by Kerri Turner
‘I’ve sent them to bed. It’s too late for decent young ladies to be up and about.’
‘What a shame; they would have completed our little group. Oh, what am I thinking—I haven’t introduced you to our Malysh. Malysh, this is Madame Roubtzova. Her husband was Nicholas Roubtzov, the artist.’
‘Was, but is now just a corpse in the ground,’ Madame Roubtzova said. She didn’t look up at Luka, remaining focused on separating the deck of cards.
Mathilde made a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat. ‘Such a sad business. He worked on the interior of my house, and it’s some of the best work I’ve ever seen.’
‘He was certainly a talented man,’ Maxim said, his eyes still hard as he looked at his hostess. ‘I don’t think I ever had a bad word to say about him.’
‘Who would? I was heartbroken when he passed away, and the thought of his wife and daughters having no one to look after them was too much to bear,’ Mathilde continued. ‘So I asked Madame Roubtzova to join my household, and insisted on her girls coming to live with us too.’
‘In the servants’ quarters.’ The words were quiet, spoken through lips so tightly pursed they had almost disappeared.
The silence that followed would have been uncomfortable if the Grand Duke Sergei hadn’t jumped in to disperse it. ‘Mathilde dotes on those girls. She’s always buying them pretty dresses or trinkets just to see the look of delight on their faces. Isn’t that right, my sweet?’ His smile was one of adoration, and Mathilde took the hand he held out to her.
While the other guests admired their hostess’s generosity, the Grand Duke Andrei studied the garden intently, averting his gaze from his lady’s other lover.
Luka’s stomach churned. It was all too much: the champagne, the rich food that must have cost a small fortune, the cloying scent of cigarette smoke mingling with expensive perfumes. While the others toasted Mathilde’s health with vodka in gold-painted glasses, Luka pushed his chair back and excused himself. He didn’t wait to hear whatever snide comment Maxim responded with, or Madame Roubtzova’s careless dismissal as she started dealing the cards. Luka made his way to the far end of the garden and gulped the air as if he could drink it. Its saltiness made his mouth dry, but the surrounding scents of jasmine and lilac calmed him. These were smells that he would be able to find in his own world. He brushed his hand along one of the squat bushes that lined a pebbled pathway, feeling the need to grasp onto something real, as though it would steady his spinning mind.
He walked down the path, trailing his hand along leaves that were almost blue in the darkness. A feather caught his attention, tangled up in a shrub. He plucked it out and twirled it between forefinger and thumb; it was small, neat and perfectly white.
‘What have you got there?’
Luka didn’t need to look to know that the voice belonged to Valentina.
‘It’s just a feather.’
‘Can I see it?’
He turned and held it out for her. Her fingers brushed against his as she took the feather, and he almost jumped at the touch.
‘It’s white,’ she said, and he heard the change in her voice. ‘Do you know what it reminds me of? The white feathers Odette wears in Le Lac des Cygnes.’
It was not something Luka would have thought of. The world of the ballet seemed a long way from them tonight.
‘I’ve always wanted to dance Odette, you know.’ Valentina spoke in a low, distant tone.
Her back was towards the party and the light from the lanterns, so Luka couldn’t see her expression properly; just the outline of her hand as she caressed her cheek with the feather. Her chin-length hair glowed a little, like an unearthly halo. He wondered how much champagne she’d had to drink.
‘Perhaps it’s a sign,’ he suggested, and found himself lowering his voice to match hers, even though no one was near to hear them.
‘A sign of what?’
‘That you will dance Odette. One day soon.’ He didn’t know why he was saying it, but he had an uncanny feeling that this woman—the dancer who symbolised everything he wanted to achieve—needed comfort.
Valentina’s hand stilled. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘I do.’
Without thinking, Luka took a step closer to her, and the hand that held the feather fluttered down to her side in an unintended port de bras. Luka’s head swam dizzily, but he made himself stand still. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was on the verge of saying something more to him, something important, perhaps that she couldn’t share with anyone else …
‘What are you two up to?’
