There were several more sitting rooms on the second floor, a handsome library filled with books in both French and English, several closed doors, and then in the distance she heard him. He was singing to himself as he changed, and she smiled, unable to keep away from him, even for a few minutes.
“Hello? …” she called out, but he didn't hear her, there was water running in the bathroom, and when he went back to the bedroom she was standing there, like a fawn standing very still in the forest. He was wearing his trousers and his chest was bare. He had decided to shave again quickly before taking her out to dinner. He had a towel in his hands and his face was still damp, as he looked at her in sudden amazement.
“What are you doing up here?” He seemed almost afraid, of himself, but not of lovely Zoya.
“I was lonely downstairs without you.” She walked slowly toward him, feeling a magnetic force she had never felt before. It was as though without any will of her own, she was irreversibly pulled to him. He dropped the towel at his feet and pulled her close to him, kissing her face and her eyes and her lips, tasting the sweetness of her skin until it made him dizzy.
“Go downstairs, Zoya.” His voice was hoarse and he wanted to pull her away but he couldn't make himself do it. “Please….” She looked up at him so sadly, almost hurt, but not afraid.
“I don't want to …”
“Zoya, please …” But he only kissed her again and again, as he felt her heart next to his chest beating wildly.
“Clayton, I love you….”
“I love you too.” And finally, painfully, he peeled himself from her. “You shouldn't have come up here, silly girl.” He tried to make light of it as he pulled away, and turned to get a shirt out of the closet, but when he turned, she was still standing there, and the shirt dropped from his hands as he came toward her. “I can't stand this for much longer, little one.” She was driving him mad with her youth and her sensual beauty. “Zoya, I would never forgive myself if …”
“If what?” The girl was gone, and she stood before him, fully a woman. “If you loved me? What difference does it make, Clayton? There is no future anymore … there is only now. There is no tomorrow.” It was the hardest lesson she had learned in the past year. And she knew how much she loved him. “I love you.” She was so small and proud and strong, it tore at his heart seeing the look in her eyes that told him she did not fear him, she only loved him.
“You don't know what you're doing.” He had his arms around her again and was cradling her like a child. “I don't want to hurt you.”
“You couldn't … I love you too much … you will never hurt me.”
And then he could no longer find the words to convince her to go away. He wanted her too much, had ached for her for too long. His mouth overcame hers, and without thinking he let his hands peel away her clothes and he gently carried her to the bed and held her and stroked her and kissed her as she kissed him and wept softly. His own clothes seemed to come away from him, and they slipped into the enormous bed with the canopy hanging over them like a blessing. It was dark in the room as they made love, but in the light from the bathroom beyond he could see her face as he made love to her, kissing her and holding her and loving her as he had never loved any woman before her.
It seemed hours before they lay silent side by side, and she sighed happily as she nestled close to him like a tiny animal seeking its mother. His eyes were serious then and he was thinking of what they had done, praying that she wouldn't get pregnant. He rolled over on his side and rested on one elbow as he looked at her.
“I don't know if I should be furious with myself, or just let myself be as happy as I feel right now. Zoya
… darling, are you sorry?” He was terrified of that, but she smiled a womanly smile, and reached her arms out to him, as he felt desire for her flood him again. They lay in bed and talked and made love until almost midnight, when he glanced at the clock on the bed table with sudden horror.
“Oh my God, Zoya! Your grandmother will kill me!” She laughed at him as he leapt out of bed and pulled her out with him. “Get dressed … and I didn't even feed you!”
“I didn't notice.” She was giggling like a schoolgirl and suddenly he turned and put his arms around her again.
“I love you, you crazy girl. Do you know that? Old as I am, I happen to adore you.”
“Good. Because I love you too, and you're not old, you're mine!” She pulled his silver hair gently and brought his face close to hers. “Remember that, no matter what happens to either of us, remember how much I love you!” It was a lesson she had learned early in life, that one never knew what grief could come on the morrow. The thought of it touched him deeply and he held her tightly.
“Nothing is going to happen, little one, you're safe now.”
