Russian Winter (37 page)

“Right, right, I know, you were the one caring for her, seeing her daily, while I was off being the bad daughter. Just like with Viktor’s mother. I know it, believe me. Everyone loves you more.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. You don’t understand. I really did love her.”

“And she loved you. More than you even know.” Nina feels she might explode. And then she hears herself blurt out, “She’s the one who sent you those telegrams.”

For a moment Vera looks confused. And then, “That’s not true.”

If only Nina could erase her own words. She feels like a skunk, or some other creature unaware of its full repulsion.

From Vera, a sound, small like a whimper, escapes.

Nina rushes away, past Viktor and the others, out to the street, where the old women are sweeping with their twig brooms. She is shaking, nearly dizzy, alarmed by her own cruelty. It is the first time she has ever felt within her something so awful—this enormous capacity for betrayal.

T
he days just before an auction were always stressful, the phone ringing constantly with last-minute inquiries (was this ring fourteen- or sixteen-karat gold?) and Drew’s voice mail clogged with unofficial bids. Not to mention the flurry of previews, waves of people eagerly seeking out their vast and precise desires. All afternoon the gallery had swarmed with the usual mix: women trying on necklaces and rings and admiring themselves in propped-up mirrors, while auction employees told them what good taste they had, and parents and husbands and fiancés looked on, and grave-faced dealers squinted over the magnifying loupe for closer inspection, checking for imperfections. Among the mix this time were dancers, too, wispy long-necked women, some quite young, pointing at this and that as they peered into the glass-covered display cases.

The events director kept giving brisk orders to the interns; the pre-auction dinner was tonight, and there was much setting up to be done. From her desk Drew could hear the interns scurrying back and forth, while out on the sidewalk St. Patrick’s Day revelers, some in Celtics jerseys, some with tall squishy brimmed hats emblazoned with shamrocks, and some wearing shiny green metallic beads, made their way from some pub on to the next, though it was barely
afternoon. With the city of Boston on official holiday, it seemed everyone was out in the street.

Before now Drew had simply viewed Evacuation Day as an excuse for people to take the day off and join their friends at the bar. But now it struck her as significant that on this same day in 1776 George Washington’s army had forced British troops out of Boston—peacefully, without a single casualty. Today’s newspaper spelled out more ominous headlines: “U.S. Prepares for War” and “Diplomatic Efforts in Iraq Fail.” One article said the president planned to send troops over in a matter of days. The drunken laughter on the street outside seemed wrong somehow. And yet, as another wave of revelers made their way past her window, Drew supposed that they too might not be quite ready to believe the headlines, might still be holding out the merest hope.

At her computer’s little binging sound, Drew looked down from the window. An e-mail from Stephen, asking if she wanted to meet for a beer. Below it were two unopened messages from her mother, one with the subject line “oops!” Drew clicked on it warily, since most of her mother’s missives were either forwarded warnings about some sort of computer virus or random cheerful updates about people Drew either barely knew or did not care to hear about. This one read, “Sorry about that, I meant to forward to Dad, not you…” Below was a link to an article in the
Seattle Times
. “Eric is quoted!” her mother had written to her father.

It was an article about cooking classes for couples. Eric and Karen had been taking the pastry course; they were considering cake decorating for next time. Of course Drew read the article. Curiosity compelled her to, the same thought as usual briefly sweeping through her: That could have been me. That life could have been mine.
East Coast transplants Eric Heely and Drew Brooks, a married couple in their early thirties, originally intended to take a culinary course on deep-frying
…The steady ease of couplehood, just your average married couple, doing the kinds of things that couples do.

Then the thought was past her, drifting away. Drew found the delete button, to erase the message—but saw that another e-mail had come in.

Drew gave a little yelp and quickly typed a message to Anna Yakov. And though her next impulse was to want, very much, to call Grigori and tell him this news, she knew she ought to wait. She had not seen him since that day in his office, had not even spoken with him; she had decided to contact him only if she found something definite to show him. A possible answer, something to offer. First, she would have to see if in fact this message led somewhere, if she really might at last be able to find something out.

A
UTUMN CHILL AND
whiffs of winter, dead leaves skirting the ground. Bitter drafts surge through the Bolshoi’s corridors and stairwells. At class each morning, Nina takes her spot at the barre, not looking toward the other end, where Vera too stands in her usual place. They rarely pass each other in the hallway, since their dressing rooms are on different floors; Nina finds it easy to go a full month without speaking to Vera.

