The recording secretary typed a total of five pages of notes on the proceedings, including Seva’s final address to the court, during which he referred to himself in the third person. He lied about himself, he stated, just because he was beaten with a rubber truncheon. It was then that he lied and decided to go to the stake. He is guilty of nothing, he was never a traitor to his country. . . . He believes that the court will understand him and decide that he is not guilty.
Watching Seva’s delivery, I focused on the ways in which, even in his exhausted state, he managed to control and direct his voice. Then I remembered what Olga Knipper, Chekhov’s wife, had said about Seva when she first met him. She’d been struck by the intelligence of his whole being. So, now, was I; and so, I suspected, was the judge, who trained his lizardlike gaze on my partner as Seva brought his address to a close with this self-description: He believes that the truth will prevail.
Ulrikh stared at Seva for a couple of seconds. I do not think he was hesitating; I think he was taking in what Olga Knipper had observed. Then his pen moved swiftly over the paper in front of him.
Something within Seva soared. I felt it—felt him toss his spirit like a ball in the air, releasing it as he apprehended his own death. Then shock and terror rushed into his body, and there was no more room for me anywhere. His entire frame sagged; he dropped softly, dazedly, to the floor. I had been extruded; our partnership had been severed. There was nothing more I could do. I could only watch in horror as the executioners pulled him up by his armpits, shuffled him down to the basement of the Collegium, blindfolded him, and did as they were ordered.
One shot sufficed. After it was over, they cremated him and took his remains, along with those of hundreds of others—I saw box after box of ashes being loaded into a truck—to the cemetery of the Don Monastery, near the river, where they were buried, if that’s the word, in a common grave.
THUS I found myself uncoupled, having spent several decades in a partnership the strange and rewarding likes of which I will probably not experience again.
Time passed, my remorse festered, and Seva’s quintessence remained undispersed. Then came the receptor to whom, I decided, Seva’s energies might at last be fruitfully transmitted . . .
Two more dreams of hers are left to report! The first involves her cousin, her father, and (naturally) the director, whose presence my new collaborator had by now come to expect. The second dream is wholly Camilla’s—I had no hand in it. Onward!
EIGHT
A TRAMPOLINE sits in the middle of what appears to be the living room of the family apartment. The room’s ceilings are abnormally high, so the space accommodates the trampoline.
Eve is jumping on it in smooth cycles, each bounce taking her a little higher. She lands gracefully each time, her bare feet spaced evenly, her hands held out at her sides. She’s wearing a black leotard and leggings. Her mouth is painted red. Apart from these touches, she’s unadorned. Her dark blue eyes gleam in the room’s low light.
Meyerhold stands off to one side, assessing Eve. On the other side of the room, Jordan too is watching. I’m sitting on the sofa, observing the three of them. All is silent save for the thump of the trampoline each time Eve lands on it.
Jumping especially high, she executes a midair somersault. Meyerhold claps languidly.
Well done, he intones. Although you ought to practice your squats more regularly. Your half-twist pencil jumps are excellent, however. Don’t forget about mirror-gazing! As you jump, cultivate the ability to watch yourself as if from the outside. Keep your expression impassive. Let your body do the talking.
Eve recommences her bouncing.Exquis,murmurs my father in French. Truly exquisite.
Meyerhold turns and points at Jordan. You, on the other hand, are the laziest man of talent I’ve ever met! You make extraordinary fragrances, but can you make women happy? Take these two—he indicates Eve, then me on the sidelines. What have you done for them in the happiness department? His speech is the verbal equivalent of a forefinger jabbing a lapel.
Jordan returns the director’s stare. I gave them each a bottle of Lune, he says.
That’s not enough! I shriek. And you made it forher,not for me!
My sudden outburst throws Eve off, literally: she takes a sideways bounce and disappears from the room.
Jordan appears unruffled. She knows who I am and who I’ve loved, he says to Meyerhold, tilting his head in my direction. Don’t be fooled—nothing’s lost onthatgirl! Not much of a talker, though. In that respect she takes after me, he adds.
