Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (15 page)

He whipped around to face her. In the dim light, despite
the guardedness of his pale face, the savageness gleaming
through his narrowed eyes shocked her. They stared at each
other for an interminably drawn-out moment. Then he turned
back around to face the window. 'This acting bug is going to
your head,' he said gruffly. 'So is the blatant luxury here. The
servants' quarters aren't good enough for you, I suppose?
That's why you've been down in that theatre all day and half
the night.'

She stared at his back in surprise. 'But . . . you yourself
agreed that we were to perform here tomorrow. And we need
the work.' She moved closer again and reached for him, but
anticipating it, he stepped adroitly out of her grasp. He moved
across the room, away from her.

Her eyes were huge and hurt. 'Schmarya.' Tears blurred her vision. 'What's wrong? What's suddenly come between
us?'

'Nothing.' He dug his hands into his trouser pockets and
stared down at the floor. 'It's just that I feel caged up here, I
suppose. There's always somebody spying on us. Following us
around as if we were common thieves. Maybe I just need some
fresh air.'

She stared at him, then let out a soft sigh. 'You're sure that's
all it is?' she asked doubtfully. 'Just a feeling of being locked
up?'

'What else could there be?'

In puzzlement she stared at the scowl of hatred twisting his face into an ugly mask. She was at once astonished and
devastated by his vehement reaction. Until recently, unless
she brought up his political activities, he had generally been
warm and loving.

'If it's that important to you, we can leave here right now,'
she decided quietly. 'No performance is worth seeing you so
unhappy. We have too much love to share.'

'You just do what you have to,' he said coldly, 'and I'll do
what I must.'

'Let's not fight, Schmarya,' she pleaded softly, plucking des
perately at his sleeve. Somewhere deep inside, a smouldering
fire, half-hope, half-desperation, rose and burned intensely.
'Let's make
love!
Let's forget this squabbling and . . . and
recapture what we used to share.' She paused and lowered her
voice huskily. 'If not for our sakes, then for Tamara's.'

He stared expressionlessly at her, and on an impulse she
reached up, wrapping her arms around his neck. She stepped
up on tiptoe and kissed him, closing her eyes as her tongue
sought his, but her lips brushed a mouth carved of stone, as
cold and lifeless as one of the multitude of statues which lined
the endless corridors of the palace.

Sighing, she let her arms drop heavily to her sides. In a daze,
she moved over to the window on leaden feet and parted the
curtains with a forefinger. The snow fell heavier now, but she
didn't notice. A solitary tear slid a rivulet of moisture down
one cheek; then it was followed by another, and another. How
many months had it been now since she and Schmarya had made love? Since Schmarya had held her in his passionate
embrace and kissed her, seeking the intimacy of her body, urgently needing the fulfilment that only the bottomless well
of their mutual desires could provide? The well, she was begin
ning to realize with a sinking heart, had dried up, at least as
far as he was concerned.

And all because of a misunderstanding. Because he believed
she had turned her back on their heritage, and thus him.

She sobbed soundlessly. How much things had changed!
How little Schmarya really understood her. What she had
done had not been to hurt him, but to make things easier for
all of them. In Russia, Jews were outcasts only because of
religion: Conversion to Russian Orthodoxy provided accept
ance for any Jew even in the highest circles of society, and
many Jews had thus obtained enviable positions in the loftiest
ranks of czarist Russia. And four months earlier, in order to
spare herself, and especially Tamara, any more anguish and heartache resulting from future persecution, Senda had con
verted to Russian Orthodoxy. In their travels she had met
other ambitious actresses who had done the same thing and
told her about it.

It was, to her, a simple matter of ensuring their safety.
Social acceptance had never entered her mind. The memories
of the pogrom were still all too real. How often the nightmares
about it still caused her to awaken in a cold sweat. Schmarya
might have understood that, had she not, despite his violent
opposition, had Tamara baptized in the Russian Orthodox
Church at the same time. He had taken it as a personal insult,
an insult against all he held dear. Senda simply viewed her
action as practical necessity, insurance against the future for
both herself and her daughter.

The question haunting her now was: Would Schmarya
ever
find it in his heart to forgive her? Would he ever get over what
he considered her treachery against their faith, their heritage,
and love her again the way he once had? The way she still
loved him in so many, many ways.

These terrible thoughts swirled in her mind as thickly as the
snowflakes outside.