Polina, who used to stand next to Vera at the barre, has changed
places, over to the other side of the practice room, in front of the mirror no one likes because it makes everyone look slightly heavier. Not that that should bother Polina; she is skinnier than ever, her muscles visibly tense, buttocks and thighs tightly clenched before lowering herself into that first plié. Even the way her fingers grasp the barre, when really they ought to be simply resting lightly atop it, reveals her tension. Going back and forth from the rosin box, she sometimes looks almost sickly—but whenever Nina tries to catch her eye, she looks away. One morning, hammering a large hunk of rosin into smaller bits, Polina looks furious, seems to be taking her fury out on the yellow chunks as she grinds them into a powder.

Something is happening; something bad is happening. Yet as much as Nina knows it must be true, she does not know, exactly, what “it” is. She tries to float above it, stay true to her most basic tenet: think only of the dance.

Late one afternoon she returns from rehearsal to find Viktor at home, seated at the wooden table. Already Nina can see that something is wrong, the way his jaw flexes. He is clenching his teeth, so that Nina has to ask why he is looking at her that way.

“It’s time we discussed what you neglected to tell me.”

“What do you mean?”

Pain in his eyes. “Apparently your rushing home to take care of your mother this summer wasn’t purely out of concern for her health.”

“It most certainly was!”

“Really? And you didn’t have your own medical concerns to attend to?”

“But—” How could he know that? “Viktor.” Nina feels suddenly exhausted. “I’m sorry. But you have to understand, that wasn’t the reason I came back. I really did need to help Mother. But I realized I was pregnant and needed to take care of it—”

“Interesting choice of words.”

Nina lets herself drop into one of the wooden chairs, too tired to think of any clever retort. “Let’s not fight about this. You know my mother was sick. I didn’t lie to you.”

“You didn’t tell the truth. I had to wait to hear it from my own mother.”

“Your
mother
told you?” Rage shoots through her, at the same time that Nina wonders how Madame could know such a thing.

Then she remembers. Vera.

“Why did you do it, Nina?”

What she says, in a whisper, is nothing she has ever consciously thought before. “How could I bring a child into a world like this?”

Victor leans back into his chair, as if to observe her more clearly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

This world where the people one loves are taken away in the middle of the night. Where they are hounded nonstop and cannot marry as they wish, and have their very reputations, their professions, stolen from them. “Gersh,” she says simply.

Viktor gives a pained sigh. “It’s just temporary. A necessary…wrinkle. You know what they say: ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs.’ Things will change when everything gets sorted out.”

“How can you even say that? Is Gersh just an egg? Is Vera? How can you even repeat something so—”

“Of course they’re not. All I’m saying is—”

“Oh, stop it!” Nina is surprised at her own voice. “I don’t understand how you can keep this up.” As if there isn’t something horrible going on all around them. Only in thinking it does Nina realize that this really is the way she feels, and that it is the truth. She must have sensed it for a long while, now—that there are horrible unspoken things taking place all the time.

A sound, the plywood door swinging open. Madame stares at them. “What are these raised voices? Are you a bunch of brutes?”

“It’s all right, Mama,” Viktor says tiredly. Nina feels she might scream. If Madame hadn’t told Viktor, they would not even be having this discussion. All because Madame told him. Madame, who would do anything to get rid of Nina…
You’re not Lilya
. Ordering poor tired Dasha not to cook for Mother…Showing Nina the amber jewelry, to ruin Viktor’s surprise…

Only in recalling the amber does Nina wonder if that was what those jewels were for: Was Viktor waiting for a baby, was that when he was planning on giving them to her?

“As bad as the Armenians.” Madame shakes her head and returns to her room.

Nina’s cigarette case—where she keeps a folded handkerchief instead of cigarettes—is on the table; without thinking, she grabs it and throws it at the door. It hits the wall instead, and lands on the floor with a pathetic tinny plunk.

“Oh, stop it,” Viktor says in a tired voice. He walks over to the bed, sits down heavily.

Nina is putting on the coat she has only just taken off.

“Where are you going?”

“To work.”

“You just got home. You’re not even performing tonight.”

