The Last Days of the Romanov Dancers

by Kerri Turner

  Rasputin, however, seemed either oblivious to the tiny snubs, or didn’t care. His interest was only in what pieces Valentina was intending to dance at the Hermitage.

  Maxim hovered at the edge of her vision, clearly waiting for an invitation to join them. For a moment the tight muscles at the back of Valentina’s neck relaxed. This evening might still be salvaged for her protector. But the monk never turned towards the man who had worked for him numerous times before, and Valentina couldn’t find an opportunity to interrupt and make the invitation herself. And so the cloud on Maxim’s brow darkened, and she knew she would have to face yet another rage when they were alone.

  Valentina split the lemon neatly into two equal halves. Putting one aside, she picked up a silver spoon and scooped the pale flesh out of the other. The acidic smell stung her nostrils, and she tried not to breathe it in. There must have been a time when the smell of lemons hadn’t made her stomach turn. But that time was long gone. She discarded the last of the flesh onto a delicate china saucer, then dipped the peel into a bowl of water. Once the remaining juice had been soaked from it, she rinsed it with vinegar to ensure it was as sterile as possible; then placed it on a piece of soft cloth to dry.

  She realised she was slouching and forced herself to sit up straight. Developing rounded shoulders would be disastrous for her career. Besides, she should know better than to let what she was feeling on the inside affect her so obviously on the outside—but an invisible weight was pulling at her chest. Maxim was waiting for her to call him to her bed when she was finished. It was the only way she knew to placate him after he’d got himself so worked up, but her thorough preparations always caused him extra frustration and he refused to be in the same room until she was done.

  Valentina sighed. She wished her mother were there. Registering what she’d just thought, Valentina made a sound that was only vaguely a laugh. She dug the silver spoon into the flesh of the second lemon half, wondering what was wrong with her. Her mother would slap both her cheeks for being self-indulgent; perhaps lock her in a cupboard until her self-pitying attitude had disappeared and obedience had taken its place once more.

  No, what she truly missed was the sense of belonging to someone. Not the kind of belonging that came from the exchange of money or jewels, but something deeper. The way families belonged to each other, even if they sometimes wished they didn’t.

  Valentina placed the second lemon half next to the first, then sat cross-legged on her bed and pulled the blanket around her knees. ‘Riches,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Money. Security. Safety.’

  Looking at the bright yellow peels, she wondered what she would do if they stopped working. Did all children turn women into cold-minded, sharp-fingered shrews, or was that just what she’d done to her mother? Baudruches weren’t an option, of course. They were supposedly effective at preventing babies, but had a reputation for being low class because of how widely used they were by prostitutes. They were also said to dull the man’s pleasure. Valentina couldn’t ask that of Maxim—why would he pay a fortune for her if he couldn’t fully enjoy her? Rather than make her his wife, he’d just find some other dancer all too willing to satiate his desires.

  Valentina wondered if Luka had ever had cause to use a baudruche. The thought had jumped into her mind before she could stop it, and her cheeks flamed. Luka was merely on her mind because she’d seen him outside the theatre.

  She stood and stalked into the private room adjoining her bedroom. On the dark octagonal wooden table with gilt edges stood a framed photograph, and next to it a candle in a silver candlestick that had been a gift from the Mariinsky gallery a few years ago. Wax coated the top end, dripping down it like grotesque fingers. Valentina kneeled on the bright oriental rug that covered the entire floor, and lifted the candlestick, leaving a shining circle where it had stood. The table was coated so thickly with dust that she sneezed, and a little grey puff flew into the air and danced in front of the photograph. There was only a stub of candle left, and the wick took some time to catch. She exhaled softly, letting her breath cross the flame so it danced, then placed it back on the same dust-free circle and turned her attention to the framed photograph. It was a portrait of her mother. Cracks ran through the glass, splitting Mamma’s eyebrows so she looked as though she were furious at the camera for daring to take her picture.

  ‘Mamma?’ Valentina whispered.

