Dancer (41 page)

Watching them together slipped a knife between my ribs and hit my heart exactly.

Emilio continued his search in the book but after a few moments he began to doze. I went to the window. Outside, the dark brushed the city and the wind unleashed the snow. Down below three cars sat in the street. I pulled the curtain back further, saw a shadow and then a flash of light from a camera. A photographer. I turned away instinctively and closed the curtains.

How come they let you back?

Raisa Gorbachev, he said.

Have you met her?

He shook his head, no.

But she got you a visa?

He didn't respond but then said curiously: We have always absorbed our own disintegration.

I didn't know quite what to say, not sure if it was self-pity or pure nonsense. I almost laughed. But it was impossible to get angry at Rudi for becoming what he had become. Something about him released people from the world, tempted them out. Even Kolya had begun to move his chair closer. We poured a little more vodka and talked briefly then of my father's gramophone; my mother's lessons; the night Rudi arrived in Leningrad; his dances at the Kirov. He had seen RosaMaria once, he said, but had fallen out of contact with her. There was almost a second-handedness to our conversation, as if we had talked it all before, and yet that didn't matter: what we lacked was made up for by the tenderness of his visit.

We silently toasted each other and then he flicked a look at his wrist as if he expected to see a watch there, but his arm was bare.

Emilio, he said loudly, what time is it?

The Spaniard awoke with a start: We should leave, he said, closing the book shut.

Just a few more minutes, said Rudi.

No, we really must leave.

A few more minutes! Rudi snapped.

Emilio waved his hands in the air, a gesture he had surely learned from Rudi: Okay, he said, but we'll miss our plane.

He put the Cervantes book back in the space on the shelf. I had a vision of a day in the future, cold and rainy, when Kolya and I would take the book from the shelf and touch its pages to feel for a tiny bump.

Rudi sat back in the chair, perfectly calm, took a minute to become the focus of the room once again.

Then, without missing a beat, he stood up quickly: My drivers are downstairs. They'll think I have defected again.

He pulled on his coat and spun on his heels: Can you believe it?

What?

After all these years, he said.

He carefully screwed the bottle top back on the vodka and stared at the table as if gathering strength for something to say. He stepped across, held my shoulders, bit his lip and whispered: You know, my own mother didn't recognize me.

What?

She didn't know who I was.

I recalled my father's story about the workcamp and the bullet and how he said that we never escape ourselves. I considered telling Rudi the story, but he was already wrapped in his scarf, about to go.

Of course she recognized you, I said.

Why should she? he asked.

I wanted to come up with a perfect rejoinder, to bring him back to earth, to receive another thrilling smile, another surprise, but he was turning the handle. I went to hug him. He took my face in his hands, kissed me on each cheek.

Wait, I said.

I went to the cupboard and took out the china dish that had belonged to my mother. I opened the lid of the box. The dish felt cold and brittle. I handed it to him.

Your mother showed me this years ago, he said.

It's yours.

I can't take it.

Take it, I said. Please.

You should keep it for Kolya.

Kolya already has it.

Rudi blindsided me with a smile and took the dish in his hand.

Exits and entrances, he said.

Emilio thanked us for our hospitality and went downstairs to alert the drivers. Rudi followed slowly, his knees bothering him. I stood at the iron railing with Kolya and together we watched him go down.

So that's him? said Kolya.

That's him.

Not much, is he?

Oh, I'm not so sure, I said.

And as if on cue Rudi paused in the light on the third-floor stairwell, threw his scarf over his shoulder and performed a perfect pirouette on the concrete slab, the china dish clutched to his chest. He stepped slowly to the next landing, through the rubbish and broken bottles, stopped once again in the arc of light and his shoes sounded against the concrete as he spun a second time. No remorse. Kolya put his arm around my shoulder and I thought to myself: Let this joy extend itself into the morning.

In the lobby Rudi pirouetted one final time and then he was gone.

Sale: The Rudolf Nureyev Collection, January and November, 1995, New York and London

Lot 1088:
Six pairs of Ballet Boots

Estimate: $2,300–3,000

Price: $44,648

Buyer: Mr. and Mrs. Albert Cohen

Lot 48:
Costume for
Swan Lake,
Act III. Prince Siegfried, 1963

Estimate: $3,000–5,000

Price: $29,900

Buyer: Anonymous

Lot 147:
Sir Joshua Reynolds:
Portrait of George Townshend, Lord de Ferrars

Estimate: $350,000–450,000

Price: $772,500 (Record for the artist at auction)

Buyer: Private

Lot 1134:
A French Walnut Refectory Table

Estimate: $22,500–$30,000

Price: $47,327

Buyer: Telephone

Lot 146:
Johann Heinrich Fuseli, R.A:
Satan Starting from the Touch of Ithuriel's Lance

Estimate: $500,000–700,000

Price: $761,500

Buyer: Anonymous

Lot 1356:
Attributed to Théodore Géricault,
Homme nu a micorps (Man Naked to Waist)

Estimate: $60,000–80,000

Price: $53,578

Buyer: Telephone

Lot 728:
A Jamawar Long Shawl, Kashmir, late nineteenth century

Estimate: $ 800–1,500

Price: $5,319

Buyer: R. Ratnawke

Lot 1274:
Pre-Revolutionary Russian China Dish in oak box (box damaged)

Estimate: $2,000

Price: $2,750

Buyer: Nikolai Mareneov

Lot 118:
Felix Boisselier,
A Shepherd Weeping on a Tomb Erected to a Gnat

Estimate: $40,000–60,000

Price: $189,500

Buyer: Private

All lots sold.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In this novel many changes in names and locations have been made to protect the privacy of people living, and also to give a shape to various fictional creations. On occasion, I condensed two or more historical figures into one, or distributed the traits of one person over two or more characters. Some of the attributions made to public figures are exact; others are fictional. For clarity's sake, I have not always used the diminutive and intimate form for first names commonly employed in Russian.

