Expiration Date

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  Vladimir couldn’t help but think that Sergei, whose proclivities were well known amongst the dancers, enjoyed arranging these meetings. Perhaps it satisfied some voyeuristic urge of the manager. Sergei had never made a pass at him, but, naïve or not, Vladimir was well aware of the way that Sergei looked at him from time to time.

  “Sergei, you know that things have changed for me. I am not interested in being some noble woman’s plaything.”

  Sergei smile was filled with genuine affection. “Ah, young love. It fills my heart with joy to see a young man’s heart so filled with fidelity and love. Don’t worry, Vladimir, your pretty little Nikkita has nothing to worry about. This noble woman is not like anyone you have met before.”

  He didn’t give Vladimir a chance to argue, but pulled him through into one of the antechambers that led off from the backstage area. As they entered, a young woman looked up from the leather bound book she was reading, and Vladimir froze. Sergei had been telling the truth, she was nothing like any of the middle aged matrons who normally congregated at the ballet, elaborately made up and with diamonds encrusting bosoms that preceded them everywhere they went like the prow of a battleship.

  In contrast, she was dressed simply, even austerely, in a plain white dress that flowed from the tightly fastened neck in shimmering waves to her feet. Her raven hair was pulled back severely from her forehead, and not a trace of makeup despoiled her pale, white skin. The absence of color only served to draw more attention to her eyes, which were an incredibly vivid and luminous shade of green that seemed to flicker with their own light as they looked deeply into Vladimir’s own.

  Sergei drew himself up proudly, as if he had invented this vision himself.

  “Vladimir Ivanovich Zeglovsky, may I present Her Illustriousness, the Countess Svetlana.”

  Without a word, she extended a hand for Vladimir to kiss. It was as cold as ice beneath his lips and he had to force himself not to flinch.

  “Leave us.” Her voice betrayed no emotion, but Sergei scuttled out of the room backwards, bowing obsequiously, as if she had screamed at him.

  Vladimir was used to being at ease in any situation, fully in control of a body that had been melded by years of training and practise into a flawless tool. But, as she regarded him with those eyes, he felt himself shifting from foot to foot as if he was a clumsy peasant oaf straight off the estates. The silence stretched on long enough that he could take it no longer, forcing him to speak, heedless of the protocol of waiting for her to address him first.

  “How can I help your — uh — Your Illustriousness?” he asked.

  “I watched you dance tonight.” Her tone was still absent of any emotion, leaving Vladimir helpless to discern her opinion of his performance.

  “I hope that it pleased Your Illustriousness?”

  Now an emotion entered her voice and after a moment he identified it as wonder.

  “It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I have seen so many wonders, wonders that you could not dream of, but never before has something spoken to me like the way you moved, the way that you and the music were one.”

  Vladimir was used to praise, but he was taken aback by the fervor in her voice and eyes.

  “Your Illustriousness is too kind.”

  She ignored his attempt at modesty, and placed her hands on either side of Vladimir’s face. He gasped, not at the shocking intimacy of the gesture, but at the tendrils of ice that burrowed their way through his veins.

  “Talent such as yours should not leave the world.” Her words had a solemn intensity as if she was handing down some terrible judgment, and darkness seemed to fill the room. “I say you shall not die.”

  Vladimir staggered back, drawing in shallow hitching breaths. The moment passed, and once again mellow lamplight illuminated the surroundings.

  He attempted to make sense of what had just happened. Had he imagined the ice and darkness? Had he had one of the spells he had heard Vaslav was subject to? He straightened up, and blanched. The room was empty, and no trace of the Countess remained.

  * * *

  Seven years passed, and the recollection of that strange encounter had long since faded from Vladimir’s memory, and if he recalled Svetlana’s cryptic words, it was only as the wish that his fame would live on once he was gone, something that every dancer desired. If sometimes he woke in the middle of the night icy cold regardless of how warm his small apartment was and with the memory of a pair of green eyes peering into his own, then that was between him and his conscience and the glass of vodka he kept beside his bed. It certainly was nothing to trouble Nikkita with, especially not in her delicate condition.

