Russian Winter

by Daphne Kalotay

  Note: For a similar example signed by Eugène Feuillâtre and auctioned in these rooms, see Fine Jewelry, Beller Galleries, Auction 1462, lot 326, Sept. 1990

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the wee hours of Monday morning, the blizzard that had been making its way across the country blew into the Commonwealth. White tufts fell in great busy swirls, a big billowing curtain of lace; by Tuesday the storm had been declared Boston’s largest on record. Grigori arrived at the department later than usual, hindered, like everyone, by the snowdrifts everywhere.

  He had not spoken to Evelyn since their date on Friday. Sitting at his desk, attempting to read the newspaper he had bought at the CVS (since his copy of the Globe must have landed in a snowbank), he found himself trying, yet again, to convince himself that everything was fine, that he was simply unaccustomed to this thing called dating, this strange thing called a date, and with Evelyn, of all people. But then he would recall the awkward moment when he at last said good night—and Evelyn bowing her head as she closed the door, as if in acknowledgment of their folly.

  From the ballet they had walked to the lounge at the Four Seasons, where Grigori, more anxious than he had expected, must have drunk too much. All the while he told himself his unease wasn’t anything about Evelyn; it was from running into Drew Brooks. How awkward that had been, there in the theater lobby. Still feeling agitated as he huddled with Evelyn in a niche by the window, he drank too many whiskeys, and when toward midnight he walked Evelyn from the T to her apartment, taking her arm to make sure she didn’t slip on the ice, and she asked if he would like to come in for a cup of tea, it hadn’t occurred to him not to.

  She was wearing that skirt with the slit at the side. It wasn’t the first time Grigori had seen the skirt on her, but only in the niche at the Four Seasons had he noticed the way that a sliver of Evelyn’s thigh peeked out at him. When, in her apartment, next to Grigori on her leather sofa, Evelyn placed her hand on his elbow, Grigori had looked shyly down, and his gaze landed on the skirt’s slit. Though he quickly looked up again, it was too late, Evelyn’s eyes had followed his. She kissed him then, as Grigori’s thoughts rushed forward, the awareness that he was kissing someone, someone who wasn’t Christine, and that this was what people called “moving on,” this feeling of surprised curiosity—and then Evelyn was asking, “Is it all right?” and Grigori had to acknowledge that, without meaning to, he had pulled away.

  He ought to have understood at that point: these situations were delicate and could not be rushed. Instead, flustered, he had mumbled an apology and tried to kiss her one more time, to prove that it was all right. But when she responded, he became suddenly daunted, and Evelyn, clearly sensing his hesitation, said with great generosity, “We can take things slow.” Her hair had become disheveled. Grigori was dismayed by his behavior.

  And to think that none of this would have happened, he told himself now (giving up on the newspaper), if he hadn’t run into Drew Brooks. Then Grigori might not have felt so anxious, and drunk all that Bushmills. Or if he and Drew had at least come up ahead of time with some basic statement to explain their acquaintance…Grigori wouldn’t have worried, then, that he might have to make up some small lie to tell Evelyn, in order not to have to share anything about the auction house, or the pendant, with her. That was the core of the problem, Grigori realized, suddenly and quite clearly, with his feelings about Evelyn. He could not imagine telling her his secrets.

  Well, these things take time, he told himself, placing the newspaper in the bin for recycling. He peeked out into the hallway. Evelyn’s door was closed; she hadn’t come in yet. Grigori felt a small pang of some emotion he could not quite name, and went back to his desk to retrieve his telephone messages. There was only one. Everyone used e-mail instead these days.

  The message was from Drew Brooks.

  “I just wanted to let you know,” came the self-assured voice, “that we have the official lab results back, and the necklace is indeed genuine Baltic amber.”

  Relief washed over Grigori. But then of course Drew Brooks added that she had “another question” for him, “if you could call me back at your earliest convenience.”

  So much for relief. Frowning, Grigori took up the telephone, to dial the auction house. Another woman’s voice, coming from the hallway, caused him to pause, his heart racing. But, no, it wasn’t Evelyn. It was just Carla talking to Dave.

