Zoya (13 page)

“You have no choice, Grandmama.” She spoke with quiet desperation and it was the first time her grandmother had ever seen her like that.

“Zoya, you must obey me.”

“I won't. It's the only thing I want to do. And I want to do something to help you.” Tears filled the older woman's eyes as she looked at her only granddaughter.

“Has it come to this?” In her eyes, it was only a little better than prostitution, but not much.

“What's so terrible about being a dancer? It doesn't shock you that Prince Vladimir drives a taxi. Is that so respectable? Is that so much better than what I want to do?”

“It's pathetic.” Evgenia wheeled on her with broken eyes and a heart that was breaking. “He was an important man only three months ago, and long ago his father was a great one. He is the next best thing to a beggar now … but it's all he has left, Zoya … it's all he can do. It's all over for him, and at least he's alive. Your life is just beginning, and I can't let you begin it that way. You'll be ruined …” She covered her face with her hands and began to sob. “And there's so little I can do to help you.” Zoya was
stunned to see her grandmother cry, it was the first time she had ever seen her falter, and it touched her to the core, but she still knew she had to dance with the Ballet Russe, no matter what» She wasn't going to sew or knit or teach Russian.

She put her arms around her grandmother and pulled her close to her. “Please, don't, Grandmama … please don't … I love you so very much …”

“Then promise me you won't dance with them … please, Zoya … I'm begging you … you must not do it.”

She looked at her grandmother sadly then, wise beyond her years. She had grown much too old far too quickly in the past months and there was no turning back now. They both knew that, no matter how hard Evgenia tried to fight it. “My life will never be the same as yours, Grandmama. never again. It's not something you and I can change, we must simply make the best of it. There's no turning back now. Just like Uncle Nicholas and Aunt Alix … they must do whatever they have to. I'm doing that now … please don't be angry. …”

The diminutive Countess sat down in a chair with a look of defeat and stared unhappily up at Zoya. “I'm not angry, I'm sad. And I feel very helpless.”

“You saved my life. You got me out of St. Petersburg … and out of Russia. If it weren't for you, they'd have killed me when they burned the house, or perhaps worse than that … you cannot change history, Grandmama. We can only do our best … and mine is to dance … let me do it … please … please give me your blessing.”

The old woman closed her eyes and thought of her only son and slowly shook her head as she looked at
Zoya, but Zoya was right. Konstantin was gone. They all were. What did it matter now? But whatever happened, Evgenia knew that Zoya was going to do what she wanted, and for the first time ever that she could remember, she felt too old and tired to fight her.

“You have my blessing then. But you're a wicked, wicked girl!” She wagged a finger at her and tried to smile through her tears and then suddenly wondered how she could have managed the audition. “How did you ever get the shoes?” Zoya hadn't asked her for a penny since they'd arrived in Paris.

“I bought them.” She grinned mischievously. She was ingenious at least. Her father would have liked that.

“With what?”

“I sold my watch. It was ugly anyway. One of my classmates gave it to me for my name day.” And with that, Evgenia could only laugh at her. She was a remarkable girl, and the old woman loved her even more than she knew, outrageous though she was.

“I suppose I should be grateful you didn't sell mine.”

“Grandmama! What a thing to say! I would never do a thing like that!” She tried to look hurt but they both knew she wasn't.

“God only knows what you would do … I shudder to think!”

“You sound like Nicolai….” Zoya smiled sadly when she said the words, and their eyes met and held. It was a whole new world for them, filled with new principles, new ideas, new people … and a new life for Zoya.

CHAPTER
11

Her first rehearsal with the Ballet Russe on the eleventh of May was absolutely killing. It ended at ten o'clock that night, and Zoya came back to the apartment exhilarated but so tired, she could barely move. Her feet had actually bled as she went over the pas de deux and the tours jetés again and again and again. It made her years with Madame Nastova look like child's play.

Her grandmother was waiting up for her in the tiny living room. They had moved into the apartment two days before, and had bought a small couch, and several small tables. There were lamps with ugly fringes, and a green rug with gloomy purple flowers. Gone the Aubussons and the antiques and the pretty things they had once loved. But it was comfortable and Feodor kept it clean for them. He had gone out to the country with Prince Markovsky the day before and come home with the taxi filled with firewood. There was a warm fire blazing as her grandmother waited for her with a steaming pot of tea.

