Encore (52 page)

Summer evolved into fall, and it was now November. On the night of the premiere Natalia herself was to dance Aurora. Yet she felt heavy with depression, with unfair responsibilities and strange misgivings. Galina had come for the occasion, and Natalia wished for the girl's sake that she could feel more festive and less out of sorts. They took a short drive to Ashley on the weekend, just the two of them, without Pierre. “Now you're really my sister,” Galina murmured with her odd maturity. “But when I was a child here, you were like my mother, the mother one dreams of having: talented, independent. You led such a romantic life then, didn't you, Natalia?” She had not called her “Aunt” since she had arrived from Turkey; they had never spoken of it, yet the term of deference had been dropped in favor of the more equal, less formal given name.

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes misting over suddenly. “Those were good times.”

For a minute Galina was silent. Then she said: “Pierre does not like England.”

“Oh, I don't know if that's it, or if he just misses Paris. He's not at home in this logical, intellectual country. Paris suits him now—with the American expatriates, who demand nothing more than a rollicking good time, and all the exiled Russian noblemen in quest of the past. He's a child too: His eyes are still full of the wonder of bright, new things.” She said this with some asperity.

“But that's what makes him different,” Galina countered gently. “Yes, he is a child. I've seen that side of him, too. But in this world different people are born to play different roles. There are those who toil endlessly to keep civilization alive and working. And then there are others—the da Vincis, the Van Goghs—and even the Riazhins. The price we pay to keep them happy is reimbursed to the entire world, when they produce their miracles!”

Natalia stared at her then, a hard, flat stare, and shrugged her delicate shoulders. Unkindly she remarked: “You're a child, too, if you think that way, Galina. But then what else could I have expected of you? One forgets that you're just sixteen.”

Galina's posture straightened, her eyes darkened, and her regal young face set. That's it, I've hurt her, Natalia thought with exasperation. But that absurd defense of Pierre, of his lack of responsibility . . .

At the dress rehearsal everything failed that could fail. The work crew was having problems setting up the stage. Props were not standing up. Just when Natalia was ready to scream, her tutu caught on a nail. Pierre came running, his long strides dwarfing the romantic designs, and forcibly yanked her up from the floorboards like a recalcitrant flower. When he set her down abruptly, she saw how red his eyes were. There was an unhealthy flush in his cheeks. “Goddamn it!” he shouted, not so much at her as at the entire Ballet.

“Don't forget that this is my first production,” she whispered to him ferociously, her brown eyes gleaming. “You've had many ventures, but this one is mine—especially mine! Don't steal it from me!”

A group of dancers, lighting men, and prop men were staring at them, their breaths held. Any excuse was good enough for gossip, especially if a married couple were involved. Pierre glared at Natalia and moved away without answering.

After the rehearsal everyone came to her dressing room: Diaghilev, Pierre, and Galina in a blue wool tailored dress that matched her eyes. “A disaster, a bloody disaster!” the impresario was saying, waving his monocle.

“We did the best we could,” Pierre countered angrily.

“The best you could? Because of you and Bakst I've overextended myself again! Stoll will confiscate the costumes—”

“—which were poorly made to begin with,” Pierre interrupted. “Don't blame us, Serge Pavlovitch. We ordered all our materials through you!”

Natalia walked up to her husband and squeezed between him and Diaghilev. Both men were tall, massive, furious, and flushed. She wondered whether Pierre had been drinking. In a low, trembling voice, she said: “Stop it! The last thing we need now is a volley of accusations. We're all in this together. Let's pick up the pieces and go home. There is still tomorrow to get through.”

Every muscle taut with unexpressed tension, she silently changed, folding her costume carefully. Galina had come to help her. They had not spoken much since Ashley. Natalia could feel the girl withdrawing, as if she were physically moving away. We all must grow up sometime, Natalia thought with irritation. I can't continue to wet-nurse her forever—the way I do Pierre. He's another sensitive one—sensitive to himself, primarily. He had disappeared after the argument—she vaguely wondered where or with whom.

