Her lips set, and she breathed deeply. “I see. At heart, then, you still agree with Diaghilev—with all that he is and stands for. I had thought differently.” She turned her back on him, slim and proud, and left the room. His mouth worked silently. He clenched and unclenched a fist—and then, abruptly, he slammed it down on the oak table with a vehemence that made the book slide to the very edge. His face glowed stark white with tension.
In mid-August, Natalia went on her first ocean cruise. The Ballet was leaving Europe for an initial foray into the unfamiliar continent of South America, and Serge Pavlovitch had left the running of the company to Boris, who was a better sailor—Diaghilev had a superstitious fear of the ocean—and whose taste for territorial variety exceeded his own. Dressed in a cream-colored linen suit, Boris looked resplendent when he came on deck of the S.S. Avon. The trip began with panache in Southampton. Boris had had baskets of fresh flowers delivered to all the ballerinas in their second-class deck.
He and Natalia shared a first-class cabin, paneled in rich wood, with a small bathroom adjoining it. He thought this a splendid arrangement and ordered champagne for those members of the company who, like themselves, were in first class. Karsavina had taken another ship that traveled faster. But Adolph Bolm; the chef d’orchestre, Rhené-Baton, and his wife; a corps dancer called Kovalevska, whose exalted status came from having been mistress to the Aga Khan in Monte Carlo; and Diaghilev’s Polish secretary, Trubecki, and his own wife all appeared in the Kussov cabin to toast the voyage. Little, blond Romola de Pulszky came, too. “This is so exciting!” she cried. “But where is Vaslav Fomitch?” Nijinsky’s absence did indeed stand out.
“He will join us at Cherbourg,” Boris replied easily. “He and Serge and Benois have been dreaming up a ballet to music from Bach. I suppose our young genius will be most absorbed in this project.”
In Cherbourg Vaslav Nijinsky came on board, and, several days later, the ritual of shipboard life truly began. But Natalia did not enjoy herself as she had expected to. Seated at supper, she bristled at Kovalevska’s comments. She found Trubecki overly flowery, and Romola altogether unbearable. Boris raised his eyebrows at her, but she merely shook her head despondently. She felt tired, played out.
The scenery of unbroken ocean was restful, and the weather hot. She had lived in the Crimea and should not have minded the heat. She knew Boris wanted her with him, that his exultation would be marred if he knew of the unspoken struggle inside her. She could not help resenting his attitude about her career desires. It was galling to watch him on deck, in his elegant white suit, his face tanning lightly in the bright sun—galling that he always seemed to be holding court, equally with Nijinsky and Romola. An easy friendship appeared to be underway between him and the danseur. Irked, she thought: But Vaslav doesn’t have a brain in his head! Why is Boris wasting his time? With devastating certainty she knew that she had become jealous of Nijinsky, envious of his preferred status in the Ballet—and that she was seeing her husband’s gracious entertainment of him as fawning toward Diaghilev.
Hating herself, she joined the group and smiled politely at something Romola was saying. The Hungarian could not speak Russian, and Vaslav’s French was less than adequate, and soon Natalia grew annoyed at Boris for intervening with careful, amusing translations. How the blond girl’s eyes were sparkling! Doesn’t she know, Natalia wondered with disdain, that Vaslav isn’t interested in women? She caught herself and glanced covertly at her husband. People sometimes changed.
Later in the wood-paneled cabin Boris came behind her at the vanity, where she sat brushing her hair, and stilled the frantic pace of her up-and-down motions with his hand. Softly he caressed her neck, her shoulders, where all the tightness was concentrated. She turned slowly to face him, and, inexplicably, shook off his hand. Immediately her lips parted with surprise and shock at what she had done, and she cried out, “I’m sorry—” but the gesture had stunned him, and she could tell from his eyes that he was hurt to the quick. He did not answer her. Instead, his face became rigid, and he left the room. She was shaking, not understanding the tensions within herself.