  Stop being so antsy, Grigori scolded himself. It would all be fine. He and Evelyn were two mature adults, there was no reason they could not pull this off. Yet all at once it seemed too difficult—how to face her, what to say. After a moment’s contemplation, Grigori put on his coat and headed out to the snow-beached avenue, to board the B train to Back Bay.

  SCENT OF AUTUMN, of mud and first frosts and wood-smoky air. The Bolshoi until midnight, and late meals at the Aurora: salt fish, thick slices of salami with garlic…The Fountain of Bakhchisarai—with Nina as Zarema and Vera as Maria—is a grand spectacle as usual, with its exotic costumes and Tartar hordes. The new piece, The Bronze Horseman, is more serious, about the necessary sacrifice of the individual for the greater good of one’s country.

  Gersh too has new work performed that autumn, 1949. A sonata for cello—the gorgeous, aching sound of yearning. To Nina, the music conveys something about Gersh himself, the depth of mystery and tenderness she has always sensed hidden in him, despite his brazen talk. The following week, reading Pravda, Viktor shakes his head.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, this critic. His review of Gersh’s piece.”

  “May I see?”

  Quietly, under his breath, he says, “Opportunism. That’s all it is.” He hands Nina the newspaper.

  The article is more of an essay than a review, an argument for the qualities that Soviet music ought to display—and the many ways that Gersh’s piece has failed. Deeply marred by the influence of bourgeois decadence, completely devoid of social context, this new work is a disturbing testament to its composer’s servility to the West.

  Gersh the reviewer calls an “anti-patriot” and, farther down, that other word, the one heard more and more these days. There’s even a little ditty about it going around—quietly, sardonically:

  If you don’t want to be known as an anti-Semite

  Be sure to call a kike “cosmopolite.”

  Probably Nina shouldn’t be surprised by this review, after so many similar articles. Plus there was that long, stern editorial in Kultura i Zhizn…But the fact of it glares at her: Gersh has been singled out. It’s official, in print—no question, now, as to how others are to view him. Yet Nina says, “I don’t understand.” Because despite all these things the reviewer states about Gersh’s piece, its many faults, all that Nina heard was beautiful music.

  Viktor says, “One is entitled to one’s opinion, of course.”

  Nina feels a sudden, fleeting fear, of what this might mean for Viktor, and for his friendship with Gersh. The two of them have known each other for nearly a decade. Nina knows well how much Viktor values Gersh: his wit and intelligence, his boldness. He is Viktor’s most outspoken friend, and Nina suspects that irreverence is part of what draws Viktor to him, those qualities he wishes he too possessed. She senses, too, Viktor’s genuine appreciation of Gersh’s music, a respect unhampered by any competition or envy, as he might feel with fellow writers.

  Perhaps there is something they ought to be doing for Gersh. Sometimes support from someone respected can make a difference: decrees are rewritten, verdicts reversed. Other times, though…you might as well dig your own grave. Nina folds the newspaper in half, as if to silence the journalist’s complaints.

  When she enters their little dressing room the following evening, she can see that Vera has been crying.

  “It’s Gersh,” Vera says tearfully, and Nina supposes Vera too has read the Pravda review. She spends much of her free time with Gersh these days, and it’s no secret to Nina how strong Vera’s feelings are. Sitting by his side at the co
ncert, she even looked nervous for him despite her usual cool veneer. Afterward her face glowed at such applause—the crowd clapping in unison, insistent even after Gersh had taken multiple bows, so that he had to go onstage again and accept more flowers.

  “I telephoned him yesterday afternoon after rehearsal ended early to ask if I could stop by. When I got there, he acted so happy to see me—but then what does he have to say? ‘You know, you should try to give me more warning before you come over. What if I had a girl here? What am I to do with her when you turn up?’”

  “He’s teasing, Verochka.”

  “I know.” She shakes her head. “It’s not the first time he’s done it. I try to go along with him. I just said, ‘You mean you don’t have a girl here now?’ He said, ‘She’s hiding in the cupboard, poor thing. See what you’ve done?’” Vera gives a tired laugh. “I’m stupid to cry about it, I know. But I keep thinking he’ll stop. It’s hard, trying to act like I don’t care. Really it hurts me.”

