With Clayton gone, she was even more lonely. There was nothing to do but work and come home to Grandmama after each performance. She realized then the extent to which Clayton had spoiled her. When he was around, there were always outings, presents, surprises, plans. And now, suddenly, there was nothing. She wrote to him even more often than she wrote to Marie in Tobolsk, but his answers were brief and hurried. He had a great deal of work to do in Chaumont for General Pershing.
October was even worse, Feodor caught the Spanish flu, and Zoya and her grandmother took turns nursing him for weeks, but finally, unable to eat or drink, or even see anymore, he succumbed, as both women sat crying silently at his bedside. He had been so loyal and kind to them, but like an animal taken too far from his home, he was unable to survive in a different world. He smiled gently at them before he died, and said softly,“… Now I can go back to Russia….”
They buried him in a little cemetery outside Neuilly, Vladimir had driven them there, and Zoya cried all the way home, feeling as though she had lost her only remaining friend. Everything seemed suddenly so grim, even the weather. Without Feodor there was never enough firewood and both Evgenia and Zoya couldn't bring themselves to use his room.
It was as though the pain of their losses was never going to end. Clayton hadn't been to Paris in almost two months, and when Zoya came home from work late one night, she got a dreadful shock as she opened the door and saw a man standing in their living room in his shirt sleeves. And for a moment, Zoya's heart stopped because she thought he was a doctor.
“Is something wrong?”
He looked at her in equal amazement, as he stared at her with wide eyes, momentarily silenced by her unexpected beauty. I'm sorry, mademoiselle … I … your grandmother …”
“Is she all right?”
“Yes, of course. I believe she is in her room”
“And who are you?” Zoya couldn't understand what he was doing there in his shirt sleeves, and she almost reeled from his next words.
“Didn't she tell you? … I live here. I moved in this morning.” He was a pale, thin, youngish man in his early thirties, with thin hair and a crippled leg. He walked with a marked limp as he went back to Fe-odor's room and closed the door, as Zoya flew into hers in a fury.
“What have you done? I can't believe it!” Zoya stared at her angrily as she sat in the bedroom's only chair, and then Zoya noticed that Evgenia had moved a few more things into their room for their private comfort. “Who is that man?” She offered no preamble, she couldn't believe what her grandmother had done, as Evgenia looked up quietly from her knitting.
“I've taken in a boarder. We had no choice. The jeweler offered me absolutely nothing for my pearls, and there's very little left to sell. Sooner or later we would have had to do it.” Her face was filled with quiet resignation.
“Couldn't you have at least asked, or even warned me? I'm not a child, and I live here too. That man is a total stranger! What if he kills us in our sleep, or steals the last of your jewels? What if he gets drunk … or brings in awful women?”
“Then we'll ask him to leave, but calm yourself, Zoya, he seems perfectly nice, and very shy. He was wounded at Verdun last year, and he's a teacher.”
“I don't care what he is. This apartment is too small to take in a stranger, and we get enough money from my dancing. Why this?” She felt as though she'd lost her home to him, and she just wanted to sit down and cry at the indignity of it. For her, it was the final blow. But to Evgenia, it had seemed the only way out. And she hadn't told Zoya because she had suspected how she'd react. And Zoya's outrage only confirmed it. “I can't believe you would do this!”
“We had no choice, little one. Perhaps later we can do something different. But not for the moment.”
“I can't even make a cup of tea now in my nightgown.” Her eyes were filled with tears of rage and sorrow.
“Think of your cousins and what their life must be like in Tobolsk. Can't you be as brave as they are?” The words made Zoya feel instantly guilty, as she slowly deflated and sank into the chair her grandmother had vacated to go and stand by the window.
“I'm sorry, Grandmama … I just … I was so shocked …” She smiled then, looking almost mischievous but not quite. “I think I frightened him to death. He ran into his room and bolted the door after I shouted at him.”