They both jumped. Maxim had circled around them, hidden by the shadows. His voice was jovial, but even the darkness couldn’t obscure how his face had turned to flint. Valentina didn’t appear to notice. She broke into a smile and leaned into Maxim so he had to tuck an arm around her to keep her upright.
‘Look what Malysh found,’ she said, waving the feather in front of his moustache.
‘A feather. How thrilling.’
‘Ah, but you don’t know what it means. It’s a sign.’
‘A sign of what?’ Even though he was talking to Valentina, Maxim didn’t take his eyes off Luka.
‘That one day I’m going to dance Odette. You know, from Le Lac des Cygnes.’
Finally Maxim broke his gaze from Luka and looked down at Valentina. He squeezed her with the arm that encircled her waist. ‘My dear, you’d make a far superior Odile than you ever would Odette.’
Odile was the other side of the dual role in Swan Lake: where Odette was sweet, delicate and innocent, Odile was flashy and cruel. Her power lay in her ability to deceive and seduce, and every moment of her dancing was cold, calculated and brilliant.
Valentina was silent for a moment, then she gave a hard laugh that sounded like it could break the night air. ‘You’re right, of course. It’s lucky I have you to remind me of these things.’
Maxim leaned down and kissed her, but his eyes once again flickered to where Luka was still standing, watching.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said, breaking away from the kiss. ‘Mathilde has won all the money from me that I’m comfortable losing tonight, and I’m tired.’ He pushed Valentina ahead of him towards the house.
Luka watched them go, not sure what had just happened. It was as though he’d been caught up in some kind of game to which he didn’t know the rules nor how to win, and hadn’t wanted to play in the first place.
He didn’t belong among these people. Tomorrow he would make his excuses and leave, no matter what Mathilde Kschessinska said.
Valentina sat in front of the mirror, dabbing perfume onto the insides of her wrists. The scent was muskier than she usually liked, but Maxim had given it to her, so it was prudent to wear it. Besides, she’d sweat it off once she got on the stage in a couple of hours. The company hadn’t ended up performing La Perle the previous year, as had been rumoured. But they were now, and Valentina had indeed got the role of one of the two Black Pearls. Maxim was triumphant. It was he who had made noises about the role being perfectly suited to her, whispering in well-placed ears and buying timely flutes of champagne.
He stood behind her now, watching her dress, as he so often did. She pretended not to notice.
‘How is my Odile feeling? Prepared for the big performance? Black Pearl now; Black Swan next perhaps.’ Maxim rested heavy hands on her shoulders.
Valentina saw her face tighten in the mirror and forced it to relax. He didn’t mean anything by it.
‘Careful, or I’ll trick you into falling in love with me,’ she said, leaning her head against his hand.
His fingers twirled the short waves of her hair. ‘Perhaps you already have. That is Odile’s trick after all, isn’t it?’
Valentina could only hope so. Men these days were less inclined to marry without love, not unless the marriage brought them something valuable. She knew she had no such thing to offer.
Maxim kissed her on the temple, then told her to hurr
y up lest she be late. Valentina was relieved the edge had finally gone from his temper. He’d been agitated ever since they’d come back from the weekend at Mathilde’s dacha. That feather incident had been a rare slip-up. She could imagine how it must have looked to Maxim, but it was not what he thought.
Since returning to the ballet, Valentina had noticed how Luka Zhirkov’s dancing had moved from the realm of talent into something far more exquisite. He really might become someone worth knowing, not to mention a superlative dance partner. That was why she’d followed him into the garden: she’d decided it was worth making an attempt to build a connection with him. Instead she’d foolishly made a drunken confession about a dream only Maxim and Dimitri had ever known about. Luka’s assurance that the feather was a sign had ignited the spark of hope she so desperately tried to keep in its hidden place, and she’d lingered too long, indulging herself.
