by Kerri Turner
Madame Ivkina stared at him for a moment, then nodded and opened the door wider. The scent of Valentina’s house enfolded Luka like an embrace, but he tried to ignore it. He was there for one reason only, and it was not to reminisce on happier times.
‘I think it’s best you wait in the servants’ quarters,’ Madame Ivkina muttered.
A glance at her face told Luka all he needed to know: Maxim was there. Instead of angering him, the knowledge tightened the fear in his chest. Maxim could be there merely to spend time with Valentina, but Luka couldn’t shake himself of the feeling that his presence was some kind of confirmation of the foul gossip washing through the city.
His heart flipped as he followed the dvornik through doorways he had never been through before. She led him to a small room that was sparsely furnished, gestured to a hardbacked chair, then left. Luka perched on the edge of the chair, willing his heart to slow down. His nerves were dancing a mad waltz that reminded him of the scene in Giselle where she gradually succumbed to insanity. He wished Valya would hurry.
‘Luka?’
He smelled her perfume just before he heard her voice. It crept into his nostrils, invading his senses, and he closed his eyes against its onslaught.
When she spoke his name again, he looked at her. She was standing in the doorway wearing a practice dress, her ankles criss-crossed with the laces of her pointe shoes. He saw right away that her face, beneath the scarf which held her hair off her face for dancing, was pinched. Either he hadn’t looked at her properly when they’d passed in the halls of the Mariinsky, or she had aged in a day.
He stood up, his breath catching in his throat. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’
She was so pale he could see the blue veins streaking her neck as she gave one sharp nod.
‘My God.’ He took an involuntary step towards her, raising his hand as if to comfort her.
She glanced behind her, then stepped further into the room, shutting the door quietly. His hand dropped.
‘It’s not in the newspapers,’ he said. ‘I had to come. To find out …’
‘It was Prince Felix Yusupov and the Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich.’
The names were like a physical blow. Luka wondered if she felt the same surreal sense of being caught in a dream.
‘The Tsar’s own relations murdered Grigori Rasputin?’
Valya’s assent was a hiss of breath.
‘Bozhe moy …’
They were names familiar to everyone in Petrograd, if not everyone in Russia. Aristocrats, royalty, kin to the Tsar. And they had killed his most trusted friend and advisor, the most powerful man in all of Russia.
Luka couldn’t help himself. He closed the distance between them and rested his hands on Valya’s elbows. She looked down at the small space of wooden floor between them. Instead of the burning anger that her presence had caused over the last weeks, he ached to draw her closer. He stayed where he was, though, touching her with only his hands, trying to believe it was nothing more than fear and force of habit that motivated his desire.
‘I wasn’t fond of Rasputin,’ Valentina said, her eyes still downcast, ‘but he didn’t deserve … They say he wouldn’t die, Luka. He was poisoned and shot, and still he wouldn’t die. So then they drowned him.’
Sabâkyé, sabâtchya smerte; a dog’s death for a dog. That was what was being said on the streets. Luka felt the sour sting of bile in the back of his throat.
Valya pulled one arm away from him and pressed her fingers to her brow, as if trying to drum the truth into her head. ‘What kind of men could do that? How could they …’ Her voice broke.
Luka couldn’t bear it any more. He pulled her into an embrace. She trembled in his arms and he squeezed her even tighter. He wanted her to feel safe, just for a minute, though it was a lie.
‘The world is going mad around us,’ she mumbled into his chest, the words muffled by his coat.
Luka cupped her chin to make her look up at him, then kissed away the tears that had appeared on her cheeks. She tensed for a moment, as if she would pull away, then her eyes fluttered closed. When he had kissed away the last tear, Luka rested his forehead against hers, his lips tasting of salt. This closeness, this intimacy with her … he didn’t want to interrupt it with words for fear that his heart might break all over again. But Valya did it for him.
‘The two of them are under house arrest now. What they’ll do with them …’ Valya pulled away from him, her long white fingers wiping at her face.