  She held her breath, willing the candle flame to bring the photo to life. The sounds of the house faded around her, her entire concentration focused on the portrait. Any minute now, she thought. Just a little while longer and she’ll talk to me …

  Nothing happened.

  Valentina sighed. The exhalation almost extinguished the candle. Irritated, she licked her forefinger and thumb and squeezed the wick so the flame disappeared. She’d known it wouldn’t work. Whatever magic the photo had held for her as a child was long gone. But still she was disappointed.

  When Mamma had given eleven-year-old Valentina the photo, she’d told her it was to watch over her at the Imperial Ballet School; that through it she’d be able to see every action of Valentina’s and know when she misbehaved. Valentina had been so convinced that she’d shied away from everything and everyone she thought might induce Mamma’s anger. She didn’t make friends, and was too scared to join in passing letters in class or sneaking into the maids’ pantry to steal extra food. The other students found her cold and odd, and eventually they’d given up trying to tempt her to join their fun.

  And then Mamma had died, right in the middle of Valentina’s graduation performance. The shock of the sudden loss was compounded by the discovery that Mamma had already arranged for Valentina’s first protector, despite her being only eighteen. Dimitri guaranteed Valentina’s acceptance into the company, but there was a moment when she’d thought she might resist. With Mamma’s death she was finally free of her watching eyes. Perhaps for the first time, her life could be her own to live.

  But when Valentina had picked up the photo to pack it away, Mamma had glared at her. Or so Valentina had thought. That’s how it had become cracked—she had dropped it in fright when she’d seen Mamma’s eyebrows lower in the way they so often had in real life. She’d run to Dimitri and the safety of a position in the company. Now, enough years had passed to dull the memory, and she knew the moment to be nothing more than the imagining of a lonely girl immersed in confusion as she stood on the cusp of womanhood. But somewhere, deep down, she had always hoped that maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe the photo really did hold some magic, and through it Mamma would one day come back and order her life for her again.

  ‘That’s enough being silly,’ Valentina muttered, pushing herself back to a standing position. Maxim wouldn’t like being kept waiting for so long. It didn’t matter that she was tired, that she didn’t enjoy the way his lovemaking became forceful and almost violent after a temper. She wasn’t paid to satisfy her own wants.

  Not allowing herself time to think about it, she went back to her bedroom and the hollowed-out lemon halves. She slipped off her undergarments, snatched up one of the halves and rubbed it in both hands to soften and warm it. Placing one foot on the edge of the bed, she lifted her skirt to her knees and carefully folded the peel so it would be easier to get inside. She held it between her legs for a moment, closing her eyes to steel herself.

  ‘Riches, money, security and safety,’ she whispered once more.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Do we really have to do this?’ Luka asked. ‘We could turn around right now and go somewhere else—have a quiet dinner, just the two of us. It’d be much more enjoyable, I’m sure.’

  He didn’t say it, but he was fretting about his brother. Still there had been no letter from Pyotr. The end of his second season with the ballet was getting closer and Luka didn’t know how he was going to face the worry of his brother’s silence without classes, rehearsals and performances to keep him distracted. He didn’t want to admit this to Xenia though, lest it seem he
was using his brother as an excuse for gaining his own way.

  ‘You’re not getting out of this,’ Xenia told him. She didn’t slow her steps to match his dragging pace and after a minute or two he hurried to catch up with her.

  Ahead of them was the restaurant Kiuba, with the word ‘Cubat’ spelled out in electric lights on the rooftop to celebrate its famous chef. The place looked decadent, but to Luka, not very welcoming. Inside, Mathilde Kschessinska would be seated with a group of nobles and high-ranking company members, getting drunk on Moët et Chandon Brut Impérial and eating caviar by the spoonful. It was a celebration of Mathilde finally, at age forty-three, dancing her most coveted part: the title role in Giselle.

