The Last Days of the Romanov Dancers

by Kerri Turner

  Valentina exhaled sharply, picking up a silver podstakannik and sipping the tea that had gone cold. She could practically hear Mamma’s voice, icy with derision, asking how she thought she might go about getting a protector who could be of more value to her than Maxim.

  She placed the podstakannik down with a rattle.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be going to the Mariinsky?’

  Maxim’s voice made her jump. She hadn’t heard him step onto the balcony, and her face coloured at being caught at the exact moment she’d been contemplating leaving him. She tried to cover it by pouring a second glass of tea, slipping it into the ornate silver holder, and holding it out to him. He took it, but didn’t drink.

  ‘I’m not feeling well,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ll go.’ It was rare for Valentina to miss a class once she’d returned for the season, but she didn’t feel she could face it today.

  ‘My poor Valechka.’ Maxim caressed the side of her head, his cool lips landing a kiss on her cheek.

  A pang of guilt hit Valentina. As he took the seat opposite her, she tried to smile, but her practised deference felt more hollow than usual. Maxim was looking at her with the superior expression that said he had something to tell her. She found herself dreading what it could be.

  ‘Grigori Rasputin tells me the Imperial Russian Ballet is going to be rehearsing Le Lac des Cygnes in the coming months.’

  Valentina’s breath caught.

  Maxim casually crossed his ankle over one knee and took a long, slow sip of his tea, placing the podstakannik back on the tablecloth with achingly slow movements. Valentina could stand it no longer.

  ‘It’s not been billed for the season.’

  His lips twisted, almost a smile. ‘No. It’s being considered as a surprise performance. For the public, to raise their spirits. Much like your Hermitage performance was supposed to do for the soldiers, until they turned traitor. They’ll be looking at casting soon. Mathilde will no doubt be given Odette/Odile, but there’s some question as to who might understudy her.’

  He raised his heavy eyebrows just a fraction. His dark eyes were grim, and Valentina felt a shiver go up her spine. She was almost too afraid to ask the question he was teasing her with.

  ‘Do you … do you think I might …?’

  ‘I already know you would make a perfect Odile, Valechka. But if I were to whisper a few well-timed words in Rasputin’s ear, I could only do so if I knew you could be Odette too. After all, I would be putting my own reputation on the line.’

  He leaned forward, his hands landing so heavily on the table between them that it shook. Valentina’s stomach twisted. After so many years of dreaming, was Odette finally within her reach?

  ‘If you want the role, you need to convince me you can be a good Odette.’

  ‘How would I do that?’ She licked lips that had suddenly gone dry.

  ‘You know what the role calls for. A sweet nature, a woman dedicated to the man she loves. Faithful.’

  The word hung in the air between them, and Valentina thought for a second she might actually stop breathing. Did Maxim know all she had been up to with Luka? Was he somehow aware that only a moment ago she’d been thinking of replacing him?

  She worked a smile onto her face, forcing herself to ignore the ache in her head. ‘I’m sorry if you don’t already think me capable of all that, but I know I am. I can be Odette.’

  A quick smirk flitted over Maxim’s lips; the expression of a man who knew he had won.

  ‘Good. I knew you would do anything to be Odette. It’s the one weakness you don’t seem able to overcome.’ He stood and rested a hand on top of Valentina’s head. The weight of it was oppressive. ‘And, Valya? If you do get the role, you’ll need to work harder than ever to prove that it was deserved. There won’t be time for socialising with corps members. If you can’t manage that, some dancers may have to be removed from the production, if not the company. Or I can arrange it so they find their body no longer capable of dancing. Remember, the eyes of Petrograd’s elite will be on you. As will mine.’

  With those words, he was gone.

  Valentina spread her trembling hands on the table, needing to feel something solid under her palms. A tear slid down her face, and with cold fingers she brushed it away.

