Zoya (25 page)

She heard him say he was leaving as though in a dream. It seemed impossible to believe. He couldn't
be. The moment she had never faced, the day she had thought would never come, was finally upon them.

“When?” she asked, her heart like a stone in her chest.

“In two days.” His eyes never left hers, there was still more to say. And he still wondered if he'd have the courage to say it.

“They don't give us much time for good-byes, do they?” Zoya said sadly. They were in her tiny, bleak living room, and it was a gray day, as Evgenia slept peacefully in their room, as she did most of the time now. Zoya was back at work again, but her grandmother didn't seem to notice.

“Will you be coming back to Paris again?” Zoya asked him as though he were a stranger, feeling separate from him now, preparing herself for what was to come. There had already been too many good-byes in her life, and she wasn't sure she would survive this one.

“I don't know.”

‘There's something you're not telling me.” Maybe he was married and had ten children in New York. Anything was possible now. Life had already betrayed her too often, not that Clayton ever had. But she was even angry at him now.

“Zoya … I know it won't make sense to you, but I've been thinking a great deal … about us.” She waited, blinded by pain. It was amazing that just when one thought there couldn't be any more pain, there was. It seemed to be endless. “I want to set you free, to lead your own life here. I thought about taking you to New York with me … I wanted to very badly. But I don't think the Countess could make the
trip, and … Zoya,” he seemed to choke on the words, he had been thinking about it for days, “Zoya, I'm too old for you. I've told you that before. It's not fair. When you're thirty, I'll be almost sixty.”

“What difference does that make?” She had never shared his fears about their ages, and she looked at him angrily now, her hurt at his going making her resentful toward him, especially now. “What you're saying is that you don't love me.”

“I'm saying that I love you too much to burden you with an old man. I'm forty-six years old and you're nineteen. That's not fair to you. You deserve someone young and alive, and after everything settles down here, you'll find someone else to love. You've never had a chance. You were a child when you left Russia two years ago, you'd been protected there, and you came here, during the war, with barely more than the clothes on your back. One day, life will be normal again, and you'll meet someone more your age. Zoya,” he sounded suddenly firm and almost like Konstantin, “it would be wrong to take you to New York. It would be selfish on my part. I'm thinking of you now, not myself.” But she didn't understand that as she glared at him and tears sprang to her eyes.

“It was all a game for you, wasn't it?” She was being cruel but she wanted to be. She wanted to hurt him as much as he was hurting her. “That's all it was. A wartime romance. A little ballerina to play with while you were in Paris.”

He wanted to slap her but he restrained himself. “Listen to me. It was never like that. Don't be a fool, Zoya. I'm more than twice your age. You deserve better than that.”

“Ahh … I see,” the green eyes flashed, “like the
happy life I have here. I've waited out half of this war for you, barely breathing for fear you'd be killed, and now you get on a ship and go back to New York. It's easy for you, isn't it?”

“No, it's not.” He turned so she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was better if she was angry at him. She wouldn't pine for him when he was gone, as he would for her. “I love you very much.” He turned to face her quietly, as she strode purposefully to the door and yanked it open.

“Get out.” He looked stunned. “Why wait two more days? Why not just end it now?”

“I'd like to say good-bye to your grandmother.”

“She's asleep, and I doubt if she'd want to say goodbye to you. She never liked you anyway.” She just wanted him to leave, so she could cry her heart out in peace.

“Zoya, please …” He wanted to take her in his arms again, but he knew it wasn't fair. It was better to let her feel she had ended it, to leave her with some pride. Better if he was the one with a broken heart. He hated himself as he walked slowly down the stairs, the sound of the door slamming behind him ringing in his ears. Hated himself for getting involved with her. He had always known she would get hurt, he just hadn't realized that it would hurt him as much. But he was certain he was doing the right thing. There was no turning back. He was too old for her, and even if it hurt her now, she was better off free of him, to find a man her own age, and make a new life for herself. He had a heavy heart for the next two days, and the day before he left, he got a bank draft for five thousand dollars. He enclosed it in a
letter to her grandmother, begging her to keep it, and to let him know if there was anything he could do for them later on. He assured her that he would always be their friend, and that he would love her granddaughter for the rest of his life.