“He's a perfectly nice young man. You should apologize to him in the morning.” But Zoya didn't answer her as she contemplated the extremes they had come to. Everything seemed so constantly dreary. Even Clayton seemed to have let her down. He had promised to come to Paris as soon as he could, but there seemed to be no hope of it for the moment.
She wrote to him the next day, but she was too embarrassed to mention their boarder. His name was Antoine Vallet, and he looked terrified when he saw her in the morning. He apologized profusely, knocked over a lamp, almost broke a vase, and stumbled as he made every effort to get out of her way in the kitchen. She noticed he had sad eyes, and she almost felt sorry for him, but not quite, he had invaded the last bastion they had, and she wasn't anxious to share it.
“Good morning, mademoiselle. Would you like some coffee?” he offered, and the aroma was pleasant in the kitchen, but she shook her head and growled at him.
“I drink tea, thank you very much.”
I'm sorry.” He stared at her in terrified admiration, and left the kitchen as quickly as he could. And shortly after that, he left to teach his classes. But when she returned from rehearsal that afternoon, he was back again, sitting in the living room, at the desk, correcting papers. Zoya slammed into her room and paced nervously as she glanced at her grandmother.
“I suppose this means I can't ever use the desk again.” She wanted to write a letter to Clayton.
“I'm sure he won't be there all night, Zoya.” But even her grandmother seemed to be confined to their room. There was nowhere she could go to be alone, no way she could collect her own thoughts, or get away from any of them. It seemed unbearable suddenly, and she was sorry she hadn't gone to Portugal with the Ballet Russe, but as she wheeled around and saw tears in Evgenia's eyes, she felt a knife of guilt pierce her heart as she dropped to her knees and put her arms around her.
“I'm so sorry … I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm just tired and nervous.”
But Evgenia knew all too well what was troubling her. It was Clayton. And just as had been foreseen, he had left to fight the war, and Zoya had to go back to a life without him. It was just as well that nothing more had happened, and that he was an honorable man, or it would have been even more difficult for her. She didn't ask Zoya if she'd heard from him. She almost hoped that he wouldn't write her.
Zoya went to the kitchen and cooked dinner for her grandmother and herself, and as the young teacher kept looking up, in the direction of the good smells, Zoya relented, and invited him to join them for dinner.
“What do you teach?” she asked politely without really caring. She saw that his hands shook very badly, he seemed constantly frightened and very nervous, and it seemed to her that his war wounds had left him far more than a limp. He seemed perpetually shaken.
“I teach history, mademoiselle. And I understand that you dance in the ballet.”
“Yes,” she conceded, but barely. She wasn't proud of the troupe she danced with now, not like when she was with the Ballet Russe, however briefly.
“I'm very fond of the ballet. Perhaps I could come to see you sometime.”
She knew he expected her to say that she would like that, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She wouldn't.
“I like the room very much,” he announced to no one in particular, and Evgenia smiled graciously.
“We are very happy to have you.”
“The dinner is very good.”
“Thank you,” Zoya said, without raising her eyes. He spoke in a series of irrelevant non sequiturs and Zoya disliked him more than ever. He limped around the kitchen trying to help her clean up, and afterward
he lit a fire in the living room, annoying her again by wasting the little firewood they had, but as long as he had lit it, she stayed to warm her hands. It was freezing in the small apartment.
“I visited Saint Petersburg once.” He spoke softly from the desk, hardly daring to look up at her, she was so beautiful and so full of fire. “It was very lovely.” She nodded and turned her back to him, staring into the fire with tears in her eyes as he watched her slim back with silent longing. He had been married before the war, but his wife had left with his best friend, and their only child had died of pneumonia. He had his own sorrows too, but Zoya did not ask to hear them. To her he was a man who had lived through great danger and barely survived it. And rather than strengthening him, it had broken his spirit. She turned slowly to look at him then, wondering again why her grandmother had taken him in. She couldn't bear to think that their situation was that desperate, but she knew it was, or Evgenia wouldn't have done it.
