by Kerri Turner
‘I’ve been called up to wardrobe. They asked for you too, and I said I’d fetch you.’
‘Alright. Let me change my shoes and find something to wipe myself off with, and I’ll be right with you.’
The rooms occupying the top floor of the Mariinsky were filled to bursting with wooden chests and hampers. Dull daylight filtered through the partially obstructed windows, muting the colours that would stand out brilliantly on the electrically lit stage.
Valentina stood in the middle of the room surrounded by a mess of tulle, linen, lace and feathers. The seamstress had just pricked her arm, and the resulting apology sounded insincere. As she shifted the costume her forceful movements almost caused Valentina to lose her footing.
Given her current mood, Valentina was tempted to have a word to someone about the seamstress’s behaviour. But she decided against it. On some level she could empathise with the woman’s frustration; it was one shared by the entire company. Until recently, they had always been given new costumes for each ballet. But the impact of the war on the imperial coffers meant such extravagances were no longer possible. Revivals of the classics were scheduled so the old scenery could be used; and the wardrobe department were forced to resize existing costumes to fit dancers they hadn’t been made for.
‘Turn around, please,’ the seamstress said, breaking off the thread with her teeth.
Valentina obeyed, and the woman pulled in the corset of the knee-length tutu. The boning was poking through the aged silk and dug painfully into her side. The seamstress had said she would attend to it eventually.
Valentina recognised many of the costumes hanging up around the room. She found their musty smell unpleasant, but it was always impressive to stand in their midst. Some she had worn herself, including one of the tiny peasant dresses made for students. Not wanting to remember those days, she looked instead at the tutu she was wearing now. It was for a revival of La Esmeralda. Despite being second-hand it was still beautiful, with a bejewelled green and gold bodice, snow-white tulle skirts peeping from beneath a scarlet shawl tied around her waist, and tassels and pom poms that danced with her every movement. On her upper arms were cuffs of gold medallions, and when she was onstage there would be medallions in her hair to match. There would also be embroidered scarves and a tambourine dripping with yellow ribbons for her to dance with, but there was no sign of them now. Briefly she wondered if the coloured glass on her costume would shine as brightly onstage as the real gems on Mathilde’s costume—paid for by the prima ballerina assoluta herself—then let the thought die. Of course they wouldn’t.
‘There we are—done for now,’ the seamstress said. ‘Take it off, and don’t knock out any of those loose pins or we’ll have to do the whole thing again.’
Valentina changed back into her white practice dress. It looked dull compared to the costumes, but at least it didn’t have some other dancer’s name from years ago on the inner tag. She wanted to get back to rehearsals and away from this room. It was too full of the ghosts of all the great dancers she would never live up to.
Out in the corridor, her polar-fox manteau draped around her shoulders to ward off the chill, she thought through her La Esmeralda part, marking out the steps with her hands as she walked. She’d been cast as Mathilde’s understudy in the title role. It was the second time she had understudied Mathilde in a lead role, but the first time she’d danced the character the ballet was named after. When she’d told Maxim, he’d given her a satisfied look that was meant to let her know the casting was because of him. He’d acted as though she should be grateful; as though he was rewarding her for doing the right thing. But the role wasn’t Odette.
Hearing voices, Valentina glanced up from the relevés and posé arabesques her hands were marking out. A few feet away, sitting on a chair with her feet balanced on the toes of her pointe shoes, was Xenia Nicholaievna. Next to her stood Luka, his arm leaning against the wall above her in a way that looked protective. Neither of them had noticed her as they spoke to each other in low voices.
Valentina’s heart twisted. Since she had broken the affair off with Luka, she had returned to her pretence that nothing ever went wrong in her world. It was easier than admitting to being alone with no one to turn to for advice or support. But it was difficult to keep believing her lie. The aching maw within her was too big; her solitariness too acute. And having no one to confide in made her wonder if she had got this life all wrong. It was too late to change it now, though.
