by Kerri Turner
‘Those people sing to comfort their children when they’re hungry, and smile so they don’t cry. They don’t have thousands of pieces of cutlery, made of wasteful silver or gold, to do the exact same job.’ He slapped the table in front of him, and a knife clattered to the floor. Xenia bent to pick it up, but Luka didn’t stop. ‘And those stoves that you disguise behind painted screens and decorative tiles, which for you never run cold? They’re a source of life for most of the country. Entire families sleep on top of them, praying their supply of coal will last through the night so they don’t freeze to death.’
There was a pause while Maxim took his cigarette holder from his mouth. Luka, his heart pounding from his impromptu impassioned speech, thought he might have finally got through to the man.
‘How very primitive,’ Maxim said.
A few who had turned to listen to Luka laughed. The hard lump that appeared in Luka’s throat felt like it might choke him.
‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, pushing back his chair and standing up. ‘As you have so helpfully pointed out, I am “Malysh”. Which means it must be well past my bedtime.’
He turned to go, and felt fingers grab his arm. ‘Luka—’
Luka didn’t let Xenia finish. ‘No, don’t. You stay here and enjoy the rest of the party.’ Her face was troubled and he tried to remove the anger from his voice. ‘Please, I mean it. Stay. I want you to have a nice evening.’
He walked away before she could argue or try to follow him. He couldn’t stand to be there any more, with people who were so ready to ignore those who had already lost so much and were desperately trying to survive off less food than was left over on the silver plates they dined from. What was more, he needed to get away from them so he could try to convince himself that he wasn’t becoming one of them. That he wasn’t ignoring his hungry, hurting country just because his own life had been made easier thanks to the ballet.
Luka didn’t want to see any more faces that night, rich or poor. He just wanted to be surrounded by the quietness of his shabby apartment. There was something comforting about the cheap furniture, scuffed floors and simple curtains. Perhaps because it was the first time in his life he’d had his own space in the world; not shared with others like his childhood home and the dormitory of the Imperial Ballet School had been. It made it special; and knowing it was money earned from his dancing that afforded him this luxury imbued the otherwise plain apartment with the glow of achieved ambition.
But when he entered his building and climbed the two flights of stairs, he found someone waiting for him in the hall outside his door. It was his father, dressed in a dark zhilet with copper buttons. He was leaning against the wall, thin face glowering as he stared at the uncovered floor.
He looked up at the sound of Luka’s footsteps. It must have taken him a minute or two to recognise his son for his face remained frozen until Luka stepped into the light offered by one gas wall lamp. Then his frown deepened. ‘Are you happy with yourself now?’ he snarled, pushing himself off the wall and staggering towards Luka.
Luka reached out to right him. Vladimir swatted his hands away, then swayed on the spot, running the back of his sleeve over his face. Was he drunk? Luka couldn’t imagine him drinking in the city, but nor could he imagine him taking the tram all the way here if he was already drunk.
‘What are you doing here? What’s the matter?’ he asked. His hands hung uselessly by his sides, wanting to do something but not sure what.
His father leaned closer; yes, there was definitely alcohol on his breath. But that wasn’t what made Luka hiss through his teeth. His father was crying. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, which meant the tears now coursing down his grizzled cheeks had been making such tracks for a while. Luka’s stomach dropped so suddenly his knees almost buckled. He took a step back; he’d only ever seen his father distraught like this once before.
‘No,’ he choked out.
‘Pyotr.’ The name ripped from his father’s chest, as though his son was being torn from him in that very moment.
‘No,’ Luka said again, shaking his head. Something hit him from behind; he’d backed into the opposite wall without realising. ‘He can’t be … he isn’t …’
‘He is dead.’
The only sound in the hallway was Luka’s rough breathing. He closed his eyes, then buried his face in his hands, trying not to think, not to feel.
‘Don’t you dare hide your coward’s face from me,’ his father snarled.
‘That’s not what I—’
‘Your brother gave everything he had for this country—because people like you won’t give a single thing!’
