Russian Winter

by Daphne Kalotay

  Nina considered this, thought of her own body and how it had betrayed her. “I do think we receive what we deserve. Look at me: in this wheelchair.”

  Again Cynthia made a surprised face. “I don’t care what you did, no one deserves to be stuck in that thing.”

  This straightforward statement—instead of the typical voyeuristic pity—and the light singsong tinge of Cynthia’s island accent had a strange effect. Nina began to cry.

  “Oh, sugar. Here.” Cynthia reached over and dabbed up some of the tears with a tissue.

  To Nina’s surprise, the tears continued. Slowly she told Cynthia, “I did to her something heartless.”

  “You only tell me if you want to. If it will make you feel better.”

  If she could shake her head, or just let it drop dejectedly onto her chest, Nina would have. But the knot at the back of her neck was so tight now. No longer her grandmother’s lovingly tied scarf. These days it was a noose, a stranglehold. “Nothing will ever make it better. It is too late.”

  Cynthia dabbed up more tears. “It’s never too late. My father always said, whenever you think there’s nothing you can do, you need to think again.”

  “Please, Cynthia, do not try to kill me with your good nature.”

  Cynthia laughed, and as if by magic, the knot at the back of Nina’s neck loosened, just the slightest bit. But she decided not to mention that to Cynthia, lest she continue to put forth her father’s platitudes.

  EVEN WHEN REHEARSALS have begun again in late September, Nina and Vera do not speak; whenever they see each other at the Bolshoi, Vera turns away, looking bashful, almost guilty. Well, she ought to be. It still doesn’t make any sense to Nina, why Vera would have tried to keep Mother’s illness a secret from her. Yet it confirms that mystery that Nina first sensed about Vera, back when she first appeared in the little dressing room two years ago. Something enigmatic about her. What does she do with her free time, now that she has no secret visits to Gersh’s room, no card games with Madame? All alone in Nina’s old apartment, the entire room to herself…Apparently she visits Mother only when Nina isn’t home.

  Nina finds herself avoiding Polina, too, speaking to her only when they happen to cross paths at the Bolshoi. The rash has returned, hives on her neck, and blackish marks on her cheekbones, so that Nina assumes Polina is still being asked to report on people. But what information could she have? Nina cannot help feeling sorry for her, how thin and anxious she looks.

  It is early October when Mother drifts away for good, Nina hovering above her, listening for a heartbeat or a breath. For a brief moment she again hears something, her mother is still here with her, but then Nina understands: it is her own heart she is hearing, the relentless thud of final understanding, that it really is over. Only later does it strike Nina that, unlike so many others, Mother has managed to die on her own, a natural death—from illness, not starvation or war or imprisonment or some other inhumanity.

  At the funeral service, under a cloudless sky, in the small nearby cemetery, Nina and Vera barely speak. Now, though—having lost the person they have both lived with and loved as a mother—their silence seems preposterous. Nina is relieved when Vera lingers behind afterward, as they walk slowly away from the lowered coffin laden with snapdragons.

  Nina allows Viktor and the others to go ahead, and waits for Vera to near. “I’m sorry,” Vera says. “I loved her. I want you to know that.”

  “I know.” In her mind she hears her mother’s voice, the soft way she always answered Nina’s knocks at her door: “Yes, yes, yes,” and the shuffle of her slippers as Nina let herself into the apartment.

  “I’ve been thinking how if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have this life. Not just in Moscow. I mean my career.”

  The Bolshoi audition. Nina nods. “I was thinking about that, too, the other day. How we followed her like two little ducks to the ballet school. And going through the rotating doors at the Metropol.”

  Vera closes her eyes briefly. “You and I went around that same door, but I’ve always felt when we stepped outside again, we stepped into two completely different places.” Her parents, she must mean, what happened to them, and her move to Leningrad, and the Kirov school.