“I need to practice.” Really she just needs to get outside, away from Viktor, away from Madame. Viktor makes no move to stop her. When she leaves, he is still sitting there, leaning forward, his head resting in his hands.

She decides to rehearse. She will use this surge of anger, of adrenaline, in the only good way she knows—turn it into spins and leaps and quick, strong jumps. It is all she can do, all she knows how to do. Her hands still shake as she enters the Bolshoi.

Though this evening’s performance is not for another two hours, the hallways are busy with costume deliveries and dancers scurrying up and down the stairs. Nina means to go straight to her room for
her exercise clothes, then to an empty studio where she can work. But she finds herself continuing past her door, up the stairs, along the next hallway, to her old dressing room.

Vera must have visited Madame while I was away. She must have told her, on purpose, to turn her against me
. Nina raps loudly on the dressing room door.

No answer. Vera might not even be dancing tonight. Nina wants to shout at her, to leave an angry message, to break something…Anything to rid herself of this awful feeling. She flings the door open with such force that it slams against the wall.

In front of her, at eye level, unmoving in the air, are two limp, silk-stockinged legs.

Looking up, Nina’s eyes find a form long and thin, like a trussed goose on a peg in a kitchen. Polina, in her tights and leotard, her head at an unnatural angle. Lying on its side below her on the floor is the old wooden stool.

Only when she has regained her voice, recalled how to use her legs, does Nina scream. Running into the hall, she finds the first person she can. And still it takes a good hour for her to truly understand—to comprehend as reality—that Polina is dead, that she has done this thing to herself, with a long wool scarf looped around her neck.

All week whispers hiss through the corridors of the Bolshoi.
Dumped by her man, don’t you know, dropped her like a hot potato.
…But how could she kill herself, Polina of all people, in that most unpatriotic, un-Soviet of acts?
You know Polina, there was nothing more for her, no will to live
…. But why here, the Bolshoi, of all places?
She thought it was Vera, don’t you know, thought Vera was the reason….

Vera, meanwhile, has not been here even once.
Barely gave him the time of day, but you know how men are, they like the chase, and after all, persistence pays off….
She is absent the following week as
well.
Her Achilles, you know, but really some people think, well, I won’t say anything, that’s how rumors get started.

And of course there is that most obvious of facts—that it wasn’t Nina, but Vera, who was supposed to be the one to discover Polina.

I
N THE DINING
room, sitting at the table set with woven place mats and linen napkins and the good heavy dishes he rarely used for himself, Grigori smiled, pleased, as Zoltan declared the meal excellent. “You never told me you were a chef, Grigori. I hate to admit that I hadn’t thought it possible.”

“Christine taught me a few tricks.” Grigori had seared two big salmon filets he then sprinkled with dill and garnished with a slice of lemon. Steamed rice and stir-fried broccoli were the accompaniments. “But I don’t often cook for just myself.” He did not add his next thought, which was that only in these past days had he found himself, suddenly, very hungry.

As he took another bite of the salmon, he fought the unfamiliar urge that kept creeping up. To mention Drew, to simply say her name. But of course he stopped himself; at the very word, it might all dissolve. Not to mention that he and Zoltan never spoke of such things.

“I realized something today,” Zoltan said, munching. “It’s a funny thing, how working on this memoir, and reading through my old diaries, has crystallized some of the ideas I’ve had over the years. Or perhaps that’s not quite it. Perhaps it’s that I’m seeing my own thoughts from a distance, across a bridge of time. Their repetitions and choruses. Page after page of this odd young man’s thoughts. And that odd young man was
me
. I see the things I wrote about, and whom I wrote about, and you know what has become absolutely clear to me, Grigori? Though I suppose I’ve thought it, or known it, innately, all along. That there are only two things that really matter in life. Literature and love.”

Grigori grinned. “I might have to agree with you.” After all, he felt like a new person ever since Drew had reached out to him. And friendships like his with Zoltan at times seemed all he could really count on. The same way that he could always count on Chekhov, Eliot, Musil. There was one horrible day, toward the very end of Christine’s illness, when, suddenly and utterly aware that she was on a terrible lonely journey where he could no longer reach her, Grigori had sat down to reread
The Death of Ivan Ilyich
, and afterward had felt—not comforted, not at all, it was such a sad story, but that he understood something, understood in another way what Christine was going through. And so he hadn’t felt quite so alone.