Well . . . perhaps she does know. In which case, the director says sternly, turning to me, quit behaving like an understudy! “Oh, don’t mind me, I just plan on spending my entire life backstage”—is that it? You have toact,you know!
Like a bat, the director spreads his cape’s wings wide, blocking my view of Jordan. Then he rushes me, enveloping me, pressing me to him. His scent is a pungent mix of pipe tobacco, rosemary, and the backstage odor (musty, with an overlay of pine) of a summer-stock theater in New Hampshire where Stuart and I once spent a long, hot August working as stagehands.
I struggle to escape his grip, but he holds me fast. I’d give you a script, he coos in my ear, but alas, there isn’t one. So make it up as you go! But remember, he adds: a mask obscures the eyes. The eyes mask the mind. And what does the mind conceal? The heart! Raise its curtain!
Cape and scent dissolve around me: he’s gone.
I TREATED Jordan’s missive as though it were addressed to me, which it wasn’t. I read it without hesitation, because I was meant to.
My father had put the letter where he knew only I would find it. He knew, too, that I’d deliver it to its intended recipient, who’d help me see (in it, or because of it) what I hadn’t yet been able to see.
Dear Danny,
By the time you open this bottle of perfume, its scent will have faded considerably. But at least you’ll have an idea of what it was like when it was fresh. It’s something you won’t find in any shop. Nobody else has a sample of it. You’re the only one! I call this perfume Somersault. It reminds me of a man named Meyerhold—a Russian theater director I met during one of my earliest trips to Paris.
You and I haven’t had much time to get to know each other, Danny, but I can already see the woman you’ll become: a real charmer. You remind me a little of Cam and a little of your mother. There’s something of Cam’s reserve in you, and lots of Eve’s flintiness! And her scent, too: your hair smells exactly the same . . . Aigre-doux, as they say in French: bittersweet.
I don’t know what Cam and Eve will tell you about my departure, Danny, and I hope you’ll refrain from judging either of them for the parts they’ve played in it. Eve got me the pills I’ll need, and Cam will make sure the method I’ve chosen really works. They’ve both been brave. I haven’t loved either of them well enough.
Time to end this letter, my girl. I hope you savor whatever your life brings you. Tell Cam to be kind to her sister, and you be kind to Cam!
Jordan
P.S. Oh, about Meyerhold: there’s a story . . . I thought he might be able to help me design a perfume bottle. He was a set designer, too, as well as a director. I figured, why not ask?
A lot of time passed before I received word from him. Here’s how it happened: In 1950, I received a little package, addressed to me at Patou in New York, from a British journalist who’d visited Moscow in 1938. He’d contacted Meyerhold, who gave him a folder for me. Meyerhold cautioned the Englishman to conceal the folder in his luggage. One never knows, he’d said.
The Englishman made it through Russian customs without incident and returned to London. But war was about to break out, and this man had more important matters than Meyerhold’s folder on his mind. His house was damaged during the bombing raids. As he was sifting through the remains of his study, he found the folder, put it in a box, and forgot all about it.
Then, in 1950, he came across the box again. It was inexcusable, he wrote in a note to me,
that he was still hanging on to something he’d promised to deliver more than ten years earlier! He hoped that although Coty had probably changed addresses since then, the folder would make it to me at last.
Which it did: Coty forwarded it to me at Patou. And in it were the sketches I’ve attached, along with a note written in Russian and dated January 30, 1938.
I had the note translated. This is what it communicates:
Dear Mr. Archer,
My apologies for the long delay in responding to your request for these sketches. As you may recall, when we met in Paris, you showed my wife and me some photos of unusual perfume bottles and asked if I could design something of equal panache.
Well, here’s my attempt. But first let me apologize for not writing to you in your own language! I am assuming that somewhere in vast New York City lives a Russian who can translate this for you. (Whenever I think of your city, I recall how my friend Mayakovsky once called the Brooklyn Bridge a paw of steel. Such an image! Do you happen to live anywhere near that paw, by chance?)