Later, as she undressed in the hotel suite, she had to sit down, because her head was swirling with anxieties, fears, and loneliness. The door that connected to the bathroom, which they shared with Galina, swung silently open, and she saw the girl, her blond hair falling in thick waves over her shoulders and breasts. Something inside her unknotted and relaxed. She looked up and Galina looked back, her face grave, unsmiling. “You're right,” she said to Natalia. “He is a child. You know him better than I do. I'm sorry.” She sat down beside Natalia and took her hand.

They sat this way for a while, their fingers entwined, and Galina leaned her head on Natalia's shoulder, her hair caressing Natalia's neck, warming it. Then Galina spoke again. “But you
must
love him. He needs you so much!”

Natalia could not reply and simply raised her hands helplessly, shaking her head. “I love you, Natalia,” Galina said. “Don't be unhappy.”

Natalia's throat tightened, and warm salt tears filled her eyes. Galina's hold around her waist grew stronger. She could feel the young girl's own tears on her shoulder, seeping through her chemise. She put an arm around her, stroked the blond hair. “I'm glad you're here,” she whispered. “Truly glad, inside.”

“Me, too. You're my family. You, and Tama—and Pierre.” She said this with some hesitation, then added more confidently: “The three of you belong to me now.”

Natalia sighed and looked away: “Sometimes I think you're my only family,” she murmured. “So many mistakes, so many false impulses ... I gave up my real family when I was ten and never wanted another one. Then, of course, it came anyway: Boris, Arkady.” She shut her eyes on the sweetness of pure pain. “But there, too, it was wrong. We poisoned each other.”

“What do you mean?” Galina asked.

“Nothing you could possibly understand. Boris wanted to love me, wanted our child—but I don't think I made him happy. Something was missing that I couldn't provide. He was always going from one experience to another, seeking some kind of validation—the Ballet, me, Arkady, the Division Sauvage. I failed him, or he wouldn't have gone into the war.” Her voice caught. “But I can't keep blaming myself! I did the best I could! For years, I preserved his feelings, I cared for his needs—I was there for him, always! I couldn't be all that he wanted because he wanted too damned much! I was only one woman, one human being.”

“And was Pierre simply a substitute?” Galina asked, her clear tone carrying a certain sharpness.

“Pierre? Of course not. Pierre was my first love. Every young girl should fall in love with a Pierre Riazhin: wonderful, impossible Pierre, who lives in a different world from mine, and who probably has his share of regrets, too. Don't listen to me, Galina, I shouldn't be speaking this way to you, I know I shouldn't—but you're a little bit me, aren't you? More than Tamara will ever be, I'm sure of it. There's no one to talk to, ever!” she added bitterly.

“We can talk to each other,” Galina replied. “Between us we've lost everyone there is to lose. You've lost a husband and child; I've lost my parents and my grandparents and my aunts and uncles and cousins. But Natalia, we both have Pierre. Don't discount him!”

Natalia turned to look at Galina and was struck by the intensity of expression in the large blue eyes. She said nothing, but her lips parted. She closed them, freed herself from Galina's embrace, and placed her hands on the girl's shoulders. She scrutinized the young face and then sighed, shaking her head. “Don't count too much on him, lovey,” she said with muted harshness. “He can be very thoughtless. And he's impatient: When he breaks something, he doesn't always bother to pick up the pieces. But still, he's a remarkable man.”

She pressed her lips together, and her eyes grew cloudy.

Galina watched from the stall, her long hands folded neatly on her lap, a line of apprehension on her high forehead. Being here felt so unreal to her, so artificial. She was wearing a simple ivory-colored gown, with a neckline that revealed the graceful line of her throat, where a single strand of pearls was the sole decoration. Her skin glowed pink and slightly moist. The pearls had been Natalia's gift to her for her sixteenth birthday, and Galina knew that Boris had made a present of them to his wife many years before. This made the girl vaguely ill at ease. It was as though Natalia sought to make her a Kussov in spite of herself—whereas, in actual fact, the real Kussov was Natalia.