“I have done this for her good, I can promise you that. And because I also suspect that it is what you want as well. She is younger than I. She will fall in love again. I am certain of it. And now, I bid you both adieu with a saddened, but loving heart.” He had signed it and had it delivered the morning he left by a corporal on General Pershing's staff.

He left on the morning that President and Mrs. Wilson arrived. There was a parade on the Champs-Élysées for them as he steamed slowly out of Le Havre thinking of Zoya.

CHAPTER
25

For weeks after Clayton left Zoya, she sat in Antoine's old room and cried, and thought she would die of a broken heart. Nothing seemed to matter to her anymore. She didn't care if she starved. She made soup for her grandmother, and was surprised they even had enough money left to buy that. Evgenia had sent Prince Markovsky to the bank for her once, shortly after Clayton left, and afterward she had pressed some bills into Zoya's hands.

“I've been saving this. Use it to buy whatever you need.” But there was nothing she needed or wanted anymore. He was gone. It felt like the end of her life. But the money her grandmother had apparently saved and gave to her to buy food allowed her to stay home from work. She told them she was ill, and didn't even care if they fired her. The Ballet Russe was back, and if she'd wanted to, she could have danced with them. But she didn't even want to do that, now. She didn't want anything now, no food, no friends, no job, and certainly no man. He was a fool to have told her she needed a younger man. She didn't
need anyone. Except a doctor for Evgenia. She developed a terrible flu on Christmas night. She had insisted she wanted to go to church anyway. But she was too weak even to sit up, and Zoya insisted that she lie back quietly and when Prince Vladimir came she urged him to bring a doctor back with him at once, but it was hours before they came back to see her.

The doctor was a kindly old man, who had learned Russian as a child, and he spoke to Evgenia in her own tongue. Her flawless French seemed to have faded from her mind.

“She is very ill, mademoiselle,” he whispered to Zoya in the living room. “She may not live the night.”

“But that's ridiculous. She was fine this afternoon.” As fine as she ever was now. He had to be wrong. Had to be. Zoya knew she would not survive another loss. She just couldn't face it.

“I'll do everything I can. You must call me at once if she gets any worse. Monsieur can come to find me at my home.” He was recently back from the front himself, and he was practicing medicine out of his home. He glanced at Prince Vladimir, who nodded unhappily, and then looked at Zoya with sad eyes.

“I'll stay with you.” She nodded. She knew she had nothing to fear from him. He had been living with a woman for almost a year, and his daughter had been so furious, she had moved out and was living in a convent on the Left Bank.

“Thank you, Vladimir.” She went to make her grandmother a cup of tea, and when she slipped back into her room she found her almost delirious. Her face was white-hot, and her whole body seemed to
have shrunken in a matter of hours. Zoya realized suddenly how much weight she had lost recently. It wasn't as apparent when she was dressed, but now she looked desperately frail, and when she opened her eyes, she had to struggle to see who Zoya was.

“It's me, Grandmama … shh … don't talk.” She tried to help her sip the tea, but Evgenia only pushed it away, muttered to herself, and then slept again. And it was daybreak, before she stirred and spoke. Zoya had been sitting in the chair, watching her, and she hurried to her side to hear the words. Her grandmother had been waving her hand, and Zoya approached quietly, gave her a sip of water for her parched lips, and gave her some of the medicine the doctor had left, but she could see that she was much worse.

“… You must …”

“Grandmama … don't talk … you'll tire yourself.”

The old woman shook her head. She knew better than that. It didn't matter now.“… You must thank the American for me … tell him I am very grateful to him … I was going to pay him back….”

“For what?” Zoya looked confused. Why was she grateful to Clayton? For leaving them? For abandoning her and going back to New York? But Evgenia was waving weakly toward the tiny desk in the corner of the room.

“… Look … in my red scarf….”

Zoya opened the drawer, and found it there. She pulled it out, put it on the desk, untied it, and gasped. There was a fortune there. Almost five thousand dollars when she counted it out. “My God … Grandmama, when did he give this to you?” She was
stunned and she didn't understand. Why would he do something like that?