At that moment Valentina would have given anything to run back into the wardrobe room and hide behind the skirts of fictional characters. She couldn’t return to rehearsals without passing Luka and Xenia.
Hearing her footsteps, Luka looked up. Valentina’s breath caught in her throat as his eyes met hers; then his expectant smile disappeared, and it was as though cold water had been poured over her.
‘Did they ask for one of us?’ His voice was cool, his lack of greeting rude.
Ordinarily Valentina would have responded in a way that showed she was above petty displays of emotion, but all her energy seemed to have seeped from her. Her body felt weak, and her mind was too sluggish to think of anything smart to say.
Luka raised an impatient eyebrow at her. He hadn’t looked that way at her for a long time, not since before the very first time they’d kissed.
Behind them, a voice called out—one of the dressmakers requesting Luka.
Finally mustering some energy, Valentina gave him a smile she hoped didn’t appear forced and said, ‘Be careful in there. They’re wicked with the pins today.’
The voice called again, curt this time, but Luka was already walking down the hall towards the room. Valentina watched his retreating back, feeling as though she was saying goodbye to him all over again.
‘See something you like?’ Xenia asked archly.
Valentina kept her voice steady. ‘What interest would I have in a corps boy?’
‘I’d say he’s more man than boy. But then, I would know.’
Valentina gritted her teeth; she’d known Luka and this Xenia had some kind of past. But she wouldn’t rise to the bait. Being heartsick was a behaviour men indulged in over her, not vice versa.
‘You see, not all of us require payment for everything,’ Xenia went on, and Valentina was glad that her lack of response had evidently grated on the woman; she wouldn’t be continuing to try to goad her if it hadn’t. ‘I get what I want without money ever changing hands. You can keep your protectors and your claques. I don’t need them.’
The words were a slap in the face. A claque was a group paid by a dancer to sit in the audience and applaud every time he or she appeared on stage. One thing Valentina had never exchanged money for was applause.
She took a step forward, her voice rising. ‘Why, you impudent little—’
‘Oh, was I wrong?’ Xenia asked innocently. ‘About which part? The protector or the claque?’
‘Xenia?’ Luka’s voice came from down the hall. ‘They made a mistake. They want you first after all.’
‘Coming.’ Xenia hopped off the chair and brushed past Valentina.
Unable to help herself, Valentina grabbed the other woman’s arm. Her fingernails curled into the soft skin and she felt Xenia’s gasp shudder through her whole body. It was only a second, then she let go, staring at her own unfurling hand as though it belonged to a stranger.
‘Xenia?’ Luka’s voice was concerned, his face twisted as he came towards them, one hand reaching out to Xenia.
Xenia stared at Valentina, rubbing the red marks on her arm. Valentina couldn’t take her eyes off them. She’d seen so many similar marks on her own skin—remnants of Maxim’s touch. But never before had she caused them. She wanted to say she was sorry, that she didn’t know what had come over her, but her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes met Xenia’s yet still she couldn’t say the words. With a jerky movement she turned and began to walk away.
‘What is the matter with her?’ Xenia asked.
There
was a note of bewildered sympathy in her voice that made tears sting the backs of Valentina’s eyes. She took a sharp breath, not wanting to hear Luka’s answer.
‘Who can tell? I think she’s just built for unhappiness.’ The words were biting, but they weren’t as cruel as what came next. ‘Don’t waste your time thinking about her. She’s proved that she’s not worth it.’
Valentina counted slowly in her head, forcing her feet to match the rhythm so she didn’t run away as she wanted to. She kept her back straight, showing she didn’t care, when inside she felt nothing but pain.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘You can’t trust anyone.’
Maxim’s voice in the otherwise silent room made Valentina jump. He hadn’t spoken for the last hour, and she’d given up trying to coax any words out of him.
‘Grigori Rasputin couldn’t trust Felix Yusupov or Dmitri Pavlovich,’ he continued. ‘He couldn’t trust the imperial family to keep him safe.’