After that the voyage was not the same. A delicate balance had been upset, and hostilities could no longer be kept hidden under a blanket of pretension. He knew then that she was harboring resentments and that they ran as deep as his own insecurities. Yet pride rose between them like an opaque screen, his pride and hers, evenly matched in their arrogant, useless strength. Each waited for the other to break down, and neither could be the first to do so.
Romola tried to befriend her, but Natalia rejected her overtures. There was something vaguely predatory about the beautiful young socialite from Budapest that irritated the dancer. Romola had attached herself to the Ballets Russes where she did not belong, either by craft or by nationality. She was flaunting her wealth by traveling with her maid and seemed charming only as a spoiled child can charm in the beginning. She asked endless questions about Nijinsky’s roles, about Diaghilev, about Boris. Natalia had had her fill of them.
At times Boris would absent himself, and in her field of vision there remained Romola, with Kovalevska or Rhené-Baton, and now and then Nijinsky, when he was not practicing on deck to the admiring eyes of the passengers. Natalia practiced in her suite. Boris was ignoring her, and now she felt an overwhelming depression. It was up to her to bridge the gap, to make the first penitent move—but she could not. Something held her back.
She saw him with a young South American diplomat, a lithe, dark man in his middle twenties. Natalia did not like him. She felt repelled by the fluidity of the man’s laughter, by his large black eyes that dominated a thin, rather delicate face. Later, in the evening, she said to Boris: “How can you stand him? He’s like Swiss chocolate—too much richness turns the stomach!” Her husband stared at her, his eyes a slit of metal, and she felt chilled. But he merely shrugged and left her alone.
Boris climbed on deck, where a light wind had risen, and held the railing with both hands. He could feel something slipping away from him, and thought of Natalia, of the frozen anger in her face. All at once he could not swallow, and the sockets of his eyes started to sting. God almighty, no—
Somebody touched his sleeve, and gratefully, he turned around and saw the tan oval of Armando Valenzuela’s face. Like himself, the young man was wearing a tuxedo with a ruffled cambric shirt. “Warm evening,” he said, and looked out into the darkness, framed in the golden light from the cabins behind them. Boris nodded but said nothing. He felt a ringing in his ears, a slight breathlessness, and he concentrated on the ocean waves churning beneath him.
Then, in the silence, Valenzuela’s long fingers gripped the railing next to his own, and Boris’s eyes landed on their delicate slenderness, on the tapered nails. He could not look away. It was as if the other’s fingers had intruded on his mind and held it prisoner in a bizarre entrancement. Slowly, then, and with infinite grace, those sensual fingers moved, one inch, two inches, and closed over Boris’s right hand. With a slight tremor, the older man turned to the younger, and their eyes met and locked. Boris licked his lips and murmured: “I don’t know, Armando. I’m not sure.” He could not move his hand.
On August 31 Natalia was awakened by Kovalevska, who said: “I have the most wonderful news! Vaslav Fomitch has proposed to Romola—all through Boris Vassilievitch, of course, since the two young people do not speak the same language! Come on deck. We can see Rio!”
Aghast, Natalia dressed hurriedly and went above. She did not know what to believe, but Boris, looking oddly exultant, made a mock bow to her and approached. “Madame has deigned to join us?” he asked.
“Is it true? That Nijinsky is going to be married?”
“Yes, of course it’s true. You weren’t stupid enough to think that Romola was really interested in Adolph Bolm, were you? She’s had her mind set on our Vaslav from the beginning. I guess the trip was ripe, shall we say?” He smiled ironically.
“Well, I am glad for them,” Nat
alia said dully. “But—Serge Pavlovitch? When Mavrin, his old lover, eloped with Feodorova in ‘09, he would not even pay him! Why have you encouraged something that is going to make Serge Pavlovitch fit to be tied? I don’t understand!”
“No,” he remarked dryly, “you don’t. But then you never do, Natalia. And in this case, more’s the pity, as I was doing it all for you.” He turned away.
