The Last Days of the Romanov Dancers Page 11

  ‘An admirable sentiment. I believe I made the right decision choosing you, Luka Vladimirovich Zhirkov. Now, over here, please, and place your hands on my waist.’

  Luka obeyed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Spring 1916

  ‘Are you mad?’ Luka’s father stared at his son as if he didn’t recognise him, then grabbed his shoulder and pulled him inside the apartment.

  Luka almost fell, but managed to catch himself with one hand on the back of a chair. His other hand held a half-loaf of bread.

  ‘What? What did I do?’

  His father ignored the question. He slammed the door, then crossed the tiny room to peer out the window. Luka asked again, but his father batted an impatient hand at him, still looking outside. Frustrated, Luka sat down at the dining table, dumping the bread on it.

  ‘Look at that fool out there,’ his father muttered. ‘Strutting around thinking we don’t know he’s a member of the secret police. Like the green of his overcoat and galoshes don’t give him away.’

  He pushed away from the window, coughing as he walked to the table. Luka kicked out the chair opposite him, but his father took a step to the side and sat in a different one. His arms were folded across his chest, his hands tucked into his armpits.

  ‘Is that what you’re worried about?’ Luka asked. ‘The okhrana?’

  ‘Of course not. They’re always out there somewhere, trying to stop us from wanting more than this pitiful lot.’ He gestured at the apartment. ‘That’ll never change. But you—do you know what could have happened because of that?’ He nodded at the half-loaf as though it were something muddying up his table. ‘You could start a riot carrying bread around so openly.’

  The bread had cost Luka many hours in line, trying to ignore the wailing children behind him whose parents hadn’t arisen as early and would likely miss out by the time they reached the front. When he’d finally wrapped his hands around the bread and breathed in its yeasty smell, it had been hard not to start breaking it up to share with those children right away. But even if he’d ripped it into the tiniest chunks possible, there wouldn’t have been enough to go around. So he’d kept it to share with his father, knowing he had probably gone without bread for a long time too. He shouldn’t have bothered.

  Now, Luka wanted to snatch it and run back to the bakery’s line where the loaf would be received like the gift it was supposed to be. But he forced himself to stay where he was, staring down at the table, marking its surface with his thumbnail. His father tore off a crescent of fingernail with his teeth and spat it on the ground. He began grumbling about the war, and Luka noticed the way he spoke had changed: there was no more pride in his voice; no more demands for Luka to join the fighting forces. There was only resentment. Neither of them had heard from Pyotr for months now, and each time Luka thought of this, panic tightened every muscle in his chest until he could barely breathe. The feeling of being able to do nothing, of knowing nothing about his brother’s whereabouts or state, was an ache too difficult to confront, and he’d been glad of the distraction of the long hours spent rehearsing with Valentina for the Hermitage performance.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, standing abruptly. The chair scraped on the floor, and his father winced at the sound. ‘I should be going. I just wanted to give you that.’ He gestured to the small loaf.

  ‘Take it with you,’ his father spat. ‘I don’t want it. It’ll only make me a target for thieves.’

  The words sounded hard to get out, and Luka saw hunger barely disguised beneath his father’s anger. He was tempted to push the matter, to remind him that refusing the bread would not mean Pyotr wasn’t going hungry, wherever he was. But he knew his father wouldn’t take back his words now that he’d spoken them. He’d rather the bread go stale or mouldy. Irritation burbled within him, and Luka snatched the loaf off the table and stalked out of the apartment without saying goodbye.

  Outside, he paused and looked around, hesitating. He didn’t want to believe what his father said, but Vladimir knew this area and its people better than Luka did. It wasn’t his home any more; he was no longer one of them. He tucked the bread under his coat so it was hidden from view. Just in case.

