He waved his hand in a dismissive manner. ‘I went out on a limb getting you here so you better make sure you do me proud.’
‘I will, I promise.’ In that moment all the apprehension bubbling within disappeared and she almost believed she could do it. Almost. Unfortunately, that small nagging doubt that always surfaced just before an important moment started whispering in her ear again. The same voice that would burst in on her, mid-audition, and sabotage her dancing enough so that she would mess up in some small way that would cost her the lead role but not so disastrous that she wouldn’t be understudy. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed the nagging voice to disappear.
‘What’s wrong?’ Diaghilev stepped forward and placed his massive paw on her shoulder.
‘It’s just nerves.’
‘Nerves are good. Without them, we become too cocky.’ Tucking his thumbs under the edge of his waistcoat, he said, ‘Have you seen Massine?’
‘No.’
‘Tell him to see me straight away.’
She nodded and placed her hands behind her back, unsure how long this uncomfortable chit-chat would last. Normally, Diaghilev would come in, say what was needed, then dash out. No small talk. No dilly-dallying. Yet he gave the impression he wanted to stay.
‘Now, about the ballet Picasso and Massine want to do,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she croaked, her pulse racing.
‘I’m thinking about it.’
Her mouth fell open. ‘You are?’
‘Of course I am. When two of the world’s greatest artists come to me with an idea, I listen. It doesn’t mean I’ll say yes but I will consider. And no matter how grand this idea is, I need money to make it happen. This ballet doesn’t run on air alone, although that seems to be the only thing you dancers consume.’ His gaze travelled up and down her body and she shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Find me money and I’ll give you a ballet.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t give me excuses.’ He turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the door wide open. A woody scent trailed in his wake and she stared into the empty space.
Viktoriya returned to her stretches, unable to concentrate. Her mind raced and heart leapt at the possibilities Diaghilev had just dangled in front of her. Knowing Picasso and Massine had talked to Diaghilev boosted her confidence for the audition. Of course, it could all fall flat but any chance, no matter how slim, could only spur her on to greater heights.
Alla rushed into the room, her complexion pale and clammy.
‘What’s wrong?’ Viktoriya placed a caring hand on her friend’s arm, her fingers instantly damp from Alla’s perspiration.
‘I’m coming down with something. I’m barely able to hold down food.’ She placed her hand over her mouth, muttering, ‘Oh God.’
Alla dashed out of the room and returned a few minutes later, her cheeks flushed.
‘Perhaps it’s food poisoning. That meal didn’t taste right last night,’ Alla said.
‘It tasted fine to me and I’m not ill.’ Viktoriya tilted her head to the side. ‘You’ve been working hard, perhaps you need a rest after auditions.’
Her friend waved her hand in the air. ‘No such thing as rest in our line of work. I’ll be fine.’
Alla started stretching while other dancers trickled in and Irina and Massine arrived, an officious air surrounding them. The pianist took her place at the piano, warming her fingers along the keys and moments later Alexei arrived, red-faced and sweaty.
Sidling up to her, he said in a harsh whisper, ‘Why did you turn off the alarm on the clock?’
‘I didn’t!’ She bent forward, stretching her hamstring. ‘You’re the one who set it last night.’
He leaned down, his head right next to hers. ‘Did you turn it off on purpose?’
‘Of course not!’ she hissed. ‘I left early because I needed some air. You were stirring so I thought you were about to wake before the alarm. Why the hell would I turn it off?’
This strange accusation from Alexei puzzled her but she put it down to nerves and Alexei’s occasional penchant for blaming others for things that were entirely his fault. She’d never liked that trait but it certainly wasn’t enough to end their relationship.
‘Thanks for nothing.’ Alexei rubbed his temples, his face scrunched in pain.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It doesn’t look like nothing.’
‘I’ve just got a headache that refuses to go away, all right?’ he growled and stalked off to the other side of the room.