  ‘I thought he’d never leave,’ Luka said by way of greeting, stepping into the blue room where Valentina was waiting for him. He leaned down, and Valentina turned her head so that his kiss landed on her cheek instead of her lips. She wondered if he was able to smell Maxim’s cologne on her. The part of herself that was ruling hoped he could; her heart felt differently.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  Valentina smoothed her dress in order to stop herself from picking at the skin around her nails. She had to do it now. It had already been three days; she couldn’t put it off any longer.

  But Luka cut her off before she had the chance to say anything. ‘I have something for you.’

  His sweet mouth was smiling, and Valentina longed to kiss it even as guilt convulsed her innards. She wanted to own that mouth forever. But it wasn’t for her, not any more. No matter how much her aching heart protested.

  Luka fished in his coat pocket and unearthed a small box. He held it out to her. ‘Here. For you.’

  She knew without opening it that it contained jewellery. She’d been gifted enough over her lifetime to be able to tell. Yet she accepted the box with fingers that felt as though they might get bitten by the gift.

  ‘It’s not from Cartier or the like,’ Luka said, but Valentina wasn’t listening. She was staring at the bracelet that sat on a white satin bed inside the box. Seven strands of fine silver chains were joined at either end by large clasps engraved with black vines. It was simple, yet delicate and beautiful.

  ‘Why did you get me this?’ Valentina breathed.

  ‘Because I have something to remind me of you when we’re not together, but you don’t have something from me. Or you didn’t until now.’

  Luka didn’t have the kind of money to throw away on jewellery—Valentina knew that. She wouldn’t have bought something like this for herself when she was a corps dancer, and she’d had Dimitri funding the most lavish parts of her lifestyle. She snapped the lid shut and stood up, almost knocking over the chair she’d been sitting in. This gift made what she was about to do so much worse, so much harder. Despite her best efforts, this young man with his easy laughter and belief in what was right and what was wrong had managed to break through walls she’d thought impenetrable. The realisation was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, like standing on the edge of a precipice. But she couldn’t pay it any mind. Not if she wanted to protect Luka as well as herself.

  ‘I’m aware it isn’t half as fine as what you already own,’ he told her. ‘But it’s something. Put it away wherever you keep your stash of jewels.’

  Valentina’s lips were almost numb as she pushed out the words he’d unknowingly set up for her. ‘My dresser. In my bedroom. Come.’

  Luka smiled, thinking she meant them to spend time together there. How Valentina wished she could; one last moment of ecstasy before she returned to a life of only duty. She could have that moment, she knew, if she took him to another room—perhaps the blue reception room where they’d first made love. But she wouldn’t. It would only make things more difficult.

  Luka followed her to her bedroom. She pushed the door wide, then stepped inside, unable to look at him, hurrying instead to her dresser where she took her time putting the bracelet away. She heard Luka take a few steps into the room, then stop. His sharp intake of breath told her he’d noticed the bed.

  It was usually tidy, its covers tucked in by the maid and a scattering of embroidered cushions resting on top—cushions Luka often made a game of kicking around, enjoying Valentina’s exasperated laughter. Now it was a mess. The covers were a sweaty tangle, one of the pillows knocked to the floor and forgotten. The cushions were stacked on a cha
ir in the corner, put there in preparation for the bed being used.

  Valentina reminded herself that she had set this scene for Luka’s benefit. It would lessen his pain to be reminded of what kind of woman she was. She turned to face him.

  ‘This is my life, Luka. I belong to Maxim. I’ve forgotten that the last few months. But I can’t any longer. There’s too much at stake, too much to lose, if we continue. I’m sorry.’

  She had never spoken harder words, but she was a good actress. Living with protectors had taught her how to be.

  Luka’s face had gone still and expressionless, and he swallowed.

  ‘You shouldn’t be,’ he mumbled, turning away from her. ‘We knew this couldn’t last forever. You came to your senses first, I suppose. I should go.’

  She had been afraid that he might fight for her. The realisation that he wouldn’t was a sharp pain, like a muscle tearing in her chest.

  ‘Luka, please … don’t go just yet.’