I took pleasure in making these sketches. They’re based on Pierrot, a clown who’s the central character in a play called “The Fairground Booth” by Alexander Blok. It’s a takeoff on an old commedia dell’arte routine. Pierrot is in love with a lady named Columbine, who’s the daughter of a merchant called Pantalone. She’s invisible to mortals. In Blok’s play she seems real but isn’t; she’s a figment of Pierrot’s imagination. The play is all about confusions of love and identity.
I hope you enjoy these sketches! Even if they prove useless for your needs, perhaps they’ll prompt something else? I rather like the one of Pierrot doing a somersault—poor lovesick clown! Please give your new woman friend (is she now your wife?) my regards, and those of Zina as well! I’m sorry we weren’t able to meet her in Paris, but we wish her, and you, the best.
Yours, Vs. Meyerhold
I assumed Meyerhold was dead, and after making a few inquiries, I learned he’d been executed. And his wife had been killed, too. Such a sad tale.
Anyway, Danny, I thought you’d like these sketches. They’d make extraordinary bottle designs, in my view. I have a feeling you’ll turn out to be an artist yourself. So take these drawings and do with them as you wish—
J.
STUART SHOWED up at The Fourth Wall the next day at closing time, carrying a black duffel bag.
“You got after-work plans?” he asked.
“Nope,” I answered, surprised to see him. In a phone chat earlier in the day, he’d said nothing about stopping by; we’d talked business and weather. I’d decided not to tell him about the box in my basement until I’d figured out what to do about Danny—when and how to let her know I had a letter for her. No point, I’d decided, in being hasty. I was feeling bewildered by Jordan’s reference, in his letter, to my sister—who exactly had he been alluding to?
“Good. Drop the gates, then,” Stuart ordered, pointing at the front of my shop.
“I was about to,” I said. “But what’s your hurry?”
“Just do it. I’ll help.”
“Don’t forget your bag,” I said as we proceeded to the door.
“No, no, we’re staying put,” said Stuart. “I just want to make it seem like you’re closed, so nobody bothers us.”
I brought down the solid metal gate halfway, ducked under it, then pulled it shut, stepping back inside after doing so. The space grew dim when I closed the door. I turned on the lights at the front, but Stuart immediately turned them off.
“You planning a séance?” I asked.
“Sit.” He pointed at a tall stool in one corner, and I made my way to it. The stool, its seat smooth and polished, had been in the orchestra pit at the Met for many years; I’d gotten it from a former stagehand. Perched on its slightly rickety legs, I could gaze down at my carved griffin—the best of my props—while surveying the rest of my domain.
Stuart began rummaging around in his bag. He soon produced a half-dozen very tall candlesticks, into which he inserted cream-colored tapers. These he ringed around us in a loose circle. As he lit them, the candles’ wicks flared momentarily; then their flames bobbed peacefully, casting a lovely glow.
“Just don’t knock those over,” I said. “I’ll never be able to explain to my insurance company how the whole place burned to the ground.”
“Pipe down,” said Stuart as he knelt next to his bag. “Just sit tight till I find what I’m looking for . . . Ah, here it is.”
He pulled out a black-and-white, diamond-patterned cloth, which he spread on the floor. On it he placed several tubes of what looked like makeup, along with an eyebrow pencil and some lipstick.
“And now,” he announced, standing and reaching out to cup my chin in his hand, “a little exercise in transformation.” He tilted my face slightly upward. “Hold steady—right there, okay? The light’s perfect now.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for me to pay someone at Elizabeth Arden to do this?” I asked.
He gave my chin a disciplinary shake.
“I won’t say another word.”
“Good girl. Because I was just going to tell you to shut up.”
Producing several bobby pins from his pants pocket, he pinned back my hair so none of it was touching my forehead or temples. Then he knelt again, examining his stash of supplies. Opening two tubes of makeup, he dabbed small amounts of each into his left palm, mixing them with the fingertips of his other hand. I couldn’t see the outcome; he turned away from me as he worked.