Luka suddenly remembered his father’s warning, which had temporarily been driven out of his head by the sight and smell of Valentina. Fear crashed over him, an icy wave. Through Maxim and her relationship with the Romanovs, Valya had a very public connection to the monk.
‘Valya, do you realise what this means for you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then how will you … how will you stay safe?’
‘I don’t know. Rasputin’s gone now. We knew the people were unhappy with his meddling, but perhaps we didn’t realise how vehemently. Maybe this will be the end of it. Maybe they won’t see the need for more violence.’
‘No.’ They were both startled at the abruptness of the word. Luka grabbed Valya’s cool hands and held them to his lips, where he felt them tremble. ‘No, that’s not enough. I need to know you’re safe. You’ve got money—use it to protect yourself. Do something, anything, my love. I can’t—’
‘What did you say?’
The air between them froze, and it took Luka a moment to realise why. That word, so powerful, had come without thought. For a second he wondered if he’d really meant it, or if he’d just been saying whatever was needed to impress on Valya the importance of keeping herself safe. But he didn’t wonder for long. Slowly, as if he might break the moment by moving too suddenly, he made his mouth form the words again, this time with a deliberateness that he hoped she would see and understand.
‘I said “my love”.’
There was a pause, then Valya’s hands were around the back of his neck and her mouth was against his. The warmth of her lips, the sweetness of her breath, was so familiar, and Luka tried to pull her closer even though they were already pressed together. The two of them stood entwined, silent and trembling, unable to tell any longer where one of them stopped and the other began.
Valya’s breathing slowed, and eventually she pulled herself away from him.
‘I thought you’d decided I wasn’t worth wasting time or effort on? That I’m built for unhappiness?’
The echo of his own words, words that were designed to hurt, made Luka look away. ‘Surely you see that moment for what it was …?’
She was silent, and when Luka looked back at her, her face was unreadable.
‘I should go back upstairs,’ she said in a flat voice. ‘Maxim will be wondering where I am.’
A sharp stab hit Luka’s chest as she spoke her protector’s name through lips that still bore the imprint of his own kiss. He ached to pull her back to him, to whisper into her hair, to kiss away any fresh tears, but he only nodded.
‘Send for me when he’s gone?’
Valya stared at him, her lips parted as if she might disagree.
But she did send for him; and instead of making love, they talked through the night. She wept in his arms, and he cradled her as gently as he could. They kissed a thousand times over, or perhaps more. But when he tried to talk of Maxim, and all the still-existing reasons she’d broken off their affair, Valentina refused to be drawn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Winter 1917
Luka didn’t think he’d ever participated in a worse class. He was holding on to a piece of scenery that served as a makeshift barre on the stage, kicking his leg in a grand battement. The ballet master shouted at the company, his words almost unintelligible. In the centre of the stage, where a couple of portable barres had been placed, a woman with a wig of dark ringlets already pinned to her head had tears streaming down her face. Luka watched the tears
drop from her chin as she lifted her leg rapidly to shoulder height then back down to the floor. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone cry during a class, and it wouldn’t be the last. Tears were allowed as long as they didn’t interfere with the dancing.
The exercise ended, and Luka turned around to do it again on the left side. He was looking at the painted backdrop now and was glad not to have to see the crying woman any longer.
The tension among the dancers had been palpable from the moment he’d stepped into the theatre. Among the singers and musicians too. They were preparing for the yearly benefit performance for the Mariinsky Opera chorus that night, an event that was usually looked forward to by those invited to participate in it. But not tonight. Tonight was different. It was because of the selected opera. Fenella was based on a Spanish uprising in seventeenth-century Italy, and there was one scene in particular that was making the cast edgy: a revolutionary mob burned down the palace in anger and hatred. That the revolution was put down, and divine displeasure shown by the eruption of a volcano at the close of the opera, didn’t matter. They all felt that performing such a scene on the imperial stage would bring bad luck.
