Encore (8 page)

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.

O
n 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 unknown, 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.

That April there was a school performance of another Fokine production,
Les Gobelins Animés,
in which Natalia danced in a
pas de trois
with another girl and a boy. Then in autumn, she became a professional at last. Now, at seventeen, she experienced a change. Lydia and the other dancers treated her as a peer, and all at once no restrictions existed. She could take a walk without asking permission; she could choose her own clothing. Away from Varvara Ivanovna's influence, she saw that another reality existed outside of dance. She entered it with caution.

Natalia had never taken the time to consider the character of those around her. The governesses and masters at the school had simply been there, to be pleased, avoided, or humored. Katya had been so close to her, expressing each thought and feeling that occurred to her, that it had been unnecessary to wonder about her inner being. Natalia had never thought that by failing to display her own heart she might have been hurting Katya's gentle nature, so trusting and sharing. Lydia had been the mirror image of Natalia herself grown wiser and more cynical, without the driving force and the talent to set her apart. Natalia had lived the most egocentric of lives, yet without the experience to know that she was shutting out others. She had concentrated only on her body.

Now the world began to intrude upon her in numerous ways, and at first she fought its challenges. The first time she danced alone as a member of the Mariinsky, and a group of eager young men in the pit began to clap, she felt jarred. They had intruded into her life: They were no longer part of her anonymous public, but her “claque”; every time she reappeared before them, they cheered her. She realized that she owed them the excellence of her performance, much as a dutiful wife owes her husband her sexual consent. But she was uncertain how to accept this new responsibility, for she had always lived a life devoid of debt: What she had was hers alone, obtained by her own means. “Don't complain,” Lydia told her. “Only the most inspiring dancers have claques. No one has ever noticed me!”

Natalia had thought of herself as a finely tuned instrument, to be kept in shape, but not as a woman with female charms or emotions. Similarly, she had been an avid reader and a good student but had merely considered this a vital necessity: She was a nobody and needed to survive. Her intelligence would get her by where others used their family connections or their social graces. But that she might one day be important to anyone but herself, in anything other than her dancer's role, she had simply not considered. Natalia's shutting out of the world had gone this far: Not wondering about others, she had never thought that others might wonder about her.

She earned sixty-five rubles a month as a member of the
corps
and contributed to the upkeep of the apartment and to the cost of food. Her clothes were simple, for she had no social life during those early working days. She had met other dancers, but their lives seemed far removed from hers, with families and friends she did not know. Lydia, of course, knew a great many people, but her older friends did not know Natalia and had no reason to include her in their reunions. Lydia invited some of her acquaintances to the flat; but when she met them, Natalia remained quiet, listening to this outside world that sounded no gong of recognition in her own experience. “Why do you saddle yourself with little Miss House Mouse?” one of Lydia's friends mischievously asked her one evening. “Are you growing charitable in your old age?”

“She's a great deal more than you think,” Lydia retorted. “Watch her.”

And then, one day in the early part of November, the old nurse greeted Natalia at the door with an ivory-colored envelope bearing her name. The young girl was puzzled. She thought that the handwriting looked familiar: elegant, petulant, vain. She frowned and slit it open, removing a stiff card. “What's a
dîner de têtes?”
she finally asked Lydia.

Her friend was intrigued. “That's something French; it isn't usually done in Russia. It's a dinner where the guests come in fancy headdresses. I suppose the Parisians have them instead of costume balls. For a supper, one could disguise one's head alone, but of course not for a ball: That would look a bit ridiculous, don't you think? Formal gown and strange headdress?”

“It seems I've been invited to one,” Natalia stated evenly. She handed Lydia the card. “At Count Boris Kussov's. What an odd man he is: the pearl necklace, then nothing—and now this. I wonder why he suddenly remembered me?”

“Boris Vassilievitch Kussov does nothing lightly. He is good at recognizing talent. Surely you do not think you will remain in the
corps
for long? Everybody knows you will soon be a soloist. Perhaps our fair count wants to give you a foretaste of the society that a Petersburg ballerina is supposed to keep. But this
dîner de têtes,
now. You will enjoy yourself. Boris Vassilievitch is a magnificent host, and if he has decided that the French have a good thing, then we must believe him. He forecasts trends before they become fashionable. The
dîner de têtes
will be a society staple within the year—mark my words.”

“But I won't go,” Natalia replied lightly. “I am not a commodity, a display piece. I am a dancer.”

