Russian Winter (10 page)
Seated in the drafty booth, Grigori tried to dodge the thought, that same old recollection. Across from him, Zoltan was saying that poetry was one of those paradoxes: “Something seemingly useless that people nevertheless continue to create, unbidden, all the time.”
“Well,” Grigori said, “I’m honored by your proposal. I can’t see why I wouldn’t agree to it.”
Zoltan smiled, clearly pleased. Even now, viewed from a certain angle, one could still find the dandy there, as much as he might blend in with the other dubious characters who whiled their time away at the Dunkin’ Donuts. “Think about it first. Although I do hope you’ll say yes.”
As Grigori stood to button his coat, the bag lady who had been sitting at the table behind Zoltan rose and shuffled past. Beyond her, from its perch on the wall, the television showed a perky dark-haired newscaster going on about some local transportation debate. Then, as if noticing Grigori there, she said brightly, “A famous ballerina, a
jewelry auction, and a mysterious necklace. Join News 4’s own June Hennessey for an exclusive interview with dancer Nina Revskaya. Tonight at six, only on
News 4 New England
.”
Good god, it was inescapable. Grigori found himself avoiding the newscaster’s eyes, even as the image switched to some other announcer and a menacing stream of words moved relentlessly across the bottom of the screen:
Shoe bomber sentenced to life in prison
.
Weapons inspector says Iraq not cooperating
. Grigori pulled his gloves on. “All right, Zoltan, I’m off.”
Hunched over his notebook, Zoltan paused to look up. “Good day to you, Grigori.” Already his gaze had returned to his notes. “To you, too,” Grigori said, and headed out the door.
S
TEPHEN HAD ONE
of those flat-screen televisions Drew had heard about but never seen. Since she possessed no television of her own, she went to his apartment straight from work to watch the Revskaya interview. In exchange she brought with her a bottle of the merlot Stephen liked, which he poured into two enormous wineglasses.
“
Cin cin
,” he said, clinking his glass against hers, his expression one of simple happiness, at having Drew next to him on the sleek gray sofa. Drew felt a pang of guilt, that she could not love this man who wanted to love her.
On the television screen a sixtyish woman in a bright red skirt suit, standing in the News 4 studio, gave a somewhat breathless introduction, speaking directly to the viewer:
Nina Revskaya, the renowned Russian ballerina known as “the Butterfly,” has long been a fixture of awe and inspiration for balletomanes all over the world. A principal dancer with the Bolshoi Ballet, and wife of the populist poet Viktor Elsin, Revskaya became in 1952 the very first
of what, in the decades after her escape from the USSR, was to become a string of Soviet dancers who defected to the West.
A series of photographs briefly flashed: Nureyev, Makarova, Baryshnikov.
Though Revskaya’s brief career with the Paris Opera Ballet was cut short by illness, after teaching in London she ultimately settled in Boston, becoming ballet mistress for the Boston Ballet at its inception in 1963, as well as artistic consultant, a role she held until 1995. She has been known as both a great patron of the arts and as the owner of a formidable jewelry collection.
Now the woman gave a sly little smile as if to say that thank God there was something truly interesting to talk about. On the screen there appeared a photograph from the 1960s or so, of Nina Revskaya wearing a diamond necklace.
New Englanders were awed to see her array of jewels—gifts from friends, fans, government envoys, and famous jewelers themselves—at the St. Botolph’s Club fund-raiser five years ago. Now Beller Auction House is auctioning the collection of over one hundred items, valued at close to one million dollars, with all proceeds going to the Boston Ballet Foundation. Adding to the excitement, last week it was announced that an anonymous donor had reunited a necklace of Baltic amber with a matching bracelet and earrings in Revskaya’s collection. I had the great pleasure of speaking to Nina Revskaya at her Back Bay home about her life and about the mysterious necklace.
The screen shifted now to a prerecorded interview, Nina Revskaya and the woman together on a settee. Drew recognized the Commonwealth Avenue apartment and the displeased look on Nina Revskaya’s face. At the same time, she felt the keen curiosity that overtook her whenever she came upon celebrity interviews in magazines or the newspaper—the way she landed avidly upon this random fact and that odd aside, as if such minor confessions might somehow hand her the key to another person’s life. It was as much a search for clues, she knew, as her research for Beller—to glimpse how someone else had forged a life, what someone else had managed to carve out of this world. Really, Drew supposed, all that she read and researched, even her work for the Revskaya auction, fed that more general quest: for how to live, how to be.
