Russian Winter (21 page)

Nina remembers the episode another way. After she hit the ground, Vera had immediately begun laughing, and though Nina laughed too, even at that young age she knew that if she had been the one to fall, she would not have been able to laugh at herself. She wanted to win the contest, to be the best; she didn’t want anyone to see her landing on her behind, ever. Already she felt—if in an inarticulate, unformulated way—the ferocity of her ambition, and the downside of pride.

“I wish I could have known you then,” Gersh says, taking a seat, looking at Vera, his eyes dreamy behind the little round glasses, the lazy one veering off slightly.

Viktor has moved to the piano bench, and plays a few chords before attempting to bang out a tune. Gersh is asking Vera questions about her life in Leningrad. To Nina’s surprise, Vera answers them openly. Closing her eyes, Nina listens to Viktor’s enthusiastic,
if amateur, playing, and to the growing conversation between Vera and Gersh. “Students and teachers were evacuated, too, not just the stars,” she hears Vera say, of being sent to Perm during the war. “I suppose I got to dance more roles there than if we’d all stayed in the full company back at home. Still, we were so far away. And then when we came back, it was as if everything was just…finished. I remember seeing the theater. It was the feeling of my own home, my only home, having been ruined.”

Nina’s heart aches at the thought of Vera there, of what she might have suffered had she not escaped. She has heard the stories—of starvation, of children whose hair turned white, of bodies lying frozen in the streets.

Almost forcefully, Vera adds, “Well, it
was
my home. I’d lived there since the age of ten. Because the Kirov school takes boarders, and I’d already been accepted to the Bolshoi when I left Moscow—so it made sense for me to apply there. Since my aunt and uncle had no interest, really, in taking care of me.”

“Your aunt and uncle…” Gersh says it in a wondering way.

“I’d been sent to live with them, after what happened to my parents.”

Nina opens her eyes, surprised. She sees Gersh giving just the smallest nod of understanding, not asking what happened; Vera’s eyes say the rest, glancing away to avoid more questions. “The other students were my family. I still remember which of us were the first ones chosen for the Opera—we danced in the ballet scenes, our first chance to perform onstage. My first was Queen of Spades.” Vera has stretched her legs the length of the sofa and now lifts her knees slightly, bending them so that her skirt tents, revealing the long line of muscle where her shinbone meets her calf. With a faraway look, she says, “Fridays we went to the steam baths.” Wrapping her arms around her knees, leaning forward, toward him, she looks straight at Gersh. Nina recalls how she felt with Viktor that first night she met
him, the feeling that she could trust him. To Gersh, Vera nods in a final way and says, “The Kirov became my family.”

“And yet you left.”

“The Bolshoi is the best company in the world. How could I not accept?” But Nina wonders if it was that simple, if it felt less like an invitation than a command. Again her heart winces, at how difficult it must have been.

Viktor has finished his piano playing, so that the room is suddenly quiet. Gersh takes up a cigarette, and then his eyes move past everyone, brows rising. As if amused, he points toward the opposite corner of the room. There is a little pile of dust there, like an anthill, on the floor.

Not dust, he explains: “Cement.” Looking up, he points to a small dark spot in the ceiling. Then he lights the cigarette, as if none of this is at all worrisome.

“Is it a hole?” Vera whispers. It might have been painted there, it is so small and black.

“Looks freshly drilled,” Gersh says, exhaling cigarette smoke as if the whole thing is a game.

Nina is horrified. Viktor says, “You’d think they would at least clean up after themselves.” He too lights a cigarette.

“No, that’s the point,” Gersh says quietly. “To let us know they can hear.”

But what could they have heard? Nina thinks quickly to herself. No one here has said anything wrong, let alone done anything, and the piano playing would have covered everything up anyway. Vera looks up at the hole with a mix of concern and reverence.

Viktor turns his head just slightly, to blow a smooth stream of smoke across his shoulder. “Were you planning on sweeping up your little anthill?”

“Maybe more of them will turn up,” Gersh says. “I’ll start a collection.”

Their light banter hides nothing. Clearly Gersh is on some list. There has been more harsh talk—in the papers, in official speeches—about people like him. Every week, it seems, a member of the Jewish intelligentsia is arrested, or some Jewish organization disbanded. Perhaps that is why Zoya is not with him here tonight; surely someone like her would not want to be too closely associated with Gersh now. And yet, those fancy chocolates…

At the piano, Gersh has taken Viktor’s place and starts playing a Glinka mazurka. Nina calms herself, watching him. He is one of those musicians who, when engaged in his music, becomes a more vivid version of himself; his cynicism gives way to pure emotion, so that he seems suddenly stronger and more ardent. Nina has noticed this about him before, his passion suddenly visible, palpable. It is something the two of them have in common, she realizes—this physical, primal, connection to sound and rhythm.