  ‘You know I wasn’t technically invited,’ Xenia reminded Luka as they paused outside the door so she could tuck stray hairs into place under the little beaded cap she wore. The sounds of laughter and silver cutlery carelessly hitting china plates floated out to them on a breeze of warm air that smelled of slow-roasted pig, garlic and cigarette smoke. ‘I’ll never get the chance to see one of Mathilde’s infamous parties unless I arrive on your arm. Give it a year or so and she’ll be ordering the company to partner you with her, and you’ll be beyond my reach then.’

  Luka stifled a sigh. He was tired of the joke. In truth he could never imagine being beyond Xenia’s reach, not after that Christmas night they’d shared together. Since then she had acted as though nothing had changed, yet Luka wondered if she felt the same sparks of regret and desire that he did every time they touched.

  ‘Alright,’ he said, unable to meet her eyes for long. He was afraid his feelings about his brother might show, and he didn’t want to give them voice in case that made them real. ‘But don’t blame me if the night doesn’t turn out as you expect. These people aren’t like you and me.’

  It wasn’t strictly true. Xenia came far closer to the people inside than he ever could. Not in company rank, but in a societal one.

  With an enchanting smile, Xenia slipped her arm through Luka’s and together they entered the French restaurant. Most of the tables, draped in crisp white tablecloths topped with ornate place settings, were set for two and lined up in rows that had a military precision to them. A man in an impeccably tailored dark coat led them between the rows, underneath chandeliers shaped like upturned parasols, and past long vine-like plants that stretched up the walls towards the ceiling.

  Luka whispered to Xenia, ‘How many parties do you think Mathilde has thrown this year?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered back. ‘But I can guarantee one thing: those newspapers that think they’re being so clever by over-exaggerating the number probably don’t know the start of it. I heard she threw a soirée when an abscess disappeared from her foot.’

  This last remark was spoken just as they reached Mathilde’s table, and Xenia switched her face and tone so quickly to an enthusiastic greeting that Luka almost laughed.

  ‘Malysh, my dear!’ Mathilde cried, leaning down from her end of the table. She spoke in French as always. It had become the more respectable language since the uprisings against the English-speaking Tsarina, which thrilled Mathilde, who both detested the Tsarina and was not fluent in English.

  In a sapphire blue gown with matching jewels around her neck, Mathilde was radiant. Her setting was opulent too. The table stood in an octagonal-shaped annexe to the main dining room, with walls that alternated between long windows and floor-to-ceiling paintings in gilded frames. Above, a heavy chandelier reached down from an ornate carving, so low the diners could have almost touched it where they sat. Unlike the other chandeliers, this one resembled a mass of candles that would have surely rained wax down on everyone if they hadn’t been electric.

  Seated to Mathilde’s left, framed by the green fan of a rare palm tree, Luka recognised the critic and author Konstantin Skalkovsky, a man who liked to pretend he was French and sneered more than he smiled. Next to him sat Princess Zinaida Yusupova. To Mathilde’s right was the Grand Duke Andrei. Luka noticed his relaxed posture and knew it must be because the Grand Duke Sergei was with the Tsar at the Stavka, sent there as Field Inspector General of Artillery. Although the Grand Duke Andrei was officially the chief of the 130th Infantry Regiment of Kherson, most of his time was spent in Petrograd, idling with Mathilde.

  ‘Malysh, who is this charming companion you’ve brought with you?’ Mathilde asked.

  ‘Xenia Nicholaievna. She’s a member of the corps.’

  ‘Ah, of course. Welcome to our little soirée, Xenia Nicholaievna.’ Mathilde opened her arms wide, laughing loudly; the gathering was anything but little.

  Xenia was laughing as well, but Luka didn’t think it was because of Mathilde’s joke; rather because her choice of words mirrored Xenia’s own when she’d made fun of the ballerina not five minutes earlier.

  ‘Merci. And may I congratulate you on a glorious performance as Giselle tonight,’ Xenia replied.

  Luka cringed to hear the exaggeration come out of Xenia’s mouth. But the compliment worked as intended, and Mathilde pretended to blush while insisting Luka must bring Xenia to more of her events.