She couldn’t let their tête-à-tête get to her, so she inhaled deeply and stood straight, trying to calm her shaking hands. Of all the days for them to be cranky with each other, this was the worst.
‘Viktoriya!’ Irina yelled and cocked her head in the direction of the dance space.
She took her place, nodded at the pianist, and commenced the steps she’d practised twelve hours a day, seven days a week, for the past few weeks. Now accustomed to Massine’s jerky choreography, her body followed the uneven beats of Satie’s music as she dipped and swayed in unnatural positions. The dance grew in intensity until it was time to take the leap she’d perfected. Her body tensed then her legs propelled her as she twisted her torso, arms forming a square. She landed with a thud, her left leg giving way. Staggering, she fought to regain balance and in that instant, knew she’d just blown her chance.
The music stopped and Irina studied her from under a harsh scowl. ‘What happened?’
‘I…’ She refused to look at Alexei. She had no right to blame him as she was the one who had messed up. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Keep dancing like that and you’ll end up in Vaudeville.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry won’t cut it.’ Irina raised an eyebrow at Massine.
‘You can’t dance beautifully one day and like an amateur the next,’ Massine said. ‘I’ve seen you at your best and this, my dear, was not it.’
Viktoriya bit her lip, quashing another sorry. Everything had ridden on this audition and she’d blown it because of one stupid argument with her lover. If she allowed herself to fall apart over something so trivial, perhaps she wasn’t capable of achieving the dreams she longed for. And although she dreaded the thought, maybe she didn’t deserve them.
Her nose tingled, a sign tears weren’t far behind. ‘May I be excused, please?’
‘Go.’ Massine waved a hand.
She grabbed her bag and hurried out the door, not making eye contact with Alexei. Anger and disappointment surged through her as she ran to the bathroom and slammed the door. In the distance, she could hear Irina and Massine praising Alla’s audition. How could her friend pull it off so well when she’d been so sick only moments before? Could it have been a ploy to give Viktoriya false confidence because she was healthy? She couldn’t imagine Alla being that cold and calculating but the quest for fame did strange things to sane people…
Leaning against the wood panelling, she let the tears flow freely as loud sobs echoed throughout the small room. She mourned for the day that had started out so promising and had ended as a complete disaster.
Her fingers slipped as she undid her shoes, her vision blinded by hot tears as she fumbled, eventually freeing her feet from the constrictive material. She tossed her pointes across the room. As they slammed against the far wall, she sank to the ground, defeat enveloping her weary body. Viktoriya had to calculate her next move because whatever she did, her entire career, and the fate of her family, rode on it.
CHAPTER
8
Paris, 1917
Viktoriya sat on a bench in Jardin Marco Polo, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to flow like an uncontrollable river. A calmer Alexei had tried desperately to console her after Alla had been given the role of the schoolgirl, but images of that one misstep pushed out any semblance of peace she’d managed to gather. She’d worked so hard and travelled so far to realise her dream and she’d messed i
t up with one stupid mistake. Trying to distract herself from the torturous images of the disappointment on Massine’s and Irina’s faces, Viktoriya concentrated on the nearby fountain. A large sculpture of the world was held up by four men, their muscles bulging, their strength incredible.
A trio of girls around thirteen or fourteen sat in front of the monument, their heads close together as they whispered and cast furtive glances at passers-by. Their dishevelled clothes were nothing more than rags, their hair a mass of knots, and their skin covered in filth. Their hunched shoulders and bowed heads showed no self-confidence, like the poor souls had lost all hope.
Eventually, one tall, lean urchin stood up and approached a woman in a stunning rose-pink dress and her companion, a burly man in a hat and beautifully tailored suit. They looked down their noses at the young girl and the man threw a gruff response to her plea. The couple then hurried away, their expressions relaying disgust.
The girl stood in the middle of the gravel path while other well-to-do citizens gave her a wide berth. Her friends nudged and whispered to each other but none of them went to console their friend. The gangly girl caught sight of Viktoriya and quickly headed in her direction, the gravel barely making a sound under her small feet.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t have any money to spare,’ Viktoriya said when the girl drew close.
