Zoya (12 page)

The apartment itself was very small, but it looked out over someone else's very pleasant garden. There were two small bedrooms and a tiny sitting room, a small kitchen, and a bathroom down the hall, which they would have to share with four other apartments. The others had to come from other floors, so they were more fortunate than most. It was certainly a far cry from the palace on Fontanka, or even the hotel on the rue Marbeuf, but they had no choices left to them now. Zoya's grandmother had admitted to her what a paltry sum she had gotten for the ruby necklace. They had brought other jewels to sell as well, but it did not bode well for their future.

“Perhaps it is too small after all….” Prince Vladimir looked suddenly embarrassed, but it was no more embarrassing than his having to drive a taxi.

“I think it will do very well,” the Countess said matter-of-factly, but she had already seen the look of dismay in Zoya's eyes. The hallway had an ugly smell, of urine mixed with fetid cooking. Perhaps a little perfume … the lilac smells that Zoya was so fond of … and the windows open onto the pretty garden. Anything might help, and the rent was just what they could afford. The Countess turned to Vladimir with a warm smile and thanked him profusely.

“We have to take care of our own.” He spoke warmly to her, but his eyes were firmly on Zoya. ‘I'll drive you back to your hotel.” They had arranged to move in the following week, and on the way back, Evgenia began making a list of the furniture they would need. She was going to buy as little as she could, she and Zoya could make the curtains and the bedspreads, she was only planning to acquire the essentials.

“You know, with a pretty rug on the floor, it might make the room seem a little larger.” She spoke cheerfully and forced herself not to think of the treasured Aubussons in the pavilion behind the Fontanka Palace. “Don't you think, my love?”

“Hm? … Sorry, Grandmama?” She had been frowning and staring out the window as they drove down the Champs-Elysoes to the rue Marbeuf. She had been thinking of something far more important. Something they needed desperately. Something that would allow them to live decently again, perhaps not in a palace but in an apartment that was larger and more comfortable than a foul-smelling matchbox. She was anxious to get back to the hotel now and leave her grandmother to her lists and her plans, and her orders to Feodor to go in search of furniture and a pretty carpet.

They thanked Prince Markovsky again when he dropped them off, and Evgenia was startled when Zoya said that she was going out for a walk, but absolutely refused to let Feodor go with her.

“I'll be fine, Grandmama. I promise you. I won't go far. Just to the Champs-Élysées and back.”

“Do you want me to come with you, my dear?”

“No.” She smiled at the grandmother she so dearly
loved, thinking of how much she owed her. “You rest for a little while. We'll have tea when I come back.”

“Are you sure you'll be all right?”

“Absolutely certain.”

Reluctantly, the Countess let her go, and walked slowly up the stairs, holding Feodor's arm. It was going to be good practice for the long hike up the stairs to the new apartment.

And as soon as Zoya left the hotel, she rounded a corner and hailed a taxi, praying that the driver would know where it was, and that when she got there, someone would know what she was speaking of. It was a wild, wild hope, but she knew she had to try it.

“The Châtelet, please,” she said imperiously as though she knew what she was talking about, and prayed silently that the man knew its location. And after an instant's hesitation, she saw that her prayers were answered. She hardly dared to breathe as the taxi sped her there, and she gave the driver a handsome tip, because he had found it, and because she felt guiltily relieved that he wasn't Russian. It was depressing somehow to see members of the families she had known driving taxis and talking mournfully about the family at Tsarskoe Selo.

She hurried inside, and looked around, thinking back to her threats to run away to the Maryinsky Theatre, and she found herself thinking of Marie and how stunned she would have been at this. It made Zoya smile as she looked for someone, anyone, who could answer her questions. She found a woman finally, in ballet tenue, practicing quietly at the barre, and Zoya guessed correctly that she was a teacher.

“I am looking for Mr. Diaghilev,” she announced, and the woman smiled.

“Are you now? Might I ask why?”

“I'm a dancer and I would like to audition for him.” She put all her cards on the table at once, and she had never looked younger or prettier or more frightened.