“This auction, to benefit the Boston Ballet, is extremely generous of you,” the News 4 woman began. “The arts are so underfunded. It must make a substantial difference in the dance world to have your generous support.”
“That is my hope.” Nina Revskaya seemed to be looking away.
The News 4 woman continued unfazed, admirably relaxed, as if she chatted on this settee all the time. “Now, many of these absolutely gorgeous gems were gifts from jewelers and admirers after your arrival in Paris and then London. But I think our readers will be interested to hear that a few of them came with you all the way from Russia.”
Jaw tight, Nina Revskaya said, “Yes, some of them are very particular of Russia.”
“She’s not going to make this any easier for her than for me,” Drew told Stephen.
The News 4 woman nodded encouragingly. “It seems to me that in a way the value of these jewels is symbolic. They’re beautiful artistic creations that survived an authoritarian regime in the same way that you, a beautiful and talented artist, ultimately escaped oppression.”
“Please understand,” Nina Revskaya said, looking peeved, “we all were in danger, everyone, all of the time, not only artists like myself. That was the world where we lived. Anyone could turn in anyone else, for any thing. Small things. Owning more than one’s neighbor. Speaking the wrong thing, telling the wrong joke. You must understand how common these arrests were. It was impossible
not
to know someone who was arrested.”
“Horrible, horrible!”
“Jesus Christ,” Stephen said.
Nina Revskaya said, “It was a method for the government to warn us, you see, to make sure we behave.”
“Thank goodness you got out of there!” The News 4 woman shook her head, her gold-tinted hair barely moving. “I think our viewers will agree that the jewelry that came with you represents, in a very moving way, that tragic past.”
“Tragic, yes. For millions of citizens.”
“The amber in particular is symbolic, in that amber literally captures and holds moments of the past. In its resin, I mean. Because the little insects and things that are caught in it are extremely old, aren’t they? In that way these amber pieces are more than just gorgeous; they offer a glimpse into the past.”
“I suppose.”
“Do you have any idea who the mystery person is who owns the necklace that matches your own set?”
Drew felt herself leaning toward the television, as if about to be handed something new. All Nina Revskaya said was, “It could be from anywhere.”
“Who’s that?” Stephen asked, with a small laugh, pointing.
“Who?”
“There’s someone in the back corner there, see? Just an arm, but—”
“Where? Oh, I see.” In the shadow of the screen’s periphery an
arm, clad in purple, was becoming just barely noticeable, someone leaning slowly in.
“But isn’t it surprising,” the News 4 woman asked, “that the matching pendant would also be here in the United States, and not back in Russia?”
At the edge of the screen, the entire side of a woman’s body, in slacks and a purple sweater, was now discernible, loitering at the rear of the room. As Nina Revskaya spoke, the person, a slim black woman, leaned more fully in, then looked straight at the camera and, for a split second, gave a smiling wave before quickly pulling herself out of the camera’s view.
“You mentioned theft,” the News 4 woman was saying. “Do you think the pendant was stolen?”
“It is very probable,” Nina Revskaya said primly. “The bracelet and earrings were handed down, you see, to me through my husband. They belonged to his family, but in the civil war many of their valuables were lost.”
“Oh, now you tell me,” Drew said. If the jewels had been handed down through Revskaya’s husband’s family, their names might be recorded in the jeweler’s ledger books. Why hadn’t she said so before? Drew would have to call her tomorrow morning, or go there, have Nina Revskaya spell out her husband’s relatives’ names in Cyrillic, as far back in his ancestry as possible—in case Drew ever did manage to track down those records. To Stephen she said, “This woman is going to drive me crazy.”
“Now, now.” Stephen jokingly patted Drew on the shoulder—but quickly withdrew his hand, to show he understood the rules of their relationship. Again Drew felt her heart drop. If there were some sort of spark, she might at least try; but then there would just be more potential to hurt him. She simply could not imagine feeling about Stephen the way she would have liked to feel, that ideal that had been her undoing: true partners in love and life. Otherwise she might as
well have remained in her marriage with Eric, just two people living in tandem.