  “Of course it does. I don’t know why he has to act like that.” But as she says it, Nina is recalling how Viktor first referred to him, “a ladies’ man.” Maybe it has to do with pride, with his old sense of himself as free and unattached. Maybe that’s why he acts as though Vera has no special claim to his affection—in order to retain some former notion of himself. Really anyone who has even glimpsed him with Vera these past two months can see he is hopelessly in love.

  “Why do you think he does it?” Nina asks.

  Vera says, “Fear. I think that talking like that convinces him he won’t be trapped by love.”

  “Right.” Nina too senses fear there, despite Gersh’s seeming confidence. What she doesn’t say is what Vera herself must surely sense: that it isn’t love, or being trapped by love, that he is afraid of.

  THAT DECEMBER IS Stalin’s seventieth birthday, with all kinds of celebrations. As part of the festivities Mao Tse-tung makes a visit; to mark the occasion, the Bolshoi has prepared a special revival of The Red Poppy, about Tao-Hoa, the Chinese teahouse dancer who gives up her life to save the Soviet captain. Vera says the Bolshoi production is much more lavish than the Kirov’s.

  The city has been thoroughly done up for the festivities, the buildings decorated with red flags and banners, and platforms set up in the squares for dancing. An enormous floodlit portrait of Stalin, held aloft by big blimp-shaped military balloons, floats above the Kremlin, shedding its light on the streets below. When Nina and Vera join Viktor and Gersh after their performance, music is blaring from the loudspeakers in Manezhnaya Square, and all around them people are dancing, many women together, and separate groups of men. Viktor and Gersh look dapper in their dark hats, and Nina feels suddenly joyous—the crisp air against her face, and her love for Viktor so full, it may as well be the sky. Viktor’s and Gersh’s cheeks and noses are rosy from the cold, or perhaps from drink, or from dancing.

  “Don’t I get a dance?”

  Zoya, in her curly goatskin coat. Nina watches, wondering, as Gersh gives an awkward hello. Though she doesn’t seem surprised to find him with Vera, Zoya does look a bit hurt, eyes slightly downcast as she bats her curled lashes. Nina momentarily feels for her, that she is not too proud to reveal her feelings. And that unlike so many people, she is not one to pretend—now that Gersh is in disfavor—to no longer know him.

  When Nina asks how she is enjoying the celebration, Zoya’s face lights up. “Oh, it’s all so wonderful! Did you hear his speech?” She looks truly moved, beautiful, even, her eyes sparkling. Nina almost understands when Gersh says, “Here, noodle, join us!” That flash of attraction again, in Zoya’s face, as Gersh takes her hand. But now he lets go and begins a silly dance, kicking out his legs as if about to do the kazachok. He is this way often these days, joking, frantic.

  Vera’s expression is aloof. “I don’t understand,” Nina says under her breath to Viktor. “Zoya and Gersh.”

  “I suppose she still has her sights set on him,” Viktor says, “though surely she can see it’s a lost cause.” A drunk man goes careening by, knocking into them. To Zoya, Viktor says, “Please, may I have this dance?” She smiles gratefully as he whisks her away.

  They look quite cute together, Nina has to admit. She wonders about Zoya, if Gersh truly has, or had, feelings for her, or if she is some kind of cover for what he really feels. For now, though, he and Vera are together, dancing close, quietly, their faces serious, as though something important has been discussed.

  When the song ends, Viktor thanks Zoya for the dance, and Zoya explains that she must run off; actually, she is meeting some comrades at the other side of the square. Despite everything, Nina can’t help but admire her pluck.

  A new song has begun, and Viktor reaches out for Nina. The music chimes as they begin to dance, as he and Gersh spin Nina and Vera between them. Nina feels her coat whirling around her calves, her head tossed back, laughing, as she and Vera are passed back and forth, one and then the other.