  She wanted to talk to him, to ensure that he was going to be alright. No, that wasn’t it; her motives were selfish. She wanted to keep him with her a little longer, knowing this would be the last time they were alone.

  ‘What else should I do? Wait while your maid puts fresh sheets on the bed so it’s ready to use again? They’ve got to go all the way to London to be laundered, so it could be a while. Or should I just use the same ones?’ The words, designed to hurt, found their mark. ‘You said yourself we can’t continue.’

  ‘I did. Do you … do you want the bracelet back?’

  ‘No. Keep it. Or throw it away, or sell it. Whatever you want. I bought it for you—it’s yours. Whatever that’s worth to you.’

  Valentina was almost glad he didn’t look at her before leaving. If his eyes had met hers, and she’d seen the pain and reproach in them, she didn’t think she would have been able to keep the tears that so badly wanted to crawl down her cheeks in check.

  Luka tossed his beer back in one go. The Wandering Dog, with its bohemian atmosphere and mismatched interior, was the ideal place to lose himself in his miserable thoughts.

  It had been a stupid idea to give her the bracelet—she probably would never have worn it. He’d seen for himself the gold and diamond swan brooch Maxim had bought her; a handful of her jewels could probably buy Luka’s entire apartment. Still, he’d thought she would be touched by the small gesture, would know that although the gift paled in comparison to her other riches, the cost to him had been great. But in the end Valentina had proved herself the person others decried her as. He was the one who’d been wrong.

  A commotion began in the middle of the room, and Luka tried to ignore it. But then his table was being lifted right in front of him and he realised a space was being cleared.

  ‘Who for?’ he asked the nearest man, who shrugged and turned away.

  Luka stood, allowing his stool to be taken away too. He moved back until he was against the piled-up furniture. A woman with a round face and severely parted dark hair stood in the clearing, her shoes kicked off, stockinged feet flat against the sticky floor. She began to move softly; it was ballet, but not as Luka recognised it. Her arms were curled in, hands almost making fists, and she flexed her feet as much as pointed them. There was something of the Egyptian hieroglyph to her movements, flat and side-on to the part of the room she was performing to, and he was transfixed.

  When she finished with a roll of her shoulders, then gestured for the patrons to move the furniture back to its original state, Luka wove through the chairs, tables and crates to get to her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, reaching out but not quite touching her dark sleeve.

  She turned to him. Her face was a touch pink, her breathing a little fast, but she gave him a smile.

  ‘Not as used to that as I once was,’ she said, attempting to catch her breath.

  She was handed a mineral water by a woman who’d evidently appreciated the dancing, and sipped it gratefully.

  ‘But you are a ballet dancer, I can tell,’ Luka said. ‘Please, what is the piece you were dancing? I didn’t recognise it.’

  She surveyed him, her expression neutral. ‘An imperialist, are you?’ The word marked her as one who had danced with Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes. Luka nodded. ‘It was one of the tennis players from Nijinsky’s Jeux. I was the first to dance the role. There’s supposed to be another woman mirroring the movements next to me. But then there’s supposed to be a white dress and pointe shoes, not silk petticoats and darned stockings.’

  ‘You are with the Ballets Russes then?’ Luka had never met anyone who had danced with the company, not face to face. Nor had he seen their unique take on ballet.

  The woman was putting her shoes back on, one arm flung out to the side to steady herself. Luka pulled a spare crate over for her to sit on.

  ‘Thank you. I was, but I came back to nurse for the Red Cross. Wanted to do my part for the war. You know how it is.’

  Guilt, that old acquaintance, rose up to meet Luka. His brother had known; even Mathilde with her hospitals was doing her part. What had he, Luka, done to help the war?

  The woman did up her buckles, then held out her hand to shake his. ‘Ludmilla Schollar. So you’re a Romanov dancer.’

  ‘As were you.’ Luka hadn’t recognised her face, but he knew her name. Ludmilla Schollar had trained at the Imperial Ballet School and gone on to dance with the company for some years.