“Well, little one, how was it?” She was still hoping
that Zoya would come to her senses, and abandon the idea of dancing with the Ballet Russe, but she could see in the girl's eyes that there was no hope of that now. She hadn't seen her so happy since the whole nightmare began exactly two months before, with the riots in the streets, and Nicolai's death. None of it was forgotten, but the memory of it seemed a little less acute as she fell into one of their uncomfortable chairs and smiled from ear to ear.

“Grandmama, it was wonderful … just wonderful … but I'm so tired I can hardly move.” The long hours of rehearsal had been grueling beyond words, but in an odd way it was a dream come true for her, and all she could think of now was the performance in two weeks. Her grandmother had promised to come, and Prince Markovsky was coming with his daughter.

“You haven't changed your mind, little one?”

She shook her head with a tired smile, and poured herself a glass of tea from the steaming pot. They had told her that night that she would dance in both parts of the performance, and she was so proud of the money they had given her. She slipped it quietly into her grandmother's hand with a shy look of pride as tears filled Evgenia's eyes. It had come to that then. She was to be supported by the child's dancing. It was almost beyond bearing.

“What's that for?”

“Grandmama, it's for you,”

“We don't need it yet.” But the bare walls around them and the ugly green rug told another tale. Everything they had was threadbare and worn, and they both knew that the money from the ruby necklace would be gone soon. There were more jewels, of
course, but not enough to support them forever. “Is this truly what you want to do?” Evgenia asked sadly, and Zoya gently touched her cheek, and then kissed it.

“Yes, Grandmama … it was beautiful today.” It was just like her dream of dancing with the students at the Maryinsky, and she wrote to Marie that night, a long, brave letter that told her everything except about the small dreary apartment. She sat in the tiny sitting room long after her grandmother had gone to bed, and told her of the people they'd seen, and what Paris was like, and the excitement of dancing with the Ballet Russe. She could almost see Marie smile as she wrote it. She directed the letter to Dr. Botkin at Tsarskoe Selo and hoped that it would reach Marie before too long. It made her feel closer to her just to write it.

The following day she went back to rehearsal again, and that night there was an air raid. The three of them went to the cellar beneath the building, and then walked slowly back upstairs when it was over. It was a reminder of the war that raged nearby, but Zoya wasn't afraid. All she could think of now was her dancing.

Prince Markovsky was often there when Zoya got home. He always had stories to tell, and he frequently had brought her little cakes, and fresh fruit whenever he could find it. He even brought them one of the few treasures he still had, a priceless icon that her grandmother didn't want to accept, but he insisted. Evgenia knew only too well how desperately they all needed the things they could sell, but Markovsky only waved an elegantly veined hand with long graceful fingers and told them he had more
than enough for the moment. His daughter already had a job teaching English.

And the night of her first performance they were all there, in the third row. Zoya had bought the tickets for them with her wages. Only Feodor didn't come. He was proud of her as well, but the ballet was beyond his ken, and Zoya brought him a program, with her name in tiny print near the bottom. Even her grandmother had been proud of her, though she had cried with bittersweet sorrow when she first saw her. She would have preferred anything than to see her own granddaughter on the stage like a common dancer.

“You were marvelous, Zoya Konstantinovna!” The Prince toasted her with champagne he had brought when they went back to the apartment. “We were all so proud of you!” He smiled happily at the young girl with the flaming hair, despite an austere glance and a sniff from his daughter. She thought it shocking that Zoya had become a dancer. The two had never met before, and she was a tall, spare girl with all the earmarks of a spinster. Life in Paris was excruciating for her. She hated the children she taught English to, and it was embarrassing beyond words to see her father drive a taxi. But Zoya shared none of her prim views. Her eyes seemed to blaze with excitement. There was a warm flush on her cheeks, as her fiery hair fell from the bun she had worn and cascaded like flames past her shoulders. She was a beautiful girl, and the excitement of the night seemed only to have enhanced her beauty.

“You must be tired, little one,” the Prince said kindly as he poured the last of the champagne.