  Life had been very good to the Zeglovskys. Upon his return to the Motherland, Vladimir had been offered a prestigious position with the Imperial Ballet in Petrograd. Now he was able to teach, and to compose his own works, but still his passion remained with the dance itself.

  Even though the Imperial title had been stripped from the academy when the Tsar abdicated, culture was too important to Russians to see it discontinued. In fact, one of the local government ministers, Anatoly Maklalov, had taken a special interest in the ballet, and in the Zeglovskys. Anxious to promote his image as a friend of the arts, Maklalov made sure that the Zeglovskys were well looked after — as much as anyone could be amidst the turmoil — and they ate well. It was Maklalov that they could thank for the meal they were sitting down to when there was a hammering at the door.

  Vladimir could see the fear in Nikkita’s eyes, and he gave her a reassuring smile.

  “Don’t worry, milaya. It is probably just one of the students, panicking about his upcoming examination.”

  He wondered if she believed him. He just wished he could believe it himself.

  Petrograd was a city waiting for a spark to set it on fire, and each night there were clashes between Mensheviks and Socialist Revolutionaries on one side, and the Bolsheviks on the other. There were rumors of people disappearing in the night, just like in the days of the Okhrana. Vladimir worried that his position could only protect them for so long before they too were sucked into the maelstrom.

  He opened the door a crack, wedging his foot underneath in the hope it might stop anyone from barging in. A vain hope, perhaps, but better than nothing.

  “For God’s sake, Vladimir, let me in!”

  It was Maklalov! Shocked, Vladimir removed his foot, and Maklalov nearly fell through the door. He looked a far cry from his usual urbane self. His face was dirty and his expensive suit ripped and torn. Beneath his tousled hair, his eyes were wide and staring.

  He clutched at Vladimir’s arm. “You must help me. Please, hide me!”

  “What’s going on, Anatoly?” Vladimir asked, fear rising within him. “What happened to you?”

  Without asking, the official sat down at the table and grabbed a glass of vodka, draining it without coming up for air.

  “It’s those Bolshevik scum. They have betrayed us. The rabble they call their ‘Red Army’ are marching through the city as we speak.” Maklalov let out a stifled sob. “They are executing government officials, and I know that I am on their list. You have to hide me!”

  Vladimir was torn. “Anatoly, I want to help you, you have been a good friend. But I have to think about my family. Nikkita is carrying my child; I can’t risk anything happening to her. I’m sorry, I truly am, but you have to leave.”

  Maklalov rose unsteadily to his feet and it was obvious to Vladimir that this had not been his first glass of vodka. His face was red with fury. “You ungrateful bastard! After all I did for you, and you would throw me to the mercy of those thugs!”

  As Vladimir opened his mouth to retort, several things happened at once. There was a crash as the door flew inward and three men rushed into the room. Two of them were hired muscle, big misshapen men with puffy features and broad shoulders, but it was the smaller man in th
e middle who caught Vladimir’s eye. He had pinched rat-like features and bad teeth, and lank greasy hair combed back from a pocked and scarred forehead.

  With a speed that surprised Vladimir, Maklalov knocked over the table and grabbed Nikkita by the arm, cruelly twisting it behind her back as he pulled her in front of him. She was too terrified to even scream, paralysed with fear. A stiletto had somehow appeared in Maklalov’s hand and was pressed against the soft flesh of her throat, and Nikkita moaned softly as a drop of blood bloomed from her delicate flesh.

  “Nobody move!” Maklalov’s voice was hoarse, quivering with strong emotion.

  “Please, Anatoly, don’t hurt her!” Vladimir pleaded.

  The rat-faced man stepped forward, an ugly gun clenched in his fist, identical to the ones his companions carried.

  “Anatoly Yevseevich Maklalov, you stand accused of crimes against the Russian people. By order of the Bolshevik Central Committee you are hereby sentenced to execution, sentence to be carried out immediately.”