  The streets of Petrograd bustled with people as Luka disembarked the tram to walk home. The air was balmy and soft, the pale evening light filled with an excited buzz. Nearing the cream-coloured Palace Theatre, Luka saw a crowd assembled outside. They were clearly patrons who should have been filing through the timber-framed doors to collect glasses of champagne and deposit coats and capes instead of milling around outside. Curious, he edged his way into the crowd, pushing past a tall lady who sent him an angry glare. He grimaced an apology at her, but kept moving until he emerged at the front of the crowd, where he finally saw what they were all staring at.

  The crowd had formed a semi-circle around a young peasant woman who was wringing her hands and calling out forlornly in Russian. The rough brocade of her dress, once thick and warm, had worn away so much that in some places the lightness of her skin showed through. Her face, framed by a dark scarf, reminded Luka for some reason of his mother.

  ‘Khleb,’ the woman cried, her voice jagged. She spoke quickly, the words almost tripping over one another as she begged for a little money to buy bread.

  ‘What is she doing here?’ a disgusted voice next to him murmured. Luka looked around; it was the woman he’d accidentally jostled before, who had also made her way to the front of the crowd. Her hands were folded neatly on her stomach, and she didn’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular. ‘Don’t they usually stay on their side of the city? Why on earth would she come here to beg? Dirty thing.’

  It was true that beggars were rarely seen in this area. There was an unwritten law in Petrograd that, until now, had always been obeyed: the poor would stay within their own areas, moving from home to work to markets, and never venturing into the glistening inner-city world of the rich and privileged. They belonged where the tram tracks stopped and you had to wade through mud to get anywhere; where there was no electricity, and the nights were as black as the insides of your eyelids. Both rich and poor had silently agreed on this so long ago that no one noticed the division any more—until now, when that border was suddenly crossed by one that didn’t belong there.

  A few people laughed and turned away from the begging woman as she reached out her hands to them. Others jumped back, frightened that her poverty might be catching.

  ‘The police will be here soon,’ a man behind Luka muttered. He sounded satisfied at the prospect.

  The beggar was crying now, tears running silently down her face as her hands dropped to her sides in defeat. Luka thought of those he had ignored in the line at the bakery. What if this woman had been one of them? What if she had children waiting for her at home, not knowing if their mother would come back empty-handed?

  ‘Here,’ he said, stepping forward.

  The sound of another voice speaking their native Russian made a few people arch their necks in surprise. Others gaped as Luka approached the woman, digging in his jacket.

  ‘Please, take this,’ he said, his voice soft as he held out the half-loaf he’d tried to give his father.

  The woman’s tears stopped flowing, resting on clean cheeks where she didn’t bother to wipe them away. But she eyed him warily, poised to take flight if he moved too quickly or tried to hurt her. She half raised her hand, wanting to take the bread but afraid he might be playing a trick on her. He nodded encouragingly. The woman’s hand darted out so quickly that Luka almost didn’t see it, only felt the loaf slipping from his grasp.

  A ripple of noise spread through the crowd, but Luka ignored it and smiled at the woman. She regarded him for a moment, then broke into a smile herself.

  ‘Bol’shoye spasibo,’ she said, taking a step forward and clutching his hands gratefully, one arm curled protectively around her loaf.

  ‘Pozhaluista,’ Luka replied. He glanced at the crowd and lowered his voice to a whisper,
‘You should leave now, quickly. They’ll have the police coming to take you away.’

  She nodded, but didn’t let go of his hands.

  ‘Go now. Please.’

  She thanked him one last time, her voice breaking with the weight of her gratitude—which only made Luka’s guilt more intense—then turned to leave.

  The crowd parted, afraid of touching her, and she walked through them, her feet making barely a sound. Her steps became more rapid as she hurried away. Luka wondered if she could feel the eyes of the crowd on her back as they watched her go. He thought he felt another set of eyes—those of the police, or perhaps even the okhrana, arriving with guns swinging at their sides—and he willed her to move faster.

  When she finally turned a corner and was out of sight, Luka released the breath he’d been holding on to so tightly. He turned to go, not wanting to hear the angry accusations of encouraging the poor to come begging in the city that would surely be thrown at him. He wanted to get away from this scene and return home. But before he’d taken even four steps, two faces he hadn’t noticed before came into view, and he stopped short.