Luka dropped his hands. ‘People like me? I thought you no longer supported the war, that you didn’t want me to—’
‘Of course I don’t support a war that took my only decent son away from me!’ His father was shouting now. ‘But that is no excuse for cowardice. I know it, Pyotr knew it. Only little Luka, with his precious ballet slippers and dancing feet, had to hide away in his borrowed, gilded life. You should be ashamed! Ashamed you weren’t there for him, ashamed you couldn’t … you couldn’t …’
Luka thought he might vomit. He couldn’t hear more. He turned his back and fled down the stairs and out the building’s door, gasping in the night air as if it were the only thing that could keep him alive. It wasn’t, though. He needed movement. He began running, hoping he could outpace the truth of his father’s words. Undo them and make his brother alive once more.
He paid no mind to where he ran, nor how many people stopped to yell at his strange behaviour, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other. Eventually, his chest burned with something easier than the pain his father had inflicted, and he slowed down. It must have rained in the short time he’d been in the hallway, for now he saw the glowing light of the gas streetlamps reflected in shallow puddles. The sound of carriage wheels on the wet roads made it hard to think, but for that he was grateful. His head felt as though it weighed as much as the grand curtain that hid the Mariinsky stage from audiences when it was closed. He forced it up anyway and took in his surrounds. He thought he recognised the area—and making a few turns, found himself at the entrance to The Wandering Dog. He pushed the door open, walked along the gloomy hallway, and descended the stairs into the club.
Tonight, the patrons of The Wandering Dog seemed to share his mood. A man, bearded and hard to make out in the dim, smoky light, was singing a slow, sad song, not even bothering to get up from his chair so the crowd could see him. His voice was round and mellow, only occasionally marred by a crack when the emotion became too much for him. He was sipping a beer as he sang, timing the swallows so his song was never interrupted.
‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’
Luka, still standing at the foot of the stairs, realised the voice was addressing him. He turned and saw the club’s host smiling at him. He found it impossible to return the expression.
‘Sort of. How did you know?’
‘I make it my business to know. We have a fairly regular crowd, so it’s not too hard to spot newcomers.’ He scratched at his chin, and Luka saw that the stubble covering it was at that awkward point between clean-shaven and becoming a beard. ‘You an artist?’
‘A dancer. At the Imperial Ballet.’
The words held a sense of shame after all Vladimir had said, but the host nodded his head in satisfaction.
‘We have another dancer come here sometimes, when she’s in the country. Tamara Karsavina. You know her? Our patrons love it when Tata dances.’
‘She dances for you here?’
Despite his dark melancholy, Luka felt a twinge of surprise. He couldn’t imagine the star of the Ballets Russes making her way between the crowded bodies and mismatched furniture to dance among the dropped ashes of cigarettes. It was certainly not something an imperial dancer would do. Perhaps that was one of the reasons Karsavina had left the Imperial Russian Ballet.
‘We push the chairs and tables rig
ht back against the walls,’ the host said, ‘and she dances in her bare feet. Perhaps you too will dance for us one day?’
Luka looked around at the unusual crowd, who were now half listening to an actor delivering an especially morose monologue. These people were exposing the depth of their heartbreak, sharing the burden between them all.
‘Yes,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘Perhaps one day I will.’
Maybe it could be a way of easing his pain.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Valentina adjusted her raspberry-pink skirts, causing the layers of tulle to rustle against each other. The sound reminded her of the draped romantic tutus worn in ballets like Giselle and Les Sylphides. This dress was a costume of sorts too, she supposed, only not in the same way. Every detail of it—the fine cut that showed an expanse of shoulder, the gold embroidery on the bodice and sleeves, the matching golden beads on the skirt that looked like a sprinkling of stars—was designed to be seen up close, so it could be admired and whispered about in jealous tones by those who didn’t have the same good taste or money.