  Nina says, “I think the men must have been flirting with Mother, don’t you, letting us go around in the doors like that? She was so slender and pretty.” She wants to be able to smile again, to laugh. To hear her mother’s soft voice, Da, da, da…

  Vera’s eyes are still sad and dark. “I know I should have told you right away that she was sick. But you have to understand…” Her voice trails off, and she looks away.

  “Understand what?”

  “It wasn’t…that.” Vera lowers her head, looks at the floor.

  “What do you mean, that?”

  “I mean that the doctor—didn’t really say that. That she was dying. I thought she looked ill, but the doctor…He never told me that.”

  “You mean you…made it up?”

  “I must have sensed it, she looked so poorly.”

  “So instead of simply telling me that my mother looked ill, you…you said that.” Clenching her jaw, Nina exhales loudly through her nose. “You said it, and it became true.”

  “I didn’t will it.”

  “What kind of person makes a…a…trick out of someone’s life or death?”

  “It just came out! I suppose I knew it, somehow. And I was angry, you were having all your success, while I was the one—”

  “Right, right, I know, you were the one caring for her, seeing her daily, while I was off being the bad daughter. Just like with Viktor’s mother. I know it, believe me. Everyone loves you more.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. You don’t understand. I really did love her.”

  “And she loved you. More than you even know.” Nina feels she might explode. And then she hears herself blurt out, “She’s the one who sent you those telegrams.”

  For a moment Vera looks confused. And then, “That’s not true.”

  If only Nina could erase her own words. She feels like a skunk, or some other creature unaware of its full repulsion.

  From Vera, a sound, small like a whimper, escapes.

  Nina rushes away, past Viktor and the others, out to the street, where the old women are sweeping with their twig brooms. She is shaking, nearly dizzy, alarmed by her own cruelty. It is the first time she has ever felt within her something so awful—this enormous capacity for betrayal.

  LOT 93

  Platinum and 18kt Gold Diamond and Topaz Barrette. With pairs of bead-set round diamonds alternating with sets of three topaz beads with milgrained edging and engraved sides, joining a bar clip, lg. 8 in. $4,900–5,400

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The days just before an auction were always stressful, the phone ringing constantly with last-minute inquiries (was this ring fourteen- or sixteen-karat gold?) and Drew’s voice mail clogged with unofficial bids. Not to mention the flurry of previews, waves of people eagerly seeking out their vast and precise desires. All afternoon the gallery had swarmed with the usual mix: women trying on necklaces and rings and admiring themselves in propped-up mirrors, while auction employees told them what good taste they had, and parents and husbands and fiancés looked on, and grave-faced dealers squinted over the magnifying loupe for closer inspection, checking for imperfections. Among the mix this time were dancers, too, wispy long-necked women, some quite young, pointing at this and that as they peered into the glass-covered display cases.

  The events director kept giving brisk orders to the interns; the pre-auction dinner was tonight, and there was much setting up to be done. From her desk Drew could hear the interns scurrying back and forth, while out on the sidewalk St. Patrick’s Day revelers, some in Celtics jerseys, some with tall squishy brimmed hats emblazoned with shamrocks, and some wearing shiny green metallic beads, made their way from some pub on to the next, though it was barely afternoon. With the city of Boston on official holiday, it seemed ev
eryone was out in the street.

  Before now Drew had simply viewed Evacuation Day as an excuse for people to take the day off and join their friends at the bar. But now it struck her as significant that on this same day in 1776 George Washington’s army had forced British troops out of Boston—peacefully, without a single casualty. Today’s newspaper spelled out more ominous headlines: “U.S. Prepares for War” and “Diplomatic Efforts in Iraq Fail.” One article said the president planned to send troops over in a matter of days. The drunken laughter on the street outside seemed wrong somehow. And yet, as another wave of revelers made their way past her window, Drew supposed that they too might not be quite ready to believe the headlines, might still be holding out the merest hope.