“It's so cold in here.” It was just a statement, but he rose quickly and put another log on the fire.
“I'll get some more firewood tomorrow, mademoiselle. That will help. Would you like another glass of tea? I could make it for you.”
“No, thank you.” She wondered how old he was, he looked to be somewhere in his mid-thirties. In fact, he was thirty-one, but his life had been far from easy.
And then, shyly, “Is it your room I have taken?” It would have explained her obvious displeasure at his presence, but she only shook her head, and then sighed.
“One of our servants came with us from Russia. He died in October.” He nodded quietly as he listened.
“I'm sorry. It's been a hard time for all of us. How long have you been in Paris?”
“Since last April. We left right after the revolution.”
He nodded again. “I've met several Russians here lately. They're brave, good people.” He wanted to say “and you too,” but he didn't dare. Her eyes were so big and bright and fierce, and as she tossed her head, her hair flew around her like sacred fire. “Is there anything you'd like me to do, since I'm here? I'd be happy to help in any way I can. I can do errands for your grandmother, if you like. I enjoy cooking as well. Perhaps we can take turns cooking dinner.”
She nodded in silent resignation. Perhaps he wasn't so bad. But he was there. And she didn't want him. He gathered his papers up then and went back to his room, closing the door behind him, as Zoya stood alone, staring into the fire, and thinking of Clayton.
CHAPTER
18
As the winter wore on, people seemed hungrier and poorer as the weather got worse, and with more and more émigrés turning up in Paris, the jewelers were paying ever smaller prices. Evgenia sold her last pair of earrings on December first, and she was horrified at how little they gave her. All they had were Zoya's wages now, and they were barely enough to feed them and pay for the apartment. Prince Markovsky had his own troubles too. His car kept breaking down, and he seemed thinner and hungrier each time they saw him. He still spoke valiantly of better times, and reported on all the new arrivals.
In the face of such poverty, and the bitter cold and lack of food, Evgenia was even more grateful for the presence of their boarder. His own meager salary barely allowed him to pay the cost of the room, but nonetheless he always managed to bring home something extra, half a loaf of bread, or a log for the fire, or even a few books for Evgenia to read. He even managed to find some for her in Russian, some poor émigrés must have even sold their books for a meager loaf of stale bread. But he always seemed to think of Zoya and Evgenia, and more often than not, he brought some small offering home to Zoya. Once he had even heard her say how much she loved chocolates, and somewhere, by some miracle, he had managed to buy a tiny bar of chocolate.
As the weeks wore on, she was kinder to him, grateful for his gifts, but more grateful for the kindness he showed the Countess. She was beginning to suffer from rheumatism in her knees and just getting up and down the stairs was suddenly agony for her. Zoya came home one afternoon from a rehearsal at the ballet, and found him carrying her grandmother up the stairs, which, with his wounded leg, was a painful task for him, but he never complained. He was always anxious to do more, and Evgenia had grown very fond of him. She was also not unaware of the enormous crush he had on Zoya. She mentioned it more than once to the girl, but Zoya insisted that she hadn't noticed.
“I don't know how you can't see how much he likes you, little one.” But Zoya was more concerned by the terrible cough that racked her grandmother as she said it. She had had a cold for weeks, and Zoya feared the Spanish flu that had killed Feodor, or the dreaded tuberculosis that seemed to be devouring Paris. Even her own health was not as strong as it had once been. With so little food, and such hard work, she had gotten desperately thin, and her girlish face seemed suddenly much older.
“How's your grandmother tonight?” he asked quietly one night as they were cooking together in the kitchen. It was a nightly ritual between them now. They no longer took turns on her nights off, but instead they cooked together, and when she had to work, he cooked for Evgenia himself, more often than not supplying the food himself, buying it on the way home with the pennies he earned from his teaching. Like everyone else in Paris these days, his small funds seemed to be dwindling. “She was so pale this afternoon” Antoine looked at Zoya with worried eyes, as she sliced two ancient-looking carrots to divide among the three of them. She was sick to death of stew, but it seemed to be what they ate almost every night, it was the easiest way to conceal the inferior quality of the meat and the near absence of vegetables.