Valentina stifled a sigh. The thought of costumes reminded her how much she was going to miss the ballet. It was nearing the off-season again, and as always she both looked forward to the few months’ reprieve and was nervous of it. What if her back should curve, or her ankle break? And then there was the prospect of a fresh batch of dancers joining the company at the end of the break. It was hard not to view the holiday as a threat to her position every year.
Maxim stood next to her, holding the jewelled staff he’d had especially made for tonight’s ball. The fingertips of his other hand rested on the small of her back, quivering with impatience as the staff tapped out a beat on the ground that matched the music floating out of the Alexandrinsky Theatre.
Mathilde’s Renault idled in front of the pale mustardcoloured building with its imposing white columns. The strange rumble of its engine was making the nearby horses nervous, and Valentina thought they might rear like the four horses that topped the building, tumbling the carriages they were strapped to. Pushing such nervous thoughts aside, she slipped her arm through Maxim’s.
In response, he leaned down and brushed dry lips against her temple. ‘You look like a Bakst painting,’ he said.
His eyes were on her bright dress, which was a shimmering mirror of the stars in the velvety darkness above. The darkness wouldn’t last much longer—the white nights would arrive soon, lighting up the sky so no one had anywhere to hide. Then the sky would be decorated with streaks of soft pink and peach, purple-tinged clouds resting like bruises on scrubbed-clean flesh—a glorious sunset that would last beyond midnight, before the sky finally cooled into a series of pale blues.
‘Thank you,’ Valentina said.
She checked the lace veil hanging from the back of her bejewelled kokoshnik, using the movement to cover her disquiet. She never looked forward to balls the way others seemed to; had never experienced that thrill of casting her eyes around upon entering to see who she might make a match with. She’d had her first protector before she’d ever attended her first ball, and to her they were just another event during which she stood by a man’s side, dancing only when he wished to, leaving when he decided it was time. Tonight, though, her reluctance came from something more than mere boredom at the repetitiveness of it all. She couldn’t pinpoint what was bothering her, but had the sense that something was inappropriate about this evening. Not that she was about to share that feeling with Maxim.
They entered the theatre, and the noise, which from outside had only just been audible, increased with every step they took. Valentina smelled the crowd before she saw them: sweat, perfume and tobacco mixed to create the aroma she knew so well—the scent of the social season.
Inside the auditorium was a world of dazzling colour and jewels, of rich scents and lush music swelling beneath excited chatter. Despite her trepidation, Valentina drew in a sharp breath. The ball was worthy of the Romanovs themselves—although they wouldn’t be here, of course. They had taken to appearing in public only rarely as a mark of respect for the war.
The stage, which only hours earlier would have been populated by performers, had been transformed into an exotic Turkish tent. A rainbow of silks draped in deep curves from the ceiling, fringed rugs were layered on the floor, and cushioned benches lined the wings. Upstage, a gallery had been erected and a group of costumed musicians were perched there playing music. Hundreds of wax lights lined every flat surface, causing the auditorium’s red and gold trim to glitter in their wavering light. Staircases led from the parterre to the finest boxes, where makeshift doorways had been created. The theatre’s shining chandelier hung above it all like a giant crown.
Dancing couples swept past, so close that Valentina and Maxim had to take a step back to avoid being trampled. The movement was automatic for Valentina, who was used to finding herself in pressing crowds. She caught sight of an Oriental hat, and a jewelled staff similar to Maxim’s, before he pulled her to the side to manoeuvre their way around the edge of the room. Servants dressed in livery embroidered with the imperial eagle stood with their backs to the walls beneath the branches of orange trees in oversized blue and white china pots; their job was to discreetly scatter perfume from copper vessels onto the floor. Valentina caught its bitter orange and rosemary taste in her mouth and grimaced. She was tempted to pluck an orange from one of the branches and sink her teeth into it to replace the artificial taste with a real one.
‘Valechka, I think I see Grigori Rasputin.’ Maxim pointed ahead, the pearl-encrusted cuff of his jacket shining against the colourful crowd.