She couldn’t explain any of this to Maxim though. Only another dancer could possibly understand. And now the feather was hidden away in her candy box, where he would never find it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Luka stood in the wings, nervously rising to demi-pointe and back down again. It was the opening night of a double performance of Chopiniana and La Perle and the company had already performed the former. He had been given the short but vital male part in the Yellow Pearl pas de deux in the latter. A million reminders raced through his mind: keep the shoulders low and free of tension; rotate from the hips and not just the feet; lengthen the torso so his head reached towards the ceiling.
His first few steps onto the stage made his knees weak, and he felt he might collapse in his ballet slippers. Then he was moving over the black expanse, forgetting all thoughts as he turned trust over to his body and the hours of training and rehearsal. The footlights faded, the harsh make-up on the faces around him became the features of various sea creatures, and the painted scenery brought to life an underwater grotto. If he’d cared to notice he could have seen the gleam of white shirt-fronts in the audience. But he was focused on his partner, the Yellow Pearl, and no longer realised there was an audience.
La Perle came to a close and the audience rose to its feet in rapturous applause. Luka’s heart swelled as he took his bow, the applause bubbling over him the way champagne did over his tongue. He knew his dancing had been at its best that night: his body had obeyed his every command and he’d felt elation run through him when, at the height of every jump, he’d seemed to hover mid-air for a second. There had been a tense moment when his sleeve had ripped at the seam, but even that hadn’t been able to dull the triumph that thrilled through his arms, legs and torso with every movement.
The way the audience cheered when Luka took his bow was almost as intoxicating as the dancing itself had been. He didn’t want it to end, but one bow was enough. There were other, more important people who had to take the stage. He waited in the wings, watching the soloists and principals take their turns, repressing the urge to run back out and drink in the audience response again himself.
Finally, it was Mathilde’s turn to curtsey. Although the role of the Yellow Pearl had been created for her, tonight she had danced the larger White Pearl. In the past the role had been given to international guests, who would perform with the company for special limited runs. Mathilde had reportedly been determined that one day it would be hers. And, as with most things, she’d got her wish. Roses, violets and tulips landed at the ballerina’s feet as she bent her knee. It should have been a joyful moment, but Luka could see the cold look in her eyes as she glanced at the flowers. A bad taste formed in the back of his throat.
The applause continued, and Mathilde curtsied deeper, her knee not quite touching the floor as no royalty was present. Finally, the entire company took their last bow together, and the dancers began to trickle away to the dressing rooms to wipe the thick greasepaint from their skin and transform themselves from mythical characters back to their everyday selves. Luka hovered where he was, still watching Mathilde. She had walked offstage with her smile in place, but the second she was hidden by the black curtains of the wings, it dropped. She threw down the bouquet of roses she’d only moments ago picked up.
‘Stupid halfwits,’ she spat, her painted lips lifting in a sneer. Those around her froze, the sudden sharpness in her voice making them uncertain. ‘Can’t anyone read a newspaper any more? I asked for no flowers while the war continues.’
‘Perhaps the people wanted to show their gratitude anyway,’ the régisseur suggested, his tone placating.
‘Yes, but you know who the newspapers will hold at fault. This will be just another example of my excess. I’ll be deemed unpatriotic.’ Mathilde’s eyes were flaming, and she looked especially impressive in her exaggerated stage make-up with elongated brows. Unlike the rest of the dancers, the jewels on her white tutu and in her delicate tiara were not just coloured glass.
Not wanting to hear more of the prima ballerina’s ingratitude, Luka slipped away to join the other male corps dancers in their shared dressing room. He liked to move slowly after a performance, taking time to rid himself of his character with every piece of his costume. Tonight he slowed his pace even more than usual. Luka knew that his own performance would receive little, if any, attention in the newspaper articles that would appear the following day. But if his father read them he would still know that his son had been part of an evening that seemed to ignore the increasing poverty of the war-restricted country; a direct insult to those who were fighting to save it. He thought of Pyotr’s letters and the light tone he tried to maintain as he described squabbles over barely edible food and competitions to see whose boots could hold together the longest. How many pairs of boots, how many meals, would the money spent on those flowers tonight have bought?