  Valentina was standing at the front of the crowd, her hand tucked into Maxim’s elbow. She was staring at Luka, her eyes dark and unreadable. Maxim had one lip lifted in a sneer beneath his moustache, regarding Luka as if he were something dirty.

  Luka wiped the palms of his hands against his trouser legs, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It was as if he’d given Maxim exactly what he wanted.

  The other man looked at him with a satisfied smirk, then whispered something to Valentina. He gestured towards the theatre. Valentina followed, but her head was turned over her shoulder, her eyes appraising.

  Luka tried to smile at her, but either she didn’t see or didn’t want to respond.

  Valentina stood backstage, nervously twisting her fingers together. Maxim had volunteered her to be one of the models for the Evening of Russian Fashion at the Palace Theatre, in which artists from all over the country were showcasing designs. The idea was to boost the morale of the people—or at least those who could afford a ticket—with a display of the best in Russian design and textiles. Valentina’s dress had been designed by an artist under Maxim’s patronage and she’d hated it from her very first fitting. The dress restricted her movements so that only her hands and wrists were free, reminding her of the winter coats, nicknamed ‘penguins’, they’d had to wear at the Imperial Ballet School. Ugly and impractical. Maxim had assured her the dress was a work of art, ahead of its time, but she couldn’t remember ever feeling so ridiculous in a garment. The panels didn’t match up, the lines of stitching were crooked, and worst of all the skirt was far too short to be decent, showing her ankles. Fine if she were a factory worker trying to save money on fabric, which was in short supply these days. But she wasn’t, and neither was anyone who would be viewing the dress that night.

  She sighed, and tried not to think about the dress. Around her were many faces she recognised. Tamara Karsavina and Lyudmila Mesaksudi-Barash were there, both of whom she’d shared the stage with before. Their dresses, to Valentina’s eye, were ugly too. Karsavina’s was at least a daring scarlet shade, but Ludmila’s looked as though it had been made from old quilted scarves stitched together. Valentina snickered, but the sound died as she glanced down at her own dress again.

  She turned her mind to the scene outside the theatre earlier, frowning as she recalled Luka Zhirkov handing his bread to the tear-stained beggar woman. She had learned during their hours rehearsing together that he was conscientious and determined, with a true passion for his art, yet she’d been surprised by his bold compassion in front of so many peers. His actions made her question her own disregard of the woman’s plight. For although Valentina now belonged to the people who had ignored or laughed at the peasant woman, she could just as easily have found herself in the woman’s place. If Mamma’s petition for her to audition for the Imperial Ballet School hadn’t been accepted … if she hadn’t passed the audition … if she hadn’t been accepted into the company … if her contract wasn’t renewed every year …

  A familiar tremor of fear ran through her, accompanied by a voice that told her her rightful place could still catch up with her one day. She knew the voice well. She could no longer tell if it belonged to Mamma or was her own—but it didn’t matter. She listened to it every time it spoke to her, and used its message to renew her determination. She would please her protector so he never wanted to let her go. She would not let this life be snatched away from her.

  Valentina moved into the wings and peered out at the vast expanse of the Palace Theatre’s stage. Karsavina was walking towards her onstage, and with a lurch Valentina realised it was her turn to go on next. She ran her hands down her skirt, knowing it would do little to improve the look of the dress; then, with a steadying breath, she stepped out where the audience could see her. Chin tilted high in a deception of pride, Valentina walked to the centre of the stage, marked by a painted dot on the floor, and twisted right and left to allow the audience to see the dress from all angles.

  She knew Maxim was out there somewhere; his eyes were a burn across her skin even though she couldn’t see him. Much easier to make out was Grigori Rasputin. Comfortably ensconced in the imperial box and wearing his customary black coat, he sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, leaning forward.