  ‘Yes. I left when Diaghilev gave me an opportunity.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  Ludmilla sighed, glancing over her shoulder towards the stairs. She’d probably had to field such a question many times before—balletomanes were wild about the impresario. Still, she had the good grace to answer him.

  ‘As one would expect mostly. Brilliant, temperamental, sometimes fatherly. But most of all, honest with his art. He once had the patronage of the Grand Duke Vladimir, you know, but lost it when he refused to be dictated to over repertoire and casting choices.’

  Luka was impressed. How different would the Imperial Ballet be without the influence of protectors? That was never likely to happen, of course, but it made him think. Xenia had once said there were other options out there for a young man such as himself. Perhaps another company could be a way to escape Valentina and any lingering effects their cut-off affair might have—whether to his heart or to his career.

  Ludmilla must have recognised his interest as more than just idolisation, for she softened towards him. ‘Interested, are you? You’d be wise to consider it. I hope to go back myself someday, if this war ever ends. There’s a freedom in the Ballets Russes you won’t get in most other companies. They aren’t afraid to break boundaries. Yet they also desire to drill into the very soul of what each ballet means. That is why Diaghilev attracts the best. Not just dancers, you understand. Alexandre Benois and Bakst have each painted scenery for him; Stravinsky was disregarded in Russia until Diaghilev made his name; and you’ll find Jean Cocteau running around and making the dancers laugh during rehearsals. You work hard, though; perhaps harder than in the Imperial Russian Ballet. The Ballets Russes is not a job but a lifestyle.’

  In that moment, a lifestyle sounded appealing to Luka. He could bury himself in dance, without time to remember his brother’s death, or Valentina’s touch, or his father’s angry words. Such a decision was not something to make rashly, of course. But perhaps it was time he envisioned a life outside the Imperial Russian Ballet, even for a short while. Ludmilla had come back, after all. He could too if it turned out to be the wrong choice.

  ‘I’ll not take any more of your time,’ he said gratefully, giving her a hand to help her up from the crate. ‘But thank you. You’ve given me much to think about. And, perhaps, a little hope.’

  Ludmilla took up the shawl she’d discarded and draped it over her shoulders. She smoothed back a few stray hairs that had emerged during her dancing, and gave him a soft smile.

  ‘Hope is something we could all use more of these days.’


  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Winter 1916

  Luka began gently. As he moved forward, he felt the impulse resonating through his very bones. A tentative pirouette and joy shot through him, an electric pulse in his stomach. He barely realised when he’d taken the next step; everything felt as warm as the morning light that filtered through the opaque windows. Outside, others were gathering, but Luka ignored them, allowing himself to be lifted up on the air of his movements. This wasn’t just warming up; it was a celebration of the life that was his—a life of dance. Suddenly he was racing around the studio, the ground flowing underneath him like it wasn’t even there. He could no longer tell the difference between the air and the floor. He was in ecstasy, body screaming and reaching and embracing. He could no more stop than he could choose to stop breathing.

  He wanted to push it further, to go to the very reaches of his limits. He was panting and grinning and flying and trying not to let out a shout. And then, just as his chest felt like it might burst from his rapid, hard breathing, he stopped. Sweat dripped down his face, tracing the back of his neck, and his muscles sang with life. The world of swirling colours he’d been in dissipated, and he was once again in the studio.

  Men and women entered the room, some of them clapping, only a few sarcastically. Luka ignored them and wiped his sleeve over his face. He’d burst the toe of his right ballet shoe, and he turned to the door, meaning to go to the dressing room to fetch a new one. But he paused, noticing that Xenia stood there. Her lips were curved in a smile, and he was pleased to see it. He hadn’t enjoyed the lingering awkwardness after their squabble, but since he’d told her the affair had ended, she’d gone back to her usual half-teasing self.

  ‘Impressive,’ she said when he reached her.

  ‘I felt like coming in early to let out some frustrations. What are you doing here?’

  Xenia wasn’t in the class of perfection and should have been headed to a different rehearsal room.