“Close your eyes,” he commanded, approaching me. After I’d done so, he began smoothing the makeup onto my cheeks with fast, sure strokes. In a little while he stepped back, surveyed me, told me I could now open my eyes, and blended more makeup in his palm. This time he applied it across my forehead and down my temples. Next he did my nose, then the area around my mouth, and finally my chin and jawline.
Returning to the tubes of color, he dabbed some more in his palm, dipped his thumb into the mix, scrutinized my face, and ran his thumb carefully at an angle along each of my cheekbones. At one point the effect seemed to bother him; he reached into his bag, found a tissue, wiped my cheekbones with it, and redid them, working with considerable delicacy.
“Be right back,” he said when he’d finished. “Just need to clean my hands before I go any further.” Pulling a hand towel from his bag, he went to the sink. I heard the water running; then he was back, wiping his hands on his towel.
“You’re awfully well equipped,” I said.
“Years of practice.”
“But it’s been a while since you last performed, hasn’t it? I didn’t realize you’d kept all your mime makeup.”
He clucked his tongue. “Certain props one doesn’t let go of, Camilla. You of all people should know that.”
Checking me out again, he ordered me to shut my eyes. Then he began applying more makeup, using the outside edge of his pinky finger as well as the tip of his index finger. After a few minutes he allowed me to reopen my eyes. He worked intently, frequently stepping back to regard my face, then moving in to tinker some more. His strokes were slower now, and finer. When he was satisfied with the results, he picked up the eyebrow pencil and started in on my brows, applying color in short, aggressive movements. He stepped back several yards and gazed at me, his expression concentrated; then he nodded to himself and proceeded directly to my left brow, which he penciled some more, lightly, at its outer edge.
“Now the mouth,” he said. Picking up one of the lipsticks he’d brought, he ordered me to purse my mouth. “Good, good. Not too stiff now—relax, baby, I’m almost done! Now a second coat, in another color. You’ve been very compliant. Wait’ll I tell Carl . . . He’ll say I should’ve given you some graham crackers and milk as a reward.”
“I’ll settle for a vodka,” I said.
“Fine,” said Stuart. “But we’re not quite done.” He’d finished with my mouth, which felt slightly gummy. The lipstick wasn’t the well-lubricated stuff I was
used to, but at least it had no odor that I could detect. None of the makeup was smelly, in fact, for which I was grateful.
“Now for some costuming. Nothing much, I know you’re not big on dressing up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. “I have some perfectly lovely togs in my closet.”
“Yeah, and you wear a frock maybe once a year? Don’t worry, I didn’t bring any dresses. I had something else in mind. Close your eyes. And keep ’em closed.”
I did, and heard him reaching into his bag. In a moment he’d plopped a hat on my head. It felt a little large. Then he placed a rectangular object in my lap.
“This feels like a briefcase of some kind,” I said, running my hands over it.
“It is. Now make it stand upright on your legs—no, don’t cross them,” Stuart ordered. “Okay. Now bend your right arm and put your elbow on top of the briefcase, and stabilize it at the side, with your other hand around it, like this—good! You’ve got it. Now hold your chin—yes, you have to lean over the briefcase a little, so you can put your chin in your hand. Very good.”
Once again I heard him extricate something from his bag. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve got a mirror here, right in front of you. I want you to look at yourself in it.”
I OPENED my eyes and saw Jordan.
He was wearing a hat and holding a briefcase on his lap. The hat looked very much like the one I’d sold recently, the Beckett hat; the briefcase resembled the one Jordan used to carry, with similar brass hardware.
His face was very pale. His lips were thin and dark, with no sheen; below his cheekbones the skin was slightly mauve in tone. The shadows under his eyes signaled suffering accepted, endured. His face revealed no hint of self-pity, no belief in abatement.
Thirty-three Swoons Page 24