“You, my friend, are only a fool,” Lydia said. “A scared fool, too. You must go, and you must look beautiful and be clever. If you're afraid of people, then you must face them squarely and overcome your terror. Human beings eat up those who are frightened of them, and you can't avoid the world forever. A dancer cannot soar above herself if she does not know how she fits into the larger framework. Do not be afraid that those who touch you will automatically violate you: That is emotional frigidity.”

Natalia stared at Lydia, her great brown eyes wide with outrage and panic. She felt as she had after the performance of
The Daughter of Pharaoh,
eighteen months before: like a cornered wild animal. But Lydia shrugged her shoulders and grinned disarmingly. “We must think up a head for you,” she said.

As he had written on his invitation, Boris sent his covered troika to fetch Natalia on the appointed evening. She was sitting stiffly in the small parlor, her young body sheathed in a low-cut crimson gown that revealed the tops of her breasts and her graceful arms. Around her long, slender neck lay the pearl necklace. She had chosen to wear a traditionally Russian headdress, the
kokoshnik:
a diadem of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds worn at the coronations of the Tzars. Lydia had found it at the Jewish market, and of course the stones were clever imitations. The gown had been sewn by the old nurse. Her entire appearance was striking: the pale, smooth skin, the enormous eyes, the gilded headdress on the shining brown hair, the brightness of the cloth over her small shapeliness. She looked at once very young and frozen with apprehension—detached and aloof, regal and imposing.

During the drive over the snow-covered pavement, she did not move. The darkness outside hypnotized her, and the horses' hooves reverberated inside her head. But when the Swiss doorman of the building on the Boulevard of the Horse Guard opened the front door, and when, at the entrance to the huge apartment, she heard the noise of laughter, a shaft of pure pain pierced through her. She had never felt so oddly set apart as now. The door opened, and a servant removed her wrap; she fancied that he disapproved of it, for it was old and out of fashion. At last she stood in the brilliant room.

She stood there for a full minute before she was noticed. Then she saw strange heads turn toward her—Napoleon in his tricornered hat, a bewigged Louis XIV, Mary Stuart. She noticed the room with its intimate silks and velvets, its oil paintings, porcelain vases, and lamps of opaline and jade. It was all a dream. Louis XIV was coming toward her, executing an elaborate bow, and he said in the ironic voice of Count Boris Kussov: “A charming sight. Come,
ma chère,
I shall introduce you.”

There was nothing to say. So many faces thrust at her, so many names—names that all meant something to her. There were singers, actors, painters, statesmen, names from books and periodicals, names whispered in gossip. There were ballerinas present, too, but none with whom she was personally acquainted. She could barely speak, but Boris kept her arm in his, and was murmuring to her, with a certain familiarity that she found puzzling. She did not belong here at all, any more than her mother had belonged in the salon of Baroness Gudrinskaya.

“You see, dear Mala,” a gruff voice said jovially, “our little

dove is in awe of you tonight, but I assure you, one day she will provide you with some interesting challenges.” Beneath the Louis XIII plumes, Natalia saw that the speaker was the Grand-Duke Vladimir, and that the woman he had addressed so lightly was his son Andrei's acknowledged mistress, Matilda Kchessinskaya, the
prima ballerina assoluta
of the Imperial Ballet. Natalia had no idea how to accept this compliment with grace: She wanted to die, and executed a deep curtsy. Then, thankfully, Boris brought her to yet another luminary.

Alone in the corner Pierre Riazhin waited. Tonight he resembled a figure from a painting done by Frans Hals in the seventeenth century. His dark face, with its serious black eyes, seemed
ápropos
beneath the Dutch hat, so large, imposing, and classical. His fingers closed around the thin stem of his champagne glass as he watched Boris and the girl. How proprietary Boris looked. The girl seemed removed, in a stupor. He could well understand. It had taken him two years of exposure to learn how to be clever in society, and as it was, he was most often rude and unable to conform to polite and witty rituals. She was so beautiful, he thought, and something inside him swelled with pain. Pierre suddenly hated the girl for being slim and pale and wide-eyed; he wanted to strangle the life out of her, to obliterate the vulnerability and empathy that she brought to the surface in his own heart.

Boris had brought Natalia before a
zakuski
table set against the wall and laden with hors d'oeuvres: meat-filled pastries, tongue, stuffed mushrooms, caviar, smoked whitefish, and salmon. He heaped a small dish of Sèvres china with various foods and handed it to her. “You see,” he was saying, his smooth tones easing her over the difficult moments, “King Edward charmed the French. Centuries of enmity—blood hatred—were somehow conquered by this English monarch, and if he can do it, so can we! A season of our robust Russian opera. Quite a change from Italian!”