He took a deep gulp from the crystal glass clutched in his hand. The decanter sat next to him on the sofa, tucked between its upholstered back and a matching embroidered cushion.
Valentina was standing near the window to avoid breathing in the alcohol fumes wafting from him. She’d been remembering the feel of the monk’s arm in hers as they walked through the crowds at the Evening of Russian Fashion. It was impossible to believe he was dead—murdered.
‘Nijinsky couldn’t trust Diaghilev. And I can’t trust you,’ Maxim said.
Valentina’s head snapped round to look at him. Had he really said what she thought she’d heard? He was staring at her, waiting for a response.
With a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, she crossed to him and sat down on the overstuffed cushions. The alcohol smell was so strong that she had to breathe through her mouth, and the taste was one of despair. It was enough to make her feel sorry for him.
‘Of course you can trust me.’ The lie came easily. She tried to brush back the hair that had fallen over Maxim’s eyes, but he jerked back and her fingers grazed only air.
‘Let’s neither of us pretend that’s true.’ He emptied his glass, grabbed the decanter and poured more vodka. ‘You went through my desk.’
The urge to back away tugged at Valentina’s limbs. Maxim wasn’t looking at her, his gaze instead resting on his drink as he swirled it round the glass.
‘Did you think I hadn’t realised? That I’d forgotten I’d left the drawer open, not closed? I understand your curiosity, Valechka. But you need to know something.’ He put the glass down on a side table and reached towards her. For a second Valentina thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he grabbed the back of her neck. The rough grip made her gasp. ‘Odette would never behave so. Would she?’
Valentina’s eyes watered from the pain. She struggled to shake her head, but his grasp made the motion difficult. She wanted to squirm free, but knew that would only make things worse. Instead she kept still, silently thanking her years in the corps for giving her the strength and patience to ignore an uncomfortable body.
It worked; Maxim’s dilated eyes relaxed, and he let go. Her hands wanted to fly up to rub the raw skin of her neck, but Valentina folded them in her skirt, keeping her eyes lowered.
Maxim picked up his glass and took a couple of slow sips. Then, in a voice devoid of emotion, he said, ‘Go now. I want to be alone.’
Valentina left the room without looking at him. Her hand drifted to her neck once she knew she was out of sight. The skin was tender, and when she drew her fingertips back they were decorated with tiny speckles of crimson blood.
She gained the sanctuary of her bedroom and let out a long, slow breath. She had to remind herself that Maxim had suffered a grave shock and must be feeling both grief and fear at the news of Rasputin’s death. Still, doubt gnawed at her—the same kind of doubt that had made her wonder if she should leave Maxim for another protector.
Snatching up a pair of pointe shoes, Valentina left her bedroom for her studio. She needed to dance. Only she didn’t feel like being Odette today; instead, she would dance Odile. As Odile, she would be the one in charge. Not someone whose fate was dictated by the men around her.
A whisper began in Petrograd. It spread from house to house, apartment to apartment; it went down the tram lines and through the areas where the poor were working at their chores. It gained life as it travelled, which was almost laughable given the topic: a life ending. The rumour was so ugly no one knew whether to believe it or not. An overwhelming number wanted to, though. They stepped out of their homes, glancing excitedly at their neighbours as they cried, ‘Have you heard?’
In the centre of the city, Luka felt the whispers rippling through the air around him. Newspapers were being shaken open, groups of people gathering around them to scan the lines of type for confirmation. They wouldn’t find anything, Luka knew, because he’d already done the same thing. None of the papers mentioned the great and terrible thing that gripped Petrograd.
Rasputin, murdered. It couldn’t be true.
Valentina and a number of other high-ranking dancers didn’t show up to the Mariinsky that day. It was left to the corps and coryphées to gossip and wonder without any confirmation. Eventually, sensing they would get nothing useful out of their dancers, the company sent them all home.