It wasn’t their place to question, though. Their place was to bend to the will of the imperial family, no matter how ill-advised the instructions might seem. They were not Ballets Russes dancers with creative freedom and input.
The class came to a miserable end; not even the grand allegro—Luka’s favourite part—able to lift him out of his mood. The dancers began to disperse, looking unhappy. Luka sat on the floor and stretched out his calf muscles by pulling on his toes, trying to find some focus before he entered the noisy confines of the dressing room. Nearby, Valya was holding a pair of pointe shoes, flexing their soles back and forth, her eyes distant as she stared into the auditorium where theatre workers were uncovering the chairs.
Luka got up and wandered casually over to her. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked softly.
She looked at him, a crease between her brows. ‘No. It’s all these nerves. I can feel them coming off the people around me, and it’s making me nervous too.’
She fiddled with the brunette wig that sat on her head, then rested a shaking hand on Luka’s forearm. He wanted to smile at the touch. Since Rasputin’s death they had renewed their intimacy. Their meetings weren’t as frequent as before—Maxim was spending far more time in Valya’s company—but they both knew there was something more between them now. It was evident in the way their time together had changed; no longer was it about getting their clothes off as quickly as possible and tumbling into bed. They spent hours simply playing cards or taking turns reading to each other from books. Valya had even tried cooking for Luka once, much to his amusement and her cook’s distress. One evening they’d lain on her loggia with no clothes on, a thick fur blanket spread over them, their shoulders, hips and feet touching as they stared up at the pinpricks of stars in the inky sky. Luka had felt as vulnerable and untouched by the world as a newborn baby in that moment, and neither of them had broken the silence until he’d noticed Valya’s lips fading to lilac. Even then, he had the feeling she didn’t want to go inside, back to her regular life. He longed to be outside with her again—to attend the theatre together, or even just stroll along the banks of the Neva. But theirs was a relationship for indoors, kept hidden behind walls.
‘It’s just a superstition, Valya. It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘But I can’t rid myself of the worry something bad will happen.’
She leaned down to slide her foot into her shoe. When she had tied the ribbons neatly around her ankle, she arched her foot, stretching the front of her ankle and making sure the shoe was on properly. Her eyes were distant.
‘It will be alright. I know it will.’ Luka touched the inside of her wrist gently, unsure which of them he was trying to convince.
‘Excuse me, Valentina Fedorovna?’
Xenia’s voice interrupted them, and Luka snatched his hand away. He was sure guilt must be etched on his face, but Valya looked at Xenia with such calmness that anyone might have thought they barely knew each other.
‘I believe someone’s here for you.’ Xenia pointed to the wings of the stage, where Maxim was watching them, his eyes cold. He had a newspaper clutched in his hands.
Valya walked over to meet her protector. Luka turned away, rolling his feet in circles as if loosening his ankles. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched them.
Maxim held out a couple of small squares of paper that Luka recognised as telegrams. Valya flicked through them, then handed them back to Maxim, who spoke rapidly while looking onto the stage. Valya replied with one- or two-syllable words. She rested her hand on Maxim’s arm, and he seemed to remember the newspaper he held. He shook it out, showing her a page. Valya scanned it, then her brows lowered into a deep frown. Maxim’s mouth twisted in a grim, dissatisfied smile. He jabbed the newspaper once more, then crumpled it roughly underneath his arm and left.
Valya returned to the stage, her head low. She came to a halt near Luka, her feet tapping absent-minded piqués on the black surface of the stage. Luka felt a kind of pain he hadn’t known before: of not being able to comfort the woman he loved, or even ask what was wrong for fear that Maxim was still watching from somewhere hidden. The stage wasn’t fully set for the performance yet, but they were both playing a role: the dutiful Romanov dancers who had no personal desires beyond dancing to please the Tsar.
‘Would someone get this viper off my heels?’
Mathilde’s imperious voice burst onto the stage, making Luka jump. The prima ballerina assoluta was taking rapid steps, her eyes aflame. Behind her, equally agitated, came a soloist. Luka didn’t recall seeing the woman, who was clad in her street clothes, in the class.