Such thoughts dulled his exhilaration as he put on his ordinary clothes. The dressing room was empty by the time he had finished changing, the others either rushing off to join the party Mathilde was holding at Kiuba, or heading home. Jamming his hat on his head, Luka made his way out of the dressing room. His intention was to go straight home, tuck himself into bed and try to forget the worries that plagued him. He wanted to relive his performance in his mind, to pick apart every last movement to see where he could improve.
Just as he got to the stage door, he realised he’d left the latest letter from his brother in the dressing room. He hesitated; the company carriages would be waiting outside, the other corps and low-ranking coryphées and soloists impatient to get going, not ranking high enough for a private company carriage. But to lose the letter would be just as bad as losing his gloves had been. The doorman eyed him curiously; with a sigh, Luka asked him to signal to the carriages that he wouldn’t be long, then made his way back to the dressing room.
His bench space was littered with spare pairs of shoes and pots of face paint, and he shifted them aside to search. A program for that evening’s performance lay beneath the detritus, and between its pages was tucked the letter. Luka gratefully slid it underneath his clothes, next to his chest. Turning to go, he was halted by the sound of raised voices. They were coming from Mathilde’s dressing room.
The only way out was past the open door to the dressing room. Treading as lightly as if he were once again on stage, Luka swiftly passed by, hoping not to be seen. But at the last minute, curiosity got the better of him and he glanced back. Valentina and Maxim were standing inside the room, at an angle to the doorway, Mathilde and her dresser apparently already gone. Valentina’s back was pressed against the make-up strewn bench, her face obscured from view by her protector. Maxim had a hold of her shoulders, his fingertips disappearing into the folds of her dress. His face, blotchy and ugly, was thrust into hers. Valentina’s hands were against his chest, patting him in an awkward soothing motion.
‘Why didn’t you tell me not to?’ Maxim snarled at her. ‘Did you think it would be funny to make a fool out of me?’
‘No one thinks you’re a fool, Maxim. It was all my fault. I just didn’t th
ink.’ Valentina’s voice, in contrast to Maxim’s, was oddly devoid of emotion.
‘I know you didn’t think!’ He shook her shoulders.
Luka’s first instinct was to intervene. He took a step forward, then hesitated. Valentina was a proud woman who, according to Xenia, liked to remain superior; she might not appreciate someone witnessing this vulnerable moment. But how could he walk away after seeing such violence in her protector’s manner?
Before he could make a decision, Valentina’s head shifted and her mouth dropped open into a little ‘o’ of surprise as she spotted Luka. She instantly tried to cover it, closing her lips tightly and looking back at Maxim, but it was too late. He’d seen her shock of recognition.
He turned to face Luka. Never in his life had Luka seen a man’s face contort into such an ugly expression. Maxim’s bottom lip drew down unhappily, while the top one lifted in a sneer. The angry red blotches on his face deepened, and he breathed through his nostrils so raggedly that Luka could see the hairs of his moustache shiver. His eyes were as cold and hard as stone.
He stared at Luka for a moment, then with a deliberate effort pulled his face into a smile that was even uglier. ‘Malysh … I might have known it would be you. Would you excuse us—we’re going to be late for Mathilde’s party.’
He reached behind him, grabbing Valentina’s forearm so abruptly that she jumped. Her feet automatically followed her protector, her eyes carefully trained away from Luka. He moved to the side to let them pass, afraid to brush up against either of them. It was obvious that it was costing Maxim a great deal of effort to keep a grip on his emotions.
‘What about …?’ Valentina gestured at the now empty dressing room. The floor was littered with colourful petals, confetti surrounding the naked green stems they’d been torn from.
‘Leave it.’ Maxim’s voice was cold. ‘Someone else will clean it up. And like you said, there were mountains of other flowers, so no one will notice.’
