of Lausanne below, with the lake at its feet. Across the lake the white peak of Mont Blanc rose into the crisp fall sky.

There were no luxurious shops there, only the comfortable Hotel du Signal, where Natalia had stayed upon arriving in Lausanne. There was no other distraction or entertainment. But the small forest, now adorned with its mantle of snow, contained its own minuscule lake, with rowboats for hire. As winter approached, the lake froze and became a skating area for the local villagers. Not far from the lake was a vast space enclosed by wire, where deer ran free. They could be fed by hand, and would stretch their velvet lips through the trellised fence. These were Natalia Kussova's surroundings.

Her house was really a chalet, with a ginger board facade and a peaked roof, and, inside, paneled walls and hardwood floors. She took only a single maid, a Swiss girl from Lausanne, Brigitte. The latter cooked and cleaned, and her husband, Alfred, occasionally tended the grounds. Wrapped in fur, Natalia spent her days waiting. She took walks to the forest and walks into town. She wrote letters to Boris, letters to Nina and Galina Stassova, letters to Lydia Brailovskaya, letters to Diaghilev, to Karsavina, to Benois and Bakst. She wrote and wrote in order not to think, to put off sorting through her reactions to her son's illness. She carefully avoided writing to anyone about the slow erosion of her heart because of his condition.