  At her computer’s little binging sound, Drew looked down from the window. An e-mail from Stephen, asking if she wanted to meet for a beer. Below it were two unopened messages from her mother, one with the subject line “oops!” Drew clicked on it warily, since most of her mother’s missives were either forwarded warnings about some sort of computer virus or random cheerful updates about people Drew either barely knew or did not care to hear about. This one read, “Sorry about that, I meant to forward to Dad, not you…” Below was a link to an article in the Seattle Times. “Eric is quoted!” her mother had written to her father.

  It was an article about cooking classes for couples. Eric and Karen had been taking the pastry course; they were considering cake decorating for next time. Of course Drew read the article. Curiosity compelled her to, the same thought as usual briefly sweeping through her: That could have been me. That life could have been mine. East Coast transplants Eric Heely and Drew Brooks, a married couple in their early thirties, originally intended to take a culinary course on deep-frying…The steady ease of couplehood, just your average married couple, doing the kinds of things that couples do.

  Then the thought was past her, drifting away. Drew found the delete button, to erase the message—but saw that another e-mail had come in.

  Ms. Brooks:

  Paul Lequin forwarded me your message regarding the logbooks of Anton Samoilov. All of my family’s books are in the archives of the Minnesota Russian Society. I have told the Society about your research and have forwarded them the amber descriptions you gave to Paul. The archivist there is Anna Yakov. Please feel free to contact her at Yakov.Anna@MRS.org. Best of luck to you,

  Theresa Samoilov-Dunning

  Drew gave a little yelp and quickly typed a message to Anna Yakov. And though her next impulse was to want, very much, to call Grigori and tell him this news, she knew she ought to wait. She had not seen him since that day in his office, had not even spoken with him; she had decided to contact him only if she found something definite to show him. A possible answer, something to offer. First, she would have to see if in fact this message led somewhere, if she really might at last be able to find something out.

  AUTUMN CHILL AND whiffs of winter, dead leaves skirting the ground. Bitter drafts surge through the Bolshoi’s corridors and stairwells. At class each morning, Nina takes her spot at the barre, not looking toward the other end, where Vera too stands in her usual place. They rarely pass each other in the hallway, since their dressing rooms are on different floors; Nina finds it easy to go a full month without speaking to Vera.

  Polina, who used to stand next to Vera at the barre, has changed places, over to the other side of the practice room, in front of the mirror no one likes because it makes everyone look slightly heavier. Not that that should bother Polina; she is skinnier than ever, her muscles visibly tense, buttocks and thighs tightly clenched before lowering herself into that first plié. Even the way her fingers grasp the barre, when really they ought to be simply resting lightly atop it, reveals her tension. Going back and forth from the rosin box, she sometimes looks almost sickly—but whenever Nina tries to catch her eye, she looks away. One morning, hammering a large hunk of rosin into smaller bits, Polina looks furious, seems to be taking her fury out on the yellow chunks as she grinds them into a powder.

  Something is happening; something bad is happening. Yet as much as Nina knows it must be true, she does not know, exactly, what “it” is. She tries to float above it, stay true to her most basic tenet: think only of the dance.

  Late one afternoon she returns from rehearsal to find Viktor at home, seated at the wooden table. Already Nina can see that something is wrong, the way his jaw flexes. He is clenching his teeth, so that Nina has to ask why he is looking at her that way.

  “It’s time we discussed what you neglected to tell me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Pain in his eyes. “Apparently your rushing home to take care of your mother this summer wasn’t purely out of concern for her health.”

  “It most certainly was!”

  “Really? And you didn’t have your own medical concerns to attend to?”

  “But—” How could he know that? “Viktor.” Nina feels suddenly exhausted. “I’m sorry. But you have to understand, that wasn’t the reason I came back. I really did need to help Mother. But I realized I was pregnant and needed to take care of it—”

  “Interesting choice of words.”

  Nina lets herself drop into one of the wooden chairs, too tired to think of any clever retort. “Let’s not fight about this. You know my mother was sick. I didn’t lie to you.”