  “I’ll kill her! I swear it!” Maklalov yelled. Nikkita found the strength to scream and struggle against his grip.

  “Those who harbor enemies of the state are themselves traitors to the Motherland,” the rat-faced man pronounced solemnly.

  He pulled the trigger, the gun roaring as blood blossomed from Nikkita’s dress, beneath which their unborn child lay. He fired again, the guns of his companions joining the terrible chorus as Nikkita and Maklalov collapsed to the ground like marionettes whose strings had suddenly been cut.

  “No!” Vladimir screamed, running to his wife’s side. He fell to his knees and cradled her in his arms, desperately seeking some sign of life. Fire lanced through his scalp as one of the men seized his hair and rammed the barrel of a gun against his temple. Thunder roared, and then there was nothing.

  * * *

  Vladimir slowly opened his eyes, wincing as pain stabbed through his head. His mouth tasted foul, and a rank odor filled the room. He turned his head and spat, then sat up.

  “Nikkita! The latrines have backed up again. Go down and tell the landlord we are not paying our rent until he fixes the problem.” There was no answer. “Nikkita?

  He started, now fully awake, the events of last night rushing back.

  “No, no, no…” he moaned.

  He stood and looked around. The source of the smell was now apparent, flies buzzing around the bodies of Nikkita and Maklalov, pools of blood and other less wholesome fluids seeping into the carpet. Another memory struck him with merciless force, the gun against his temple, and he raised his hand to his head. He touched the wound, but even as he probed it, he could feel it closing up. Something hard pushed against his hand, and he plucked it free, gazing down at his palm in horrified wonder. He held a misshapen piece of lead surrounded by chunks of his brain.

  As if the speaker was in the room, words filled his mind.

  “I say you shall not die.”

  “No! Without her I do not want to live!” he screamed into the empty room.

  There was no reply, only the sound of his sobs as he collapsed to his knees.

  * * *

  Vladimir leaned against the mirror and watched his young class working through the exercises he had given them. His head was still pounding from the friendly drinks of the night before, and he winced as one of the boys lost his balance and fell, sending several of the girls tumbling, yelling and shrieking to the floor. That was it, he’d had enough.

  “No, no, no!” he yelled. “This is not right. Get out of here. Out! Now!”

  The children scattered in all directions, then ran for the door. Cursing under his breath, Vladimir looked longingly at his desk, thinking about the bottle of cheap vodka in the drawer. Instead, he walked over to the mirror. Despite the years, he still looked like the young dancer who had entranced Paris.

  Slowly he began to move through the forms that his students had found so hard, gradually speeding up as he became lost in the joy of the dance. He spun and leapt, feeling the dark memories slip away, the only thing that mattered the here and now.

  “Vladimir! Where are your students? The rent does not pay itself!”

  He stumbled and almost fell, turning to face the voice. It should have been ridiculous, hearing such matronly scolding coming from the slight young woman standing in the doorway. Somehow, though, she always managed to cow him, making him again like a child.

  “I’m sick, Tatiana, I sent them home.”

  She scowled at him. “Sick? You mean hung over! What will their parents say? You aren’t the only ballet instructor in Munich, you know.”

  “Perhaps not, but I am the only one who studied at the Imperial Ballet, or toured with the Ballets russes. Those snobs want only the best for their darlings and will put up with anything just to say that they have a teacher from Mother Russia. The children will be back tomorrow.”

  It was true. The white émigré community in Munich was smaller than that of Berlin, but no less determined to preserve their heritage. They stuck together and observed all the customs and traditions of the home country, and would stop at nothing in their quest to create a Russia-in-Exile against the inevitable day when the Communists would fall.

  Tatiana was too pragmatic to argue with him. Instead she grabbed his hat and coat and thrust them at him.

  He looked at them, baffled. “What’s this for?”

