Sasha was elated. “Gladly. When do you want to come, sir?”
“Now is as good a time as any,” Mr. Brompton said. He turned to Aunt Marya. “If you will allow me to come back later, I will hold you to your promise to show me through the museum.”
Sasha seemed overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events. He looked to me for support. “Tanya, you come too. It always cheers Grandmother to see you.” To Mr. Brompton he said, “My work isn’t in any gallery—it only hangs on the walls of our small room.”
Mr. Brompton gave Sasha a reassuring pat on the back. “A painting is a painting, never mind where it hangs. I have an eye for quality.”
Mr. Brompton had a car and a driver at his disposal, so much to our delight we were driven to Sasha’s apartment, Sasha in the front seat and me in back with Mr. Brompton. I stumbled along in English until we found we both spoke French. What a feeling of luxury to be driven down the Prospekt in a fancy car. I had visions of the Empress Alexandra and Tsar Nicholas making their way along the Prospekt in their golden coach.
Sasha hurried into the apartment and drew the curtain across his work area with its icons. I knew he was ashamed of spending so much time copying old work when he should have been creating his own pictures.
When I saw Sasha’s grandmother, my heart felt as cold as the lumps of ice in the Neva. Nadya Petrovna had grown thinner and paler, and now she nearly disappeared into the bedcovers. When I took her hand in mine, it was like holding a shadow.
Sasha introduced his grandmother to Mr. Brompton, who was extremely charming to her, bowing over her thin, trembling hand as if he might kiss it, but all the while his eyes were scanning the walls. “Ah, Sasha, I must have some of those ballet sketches and paintings you have done. I know I can sell them.” He looked more closely at me. “And here is the subject of many of them. Very charming. Pictures of the ballet always sell.” Sasha was beaming, hanging on the man’s every word.
Nadya Petrovna said, “Sasha, where are your manners? You must make some tea for our guests.”
While Sasha was busy with the kettle, I watched Mr. Brompton. All his attention was on the icon of St. Vladimir. He turned to Nadya Petrovna. “That is a very old one, is it not?”
“Oh, yes,” Nadya Petrovna said. “It has belonged to our family for many years and to a very special family before that.”
“I could get you a great deal of money for your icon,” Mr. Brompton said.
Sasha, walking in with the tea, overheard his remark. Before Sasha could say anything, Nadya Petrovna said, “Oh, I would never sell St. Vladimir. It would be like selling my own father. St. Vladimir is all that keeps me alive.”
I didn’t like the greedy look on the man’s face. “Isn’t it against the law to take old icons out of the country?” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Brompton said, “but one can get around that. You only have to give a little money to the right person.” He gave a regretful look at the icon and then turned to Sasha. “Of course I can’t pay you for your paintings until my gallery sells them, which might take a little time.”
Sasha looked crestfallen, but he shrugged his shoulders. “No one has money for paintings in this country, so I may as well send them with you and hope for the best.”
“I’m sure I can manage a little advance to help you out,” Mr. Brompton said, and Sasha brightened.
After we had finished the tea, Mr. Brompton said a polite farewell to Nadya Petrovna, looked longingly again at the icon, and began to leave. Sasha said, “Wait a moment and I’ll walk down the stairway with you.” He turned to me. “Keep Grandmother company, Tanya. I’ll be only a moment.”
He was gone for some time, and when he returned his face was burning. He wouldn’t look at me or at Nadya Petrovna and only said, “I’ll call you in a few days, Tanya.”
That night Aunt Marya stopped by. As usual the family was sitting around the kitchen table drinking tea and arguing politics. Gorbachev was in Sweden receiving the Nobel Prize. Grandfather was furious. “A peace prize to a man who just months ago sent his tanks and soldiers to trample freedom in Lithuania.”
Grandmother said, “At least he allowed the wall to fall in Berlin.”
“Only because he was goaded into it,” Grandfather sneered. The American president, Ronald Reagan, had challenged, “President Gorbachev, take down that wall!”