He ran a bath for her in the enormous tub, and the sheer luxury of it was too much for her. For a minute, she could tell herself that she was back in the Fontanka Palace, but as she dressed in her ugly gray wool dress again and slipped on her worn black shoes, she knew she wasn't. She wore black wool stockings to keep her legs warm, and when she saw herself in the mirror, she looked like an orphan.
“My God, I look awful, Clayton. How can you love me like this?”
“You're beautiful, silly one. Every inch of you, every bright red hair … everything about you,” he whispered into her hair, and it was like breathing summer flowers. “I adore you.”
They could hardly force themselves to leave, but he knew he had to take her home to the apartment at the Palais Royal. There was no way at all she could stay out with him all night, and as he followed her up the stairs to the fourth floor, he kissed her one last time in the dingy, dark halls, and she opened the door with her key, as they saw Evgenia asleep in a chair, waiting for them. Their eyes met for a last time, as Zoya bent to kiss her cheek gently.
“Grandmama? … I'm sorry I'm late, you shouldn't have waited up….”
The old woman stirred and smiled up at them both, even in her half sleep she could see how happy they both were. It was like a breath of spring in the ugly room, and she found that she couldn't be angry.
“I wanted to be sure you were all right. Did you have a nice time?” She looked at them both, searching Clayton's eyes, but all she saw there was kindness and his love for Zoya.
“We had a lovely time,” Zoya answered without guilt. She belonged to him now, and nothing could change that. “Did you have dinner?”
“I had some of yesterday's chicken, and one of the eggs the Captain brought. Thank you,” she turned to him as she struggled to stand up, “it was lovely, Captain.” He was embarrassed not to have brought her more, but he had been in a hurry that morning. And he realized again suddenly that he had never fed Zoya that night, and wondered if she was as hungry as he was. They had been distracted for long, happy hours but now he was starving. And as though she read his mind, she glanced at him with an ill-concealed smile and handed him the chocolates. He swallowed one guiltily and put one in her mouth as she smiled and then went to help her grandmother into their bedroom.
She came back for a moment afterward and they kissed again. He hated to leave her and go home, but he knew he had to.
“I love you,” she whispered happily before he left.
“Only half as much as I love you,” he whispered back.
“How can you say that?”
“Because I'm older and wiser,” he teased, and then quietly closed the door behind him, as Zoya stood there, young again and happy and free, as she quietly turned off the lights in the apartment.
CHAPTER
22
Clayton returned the next morning looking impeccably groomed, and carrying an enormous basket of food for them. This time he had taken the time to go shopping.
“Good morning, ladies!” He seemed in exceptionally good humor, Evgenia noticed with a worried glance, but she knew that there was nothing she could do to stop them. He had brought meat and fruit, and two different kinds of cheese, cookies, and
more chocolates for Zoya. He kissed her lightly on the cheek and squeezed her hand, and insisted that the Countess come out for a drive with them. They drove happily through the Bois de Boulogne, talking and laughing, and even Evgenia felt young again just being with them.
Clayton took her out to lunch with them, to the Closerie des Lilas this time, and then they took her home. She was so tired, she almost couldn't make it up the stairs, and Clayton half carried her, as she smiled gratefully at him. She had had a wonderful time, and for a little while, their poverty and the war and their sorrows were forgotten.
They sat drinking tea in the living room for a long time, and then Zoya went out with Clayton again. They went back to the Mills house on the rue de Varennes, and they made passionate love for hours. But this time, he insisted on taking her out to dinner. He took her to Maxim's and then regretfully home, and Evgenia was asleep in bed when they got there. The two lovers tiptoed soundlessly around the living room, eating chocolates and whispering, as they kissed in the firelight, and shared their dreams with each other. She wished she could stay with him all night, but there was no way imaginable that she could do that, and when he left, feeling like a boy again, he promised to return in the morning.