  “We are going to buy some food. If you’d bothered to check you would have seen that the larder was bare.” She cut off his protests. “You are coming, and that is final.”

  Grumbling, he followed down the narrow stairs and out into the busy streets. His anger was all show. He was well aware how lucky he had been to acquire Tatiana as a housekeeper. She made sure he had food and clean clothes, and even tallied the takings, meagre as they were, of his ballet school. Occasionally, she would give him a look or some other sign that she might be interested in being more than his housekeeper, which he studiously ignored by pretending to be oblivious. He was fond of the girl, but his heart was still in Petrograd.

  It had been almost ten years since he had awoken to find the body of his dead wife, but even now the painful memories still seemed fresh. For months afterwards, he had simply wandered across Europe, lost and aimless, unable to find a reason to live. Countless times he had tried to end his life, only to find that death refused to take him. Poison, bullets, knives, they could all wound him and cause him pain, but none could end his suffering.

  Starving and desperate, it had been through sheer luck that he had discovered the thirst for culture amongst the white émigrés and ever since then he had managed to eke out a reasonable living. His association with the great ballet schools had given him a degree of prestige amongst the exiles, and their money allowed him a lifestyle that, while nothing like that of Petrograd, many would be envious of. As much as he could be, he was content in Munich.

  “Vladimir, are you alright?” There was concern in Tatiana’s voice.

  “What? Oh, I am sorry, I must have been daydreaming.”

  “I think we have a problem.”

  He followed her gaze to the end of the street. There, marching in unison and directly towards them, was a large group of brown-shirted men. They had the look of veterans about them, eyes cold and bitter, mouths drawn.

  “Sturmabteilung!” Vladimir spat.

  The Brownshirts had become a common sight on the streets of Munich, acting as muscle for the up-and-coming Nazi Party, protecting their political meetings from interference and engaging in pitched street battles with anyone who opposed their aims, whether it was socialists, communists or the authorities themselves.

  All around them street vendors were hurriedly packing up their wares and trying to get off the street. That seemed a great idea to Vladimir, and he grabbed Tatiana’s arm and began to drag her back the way they had come. As he turned, he froze, and
began to recite half forgotten prayers from his youth. Coming from the opposite direction was another group of men. They had the same hard faces and marks of violence, but instead of brown shirts they were dressed in worker’s garb as if they had come straight from the docks or warehouses. Above their heads waved a red flag, whipping in the wind.

  “Oh no!” Vladimir whispered. Caught between the communists and the fascists was definitely not a safe place to be.

  He was not the only one to realize this, and panic engulfed the street. Sellers and pedlars ran aimlessly, only succeeding in adding to the confusion. Vladimir and Tatiana were buffeted this way and that, and he had to struggle to keep hold of her arm. As the two groups of political thugs caught sight of each other, a guttural roar rose in the air as if some huge beast was stirring from its slumber. With cries of “Deutschland erwacht!” and “Workers Unite!” they charged at each other and all hell broke loose.

  In the crush of bodies, he lost his grip on Tatiana’s arm and she was swept into the crowd. Frantically he tried to fight his way through to her. “Tatiana, Tatiana!” he called urgently.

  He could see her, only yards between them, but it may as well have been miles. Their eyes met, and he saw the panic in her gaze, and then she stumbled and fell and was gone, trampled under the feet of the panicked mob. With a strength he didn’t know he had, Vladimir managed to force his way to her, but it was too late. Tatiana lay crumpled on the ground, her graceful neck bent at an impossible angle, her eyes lifeless and dull. Ignoring the chaos around him, he reached down and closed them.

  “I am sorry, Tatiana, I wish I could have been what you wanted.”

  By now the two factions had met and the bodies surrounding him were no longer merchants and bystanders, but the opposing political thugs he had been bent on escaping. Instead of trying to clear the street, they were trying to kill each other. Vladimir thought quickly: perhaps they were so intent on one another that he could sneak away without being noticed. Furtively, he crept towards the mouth of an alleyway, weaving through knots of brawling men.