  Valentina turned her back to the audience. She thought she heard a noise, but ignored it as she glided upstage, then downstage again, this time avoiding the stare of the monk. This was always how it was for her onstage; even when dancing, she was aware of the eyes upon her. She could never quite lose herself the way others seemed to, could never forget that she was just Valentina Yershova, born into a nothing family. The only time she succumbed fully to movement and character was when she was alone in her private studio, often in the dead hours of night when there were no sounds of life to distract her. This inability to let go was, she knew, the reason she would never be a truly great dancer.

  Her attention was called back to the theatre by the sound of stifled laughter. It was muffled in a cough, but she recognised it for what it was. Her step faltered. Another quiet giggle followed, then another.

  Valentina wanted to raise her chin even higher, but if she did she would be looking at the ceiling. Instead, she swept regally towards the wings, taking measured steps so no one would think she was running away from their laughter.

  Maxim didn’t even wait for Valentina to dismiss her dresser before unleashing his temper. He raged and snarled and spat insults at the audience, the artist, Valentina herself. Unable to rip the dress off her—it was too tightly fastened for that—he instead swept her belongings off the dressing table in one swift movement. Then he closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

  The dresser cowered against the back wall, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Valentina knew that money would have to change hands again tonight to ensure her silence.

  ‘Come on,’ Maxim finally growled, marching to the door and yanking it open so forcefully it banged on the wall behind. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘What … what do you mean?’

  Valentina’s voice was tiny in the presence of her protector’s fury, and he closed his eyes for a second, as if bracing himself against her stupidity.

  ‘We have to stand out there and receive false compliments as though we can’t hear them whispering behind our backs. You know that’s how it’s done. If we were in their position, we’d do the same, and damn well enjoy it too.’

  He left, not bothering to close the door behind him.

  After changing into her evening gown and paying the shaking dresser, Valentina followed Maxim into the warm golds and bronzes of the theatre’s interior. Electric chandeliers, their lights made to look like candles surrounding a softly glowing orb, illuminated a crowd that competed with the elaborate glamour of the theatre’s black and gold balustrades. Valentina’s cheeks hurt from holding her false smile. Maxim was right—she c
ould hear the whispers as she walked through the throng, detected the notes of vicious enjoyment. She kept moving, trying to avoid talking to anyone. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep up her charade of unconcerned confidence if she had to speak.

  She bumped into a very tall figure. As she turned, the hairs on her arms rose and it was no surprise to see Grigori Rasputin looking down at her in satisfaction. His lips twisted into a smile that would be more at home on the face of a snake, and his heavy brow was menacing as he held out his arm to her.

  ‘Valentina. Your company for a moment?’

  The monk’s familiarity in using only her first name made Valentina squirm, as did the watchful eyes of those around them. She had no choice, though; she linked her arm through his and followed the path that opened up through the crowd.

  ‘It was a pleasure to see you onstage again, even if not dancing. You cut a fine figure.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She had to force the words out of unwilling lips.

  ‘I thought tonight would be an opportunity to discuss your Hermitage performance for the wounded soldiers.’ Valentina shot him a questioning look, and he replied with an indulgent nod that was both paternal and patronising. ‘The Tsarina has tasked me with overseeing her daughters’ arrangements for the event. You know, it was I who suggested you model Maxim’s artist’s creation tonight. I can be a very beneficial friend.’

  Valentina said nothing, and they continued to walk in silence, Valentina dwarfed by the man’s great height. They passed Maxim, and she saw the quick jealousy flit across his face then disappear. Grigori Rasputin was the one man her protector could tolerate her being arm in arm with; his power and connections were valuable.

  But what would the rest of the crowd think of her right now, she wondered—the artists, and the princes and grand duchesses who bore the name ‘Romanov’ but didn’t consider Rasputin divine the way the imperial family did? It was no secret that the monk’s popularity with the general public was declining. Too many felt he’d made himself far too comfortable in the Tsar’s absence and was ruling through the Tsarina. Valentina noticed shoulders being turned slightly away, painted lips pressed together. They would not dare to do more, but it was enough.