Valentina arched her neck to try to see better, her heavy headdress making the movement difficult. She needn’t have bothered. At that moment, a gap in the throng opened before them to reveal the tall, dark figure of Rasputin. Even in the crowded room she had the unpleasant feeling she was suddenly naked under the monk’s eyes.
Maxim had already raised a hand in greeting, and was taking a step towards the monk. ‘Let me go alone,’ he said. ‘I don’t need you taking all his attention for yourself again.’
His shoulder bumped into that of another man and the two grabbed each other, righting themselves. Valentina’s breath caught.
‘Excusez-moi. Are you alright?’ Maxim asked, brushing down the younger man’s lapels without really looking at him.
He hadn’t recognised Luka. Perhaps it was the half-mask he was wearing, or the shifting light from the candles and moving crowd. Whatever the reason, Luka didn’t say a word in reply; he simply nodded and gave a tight smile.
‘Good man.’ Maxim patted him with one hand, then kept moving through the crowd, leaving Valentina behind.
Luka came to stand near her, his masked face tilted downward. Valentina smiled at some people who passed by, but no one stopped to talk.
In quiet Russian, Luka said, ‘Do you know who I am?’
It was almost enough to make her laugh.
‘Of course I know. My protector might not have recognised you, but it takes more than a mask to fool me, Luka Vladimirovich.’ She turned a pointed expression on him. ‘Besides, you’re speaking Russian. You might notice no one else here is.’
‘Yet they wear traditional peasant costumes and headdresses,’ Luka returned, tilting his head at Valya’s kokoshnik.
‘It’s considered patriotic,’ she replied evenly.
Luka snorted, and Valentina’s lips twitched. The young man still hadn’t learned to cover his feelings in polite society.
‘Nothing about this night is patriotic,’ he said.
‘And yet here you are.’
The part of Luka’s face that was exposed coloured. Valentina felt a little sorry for teasing him. He’d been unusually quiet in their last few rehearsals, sullen even. She’d thought the confrontation between him and Maxim at Mathilde’s celebratory dinner was bothering him, but given he had so rudely reminded their peers of her own upbringing, she didn’t feel the need to offer him sympath
y. Now, she wondered if she should tell him that it wasn’t his fault if he was seduced by the more glamorous side of life in the Imperial Russian Ballet. Countless before him had been, herself included.
He spoke before she had the chance to. ‘I just thought, with the season coming to an end, tonight might be …’ He didn’t finish.
‘A good opportunity to meet people who could help your career?’ He looked away, as if ashamed of himself, and she added, ‘You needn’t be so coy about it. We all have our ways of getting ahead.’
He glanced down, adjusting the unadorned cuffs of his jacket. ‘Why do you pretend not to have come from the same world as I?’ he asked abruptly. ‘It’s not a world to be ashamed of. They are the people who are dying to keep our country whole.’
Valentina stifled a sigh. She didn’t care for questions of this sort. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I should find Maxim,’ she said, and took a step away. But Luka grabbed her arm and pulled her into the dancing crowd in the centre of the room. ‘What are you doing?’
He placed one hand on her back, in the same spot Maxim’s fingers had rested earlier, and took her jewelled hand in his other. ‘I’m dancing with you. I should think you’d recognise that by now.’ His feet moved to the valse à deux temps the musicians were playing, and without thinking about it Valentina fell into time with him. ‘And I’d like you not to dash off before you’ve answered my question.’
Valentina averted her gaze, staring over his shoulder at the crowd that surrounded them, wondering if their smiles concealed inner turmoil the way hers did.
‘You know why. You’ve been part of this world long enough to understand,’ she said softly.
Luka leaned closer to hear her better and the proximity of his face made her turn her gaze back to him.
‘Why is it so important to you?’ she asked.
‘You really don’t understand, do you?’ He sounded aggravated, and there was something like pain threading his voice.
Valentina kept her mouth closed. Her feet continued to move in time with Luka’s, a gentle ebb and flow, and somewhere in the back of her mind she thought they would indeed make a fine couple on stage.