‘I do not want your money,’ she said in halting French.
‘What is your name?’ Viktoriya asked in Russian, having detected the young girl’s accent.
The girl’s blue eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.
‘You are Russian, yes? Where are you from?’ Viktoriya asked. The child didn’t reply and even though Viktoriya could have left the conversation there, she felt the need to talk with her, to find out what she was doing in a Parisian park without family nearby. ‘My name is Viktoriya Budian. I’m from Petrograd.’
The child closed her mouth and drew her lips tight.
‘I’m new to Paris. Have you been here long?’ asked Viktoriya.
The young girl took a step back and looked over at her friends, who watched this conversation unfold with great interest. One of her friends waved at the girl to come back to the group but the girl shook her head and returned her attention to Viktoriya.
‘It’s all right, you don’t need to tell me anything. Please,’ Viktoriya motioned for the child to sit, ‘I’m sure I have something in here you may like.’ She rummaged in the large bag next to her and found an apple. It was slightly bruised but it was fresh and, judging by this poor child’s pallor, she hadn’t eaten anything healthy in quite some time. Viktoriya offered the apple and the girl stared at it. Setting the fruit down on the bench between them, Viktoriya looked away, hoping the girl might take it. She didn’t.
‘It is such a beautiful sunny day,’ Viktoriya said, as she stretched in the warmth. She’d been so busy moping on the bench that she’d failed to see the delight in sunning herself in a beautiful park in one of the most elegant cities in the world. How foolish she’d been. Of course it was devastating to have ruined her audition but in the grand scheme of life, not getting the lead role in a ballet paled into insignificance compared to what other people endured on a daily basis. Her family were still caught in a revolution in Russia, millions of people were directly affected by a war that had the potential of spreading across continents, and this poor girl couldn’t trust someone who offered her food. ‘Do you like apples?’
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the shiny red globe on the bench.
‘Please, have it,’ Viktoriya encouraged.
When the girl picked up the apple, she took her time studying it. Slowly and tentatively, she took a bite. The fruit crunched then the girl motioned for her friends to come over. They did so hesitantly, their eyes fixed on the apple in their friend’s hand. The girl offered the fruit to her friends and they all took turns eating it, the juice running down their dirty faces.
‘Will you stay here?’ Viktoriya asked. ‘I’ll get you some more.’
The girls didn’t acknowledge her as they concetrated on chewing. Viktoriya rushed across the park to the fruit vendor. Although barely scraping enough money together for two meals a day, Viktoriya spent the last of it on a bag of apples. She rushed back but the only thing on the bench was an apple core.
Disappointment washed over her as she hung her head. These poor girls couldn’t trust the kindness of strangers—even one from their homeland. Especially one from their homeland. No wonder they’d run. Why on earth would they trust a Russian woman whose first questions were ‘What is your name’ and ‘Where are you from?’
A commotion on the other side of the park caught her attention. A policeman yelled and tussled with the girls. He grabbed the tall girl in a headlock while her two friends bolted across the road and around a corner. The remaining girl squirmed and screamed while Viktoriya marched up to the rotund policeman who panted as he tried to keep his grip firm.
‘Why are you handling the girl like this?’ she demanded, surprised her confidence had returned so quickly. ‘Let her go.’
‘She’s nothing but a rat from the sewer. They run in packs and steal,’ he puffed as the girl tried to escape but to no avail.
‘What is her crime?’ Viktoriya placed a fist on her hip and tilted her head.
‘She’s stolen an apple.’
‘I’ll have you know I gave her that apple. She never asked for it and she certainly didn’t steal it. Now,’ Viktoriya drew herself up to her full height, ‘let her go. She’s done no wrong.’
‘These beggars do wrong by existing. They pollute the streets,’ he spat out.
The girl finally broke free and ran to Viktoriya, who gripped the child’s bony hand. ‘You do not need to worry about this anymore. She is under my care now.’