  DREW BROOKS WAS there at the auction house, talking to another woman by the front desk. Something unaware about her, the way she carried herself, leaning with her back against the counter, in a green dress. With a light nod she led Grigori into a little room almost like a closet, with a small round table and two plastic chairs.

  “I’m sorry to have rushed away the other night,” Grigori told her, taking a seat, having thanked her for her telephone message. “It’s just that my friend doesn’t know that I’ve brought anything here. Nobody knows. If it should happen again—”

  “I’ll just say I approached you about clarifying a Russian document someone brought to us. How’s that?”

  He considered. “That works.”

  “It actually relates to my question. You said that you teach Russian.”

  “I do.”

  “You know I’ve been trying to find out more about the origins of the amber suite. Trying to see how far back I can trace each of the pieces. It’s possible I might be able to go all the way back to whoever they were originally intended for—if it was anyone specific. It’s quite a challenge, and I haven’t been able to get much of anywhere yet, but most famous makers kept ledgers where they listed everything they produced, as well as the buyers. Lenore doesn’t seem to think we’ll have much luck finding anything for the amber, but who knows? The Boston Public Library is good at requesting this type of information, and with so many archives online, I’m thinking we might be able to find something.”

  “Really?” Grigori heard the eagerness in his voice.

  “The thing is, if I’m ever able to find anything, I’m assuming it’s going to be written in Russian. In which case, perhaps you might be able to help me.”

  “Certainly.” To think that there might really be some sort of confirmation…

  “I wish I could read it myself.” Drew gave a little smiling shake of her head. “That Russian class I took was so awful!” She laughed. “What I really wanted to learn was Finnish. Even though my mother was born in Finland, she grew up here, and…I just feel sad not knowing the language. But of course it’s impossible to find a Finnish class, because what use is it to know Finnish? Anyway, when I couldn’t find a Finnish course, I took Russian instead, since my mother’s father was Russian. But I’m basically no good with languages.”

  “Many people aren’t.”

  Her eyebrows lifting, Drew said, “The teacher said I was useless.”

  “I can’t imagine a teacher saying that.”

  “Well, what she actually said was that ‘it’ was useless. There was no point in my continuing in her class, because it was useless.” She gave a laugh.

  “My dear, it sounds like your teacher was useless.”

  Drew smiled, and there was something lovely in the modesty of her face. Then she straightened her shoulders and, in a more businesslike voice, said, “Anyway, we’ll see if I’m even lucky enough to find any official records for the amber.”

  “And if you do, are these things necessarily…unequivocal?”
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  Drew gave a little shrug. “They can be quite specific—how many of each style, and for whom.” She paused. “It’s amazing, when you realize that the original amber set probably included even more pieces than these three.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. A full parure around that time would have meant a bracelet on each wrist, plus a ring and another necklace that unclipped to become a brooch. And depending on the era, some clasps and buttons, or aigrettes and hairpins. If not a tiara.”

  Grigori tried to picture it. “And no one thought this overkill?”

  Drew laughed. She told Grigori how amber of this kind, with once-living specimens preserved inside, had been the vogue in Victorian times, and that those who had the means would have specifically commissioned such jewelry. “Your piece is clearly nineteenth century. That’s when gems began to be inserted in open settings—much less heavy, you can imagine, than wearing all these things embedded in a solid foundation.” It was this sort of information, Drew explained, that she would be including in the supplemental brochure that she was preparing for the pre-auction dinner. Perhaps she hoped that if she reminded him, Grigori might suddenly have something to share with her. “Anyway, I’m still looking for anything else I can find out about the amber.”

  Grigori pictured the vinyl bag, the handwritten letters, the black-and-white photographs. The hospital certificate with its Soviet insignia and some sort of serial number, and the time and place typed so firmly, you could feel the letters beneath your fingertips; where a name ought to be was just a thick black line and yet another address. Only a system so thoroughly bureaucratized could be so utterly dysfunctional.

  He nearly smiled, to think what Drew might make of these things, though of course he couldn’t show them to her. He hadn’t even dared show them to Nina Revskaya. Well, yes, he had, long ago—or would have, had she given him the chance. “You’ve a lot on your plate here, don’t you?” was all he said now.