The view was magnificent, and seeing the Sugar Loaf Mountain soaring up in silent majesty, Natalia felt a lump in her throat. Such beauty—such feelings! Dawn lay over the harbor like a pink cushion upon which lay a perfect jewel. All at once, she felt a tearing pain in her stomach, and gasped, clutching the deck railing. Boris was speaking to the Trubeckis. She tried to call but could not catch her breath. Hot sweat broke out upon her brow. She collapsed on the wooden planks, her hands gripping her stomach, and the last thing she thought was: Am I dying?
Darkness closed over her, and one by one the shining flames of red died out over her closed eyes.
‘Tell me. What is wrong with my wife?” Boris asked the doctor.
They stood together outside the cabin door, and Boris, white and tense, could hardly breathe for the fear that had taken possession of him. “She’s always been a strong girl,” he added lamely. Helplessness sat ill with him.
“Well, there’s good and bad, of course,” the white-haired ship’s doctor said. “You knew that she was pregnant?”
Something caught inside Boris’s throat. For a moment he could not think at all. Cold beads of perspiration broke out on his palms, on his temples. “No,” he replied. “How long?”
“Only two months. But there is a problem. Some women, my dear Count, have difficulty keeping the fetus attached to the lining of the womb. Your wife nearly miscarried and was very lucky that she didn’t. But, in order to have this baby, she will have to spend the next seven months in bed. Do you think you can arrange it?”
Boris shook his head and turned his palms out. “Good God,” he said. “What choice do we have?”
“I’m afraid you have none. I haven’t mentioned it to her—she seemed frightened enough as it was. I think you should be the one to tell her.”
Boris nodded tersely. His mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts. He was ill at ease in situations that he could not control or even define for himself. The doctor tactfully moved aside, and Boris entered, urgency propelling him forward.
Natalia looked up at him from the small bed, and he saw the terror in her large brown eyes. Coming to her, he cried out: “How could I not have seen it?”
There was a haunted expression in her eyes, on her parted lips. He took the small, cold hand and brought it to his cheek. “I don’t know how to ask you to forgive me,” he murmured.
Color came to her cheekbones. “Don’t!” she said miserably.
“Don’t feel responsible, Borya. I was in the wrong. I am ashamed. I was afraid that you were never going to return to me. What’s wrong with me, Borya?”
He took a deep breath, looked down at her hand, played with the wedding ring on the third finger. “You have no idea?” he asked her.
Her face had become all eyes. She tried to breathe, but instead, little gasps came out in staccato fashion. “I’m so scared,” she whispered. “I guess I’ve almost suspected—but I didn’t even want to think it out in words.”
“And so that’s why you turned against me.”
She looked away. “Don’t talk about it, Borya,” she pleaded.
“But my darling, if you do not want it, you will have to decide now. You can’t run away from this. We have to reach an understanding, Natalia.”
She uttered a short, half-hysterical giggle. “I’ve always run away, haven’t I? Years ago, from the Crimea—Oh, Borya, what are we going to do? Do you want it?”
Looking at her with a level gaze, he said: “It isn’t an ‘it,’ it’s our child, Natalia. If you want it, we are going to have to make plans. The doctor says that this is a difficult pregnancy, and you won’t be able to dance—beginning now. That’s why I’m afraid it has to be your own decision.”
“If I dance, you mean I’ll lose the baby?” she exclaimed.
“That’s exactly what I mean. We’ve both put all our hopes into your dancing—you’ll never know how much!—but after the baby’s born, you would dance again, as before. It’s up to you.”
Tears came to her eyes. “I didn’t think it would turn out this way,” she whispered. “Oh, Borya—I do want the baby. I’ve come to want it very much. A little part of you and me, making us immortal. But I thought I would dance at least till the seventh month! It’s so hard—”
He brought her fingers to his lips and said very softly: “Yes, I know. It doesn’t seem fair. But what’s fair in life, Natalia? I’ve just realized something: Plans are the greatest absurdity of all in this world, and those who set stock by them are fools. The present moment, Natalia—that’s all that truly touches us, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked in a whisper.
“Of myself. Building intricate castles with feathers and clouds. Thinking that I was doing it for you, when all along it was to gratify my own sense of importance. I’m afraid you married the most ridiculous court jester of all, Natalia.”