“I'm worried about her cough, Antoine.” Zoya glanced at him from across the kitchen. “I think it's worse, don't you?” He nodded unhappily and added two small cubes of meat to the pot where Zoya was boiling the carrots in a watery broth. There wasn't even any bread tonight. It was fortunate that none of them were very hungry. “I think tomorrow I'll take her to the doctor.” But even that was more than they could afford, and there was nothing left to sell, only her father's last cigarette case, and three silver souvenir boxes that had been her brother's, but Evgenia had promised her that she wouldn't try to sell them.
“I know a doctor on the rue Godot-de-Mauroy, if you want his name. He's cheap.” He did abortions for the prostitutes, but he was better than most in that milieu. Antoine had gone to him for his leg several times, and had found him skilled and sympathetic. It pained him terribly now in the bitter cold and damp of winter. Zoya had noticed that his limp seemed to be getting worse, but he looked happier than he had when he'd first come to live with them. It seemed to do him good to have decent people to come home to, and her grandmother to worry about. It never occurred to her that his feelings for her kept him alive, and that at night he lay in bed and dreamed of her in the next room, sleeping huddled with Evgenia.
“How was school today?” she asked as she waited for the pot to boil. Her eyes were kinder now when she looked at him. He even dared to tease her now once in a while, and the exchanges vaguely reminded her of her brother. He was not a handsome man, but he was bright, and well read, and he had a good sense of humor. It helped during the air raids and the cold nights. It was what got them by in place of food and warmth and life's little pleasures.
“It was all right. I'm looking forward to the holidays, though. It will give me a chance to catch up on my reading. Do you want to go to the theater sometime? I know someone who might let us in at the Opéra Comique, if you want to try it.” The mention of it reminded her of Clayton and the gentler days of summer. She hadn't heard from him in a while, and assumed he was busy with General Pershing, who was designing the entire French campaign, and Zoya knew it was very secret. God only knew when she would see him again, if ever. But she was used to that now. She had seen the last of so many people she had once loved. It was difficult to imagine loving anyone without losing them. She forced her mind away from Clayton and back to Antoine and his offer to go to the theater.
“I'd lo
ve to go to a museum sometime.” He was actually good company, and very cultured, though not in the polished sense of her lost Russian friends. But in a quiet way all his own, which was equally pleasant.
“As soon as school is out, we'll go. How's the stew?” he inquired, and she laughed.
“As rotten as ever.”
“I wish we could get some decent spices.”
“I wish we could get some real vegetables and fruit. If I see another old carrot, I think I may scream. When I think of the food we used to eat in St. Petersburg, I could cry. I never even thought of it then. You know, I even had a dream about food last night.”
He had dreamed of his wife the night before, but he didn't tell her that, he only nodded and helped her to set the table.
“How's your leg, by the way?” She knew he didn't like to talk about it, but more than once she had wrapped a hot water bottle for him and he'd taken it to bed and said it had helped him.
“The cold doesn't help much. Just be glad you're young. Your grandmother and I aren't as lucky.” He smiled at her and watched her ladle out the thin stew into three chipped ugly bowls. It would have made her cry if she had let herself think of the beautiful china they'd dined on every night at the Fontanka Palace. There was so much they had taken for granted that they would never see again. It was horrifying to think of it now, as Antoine went to knock on her bedroom door to bring Evgenia to dinner. But he looked worried when he returned alone and eyed Zoya over the small kitchen table. “She says she's not hungry. Do you think I should get the doctor for her tonight?” Zoya hesitated for a long moment, weighing the decision. A night call to the house would be even more expensive than a visit to his office.
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