“He sent it when he left … I was going to send it back … but I was afraid … if you needed it … I knew he meant well. We will return it to him when we can….” But she was fumbling behind her bed as she spoke, looking for something she thought was concealed there, and Zoya saw that she was becoming agitated and was afraid it would do her more harm.

“Grandmama, lie down … please …” She was still stunned by the veritable fortune Clayton had sent. It was a grand gesture, but it made her angry at him again. They didn't need his charity. It was too easy to buy them off … but at what price, and then suddenly she frowned at the old wool scarf her grandmother held in her trembling hands, as she seemed to pull it from behind her pillow. It was the scarf she had worn the day they left St. Petersburg, she remembered it well, and now her grandmother held it out to her, a small smile on her pale lips.

“Nicholas …” she could scarcely speak, as tears filled her eyes,”… you must keep it safe, Zoya … take good care of it … when there's nothing left, sell it … but only when you are desperate … not before … there is nothing else left.”

“Papa's cigarette case, and Nicolai's … ?” she asked, but the old woman shook her head.

“… I sold them a year ago … we had no choice,” but Zoya heard the words like a knife to her heart. There was nothing left of them now, no trinket, no souvenir, only memories, and whatever it was that her grandmother now held in her hands. Zoya took it from her carefully and unwrapped the scarf
on the bed, and as she did, she gasped … she remembered it … it was the Easter egg Nicky had given Alix when Zoya was seven years old … it was incredible, made by Fabergo, it was a veritable work of art. The Easter egg itself was of a pale mauve enamel, with diamond ribbons circling the enamel gracefully, and a tiny spring opened it revealing a miniature gold swan on a lake of aquamarine, and crying softly, she touched the lever she remembered beneath the wing. The swan spread its tiny golden wings, and walked slowly across her palm. “Keep it safe, precious one …” her grandmother whispered, and closed her eyes as Zoya wrapped it in the scarf again, and then gently took her grandmother's hand.

“Grandmama …” Evgenia opened her eyes again, with a peaceful smile. “Stay with me … please don't go …” She sensed that the old woman was more comfortable, she seemed to breathe more easily.

“Be a good girl, little one … I have always been so proud of you …” She smiled again as Zoya began to sob.

“No, Grandmama …” The words were a farewell, and she wouldn't let her die. “Don't leave me alone, Grandmama … please …” But the old woman only smiled and closed her eyes for a last time. She had given her final gift to the child she had so loved, she had brought her safely to a new life, had watched over her, but now it was over.

“Grandmama …” Zoya whispered in the silent room, but Evgenia's eyes were closed. She was resting peacefully. Gone with the rest of them. Evgenia Peterovna Ossupov had gone home.

CHAPTER
26

They buried her in the Russian cemetery outside Paris, and Zoya stood silently beside Prince Vladimir, and a handful of people who had known Evgenia. She hadn't been close to any of them. Her years in Paris had been spent mostly with Zoya, and she had no patience with the complaints and depressing memories of the other émigrés. She was occupied with the present and not obsessed with the past.

She died on the sixth of January, 1919 in the tiny apartment, the same day Theodore Roosevelt died in his sleep, and Zoya sat staring out the window, stroking Sava.

It was impossible to absorb the events of the past few days, more incredible still to think of a life without her grandmother. She was still amazed by the imperial egg her grandmother had concealed for almost two years, and the money Clayton had given her when he left. It would be enough for her to live on for the next year, if she lived carefully, and for the first time in years, she had no desire to dance now. She never wanted to see the ballet again, never
wanted to do anything again. She just wanted to sit there with her dog and die quietly. And then she thought guiltily of how angry her grandmother would be at her for those thoughts. Her grandmother had been committed not to death, but to life.

She lived quietly for a week without seeing anyone, and she looked thinner and very pale, when Vladimir knocked on her door. He looked quiet and strained, and he was obviously worried about her, and she was startled when she saw that there was someone standing just behind him in the dark hall when she opened the door. Perhaps he'd brought the doctor to check on her, but she didn't want to see anyone, and the doctor least of all. She was wearing black wool stockings and a black dress, her red hair pulled severely back in sharp contrast to her ivory face.