Grandfather had been celebrating all week, for Yeltsin had been elected to the presidency of Russia. “At last we will see some action,” Grandfather said.
Aunt Marya was Grandfather’s older sister and never let an opportunity go by without reminding him of that. She said, “Don’t think, Georgi, that all our problems are solved. I have heard rumors everywhere that the Communist party leaders are furious with Yeltsin. They know he wants to dissolve the party and that would be the end of them.”
Mother gave Aunt Marya a cup of tea, and after taking a sip, Aunt Marya said, “I didn’t come here to argue politics with you, Georgi. I came to have a word with Tanya. I wanted to tell you, Tanya: I don’t trust that Mr. Brompton. I took him about the museum, where he had a greedy eye for everything he saw. I told him it was no longer like it was under Stalin, when our birthright was snatched from under us and some of our very best works of art were sold to the United States. I think you should warn Sasha to take care.”
“He wants some of Sasha’s paintings to sell in his gallery,” I said. “He is giving Sasha a small advance, but the rest of the money won’t come to Sasha until his work is sold.”
“Tell Sasha not to give him too much and certainly not his best things. I think he is here only to make a grab for our treasures, not to further the work of young Russian artists as he professes.”
It was a week later that Mama sent me with some jars of her strawberry jam to Sasha’s grandmother. Nadya Petrovna was sitting up in an armchair, a bright shawl around her shoulders, Kuzma chirping in his cage, the teakettle steaming, Sasha at his easel painting one of his icons. The moment I walked into the room, Sasha hastily covered up the icon. No one looks more guilty when he does something wrong than Sasha. His cheeks burn and he drops his eyes and will not look at you. I did not have to wait long to find out what was on his canvas. Before he could interrupt her, Nadya Petrovna said in her soft whispery voice, “My grandson is a saint. Just see what he is painting. A copy of the icon of St. Vladimir. He tells me a church has ordered it, and the church must be paying well, for Sasha has brought home some special medicine for me. Already I’m feeling better.” She eagerly tasted the jam I had brought, declaring it the best ever.
“Sasha,” I said, “what good luck. Tell me the name of the church.” A few of the churches that had been closed by the government were once again opening their doors.
“You have never heard of it,” he said quickly. “There’s no time for chatter. Come and help me get the laundry and bed linen together. I have a friend who has promised me the use of his washing machine for an hour if I come at once. Keep Grandmother company while I’m gone.”
After he left, I cleaned Kuzma’s cage and tidied the small room. Before I was finished, Nadya Petrovna drifted off to sleep. My curiosity got the better of me. I lifted the cover from the painting. The icon of St. Vladimir was identical to his grandmother’s icon, but unlike the other icons Sasha painted, which were meant to look old but which you could tell with a little studying were reproductions, this one was different. Sasha was painting this one to look authentic: the colors faded, the gold dark with age. Perhaps, I thought, that’s the way the church wants it to look. But would a church want to fool people? I remembered Sasha’s guilty look.
When he came back, his arms full of sheets and towels, all tumbled together, I was waiting for him. I pulled him outside the apartment and closed the door. I whispered, “You’re going to sell that icon to Mr. Brompton and pretend it’s the original.”
“What if I am?”
“That’s dishonest.”
“I don’t care. Brompton has given me the adva
nce for my paintings, and I was able to get Grandmother the medicine she needs. See how much better she is already.”
“Your grandmother would rather die than have you steal and end up in jail.”
“You didn’t tell her!”
“Of course not. What do you take me for? But you have to stop at once.”
“Not as long as I need the money. If he is stupid enough to buy it, let him.” Sasha gave me a furious look. “If you’re just going to stand here and lecture me, you can go home. I don’t want to hear your holier-than-thou accusations.”
He looked so miserable, I put an arm around him. “Sasha, there has to be a better way to get money.”
“Then go and find it.” He pulled away from me and disappeared into the apartment. I heard his grandmother asking if I had left. “Yes,” he said. “Tanya left a while ago.”
“Such a nice girl, Sasha. I like to see the two of you together.”