“I see. And has he ever heard of you?” It seemed rather a cruel question, and the woman didn't even bother to wait for an answer. “I see you haven't brought anything to dance in, mademoiselle. That's hardly an outfit in which to audition.” Zoya glanced down at her narrow navy blue serge skirt, her white sailor blouse, and the black leather street shoes she had worn every day during her last weeks at Tsarskoe Selo. She blushed furiously then and the woman smiled at her. She was so pretty and so young and so innocent. It seemed hard to believe that she would be much of a dancer.

“I'm sorry. Perhaps I could come back to see him tomorrow.” And then in a hushed whisper, “Is he here?”

The older woman smiled. “No, but he will be soon. He is holding full rehearsal here on the eleventh.”

“I know. I wanted to audition for him. I want to be in the performance, and join his troupe.” She said it all at once and the woman laughed out loud.

“Do you now? And where have you been training?”

“At Madame Nastova's school in St. Petersburg … until two months ago.” She only wished then that she could have lied and said “the Maryinsky,” but he would have known the truth almost certainly.
And Madame Nastova's school of ballet was also one of the most prestigious in Russia.

“If I get you a leotard and some shoes, will you dance for me now?” The woman looked amused, and Zoya hesitated only for a split second.

“Yes, if you like.” Her heart was pounding like an entire orchestra, but she had to get a job and this was all she could do, and all she wanted to do. It seemed the very least she could do for Evgenia.

The shoes that the woman gave her hurt her terribly, and as she went to the piano, Zoya felt foolish to have even tried it. She would look stupid on the stage all alone, and perhaps Madame Nastova was only being kind when she had said she was very good. But as the music began, she slowly began to forget her fears, and slowly she began to dance, and do everything that Madame Nastova had taught her. She danced for almost an hour tirelessly, as the woman watched her critically with narrowed eyes, but nowhere on her face was either scorn or amusement. Zoya was drenched when the music stopped at last, and she made a graceful curtsy in the direction of the piano. And in the silence of the room, the two women's eyes met, and the woman at the piano slowly nodded.

“Can you come back in two days, mademoiselle?”’ Zoya's eyes widened into two huge green saucers as she ran toward the piano.

“Do I get a job?”

The older woman shook her head and laughed, “No, no … but he will be here then. We shall see what he says, as well as the other teachers.”

“All right. I'll get some shoes.”

“You don't have any?” The woman looked surprised and Zoya looked at her seriously.

“We left everything we had in Russia. My parents and brother were killed in the revolution, and I escaped with my grandmother a month ago. I must find a job. She's too old to work, and we have no money.” It was a simple statement that spoke volumes and touched the other woman's heart to the core, although she didn't show it.

“How old are you?”

“Just eighteen. And I've studied for twelve years.”

“You're very good. No matter what he says … or the others … don't let anyone frighten you. You're very good.” Zoya laughed out loud then, it was just exactly what she had said to Marie, that afternoon at Tsarskoe Selo.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” She wanted to throw her arms around her and kiss her, but she restrained herself. She was afraid to lose the opportunity she had. She would do anything to dance for Diaghilev, and this woman was going to let her do it. It was beyond anything she had ever dreamed. Perhaps Paris wasn't going to be so bad after all … not if she could become a ballerina. “I'll be better after I've danced again. I haven't danced in two months. I'm a little rusty.”

“Then you'll be even better than I think.” She smiled at the beautiful young redhead standing so graceful and poised beside the piano, and then suddenly Zoya gave a gasp. She had promised her grandmother she'd be back in a little while, and she'd been gone for almost two hours.

“I must go! My grandmother! … Oh … I'm so sorry …” She dashed off to change her clothes
again, and returned in her navy skirt and sailor blouse, a swan having been changed back into a duckling. “I'll be back in two days … and thank you for the shoes! …” She started to hurry off, and then suddenly turned back again, and shouted to the woman who watched her go. “Oh … what time?”

“Two o'clock!” The woman called, and then remembered something else. “What's your name?”

“Zoya Ossupov!” she called back, and then was gone, as the woman at the piano sat down with a smile, remembering the first time she had danced for Diaghilev twenty years before … the girl was good, there was no denying that … Zoya … poor child, she had been through enough from what she'd said in her simple words … it was hard to imagine being eighteen again, and as exuberant as Zoya.