She touched his cheeks with trembling fingers. “Tell me,” she said.
‘There’s nothing to tell. You know that Serge will not accept Vaslav’s marriage. But I’m afraid this isn’t going to turn out quite as I’d wanted it to. I was going to pick up the pieces and branch off into a company of our own—with you and Vaslav as my stars. A silly man, your husband.”
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, Borya. It was for me—of course it was! And I didn’t know.” She began to weep. “What a wonderful, ambitious project! And how like you to think of it! Serge Pavlovitch, Vaslav—nothing is too much for you to handle, is it? I don’t know what to say, except that I don’t want it now, this company. I want to have the baby! And then—afterward—we can discuss it again. Oh, Borya—why do I never know what is in your head, and why can’t I answer you when I finally do learn what you’ve done?”
He laughed. “You are sure, about the baby?”
“Oh, yes. Right now, suddenly, I am positive. I want it very much. It’s going to be very hard, but I’m going to lie down for the next seven months, and not even think of dancing.” She smiled. “And so you’re going to have to think up every anecdote you know in order to amuse me! I’m not a good patient, you see.”
“Impatient, I’d call you.”
He bent over her and she placed her arms about his neck. “I’m really happy,” she murmured, kissing his earlobe, caressing his golden hair. “I did not think I would ever be happy—I, Natalia. It is rather frightening, this happiness. I do not want to become so happy that you grow bored with me.”
Disentangling herself, she asked, knitting her brow: “But what about Vaslav? My God—what will happen to him—?”
Boris shrugged lightly and replied, ironically: “I didn’t force his hand with the girl, Natalia. Everyone felt that he’d grown restless. Serge should have realized it and strengthened his own position.” He added bitterly: “People fashion their own destinies. I have created nothing, only encouraged what already lay beneath the surface, waiting to emerge. Don’t make me out a god of some sort.”
More gently, he kissed her fingertips. With deep, serious eyes, he said, his voice suddenly rich with feeling: “The only thing I’ve ever created, in these thirty-eight years, is the baby you are carrying for us.”
“Then I’m glad we shall have it,” she answered, burying her face in the crook of his neck.
Part Three
Intermission
Chapter 14
If one had to live inside the velvet lining of a dream, thought Natalia, then it was only fitting to do so in anonymity. In Zwingenberg, nothing was real—or perhaps it was the true reality, and everything that had come before had been the dream. Her mind floated, rose above her, merg
ing with the clouds, with the soft March breeze. She did not try to call it back but let it take on a life of its own, like the baby.
One could have reinvented the world in Zwingenberg. Boris had chosen this tiny village in the German province of Hesse-Darmstadt because of its physical charm and its total remoteness. It lay twenty-two miles by wooded road from the town of Darmstadt, where the train station stood. Spring had come early. Soft, pine-scented hills alternated with green meadows filled with flowers of every shape and color; there were groves and small forests, and in the fields, often a single majestic tree, always an oak, spreading its unhampered branches to form an uneven ball of leaves. Sometimes one could not even see the grass of the fields for the wildflowers; other places belonged to the lazy cows, which lent an added peace to the landscape. Even during the winter months the loveliness had not lessened: the white-capped hills had had a soothing effect on Natalia, had been a balm on her soul.
Her body was out of control, rebelling. At first terror and rage had filled her, in spite of her desire to have this baby. Something alien was bursting inside her, intruding on her being. Her breasts swelled, hurting, and her stomach pushed out. She felt gross and ugly, a monster. And the pain! After spending a lifetime controlling her body, taking pride in its muscular slenderness, her doe’s agility, she now could hardly move. She was not allowed to do so, in any case. But she wanted to escape, to leave behind this grotesque shell that surrounded her. This thing inside constantly reminded her of its presence, making her drowsy when she wanted to stay alert, hungry when she had just finished eating. She had been invaded—but there was no retreat. She was a prisoner of her own body.
She had long since stopped trying to explain what had happened to her. If she had changed, then so be it, and if he had, too, then it was part of the same marvelous plan. If one questioned good things too closely, the mystique would shatter.
Encore Page 26