Vera is watching Gersh with big dark eyes, head resting on her hand, and now Viktor leans back to listen. Nina can see in his very posture how badly he wants to believe that drill hole doesn’t matter. After all, if Gersh isn’t doing anything wrong, then what is there for anyone to see or hear that might cause trouble?

Gersh plays for a long time, smoking cigarettes with Viktor until the room is a warm haze. The tips of their cigarettes worm back, the ashes fall to the floor—like the dust from that drill hole. Nina focuses instead on the love she feels around her, not only between her and Viktor, and Viktor and Gersh, but now Gersh and Vera, too. Until very late they stay there, drinking tea from Gersh’s cheap metal samovar. It is as if all four of them are waiting something out, as if none of them wants the night to end. Morning has sprouted, pale and winking, by the time they say good-bye.

Note: For a similar example signed by Eugène Feuillâtre and auctioned in these rooms, see Fine Jewelry, Beller Galleries, Auction 1462, lot 326, Sept. 1990

I
n the wee hours of Monday morning, the blizzard that had been making its way across the country blew into the Commonwealth. White tufts fell in great busy swirls, a big billowing curtain of lace; by Tuesday the storm had been declared Boston’s largest on record. Grigori arrived at the department later than usual, hindered, like everyone, by the snowdrifts everywhere.

He had not spoken to Evelyn since their date on Friday. Sitting at his desk, attempting to read the newspaper he had bought at the CVS (since his copy of the
Globe
must have landed in a snowbank), he found himself trying, yet again, to convince himself that everything was fine, that he was simply unaccustomed to this thing called dating, this strange thing called a date, and with Evelyn, of all people. But then he would recall the awkward moment when he at last said good night—and Evelyn bowing her head as she closed the door, as if in acknowledgment of their folly.

From the ballet they had walked to the lounge at the Four Seasons, where Grigori, more anxious than he had expected, must have drunk too much. All the while he told himself his unease wasn’t anything about Evelyn; it was from running into Drew Brooks. How awkward that had been, there in the theater lobby. Still feeling agitated as he huddled with Evelyn in a niche by the window, he drank
too many whiskeys, and when toward midnight he walked Evelyn from the T to her apartment, taking her arm to make sure she didn’t slip on the ice, and she asked if he would like to come in for a cup of tea, it hadn’t occurred to him not to.

She was wearing that skirt with the slit at the side. It wasn’t the first time Grigori had seen the skirt on her, but only in the niche at the Four Seasons had he noticed the way that a sliver of Evelyn’s thigh peeked out at him. When, in her apartment, next to Grigori on her leather sofa, Evelyn placed her hand on his elbow, Grigori had looked shyly down, and his gaze landed on the skirt’s slit. Though he quickly looked up again, it was too late, Evelyn’s eyes had followed his. She kissed him then, as Grigori’s thoughts rushed forward, the awareness that he was kissing someone, someone who wasn’t Christine, and that this was what people called “moving on,” this feeling of surprised curiosity—and then Evelyn was asking, “Is it all right?” and Grigori had to acknowledge that, without meaning to, he had pulled away.

He ought to have understood at that point: these situations were delicate and could not be rushed. Instead, flustered, he had mumbled an apology and tried to kiss her one more time, to prove that it was all right. But when she responded, he became suddenly daunted, and Evelyn, clearly sensing his hesitation, said with great generosity, “We can take things slow.” Her hair had become disheveled. Grigori was dismayed by his behavior.

And to think that none of this would have happened, he told himself now (giving up on the newspaper), if he hadn’t run into Drew Brooks. Then Grigori might not have felt so anxious, and drunk all that Bushmills. Or if he and Drew had at least come up ahead of time with some basic statement to explain their acquaintance…Grigori wouldn’t have worried, then, that he might have to make up some small lie to tell Evelyn, in order not to have to share anything about the auction house, or the pendant, with her. That was the core of the
problem, Grigori realized, suddenly and quite clearly, with his feelings about Evelyn. He could not imagine telling her his secrets.

Well, these things take time, he told himself, placing the newspaper in the bin for recycling. He peeked out into the hallway. Evelyn’s door was closed; she hadn’t come in yet. Grigori felt a small pang of some emotion he could not quite name, and went back to his desk to retrieve his telephone messages. There was only one. Everyone used e-mail instead these days.