“Not at all.” Zoya beamed and pranced around the
room on feet that still wanted to dance. It was so much easier than rehearsal had been. It had been everything she'd always dreamed, and more. “I'm not even a little bit tired.” She smiled and then giggled as she took another sip of the champagne he had brought, as Yelena, his daughter, looked on disapprovingly. Zoya wanted to stay up all night and tell them the tales of backstage. She needed to talk about it with people who cared.

“You were fabulous!” he said again, and Zoya grinned. He was so serious and so old, but he seemed to care about her. In a way she wished her father had been there, although it would have broken his heart to see her on the stage … but perhaps, secretly, he might have been proud of her … and Nicolai … tears filled her eyes at the thought, and she set down her glass and turned away, to walk to the window and stare at the gardens outside. “You look lovely tonight,” she heard Vladimir whisper at her side, and she turned to look up at him as he saw the tears shimmer in her eyes. Her lithe body was so young and strong. He ached with desire for her and it shone in his eyes, as she took a step away from him, suddenly aware of what she hadn't noticed before. He was even older than her father had been and she was shocked at what she thought she saw in his eyes now.

“Thank you, Prince Vladimir,” she said quietly, suddenly sad at how desperate they all were, how hungry for love, and some shred of the past they could still share. In St. Petersburg, he would never have looked at her twice, she would have been nothing more than a pretty child to him, but now … now they were clinging to a lost world, and the people they had left behind there. She was nothing more
than a way of continuing the past. She wanted to tell Yelena that as she stiffly said good night to them.

Zoya thought of Prince Vladimir again as she undressed and waited for her grandmother to return from the bathroom down the hall.

“It was nice of him to bring us champagne,” her grandmother said as she brushed her hair, her lace nightgown framing her face and making her seem younger in the dim light. She had been beautiful once, and the two women's eyes were almost the same as they met and held. Zoya wondered if she knew that Vladimir was attracted to her. His hand had touched hers as they left, and he held her too close when he kissed her on the cheek.

For a long moment, Zoya didn't answer her. “Yelena seems so sad, doesn't she?”

Evgenia nodded and set her brush down with a solemn air. “She was never a happy child, as I recall. Her brothers were far more interesting, more like Vladimir.” She remembered the handsome one who had asked for Tatiana's hand. “He's a nice man, don't you think?”

Zoya turned away for a moment and then turned back to look at her honestly. “I think he likes me, Crandmama … too much …” She faltered on the words and Evgenia frowned.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that he …” Her face blushed furiously in the soft light and she looked like a child again. “That he … he touched my hand tonight….” It seemed stupid to have to explain it now … maybe it didn't mean anything.

“You're a pretty girl, and perhaps you bring back memories for him. I think he was very fond of your
mama, and I know he was close to Konstantin when they were young. They hunted with Nicholas more than once … don't be too sensitive, Zoya. He means well. And it was nice of him to come to see you tonight. He's just being kind, little one.”

“Perhaps,” Zoya said noncommittally as they turned off the light and slipped into the narrow bed they shared. In the dark, Zoya could hear Feodor snoring in the next room, as she drifted off to sleep, thinking of how magical the performance had been.

But the next morning, she was sure that Vladimir wasn't just being kind. He was waiting for her downstairs, when she left for rehearsal again.

“Would you like a ride?” She was surprised to see him there, and he was carrying flowers for her.

“I don't want to put you out … it's all right.” She would rather have walked to the Châtelet. He was suddenly making her uncomfortable the way he looked at her. “I like to walk.” It was a beautiful day, and she was excited to be going to rehearsal again. The Ballet Russe was the happiest thing in her life these days, and she didn't want to share it with anyone, not even the handsome white-haired Prince who stood so gallantly holding white roses out to her. They only made her feel sad. Marie had always given her white roses in the spring, but he couldn't have known that. He knew nothing about her at all, he was her parents’ friend, not hers, and it suddenly depressed her to see him standing there, his jacket worn, his collar frayed. Like everyone else, he had left everything behind, and escaped with his life, a few jewels, and the icon he had given them a few days before. “Perhaps it would be nice if you called
on Grandmama.” She smiled politely at him, and he looked hurt.