CHAPTER
10

At two o'clock on a Friday afternoon, Zoya arrived at the Chatelet with a small tapestry bag, a leotard, and a pair of brand-new ballet shoes. She had sold her watch to pay for them, and had told her grandmother nothing of where she was going. All Zoya could think of for two days was the extraordinary opportunity she was about to have, and she was praying to all her guardian angels and favorite saints that she wouldn't make a mess of it. What if she was awkward … if she fell … if he hated her style … if Madame Nastova had been lying to her all these years. She had been filled with dread, and by the time she reached the Châtelet again all she wanted to do was run away, but she saw the woman for whom she had danced two days before, and suddenly it was too late. Diaghilev himself arrived and Zoya was introduced to him. And the next thing she knew she was on the stage, dancing for all of them as they sat in the audience, and she even forgot they were there. She was more comfortable than she had been two days before, much to her own surprise, and the
music seemed to lift her up and carry her away. And when she was finished» they asked her to dance again, this time with a man, and he was very good, as Zoya seemed to fly through the air on the wings of angels. All in all, she danced for an hour and a half, and once again she was drenched when she stopped, and the new shoes were killing her, but she felt as though she could have flown to the moon as she turned to them. They were nodding, there were unintelligible words. They seemed to confer for hours, and then one of the teachers turned summarily to her and called across the stage as though it were no very remarkable thing.

“Next Friday, four o'clock,
répétition générale
, right here. Thank you very much.” And with that, they turned away from her, as she stood with tears rolling down her cheeks. Madame Nastova hadn't lied and the gods had been good to her. She didn't know if it meant she had a job, and she didn't dare to ask them. All she knew was that she was dancing in the rehearsal next Friday afternoon. And maybe … maybe … if she was very, very good … she didn't even dare think of it as she changed her clothes and flew through the doors. She wished she could tell her grandmother, but she knew she could not. The idea of Zoya becoming a dancer would have driven her wild. It was better not to say anything, at least not yet. Perhaps if they actually let her dance with the Ballet Russe … perhaps then …

But the following week, victorious, having landed a job, for the time being at least, she had to share her good news.

“You did
what?”
Her grandmother looked shocked, stunned beyond belief.

“I auditioned for Serge Diaghilev and he is letting
me perform with the Ballet Russe. The first performance is next week” She could feel her heart pound and her grandmother did not look pleased.

“Are you mad? A common dancer on the stage? Can you imagine what your father would say to something like that?” It was a blow below the belt and it hurt too much as she wheeled on the grandmother she loved with wounded eyes.

“Don't talk about him like that. He's dead. He wouldn't like any of the things that have happened to us, Grandmama. But they have, and we have to do something about it. We can't just sit here and starve.”

“Is that it then? You're afraid we'll starve? I'll be sure to order an additional dinner for you tonight, but take my word for it, you are
not
going on the stage.”

“I
am.”
She looked at her defiantly for the first time. In the past she had only dared to fight with her mother this way, but she couldn't let her grandmother stop her now. It meant too much to her, and it was their only way out, the only one she could see anyway. She didn't want to work in a shop, or scrub floors, or sew tiny buttons onto men's shirts, or work for a milliner and sew plumes on a hat, and what else was there she could do? Nothing at all. And sooner or later it would come to that. And her grandmother knew it too. “Grandmama, be sensible. You got almost nothing for the ruby necklace you sold. And how much jewelry can we sell? Everyone else here is doing the same thing. Sooner or later one of us has to go to work, and this is the only thing I know how to do.”

“That's ridiculous. First of all, our money has not run out yet, and when it does, we can both get respectable
jobs. We both sew decently, I can knit, you can teach Russian or French, or German, or even English if you try a little bit.” They had taught her all those things at the Smolny Institute, along with a great many other niceties that served no purpose whatsoever now. “There is absolutely no reason at all for you to become a dancer like … like …” She was so angry, she almost mentioned the woman Nicholas had been so involved with years before. “Never mind. In any case, Zoya, I shan't allow it.”