The next day he was later than he had been the day before, and by eleven o'clock, Zoya was getting worried. They had no phone, so she couldn't call, but at eleven-thirty he appeared, struggling with an enormous bundle wrapped in brown paper. He set it heavily on the kitchen table with a look of mysterious delight and told Zoya it was for her grandmother. The old Countess came to join them then, and he stood back as he watched her pull the paper off to reveal an extraordinarily beautiful silver samovar, engraved with the crest of the Russian family that had brought it to Paris and been forced to sell it. He couldn't even imagine how they'd gotten it there, but when he'd seen it that morning in a shop on the Left Bank, he had known instantly that he had to buy it for Evgenia.
She caught her breath as she stood back, staring at it, in wonder, and for a moment she felt a sharp pain of sadness, knowing how dear her own treasures had been and how much it hurt when she had to sell them. She was still grieving over the cigarette cases she had been forced to sell just before Christmas. But now she could only stare at the samovar and at the kind benefactor who had brought it to them.
“Captain … you are far too good to us …” Tears filled her eyes, and she gently kissed him, the faded satin of her cheek touching his male flesh, reminding her of her own son, and her husband. “You are so very kind.”
“I only wish I could do more.” He had brought Zoya a white silk dress, and her eyes opened wide with amazed delight as she peeled away the wrappings. It was designed by a little dressmaker he had found on the Left Bank, a woman named Gabrielle Chanel. She had a small shop, and she seemed amazingly gifted. She had showed the dress to him herself and she seemed lively and amusing, which was unusual these days for the war-worn people of Paris.
“Do you like it?” She ran to her room to try it on, and emerged looking absolutely splendid. The dress looked pure and simple, and the creamy white set off the fire of her hair wonderfully. She only wished she had pretty shoes to wear with it, and the pearl necklace Papa had given her that had burned with Fontanka.
“I love it, Clayton!” She wore it to lunch with him that day, and it lay on his bedroom floor later that afternoon.
The next day was his last, he was leaving at four o'clock that afternoon, and she couldn't bear the thought of it as they made love for the last time, and she clung to him like a drowning child, as he kissed her. When he took her back to the apartment, even Evgenia looked sad to see him go. The farewells in their lives had already been far too painful.
“Be careful, Captain … we will pray for you each day,” as they did now for so many others. She thanked him for his great kindness to them both, and he seemed to linger, not wanting to go, unable to leave Zoya for a moment, let alone for months. He had no idea when he would be able to get back to Paris.
Evgenia left them discreetly alone, as tears filled Zoya's eyes and she looked at him in the tiny living room, the silver samovar dwarfing everything in sight, but she saw only him as she flew into his arms with a sob, and he held her to him.
“I love you so much, little one … please, please be careful.” He knew how potentially dangerous it was for her in Paris. There was still a possibility that Paris could be attacked, and he prayed for her safety as he held her. ‘I'll come back the minute I can.”
“Swear to me you'll be careful. Swear!” she commanded through her tears, she couldn't bear the thought of losing anyone else she loved, and not someone as dear to her as he was.
“Promise me you won't regret what we've done.” He still worried about that and he was still desperately afraid she might have gotten pregnant the first time they made love. He'd been careful after that, but not careful enough the first time. She'd taken him too much by surprise and his own desire for her had been too overwhelming.
“I will never regret anything. I love you too much.” She followed him down the stairs to his car, and stood waving until he was out of sight, the tears rolling down her cheeks as she watched him disappear, perhaps forever.
CHAPTER
23
Contrary to what he promised her, she did not hear from him again. Their strategies and maneuvers were too top secret now, and they were virtually cut off from everyone as they sat by the Marne, trying to protect Paris.
In March, the last great German offensive began, as they sat waiting to pounce just outside the city. There was shelling in the streets, and Evgenia was afraid to go out now.
The statue of Saint Luke was beheaded by shells at the Madeleine. And everywhere, people were hungry and cold and frightened. Diaghilev gave Zoya an opportunity to escape. On March 3, he left for another tour in Spain with the ballet, but Zoya insisted she couldn't leave Evgenia alone in Paris. Instead she stayed in Paris, but most of their performances were curtailed. It was almost too dangerous to move through the streets now. And only by a miracle did she manage to survive the destruction of the church of St.-Gervais-St-Protais near the Hotel de Ville on Good Friday. She had decided to go there instead of St. Alexander Nevsky, and she left only moments before shells hit the roof and it collapsed, killing seventy-five souls and wounding nearly a hundred.