Galina's mother, Nina Vassilievna, had been quiet, composed, and gentle, a retiring but charming lady. Did I ever really know her? Galina asked herself, touching the pearls. She remembered best those moments of physical closeness, moments she knew Tamara, for one, rarely shared with Natalia. Galina had often settled snugly in the crook of her mother's arm and listened to her speak to a guest, or to her father. What had the words been? She couldn't recall, and it didn't matter. Nina's scent had mattered: jonquils and lilacs and apricots. Later there had been the war and the death of Uncle Boris. Nina had been nervous, inconsolable—but still the same pervasive mother, with time for a touch, with a backward look that signified: “Coming?” They had truly never been apart.

But had her mother been “a Kussov”? Galina doubted it. Nina had blended so well into her husband's family, the Stassovs. Galina had known that her mother belonged to a great family, refined, cultured, and influential. But these words had meant nothing special to her. Everyone among their set had borne those qualities. Her grandfather, Vassily Arkadievitch Kussov, had been gruff and elderly, a
bon vivant
who had reveled in good food and an occasional hunting expedition: a kind man, but not one who stood out from the grandfathers of other girls; apart from a perfunctory question or two about her doings, he had generally not paid her much attention. He had been a man's man, with little time for the frailties of women and small girls. He had seemed very different from her mother, and therefore it had been all the more difficult for Galina to conceive of that elusive quality that might have distinguished Nina and made her first and foremost a Kussov.

There had been Boris, golden, elegant, an arbiter of taste. But he had been the only real Kussov! Whatever the Kussov mystique had been, he alone had created it—and perhaps his own mother, whom Galina had never known, and his grandfather Arkady, dead long before her own birth. Boris had been a dream and had created himself. He had chosen a bride who had been plucked from the very earth, a girl without antecedents but who had been extraordinary in her talent, in her unique grace and ambition. He had created her, but her own inborn gift had helped to make him complete. They had been the Kussovs: Boris and Natalia, above society, above culture, above mere talent. They had been the Kussov mystique—not she, Galina Stassova, who was neither particularly brilliant nor particularly distinctive. Natalia had not owed her a thing!

And how had Pierre fit into this scheme of things? Why did both Pierre and Natalia cling to this absurd fantasy of her being the true heir of Boris Kussov? She was only herself, and it would have been better simply to forget her useless relatives, who hung as an albatross around her neck. She wished she could push this dubious inheritance all away.

She looked around her cautiously. They had surrounded her with illustrious people, wanting to make the evening perfect for her. Just as they'd like to be able to erase my past and mold my future to a beam of perfect light, she thought with amusement. She sighed. Sometimes their dreams were a burden to her. She was so ordinary—couldn't they see it, and leave her to develop as she wished? She wanted only to learn how to draw better so that some day she might be able to assist in the building of theatre sets and costumes. She enjoyed bringing imaginary worlds to life—but she had no special ambitions to become the next Léon Bakst! Galina chewed on her lower lip. At least Natalia is sensible, she thought. She'd like to make my life perfect, but she also knows that it's
my
life, and that there's very little she can do for me. But Pierre ... he thinks that by showing me Paris by night, he will prevent my nightmares from recurring. How can I make him understand that I simply enjoy being with him, learning from him, but that what I saw really happened, and that no paint can cover the dark areas of experience? I can't ever tell him! Unlike Natalia, he believes in magic, in his own magic.

They had placed her there in the most elegant stall with Tamara Karsavina and her husband, Henry Bruce, here for a brief vacation from his diplomatic post in Bulgaria, and with the economist Maynard Keynes, who was in love with Lydia Lopokhova. Those strange Sitwells were there too: Dame Edith, and her brothers, Sir Osbert and Sacheverell. They were all poets, all highly intellectual and erudite; Edith was also a critic, Osbert an essayist, and Sacheverell (Galina could never remember his name) an art critic. Karsavina was Tamara's godmother, Galina knew—and of all these people, she spoke most easily with Galina, and not as though she were a hundred years old. “I remember when your aunt was sixteen,” she said to her. “She appeared in the school production of
The Daughter of Pharaoh
and made such an impression that the Tzarina came to see her, and your uncle, too. That was how they met.”