  “You didn’t tell the truth. I had to wait to hear it from my own mother.”

  “Your mother told you?” Rage shoots through her, at the same time that Nina wonders how Madame could know such a thing.

  Then she remembers. Vera.

  “Why did you do it, Nina?”

  What she says, in a whisper, is nothing she has ever consciously thought before. “How could I bring a child into a world like this?”

  Victor leans back into his chair, as if to observe her more clearly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  This world where the people one loves are taken away in the middle of the night. Where they are hounded nonstop and cannot marry as they wish, and have their very reputations, their professions, stolen from them. “Gersh,” she says simply.

  Viktor gives a pained sigh. “It’s just temporary. A necessary…wrinkle. You know what they say: ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs.’ Things will change when everything gets sorted out.”

  “How can you even say that? Is Gersh just an egg? Is Vera? How can you even repeat something so—”

  “Of course they’re not. All I’m saying is—”

  “Oh, stop it!” Nina is surprised at her own voice. “I don’t understand how you can keep this up.” As if there isn’t something horrible going on all around them. Only in thinking it does Nina realize that this really is the way she feels, and that it is the truth. She must have sensed it for a long while, now—that there are horrible unspoken things taking place all the time.

  A sound, the plywood door swinging open. Madame stares at them. “What are these raised voices? Are you a bunch of brutes?”

  “It’s all right, Mama,” Viktor says tiredly. Nina feels she might scream. If Madame hadn’t told Viktor, they would not even be having this discussion. All because Madame told him. Madame, who would do anything to get rid of Nina…You’re not Lilya. Ordering poor tired Dasha not to cook for Mother…Showing Nina the amber jewelry, to ruin Viktor’s surprise…

  Only in recalling the amber does Nina wonder if that was what those jewels were for: Was Viktor waiting for a baby, was that when he was planning on giving them to her?

  “As bad as the Armenians.” Madame shakes her head and returns to her room.

  Nina’s cigarette case—where she keeps a folded handkerchief instead of cigarettes—is on the table; without thinking, she grabs it and throws it at the door. It hits the wall instead, and lands on the floor with a pathetic tinny plunk.

  “Oh, stop it,” Viktor says in a tired voice. He walks over to the bed, sits down heavily.

  Nina is putting on the coat she
has only just taken off.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To work.”

  “You just got home. You’re not even performing tonight.”

  “I need to practice.” Really she just needs to get outside, away from Viktor, away from Madame. Viktor makes no move to stop her. When she leaves, he is still sitting there, leaning forward, his head resting in his hands.

  She decides to rehearse. She will use this surge of anger, of adrenaline, in the only good way she knows—turn it into spins and leaps and quick, strong jumps. It is all she can do, all she knows how to do. Her hands still shake as she enters the Bolshoi.

  Though this evening’s performance is not for another two hours, the hallways are busy with costume deliveries and dancers scurrying up and down the stairs. Nina means to go straight to her room for her exercise clothes, then to an empty studio where she can work. But she finds herself continuing past her door, up the stairs, along the next hallway, to her old dressing room.

  Vera must have visited Madame while I was away. She must have told her, on purpose, to turn her against me. Nina raps loudly on the dressing room door.

  No answer. Vera might not even be dancing tonight. Nina wants to shout at her, to leave an angry message, to break something…Anything to rid herself of this awful feeling. She flings the door open with such force that it slams against the wall.

  In front of her, at eye level, unmoving in the air, are two limp, silk-stockinged legs.

  Looking up, Nina’s eyes find a form long and thin, like a trussed goose on a peg in a kitchen. Polina, in her tights and leotard, her head at an unnatural angle. Lying on its side below her on the floor is the old wooden stool.

  Only when she has regained her voice, recalled how to use her legs, does Nina scream. Running into the hall, she finds the first person she can. And still it takes a good hour for her to truly understand—to comprehend as reality—that Polina is dead, that she has done this thing to herself, with a long wool scarf looped around her neck.