Trains for Lyon and the south were filled with people panicking, fleeing Paris. But when Zoya suggested to her grandmother that they leave, the old woman became enraged.
“And just how many times do you think I will do this? No! No, Zoya! Let them kill me here! Let them dare! I have run all the way from Russia, and I will not run anymore!” It was the first time Zoya had seen her cry in helpless rage. It was almost exactly a year since they had left everything behind them and fled Russia. And this time there was no Feodor, there was nothing left to sell, there was nowhere to go. It was totally hopeless.
The French government itself was preparing to flee, if necessary. They had made plans to move to Bordeaux, but Foch himself had vowed to defend Paris till the end, in the streets, and on the rooftops. All of Zoya's performances and rehearsals were canceled in May. And by then, the Allies were losing on the Marne. With Pershing there, all Zoya could think of was Clayton. She was terrified he would be killed, and she had had no news of him since he left Paris.
The only news she had was a letter from Marie that Dr. Botkin had managed to send to her, and she was surprised to learn that they had been moved to Ekaterinburg in the Urals from Tobolsk the month before. And she could tell from what Marie said that things had gotten much harder. They were no longer allowed to lock their doors, and the soldiers even followed them to the bathroom. Zoya shuddered to herself as she read the words, aching for her childhood friend, and especially Tatiana, who was so prim and shy. The thought of them in such grim circumstances was almost beyond bearing.
“… There is nothing but for us to endure it here. Mama makes us sing hymns whenever the soldiers chant their awful songs
just downstairs. They are very harsh with us now. Papa says we must do nothing to make them angry. They allow us out for a little while in the afternoon, and the rest of the time we read, or do needlework …” Zoya's eyes spilled tears onto her cheeks at the next words,“… and you know how I hate sewing, darling Zoya. I've been writing poetry to pass the time. I shall show it all to you when we are finally together again. It seems hard to imagine that we are both nineteen now. I used to think nineteen was so old, but now it seems too young to die. Only to you, can I say things like that, beloved cousin and friend. I pray that you are happy and safe in Paris. I must go for our exercise now. We all send you our love, and please give ours to Aunt Evgenia.” She had signed it not with OTMA this time, their familiar code, but simply “your loving Mashka.” Zoya sat in her room for a long time and cried, reading the words over and over again, touching the letter to her cheek, as though touching her paper would bring her friend's touch back to her again. She suddenly feared terribly for them. Everything seemed to be getting worse everywhere, but at least the ballet in which she danced went back to work in June. She and Evgenia were both desperate for the income, and they had never found another boarder. People were leaving Paris, not coming to it anymore. Even some of the Russian émigrés had gone south, but Evgenia still refused to leave. She had gone as far as she was going to.
By mid-July, the city was warm, but still hungry. Zoya was horrified to hear from Vladimir that he and Yelena had been catching pigeons in the park, to eat them. He pronounced them surprisingly tasty and offered to bring them one, but Zoya declined, feeling ill at the thought. And two days afterward, as she began to despair that the war would ever end, Clayton reappeared like a vision in a dream. Zoya almost fainted when she first saw him. It was on the eve of Bastille Day and together they watched the parades from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde, the uniforms looked incredibly beautiful in the bright sun, the Chasseurs Alpins in their berets and black tunics, the British Life Guards, the Italian Bersaglieri in rooster-tail hats, even an anti-Bolshevik unit of Cossacks in für hats, but all she really saw that day was Clayton. When they returned to the house on the rue de Varennes, as deeply in love as ever, there was a fierce pounding on the door at midnight. The M.P.’s were rounding everyone up, all leaves were canceled, the German offensive had begun in earnest. German troops were only fifty miles away and the Allies had to stop them.
Zoya Page 18