‘You better make sure I never see her or those others again because if I do…’
‘You’ll do what?’
‘Next time I won’t be so lenient.’ With that he stormed across the park and out of sight.
The girl shook her hand free, a scowl marring her petite features. ‘I could have saved myself.’
‘Ah, you speak,’ Viktoriya said, not perturbed by the abruptness of the young girl. She’d witnessed enough children living on the streets in Petrograd to know their first reaction would always be one of defence. Viktoriya offered the paper bag full of apples. ‘I got these for you and your friends.’
‘They’re not my friends.’ The girl stared at the bag but didn’t touch it.
‘No?’
‘I only met them yesterday. They were teaching me how to…how to…’ Her large blue eyes looked away.
‘How to steal?’
The girl nodded then turned to face Viktoriya. ‘You’re not going to tell, are you?’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Were you planning to steal from me?’
Once more, the girl nodded.
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Because you were nice. You gave me the apple.’
Buoyed by evidence that this child had a conscience, Viktoriya said, ‘You’re a long way from home, much like me.’
The girl looked up at her and the tension she’d held in her expression eased a fraction.
‘I miss Russia,’ Viktoriya continued. ‘It’s so different here. The smells, the sounds, the sights—I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to them.’ She sensed the girl’s body relax. ‘Do you know what I miss most, though? Speaking my own language. I was lucky to learn French as a child because of…’ Should she tell her? Would her being a ballet dancer make her look shallow? And why did she care so much what this girl thought? Pulling her shoulders back, Viktoriya said, ‘Because I am a ballet dancer and many dance steps are in French. It was only natural that I would learn the language.’
‘You dance ballet?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have always loved ballet.’ A small smile crept on to the girl’s lips and Viktoriya got a glimpse of how pretty this child was. If she had
a bath and put on a few pounds, she would be quite stunning. ‘But ballet isn’t French. It started in the courts in the Renaissance, in Italy, then when Catherine de’ Medici became Queen of France, she introduced it here.’
‘How on earth did you know this?’
‘I may not have a home but I can read and I am not stupid.’
Viktoriya felt terrible for judging the girl based on her current state. ‘Have you ever seen ballet?’
‘I haven’t seen it, no, but I have heard it is beautiful. The women dance in dresses that sparkle and the men are so very handsome.’
It warmed Viktoriya’s heart to see someone captured by the romance of ballet, even when the poor child’s life was one of destitution. Perhaps everyone needed a dream to cling to.
‘Would you like to watch a ballet rehearsal?’ The question popped out of her mouth before she had a chance to rein it in. With her woeful audition, Viktoriya was already on edge and her position in the company precarious. What on earth would Diaghilev or Massine think if she brought a street urchin to rehearsal?
‘No.’ The girl shook her head.
‘May I ask why?’
‘Look at me!’ She raised her voice. ‘Do you think they would want someone like me watching them? They’d be scared I’d steal their money.’
‘We’re dancers, we hardly have any money.’
‘So why did you buy me apples?’ the girl asked.
‘Because you looked hungry and like you needed some help.’
‘Do you help everyone you meet?’
‘I try,’ said Viktoriya, ‘but it’s not always possible. I just saw how delighted that one apple made you and your friends—’
‘They are not my friends.’
‘All right, I saw how delighted that one apple made you and the other two girls and I thought it would be a nice thing to do.’ Viktoriya offered the bag again and this time, the girl took it then peered inside, as if she was checking they were really there.
‘You shouldn’t be so nice to people,’ the girl muttered.
‘I can’t help it, it’s in my nature.’
‘It will only burn you.’ The girl grabbed an apple and took a bite. She offered the bag to Viktoriya, who thought it best if she took one as a sign of camaraderie. Viktoriya bit into the fruit and revelled in the crispy sweetness. The girl tucked the bag under her arm, held out her hand and said, ‘My name is Yana Nardin. I am from Moscow.’
Beneath the Parisian Skies Page 8