In the course of researching this book, I was privileged to read a great deal—fiction, non-fiction, journalism, poetry and Internet material—but the following title was invaluable:
Nureyev
by Diane Solway, which at the time of writing is the definitive biography of Rudolf Nureyev. For those interested in biography I would also strongly recommend the writings of Julie Kavanagh and her forthcoming book on Nureyev. Other books and source material, including films, are too numerous to mention but a special thanks must be given to the staff of the New York Public Libraries, who run such a profoundly important system. Deep thanks must also be given to the American-Irish Historical Society, most especially Dr. Kevin Cahill, Christopher Cahill and Bill Cobert.

There are so many people I must thank for their kindness, help and vision throughout this process: Roman Gerasimov, who was my translator in Russia, Kathleen Keller, Tim Kipp, John and Beverly Berger, John Gorman, Ger Donovan, Irina Kendall, Josh Kendall, Joan Acocella, Lisa Gonzalez, Errol Toran, D.C, Nick Terlizzi, Charlie Orr, Damon Testani, Mary Parvin, Marina Staviskaya, Jason Buzas, Jaco and Elizabeth Groot, Françoise Triffaux, Brigitte Semler, Thomas Ueberhoff, Colm Toibin, Chris Kelly, Emily Tabourin, Alona Kimchi, Tom Kelly, Jimmy Smallhorne, Mikhail Iossel, Radik Kudoyarov, Nikolay Korshun, Ilya Kuznetsov and his friends at the Kirov, Galina Belskaya, Yanni Kotsonis and Myrna Blumberg.

A very special debt of gratitude is owed to all at Phoenix House, Metropolitan Books and the Wylie Agency, most especially Maggie McKernan, Riva Hocherman and Sarah Chalfant.

No thanks would be complete without deep gratitude to my family: Allison, Isabella and John Michael, and to our extended families on both sides of the ocean.

Additional Praise for
Dancer

“An engrossing portrait of a man so complex that no mere biography could possibly convey more than a sliver of his personality … The Nureyev who strides impatiently through its pages seems entirely convincing.”

—
The Baltimore Sun

“
Dancer
is the most breathtaking tribute to Nureyev since Jamie Wyeth's famous paintings.”

—
Esquire

“Dazzling … an intimate portrait …
Dancer
is bigger than the dance, bigger than biography, too.… Relish McCann's dizzy, fascinating glimpse.”

—
The Miami Herald

“McCann is a consummate stylist who nonetheless imbues his fiction with the cold stamp of reality.”

—
The Boston Globe

“A chorus of voices breathe new life into the story of Nureyev … in this vibrant, imaginative patchwork of a novel.… A kaleidoscopic effect … The novel is a showcase for [McCann's] fluid prose and storytelling skill.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Intimately real.”

—
Time Out New York

“An impressive evocation of life on three continents in the last half of the twentieth century … McCann's talent lies in imagining a life staged so publicly by creating the intimate lives and stories of those only watching from the wings.”

—
Houston Chronicle

“
Dancer
has the wingspan of a great Russian novel.… This is the book you'll want to take on a long plane ride; you'll be so seduced you'll sip the wine and eschew the dinner.”

—Frank McCourt, author of
Angela's Ashes

“Remarkable: What McCann imagines so beautifully is the way a hero walks through life somewhat differently from the rest of us, the mere breeze of his passing setting off a thousand ripples of change, both good and bad.”

—
Salon.com

“McCann writes as if the fate of the world depends on it. Worry not, the world is saved.
Dancer
is a masterpiece.”

—Aleksandar Hemon, author of
The Lazarus Project

ALSO BY COLUM McCANN

Everything in This Country Must

This Side of Brightness

Fishing the Sloe-Black River

Songdogs

Zoli

Let the Great World Spin

 

Colum McCann is the author of the novels
Let the Great World Spin, Zoli, This Side of Brightness,
and
Songdogs,
as well as two story collections. A contributor to
The New Yorker, The Atlantic, GQ, The Paris Review,
and other publications, he has been awarded a Pushcart Prize, the Rooney Prize, the Hennessy Award, and the inaugural 2002 Ireland Fund of Monaco Princess Grace Memorial Award. His short film,
Everything in This Country Must,
was nominated for an Oscar in 2005. His work has been published in thirty languages. Born in Dublin, Ireland, he currently lives with his wife and children in New York City.

DANCER
. Copyright © 2003 by Colum McCann. All rights reserved. For information, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.picadorusa.com

Picador
®
is a U.S. registered trademark and is used by Henry Holt and Company under license from Pan Books Limited.

For information on Picador Reading Group Guides, please contact Picador. E-mail: [email protected]

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Getty Images for permission to reprint the photograph on p. 5, copyright © 1976 by Hulton Archive; Warner Books for the excerpt on p. 263 from
The Andy Warhol Diaries,
by Andy Warhol, Pat Hackett, ed., © 1989 by the Estate of Andy Warhol; Gary Matoso for the photograph on p. 311 © 1985 by Gary Matoso.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-42902-7

ISBN-10: 0-312-42902-9

First published in the United States by Metropolitan Books, an imprint of Henry Holt and Company

First Picador Edition: February 2004

Second Picador Edition: July 2009

eISBN 9781466848696

First eBook edition: May 2013