‘Don’t you turn your back on me,’ she shouted.
They all froze, including Mathilde. She turned to face the lower-ranking dancer, her expression stony. The soloist’s hand flew out, smacking Mathilde so hard it left a bright imprint on her cheek.
Luka’s mouth fell open; he could see how the soloist trembled at what she’d done, even as she straightened her shoulders and looked defiantly at Mathilde.
‘Do you think we don’t see the newspapers? Your behaviour—it makes the rest of us appear beyond contempt.’ She turned to face the crowd of dancers, scene-shifters, musicians and singers that had gathered. ‘I can no longer be a part of this and face my own conscience. For the sake of your own souls, I suggest the rest of you follow my lead and leave this company. If you don’t—may God have mercy on you.’ She stormed off the stage.
There was a ringing silence, then Mathilde laughed. But as adept as she was at pretending, not even she could make the laugh sound genuine.
‘It’s disgusting,’ Valentina snapped, flinging the newspaper onto Luka’s bed. ‘Absolutely vile, filthy stuff. I thought they’d get bored of this, but it’s only getting worse. What kind of swine would print this in a newspaper?’
The cartoon took up almost a third of the page. It depicted Mathilde, wearing the necklace of walnut-sized diamonds the Tsar had famously gifted her over a decade ago. Seated at her feet were German soldiers. Her dress was open to the waist, and a few soldiers suckled at her breasts as she smiled benignly. Through the windows could be seen Russian people, skeletal in their starvation and knocking at the door to come in. Across the top were scrawled the words ‘The Black-Eyed She-Devil of the Imperial Ballet’.
Rasputin’s death had not had the effect the people had hoped for. The Tsar remained at the front, refusing to pull Russia out of the much-hated war. The Tsarina and Grand Duchesses were in virtual hiding. And the people, dissatisfied that their cries for attention had gone ignored, had looked for a new figure to hold responsible for all that was wrong. Mathilde, with her lavish lifestyle and relationship with the Grand Duke Sergei—who had resigned as Field Inspector General of the Artillery Department amid accusations of corruption and negligence—was an easy
target. In her the newspapers had found the perfect example of everything the people hated.
‘Why don’t you ask Maxim to make it stop?’ Luka suggested quietly. ‘He works for a newspaper, doesn’t he?’
Valentina glared at him as she paced up and down the small living room. She was making herself dizzy, but it would be worse to sit still. ‘He’s an art critic,’ she snapped.
She didn’t want to admit that she was avoiding speaking to Maxim as much as possible. She was afraid he would see through her lies, and know she had taken up with Luka again. Perhaps it was a blessing of sorts that Maxim had withdrawn from her since Rasputin’s death, only caring about her physical presence, seeming as little interested in talk as she.
Flopping down on Luka’s sofa, she pressed her numb fingertips against her eyelids. It was so cold in the apartment. Because of the shortages, Luka was unable to procure enough coal to warm the place for more than the coldest hours of the night. He’d refused her help in getting more. It made Valentina wish they were in her own warm house instead, but Maxim always seemed to be there, hovering.
‘Besides, I did ask him,’ she added. ‘He says he’s not in a position to say anything because my friendship with Mathilde is common knowledge.’
There was a pause while Luka no doubt took in the fact that her protector had failed to help her when she’d asked for it. He didn’t say anything, but the very idea that he was thinking it made Valentina irritated, and she jumped back up and resumed her pacing. It was warmer when she moved, anyway.
‘It’s not that bad, is it?’ Luka ventured. ‘I know it’s crude, but no worse than what they’ve printed before.’
Valentina saw that Luka was looking at the cartoon again. She swiped at the newspaper so the page tore. ‘Stop looking at that thing. Or are you like the rest of them? Do you think it’s funny and there might be some truth in it?’
She didn’t know why she was making such accusations, but it felt good, and she continued to glare at him as if he was just as guilty as those who had drawn and printed it.