She still recalled, palpably, the uncomfortable feeling of growing past him, and the moment when it had seemed there was no way back. It began with her first truly good job, one that paid, in the design department of a national insurance company; Drew was an assistant to the man who assessed and recommended art purchases for the company’s many business properties. The man, Roger, was an older gentleman, soft-spoken and kind, probably gay although he made a point, in a somewhat strained way, never to mention his personal life. What mattered was that he liked Drew and took her with him on his many buying trips—not just to antiques dealers on Eleventh Street, or to auctions outside the city, but abroad, to sales in London, to Athens and Paris, to Bolivia and Turkey and Morocco. This was in 1996; the company was happy to pay. Drew had found herself emboldened, thought nothing of wandering alone through markets where voices chattered words that to her ears were little more than music. She bargained in pantomime, in high school French and guidebook Greek and
Sesame Street
Spanish, and felt the small, bright thrill of those minor accomplishments.
She took Eric with her on one of her trips, for a long weekend in London after her two days of work. On their first morning together, they went to take the Tube to Bloomsbury, and just as they descended the steps toward the platform, a train’s doors slid open. Drew said, “This is the one we want!” and swiftly stepped onto the subway car, but Eric paused, asked, “Are you sure?”—and the doors slid shut. Amid the crush of passengers, Drew mouthed to Eric through the window the name of the subway stop where she would wait for him. But as the train pulled quietly away, she could not help but feel that something irreparable had happened.
Pushing the memory away, Drew found herself again on Stephen’s sofa, in front of the enormous television screen. “I was
looking through our archives,” the News 4 woman was saying, “to find photographs of the amber bracelet and earrings, but I couldn’t find any of you wearing them. I did find a number of amazing pictures, though—the one of you and Jackie Onassis made my day!”
When Nina Revskaya showed no reaction, the woman said, “I would have loved to see a picture of you wearing those gorgeous amber earrings.”
“They did not suit me.”
“The color, you mean? Amber?”
“Big beads need a broad face, and height, too. Otherwise they weigh you down. No, they were not for me.”
W
INTER’S GRIP, THE
quivering gray mornings, perpetual dusk. Sometimes the Bolshoi tries to save money by not heating during the day; Nina rehearses in woolen tights and long knit sweaters and layers of leg warmers that make her thighs feel thick. Before performing, she soaks her feet in hot water. She still hasn’t heard from the man named Viktor, though for a week now she has anticipated another meeting. Painted her nails a color called Pearl, and patched the soles of her good shoes. She even managed to find a nice rayon dress at a commission shop. Now she is in the little dressing room, scraping away some of the leather from the bottom of her toe shoes, to help keep them from slipping. Each time she pulls the rasp across the bottom, she tells herself not to think of Viktor. She must focus, prepare herself: tonight is
Sleeping Beauty
, and she is dancing the Lilac Fairy.
At the dressing table next to hers, Polina, who will be playing the Diamond Fairy, is gluing on false eyelashes, saying that she is in love.
“With Arkady Lowny?” Nina hears how incredulous she sounds. Really she sees this sort of thing often enough, dancers making as many Party “friends” as possible. It is a way to work one’s way up the
ranks regardless of actual talent. Not that Polina isn’t talented. But she lacks that most elusive quality, the one that no amount of practice or training can guarantee: charisma, stage presence, the allure of a true star. Perhaps it is lack of confidence. There is something brittle about Polina, too studied, not quite natural, despite her long strong legs and perfect attitudes. She dances with her muscles but not her heart.
“No, not Arkady,” Polina whispers. “His
friend
.” Eyes open wide, only one of them lined with the feathery lashes, so that the other eye looks smaller and oddly beady. Like Nina she has already made up her face, so that her skin looks brightly false. “Oleg. He’s a department chief at the Ministry of Trade.” Polina always has a worshipful tone when she mentions people in government. She turns back to her mirror and dreamily applies the second strip of lashes, her smile small as if concealing mischief. “Arkady took me to dinner at the Riga, and this friend, Oleg, was there. He’s so charming, Nina! He looked at me across the table in this way, I can’t explain it except to say I just
knew
.”