The message was from Drew Brooks.

“I just wanted to let you know,” came the self-assured voice, “that we have the official lab results back, and the necklace is indeed genuine Baltic amber.”

Relief washed over Grigori. But then of course Drew Brooks added that she had “another question” for him, “if you could call me back at your earliest convenience.”

So much for relief. Frowning, Grigori took up the telephone, to dial the auction house. Another woman’s voice, coming from the hallway, caused him to pause, his heart racing. But, no, it wasn’t Evelyn. It was just Carla talking to Dave.

Stop being so antsy, Grigori scolded himself. It would all be fine. He and Evelyn were two mature adults, there was no reason they could not pull this off. Yet all at once it seemed too difficult—how to face her, what to say. After a moment’s contemplation, Grigori put on his coat and headed out to the snow-beached avenue, to board the B train to Back Bay.

S
CENT OF AUTUMN,
of mud and first frosts and wood-smoky air. The Bolshoi until midnight, and late meals at the Aurora: salt fish, thick slices of salami with garlic…
The Fountain of Bakhchisarai
—with Nina as Zarema and Vera as Maria—is a grand spectacle as usual, with its exotic costumes and Tartar hordes. The new piece,
The Bronze Horseman
, is more serious, about the necessary sacrifice of the individual for the greater good of one’s country.

Gersh too has new work performed that autumn, 1949. A sonata for cello—the gorgeous, aching sound of yearning. To Nina, the music conveys something about Gersh himself, the depth of mystery and tenderness she has always sensed hidden in him, despite his brazen talk. The following week, reading
Pravda
, Viktor shakes his head.

“What is it?”

“Oh, this critic. His review of Gersh’s piece.”

“May I see?”

Quietly, under his breath, he says, “Opportunism. That’s all it is.” He hands Nina the newspaper.

The article is more of an essay than a review, an argument for the qualities that Soviet music ought to display—and the many ways that Gersh’s piece has failed.
Deeply marred by the influence of bourgeois decadence, completely devoid of social context, this new work is a disturbing testament to its composer’s servility to the West.

Gersh the reviewer calls an “anti-patriot” and, farther down, that other word, the one heard more and more these days. There’s even a little ditty about it going around—quietly, sardonically:

Probably Nina shouldn’t be surprised by this review, after so many similar articles. Plus there was that long, stern editorial in
Kultura i Zhizn
…But the fact of it glares at her: Gersh has been singled out. It’s official, in print—no question, now, as to how others are to view him. Yet Nina says, “I don’t understand.” Because despite all these things the reviewer states about Gersh’s piece, its many faults, all that Nina heard was beautiful music.

Viktor says, “One is entitled to one’s opinion, of course.”

Nina feels a sudden, fleeting fear, of what this might mean for Viktor, and for his friendship with Gersh. The two of them have known each other for nearly a decade. Nina knows well how much Viktor values Gersh: his wit and intelligence, his boldness. He is Viktor’s most outspoken friend, and Nina suspects that irreverence is part of what draws Viktor to him, those qualities he wishes he too possessed. She senses, too, Viktor’s genuine appreciation of Gersh’s music, a respect unhampered by any competition or envy, as he might feel with fellow writers.

Perhaps there is something they ought to be doing for Gersh. Sometimes support from someone respected can make a difference: decrees are rewritten, verdicts reversed. Other times, though…you might as well dig your own grave. Nina folds the newspaper in half, as if to silence the journalist’s complaints.

When she enters their little dressing room the following evening, she can see that Vera has been crying.

“It’s Gersh,” Vera says tearfully, and Nina supposes Vera too has read the
Pravda
review. She spends much of her free time with Gersh these days, and it’s no secret to Nina how strong Vera’s feelings are. Sitting by his side at the concert, she even looked nervous for him despite her usual cool veneer. Afterward her face glowed at such applause—the crowd clapping in unison, insistent even after Gersh had taken multiple bows, so that he had to go onstage again and accept more flowers.

“I telephoned him yesterday afternoon after rehearsal ended early to ask if I could stop by. When I got there, he acted so happy to see me—but then what does he have to say? ‘You know, you should try to give me more warning before you come over. What if I had a girl here? What am I to do with her when you turn up?’”

“He’s teasing, Verochka.”

“I know.” She shakes her head. “It’s not the first time he’s done it. I try to go along with him. I just said, ‘You mean you
don’t
have
a girl here now?’ He said, ‘She’s hiding in the cupboard, poor thing. See what you’ve done?’” Vera gives a tired laugh. “I’m stupid to cry about it, I know. But I keep thinking he’ll stop. It’s hard, trying to act like I don’t care. Really it hurts me.”