  When Mathilde’s attention shifted to Princess Zinaida Yusupova, Xenia turned to Luka with a carefully schooled smile. ‘See, it’s not so hard to fit in,’ she murmured. ‘You just have to pet them a little.’

  Luka shook his head.

  He was disturbed to find himself seated almost opposite Maxim Sergeivich, who was careful to ignore him, and Valentina, who sat at her protector’s side. It was the first time the two men had been so close since Maxim had threatened him, and the memory of how that calm, arrogant face could twist into something ugly and violent made Luka lose any appetite. He sat back in his chair and let the dinner carry on around him. Conversations overlapped up and down the table, quieting only when meals were placed in front of them.

  A few of the men were smoking and the smell reminded Luka of his father. The scent of tobacco had been a permanent background to his and Pyotr’s childhood, until Luka had left home for the ballet school. He wondered what his life would be like if it had been Pyotr who had the passion and skill for ballet. Would Luka be in a trench somewhere right now, fretting that he wasn’t able to get a letter to his family? Or would he be dead? It was the very thing Luka didn’t want to think about, and he closed his eyes briefly in an attempt to make it go away.

  Maxim’s amused voice broke through his thoughts. ‘They’re calling it the “Ministerial Leapfrog”, because of how quickly ministers are named then removed. Rather a novel name. It must be difficult for Grigori Rasputin to find men who can live up to his just and righteous expectations.’

  ‘Novel?’ Luka couldn’t stop himself.

  Maxim’s laughter was cut short and he turned to Luka with narrowed eyes. ‘That is what I said.’

  The condescension in his tone irritated Luka. ‘You think it’s fine for Grigori Rasputin to treat Russia’s politics as if they’re a game to amuse himself with, when others are dying for those politics?’

  ‘You dare to question the Empress’s authority in leaving such matters to Rasputin?’ Maxim gave Luka a smile that exposed all of his teeth. ‘But then the only game you would know about is gorodki, a game for children. Right, Malysh?’ He slipped a cigarette into his mother-of-pearl holder, lit it and popped the end in his mouth, smirking at the smothered laughter around them.

  Luka felt Xenia’s body stiffen next to him. He wished he could reach across the table and smack the cigarette holder out of the other man’s mouth. Instead he pretended to laugh with the others, hating himself for it and wondering what his brother would think of him if he could see.

  ‘Tell me, Malysh,’ Maxim continued, ‘you come from muzhiki, don’t you? That’s why you can’t understand the complexities of the aristocrats.’

  He exhaled a stream of smoke at Luka’s face. Xenia leaned forward and waved the grey cloud away. Luka wished she hadn’t. It only drew more attention to it.

  ‘My family are
n’t peasants,’ he muttered, then was angry with himself for allowing the accusation to seem like something shameful. He sat up straighter and said loudly, ‘My father is a factory worker, as was my brother until he became a soldier. And you’re right when you say I don’t understand the actions of the nobility. Perhaps my background does have something to do with that. Although I’m not the only one here who comes from a working family.’

  A stillness settled over their end of the table. Luka got the distinct feeling everyone was avoiding looking at Valentina.

  She herself had raised her head from her plate and was staring at him with darkened eyes. As Luka met her gaze, the frustration in him swelled to a hot little ball that sat heavily in his chest. Why didn’t she say anything? Why didn’t she defend her people? But all she did was stare back, her eyes flashing with a thousand different thoughts, none of which made their way out of her mouth.

  ‘I don’t believe the peasants and workers have it as bad as they like to pretend,’ Maxim said, breaking the spell that held them all. ‘On my work travels I see plenty of them, and they’re often smiling and singing.’

  ‘They aren’t a Zinaida Serebriakova painting,’ Luka retorted.

  Maxim’s answering expression gave him a stab of grim satisfaction. No doubt the man hadn’t realised Luka would know anything about art. But his education at the Imperial Ballet School had taught him more than just dance, and seeing the response gave Luka all the encouragement he needed to carry on.