On arriving at his apartment, Luka once again found his father waiting for him, propped up in the hallway. If the last time had been a surprise, Luka was completely stunned this time. For a second, he felt vague curiosity. Then he remembered the last words his father had thrown at him, and he scowled.
Vladimir’s face was thinner, but otherwise he looked the same. A touch of sadness making him sag around the eyes perhaps, but that was to be expected.
Luka walked up to his father, reaching around him to unlock his door. ‘What are you doing here? We don’t have any more family left to have lost.’
‘No,’ his father replied. ‘We only have each other now.’
‘Do we even have that, though?’ Luka looked at his father, but the expression on his rough face didn’t alter.
Luka sighed, pushed the door open and gestured for him to come inside.
Vladimir followed him in, keeping his arms tucked close to his body as though he didn’t want to touch anything. Luka watched him scan the small space with its weathered floor and sparse, unimpressive furniture.
‘I thought you were doing this dance business for the money.’
Luka could have laughed. Compared to his childhood home, the apartment was practically palatial.
‘I’m still only a corps dancer. The money will increase with my ranking, or the number of years I spend with the company—whichever is of higher value. And there’ll be a healthy pension on retirement if I stay long enough.’
He didn’t bother to explain his other reasons for dancing. There was no way to explain art and passion. A person simply understood that, or they didn’t.
Nor did he tell him that he’d begun dreaming of an alternative life with the Ballets Russes, where money would be even scarcer.
His father scratched his chin, gave one sharp cough. ‘A pension, you say? A wise thing to set yourself up with.’
This time, Luka did laugh. After all these years, all the accusations that he was being selfish or cowardly, and now his father was expressing approval of his choices? He half expected Vladimir to take it back, or berate him for laughing; but when their eyes met he saw only regret. The old man’s mouth twisted on one side; a strange expression that it took Luka a moment to recognise as an attempt at a smile.
‘What are you doing here?’ Luka asked abruptly.
His father fiddled with his sleeve cuffs, a gesture Luka had inherited from him. ‘I’ve come to warn you.’
‘Warn me? About what?’
‘You heard the news about Rasputin?’
‘Of course. It’s not been confirmed, though. It could just be vicious rumour.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s enough to galvanise peo
ple who are already unhappy. Have you heard what the men lucky enough to return from the front are saying? The things they’ve had to do out there, the decisions they’ve had to make? There’s nothing noble about this war like we were told when it was first declared. I believed that lie; I was proud of one son for fighting in it, and ashamed of the other for not. But what those men have seen and done … what your brother must have experienced—no ruler who cares for his people could force men to go through that. I have a hard enough time reconciling how God could allow such a war; but God isn’t answerable to mere men. The Tsar should be.’
‘What are you saying?’ Luka asked slowly. This line of thinking from his father was making him nervous. It wasn’t the impassioned anger he was used to, but something deeper, almost resigned.
‘I know nothing definite, except that the men and women of Russia may no longer be afraid to hold their supposed betters accountable. Not when the example has been set with Rasputin.’
Perhaps there was more his father could have said if Luka had pushed him. Or perhaps there might have been a proper reconciliation, with words of apology and regret spoken out loud. But Luka would never know, for his father’s words sent him out into the streets again—to find out if there was truth to the rumour from the one person who would know, and to pass on the warning. He and Vladimir parted with a silent handshake—the only forgiveness they could muster after a lifetime of disagreement and resentment.
Luka didn’t really want to see Valentina; it was hard enough being near her in the Mariinsky Theatre. But he was concerned by his father’s intimation of what Rasputin’s murder might mean for the country. The echo of his footsteps chased him all the way to the portico of Valentina’s house, and he had to resist the urge to look over his shoulder for pursuers. To do so would only feed the fear.
He knocked on the elaborate wooden door with a sharp rap that hurt his knuckles. Madame Ivkina answered. Her face was pinched, and she showed no surprise at Luka’s arrival.
‘I need to see her. Please.’