“Of course it does. I don’t know why he has to act like that.” But as she says it, Nina is recalling how Viktor first referred to him, “a ladies’ man.” Maybe it has to do with pride, with his old sense of himself as free and unattached. Maybe that’s why he acts as though Vera has no special claim to his affection—in order to retain some former notion of himself. Really anyone who has even glimpsed him with Vera these past two months can see he is hopelessly in love.

“Why do
you
think he does it?” Nina asks.

Vera says, “Fear. I think that talking like that convinces him he won’t be trapped by love.”

“Right.” Nina too senses fear there, despite Gersh’s seeming confidence. What she doesn’t say is what Vera herself must surely sense: that it isn’t love, or being trapped by love, that he is afraid of.

T
HAT
D
ECEMBER IS
Stalin’s seventieth birthday, with all kinds of celebrations. As part of the festivities Mao Tse-tung makes a visit; to mark the occasion, the Bolshoi has prepared a special revival of
The Red Poppy
, about Tao-Hoa, the Chinese teahouse dancer who gives up her life to save the Soviet captain. Vera says the Bolshoi production is much more lavish than the Kirov’s.

The city has been thoroughly done up for the festivities, the buildings decorated with red flags and banners, and platforms set up in the squares for dancing. An enormous floodlit portrait of Stalin, held aloft by big blimp-shaped military balloons, floats above the Kremlin, shedding its light on the streets below. When Nina and Vera join Viktor and Gersh after their performance, music is blaring from the loudspeakers in Manezhnaya Square, and all around them
people are dancing, many women together, and separate groups of men. Viktor and Gersh look dapper in their dark hats, and Nina feels suddenly joyous—the crisp air against her face, and her love for Viktor so full, it may as well be the sky. Viktor’s and Gersh’s cheeks and noses are rosy from the cold, or perhaps from drink, or from dancing.

“Don’t I get a dance?”

Zoya, in her curly goatskin coat. Nina watches, wondering, as Gersh gives an awkward hello. Though she doesn’t seem surprised to find him with Vera, Zoya does look a bit hurt, eyes slightly downcast as she bats her curled lashes. Nina momentarily feels for her, that she is not too proud to reveal her feelings. And that unlike so many people, she is not one to pretend—now that Gersh is in disfavor—to no longer know him.

When Nina asks how she is enjoying the celebration, Zoya’s face lights up. “Oh, it’s all so wonderful! Did you hear his speech?” She looks truly moved, beautiful, even, her eyes sparkling. Nina almost understands when Gersh says, “Here, noodle, join us!” That flash of attraction again, in Zoya’s face, as Gersh takes her hand. But now he lets go and begins a silly dance, kicking out his legs as if about to do the
kazachok
. He is this way often these days, joking, frantic.

Vera’s expression is aloof. “I don’t understand,” Nina says under her breath to Viktor. “Zoya and Gersh.”

“I suppose she still has her sights set on him,” Viktor says, “though surely she can see it’s a lost cause.” A drunk man goes careening by, knocking into them. To Zoya, Viktor says, “Please, may I have this dance?” She smiles gratefully as he whisks her away.

They look quite cute together, Nina has to admit. She wonders about Zoya, if Gersh truly has, or had, feelings for her, or if she is some kind of cover for what he really feels. For now, though, he and Vera are together, dancing close, quietly, their faces serious, as though something important has been discussed.

When the song ends, Viktor thanks Zoya for the dance, and Zoya explains that she must run off; actually, she is meeting some comrades at the other side of the square. Despite everything, Nina can’t help but admire her pluck.

A new song has begun, and Viktor reaches out for Nina. The music chimes as they begin to dance, as he and Gersh spin Nina and Vera between them. Nina feels her coat whirling around her calves, her head tossed back, laughing, as she and Vera are passed back and forth, one and then the other.

D
REW
B
ROOKS WAS
there at the auction house, talking to another woman by the front desk. Something unaware about her, the way she carried herself, leaning with her back against the counter, in a green dress. With a light nod she led Grigori into a little room almost like a closet, with a small round table and two plastic chairs.

“I’m sorry to have rushed away the other night,” Grigori told her, taking a seat, having thanked her for her telephone message. “It’s just that my friend doesn’t know that I’ve brought anything here. Nobody knows. If it should happen again—”

“I’ll just say I approached you about clarifying a Russian document someone brought to us. How’s that?”

He considered. “That works.”

“It actually relates to my question. You said that you teach Russian.”

“I do.”