Crossly Sasha answered, “I’d be happier with Tanya if she weren’t always telling me what to do.”
With his hurtful words in my head I hurried off. Only a week before, I had told Vera how much Sasha needed money for medicine, thinking her family might help, but Vera had shaken her head. “Things have gotten hard at home. Since Yeltsin was elected president, he is making it difficult for Papa.” Hard as I tried, I could think of no other way for Sasha to get money.
I followed the Neva to the bridge that leads to the railroad station where trains departed for Finland. Though I had never been on a train, I loved to watch passengers depart and to imagine that like them I was traveling to some distant country. In front of the station was a huge statue of Lenin, his arm stretched out in a kind of salute. People made a joke of it and said he was hailing a taxi. Grandfather would not let us turn Lenin into a joke. “He has the blood of Russians on his hands,” he said. “It is not a laughing matter.”
I wandered back though the Summer Garden, where hundreds of scarlet geraniums bloomed like a field of red soldiers. Even the fragrance of the lilac bushes could not cheer me. I knew there were severe penalties if an artist were caught faking old icons and selling them for the real thing. If Sasha were put in jail, there would be no medicine for his grandmother and no one to care for her.
CHAPTER 7
MAKING TROUBLE FDR GREGORY
The next morning when we entered the practice room, there was a feeling of suspense in the air. We guessed that at last we would hear the news we had been waiting for. Maxim Nikolayevich gathered the entire ballet troupe together to tell us that the tour would be going to Paris in August. “First we will take the train to Moscow, where we will stay for two days. That will give us an opportunity to attend a performance of the Bolshoi. We will see how ballet is meant to be performed.” Maxim Nikolayevich gave us a wicked smile, for the competition between our Kirov Ballet and Moscow’s Bolshoi Ballet was legendary. Maxim Nikolayevich would have fought anyone who suggested we were not better than the Bolshoi.
“Unfortunately,” he told us, “we will not be able to take the entire troupe. That makes me very sad, but remember this: Although all of you will not go, your hearts will go with us and will help us to give a performance that will bring Paris to its knees. As for those of you who are going, in the next months you will curse your fate, for you will work until you wish you had never been chosen. If it is a question of working you to death or giving a mediocre performance, you will be worked to death. Depend upon it.”
That afternoon the list of the lucky ones who would go on the tour was posted. As we jostled one another to read the list, there were cries of joy and tears. My name was on the list, and so were Vera’s and Marina’s, but Vitaly’s name was not there. Before we could comfort him, he ran out of the practice hall. I ran after him, but he called over his shoulder, “Just leave me alone.”
We had known a choice would have to be made between Vitaly and Gregory, but we had all been sure Vitaly would be chosen, for he was clearly the better dancer. If talent had been the criterion, Vitaly would be going to Paris, but Gregory had started a malicious rumor. He had whispered to Madame that Vitaly was negotiating secretly to join the Bolshoi in Moscow. Of course there was no truth to the rumor, but Madame believed Gregory because he flattered her shamelessly, begging her to tell him stories of the days when she had been a ballerina. He would coax her to bring out her scrapbook with its clippings of her performances. “You must have had lovers by the dozens,” he would tease Madame, and she would blush. When Madame was out of sight, Gregory would make fun of her, calling her an “old cow.” We guessed that Madame, who had a weakness for flattery, had believed the rumor. Thinking that Vitaly would use his trip to Paris only as leverage to join our rival, the Bolshoi, Madame would have backed Gregory over Vitaly. We all thought it unfair; even Marina whispered to me before the evening’s performance of Romeo and Juliet, “I’ve a notion to give the little rat some trouble tonight.”
As excited as Vera and I were over our good fortune, we felt bad for Vitaly and for everyone who wouldn’t be on that plane to Paris, but our own joy spilled over onto everything. We dug up copies of our French-language textbooks and spoke only French to each other. We hung out in the bookstores reading the fashion magazines and hopelessly comparing what we saw in the magazines with our own clothes, trying to figure out how we could turn them into something Parisian. Aunt Marya, who kept bumping into Vera and me among the French Impressionists at the Hermitage, complimented us on our new interest in art.