The tears blurred her vision, but it was not her own crying
which finally brought her out of her reverie. She swiftly
crossed over to the crib. The little room was chilly again. The
fire had burned itself out. The cries were coming from Tamara.
She had awakened, and was hungry and cold. Or, Senda won
dered, could she somehow sense that something was wrong, even in the depths of her sleep, and need comfort as badly as
she herself?

It was then that Senda realized Schmarya was no longer in
the room. She hadn't heard him leave during her miserable soul-searching. She shivered, but it was not from the cold. Icy
fingers of dread rippled through her, bringing new fears along.
Where was Schmarya? Where had he gone? And what in
heaven's name was he up to now?

Oh, God, she prayed silently, let him do anything he feels
he must as long as it will not ultimately bring harm to Tamara.

It was an interminable wait before the guard ambled along to
the far end of the narrow hallway, turned his back, and lit a
cigarette. Then Schmarya saw his opportunity. He shut the
door soundlessly, and furtively dashed down the narrow stair
case to the ground floor. Avoiding the servants was no easy matter. While the Danilovs slept, a small army worked in a quiet frenzy to prepare for the next day's celebration. Once he reached the grand public rooms on the ground floor, he
thought he had a chance to escape undetected.

The floors of the hushed corridors and reception rooms were
masterpieces of their makers' craft: finely inlaid marquetry swirls and checkerboards with a polished, honey-rich glow.
Despite the heat radiating from the porcelain ovens and steam
radiators, Schmarya could feel the relentless damp chill soaking through the arabesques of wood, numbing his stockinged
feet. No amount of heat could completely dispel the damp
arctic chill as he tiptoed soundlessly, boots in hand, and flitted
in and out of the shadowed niches, pressing himself against
the icy statues at any distant sound. Finally slithering behind
two sets of heavy curtains, he unlatched a tall bevelled-glass
French door in one of the splendid reception rooms and
slipped outside, wedging the door shut again with a large splin
ter of wood so that he could open it from the outside once he
returned. He pulled on his boots in the dim yellow glow of
light which spilled out from a window on the floor above. He was on the balustraded terrace overlooking the park which
sloped down to the frozen river.

It was deathly cold out. Although well-bundled, he instantly
felt the raw wind turning his blood to ice. The moisture in his nostrils crystallized, and he wound his scarf around his nose
and mouth. He was both terrified and exhilarated by the sud
den overwhelming sense of freedom.

For long silent minutes he stayed concealed in the shadows,
wary of being seen or stopped or, worst of all, tracked to his
ultimate destination. When he was fairly certain no one had spied him leaving, he crept along the palace, keeping as close
to the wall as possible. Drawn near the servants' entrance by a cacophony of clanging and banging, he noticed a solitary
sleigh drawn by two impatiently waiting dray horses.

Creeping closer, Schmarya wrinkled his nose in disgust.
This was no luxurious passenger sleigh, he realized. This was
winter's version of a garbage truck being piled high with the
day's refuse. The kitchen and house servants were dark
shadows scurrying in and out to dump the contents of boxes
and barrels into the back.

As the garbage was being loaded, Schmarya crept nearer.
Soon he was but a few feet from the sleigh. He could see that it was roughly built, the boxlike utilitarian body formed by
uneven slats of weathered, splintery wood atop a pair of thick,
solid metal runners. He let out a breath of satisfaction. Since
the boxlike construction towered above the drivers' seat, it would be child's play to climb up the back without being
noticed.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust and pulled his shabby scarf
higher above his nostrils. He couldn't believe that the smell
was so powerful in weather this cold. Because of it, however, he didn't think he would have to worry about the guards at
the gate poking in the garbage.

When the trash was finally loaded, he watched the two burly drivers climb heavily up onto their seats. One took a swig from
a flask and passed it to his partner; afterwards only their eyes
showed from under their low-pulled caps and above their
upturned collars and tight-wound scarves. The servants' door
banged shut. He could hear a bolt being thrown across it. It
was much darker now.

The snow suddenly turned to fast-falling sleet. Schmarya cursed under his breath. As if the cold were not enough. But
he had little time to consider this change in the weather. He tensed as a whip cracked mightily in the night. The horses
whinnied their protests, and the sleigh immediately began to hiss swiftly away, its jingling bells warning anyone in its path
of its hurried approach.