We did not allow ourselves to think of what Madame would say if she knew of our treachery. We were not planning to leave the Kirov for the Bolshoi; we were planning to leave Russia altogether.
I began to look at my family in a different way. I had always taken them for granted, as if they would always be there. Now I realized I would soon be leaving them, perhaps forever. Under Yeltsin more travel was allowed, but no one in my family could afford a trip to Paris, and if I ran away from the ballet, I knew I would not be welcomed back into Russia. I watched Mama in the mornings as she dressed in her maid’s uniform, arranging her long hair into a neat knot, putting on ugly shoes that would be comfortable for the long hours she worked in the hotel. I saw Papa come home late at night because there was a shortage of doctors at the hospital. After a fourteen-hour day he would slump down at the table while Mama fixed him tea. I would miss Grandmother in her corner of the apartment, typing poems on her ancient typewriter.
And how would I get along without Grandfather? I could hear him say, “What! Run away from your country just to live in the decadent West? You will sell your Russian soul for a television and a pretty dress. That is not the way of the Gnedich family. We have laid down our lives for our country.” When those words popped up in my head, I was ashamed, and only Vera’s reminder of the magic city that lay ahead of us and my own determination that leaving Russia would be better for my dancing career kept me from changing my mind.
Soon there was no time to think about what it would be like to leave my family and my country forever. Maxim Nikolayevich had employed a new choreographer, so we had additional routines to learn. As soon as we had mastered a routine and performed it, the trouble would begin. Maxim Nikolayevich would shout and stamp his feet and tell us how miserable our performance was and how he would be ashamed to take us to Paris or indeed, because of our clumsiness, to the smallest country village in Russia. Back we would go to our practice sessions, which now lasted from dawn to dusk—and dusk in Leningrad’s July was all night.
We lost weight. The towels we kept around our necks to catch the sweat never had time to dry. We wore out a pair of shoes a day. At night we soaked in the tub to ease our sprains and pulled muscles. Every toe had a bandage. At each practice session at least one person would break down in tears. Sometimes we took our frustration out on one another. Yet there were times when everything came together and all the laws of gravity were broken. We soared, we fell into the music and made it our own, and then even Maxim Nikolayevich allowed himself
a small smile.
During the excitement Vitaly had grown strangely quiet. He seldom joined us for lunch, and at the end of practice he hurried away. I tried to talk with him, but he ignored me. One day when he and I were alone together in the cloakroom, I noticed that on top of Vitaly’s tote bag were two more bags stuffed to bursting.
“Vitaly, why do you have all your things piled up like that? Is your family moving?”
He started to walk away, but his expression of hurt troubled me. I realized I had been so preoccupied with my own excitement that I had put Vitaly’s unhappiness out of my head. I grabbed his arm. “Hey, Vitaly, it’s me, Tanya, your friend. Don’t run away.”
Vitaly sank down onto the floor and I settled next to him, my arm around his shoulder. In a choked voice he said, “I’m going to join a dance group planning to tour Siberia. Siberia isn’t Paris, but it gets me away from home, where they don’t want to see my face.”
“Siberia! That’s impossible! You can’t be serious. How could you give up your career here? This is the greatest ballet company in the world.”
“First of all,” Vitaly said, “the greatest ballet company in the world doesn’t care what happens to me. Second, they kicked me out at home. If I join this troupe, even if it’s going to Siberia, I’ll have a roof over my head.”
“What do you mean you’ve been kicked out at home?”
“The Old Soldier always hated the idea of my dancing, but when it looked like I was going with the troupe to France, and when my father actually saw an article about the tour in the paper, he started bragging about me to his friends. Now that I’m not going, my father is finished with me. He told me I must be no good, a failure. We had a fight and he threw me out. A friend will put me up until the end of the month, and then I’ll take off with the Siberian tour.”
The Turning Page 6
