Firebird (42 page)

“Let me help you slay your dragons, Jules.” 
I’ll put you back together
. 
Somehow
.

Juliet shook her head violently and pushed her aunt away.  “No!  I don’t need any more lies!  I have to stop thinking about things that will never happen now.  I don’t need you!”

“We all need someone.”

“But not me,” whispered the girl.  “No one wants me.” 

She darted away, grabbed her dance bag and ran from the studio, slamming the door behind her.

“
I
want you, Jules,” Alexandra said to the empty room.

CHAPTER 43

“The past is vividly present.”

Yevtushenko

CENTRAL PARK

Somewhere high in the branches, an owl shrieked.

It was almost ten o’clock.  Ivan stood in the shifting shadows of the trees, listening.  He raised his eyes to search for a dark shape in the autumn-thinned boughs.  You are a night predator, he told the owl.  Just as I am.

He was in the part of Central Park known as The Ramble - a warren of black boulders and narrow twisting paths just below 79th Street.  The dense thickets of trees reminded him of the countryside around his lodge in the mountains.  Whenever he visited New York, he came to the Ramble to be alone, and to think.

This was one of the most dangerous areas of Central Park, especially after dark.  But he was fearless, knowing that, even at his age, he could break the neck of a mugger with one swift chop of his hand.  Perhaps because he was so fearless, he’d never been accosted.  He looked down at his hands and clenched his lethal fingers into a fist. 

The things I know, he thought with an ironic shake of his head.  Ballet, Russian poets and death.

He moved on.

He came out of the trees and saw the lights of the Loeb Boathouse on the edge of the lake, just ahead.  No one was in sight.  He stopped to look at the skyscrapers along Fifth Avenue, lit like huge candles against the night sky.

Tomorrow was his birthday.  The Kirov Ballet Wunderkind was in his sixties now.   The young man whose daring steps had carried such an edge, whose future had burned as brightly as those skyscrapers, who once dashed through the spotlights to such thunderous applause, now walked alone in a dark park, listening to the shriek of an owl and his own heartbeat.

Ivan walked slowly down the broad steps that led to the Bethesda Fountain.  The biblically-inspired winged angel sculpture atop the column - the “angel of the waters” - seemed to mock him as he moved toward her.

The small arched bridge over the lake beckoned, and he turned toward it as the images of the ballet he’d wanted to choreograph swirled through his brain.

He stopped mid-bridge to massage his aching body.  Below the iron balustrade, the restless water was dark and unforgiving. 

I gave up my passion and my family, my country and my identity, he told himself starkly.  I lost the only woman I ever loved.  All to live a life of lies alone and plan the unthinkable.

And at the end of the day, he was just an old man in the park.

CHAPTER 44

“scars I carry with me...”

J. Bunyan

The doorman was huge, dressed in a boot-length Czarist greatcoat and high black hat.  The sword fastened across his chest glistened in the light of the street lamp.

“Dobri vyechyer,” he said.  “Welcome to the Palace of the Firebird.”

“Good evening,” said Alexandra, smiling at the tall Russian who stood at the entrance to the graceful brownstone on Restaurant Row.

He held the door open with a regal bow.  “Spaseeba.”

She stepped into the world of Czarist St. Petersburg.  The small lobby was softly lit, decorated in the style of 1912 St. Petersburg at the height of pre-Revolutionary Russian art and literature.  She was drawn at once to a tall glassed cabinet, discreetly locked, laden with Russian objets d’art.  She caught her breath when she saw a round lacquered box painted with a swirling Firebird.

“From the owner’s private collection,” said a velvet, Russian-accented voice behind her.  “You are Dr. Marik?”

She turned to the handsome tartar face and stiffened as she felt an inexplicable ripple of apprehension.  Why?  She noted the white collared shirt opened to the chest, fair hair swept back and secured at the nape of the neck, and the gold-tinted glasses that shaded his eyes.  Did she know him?

“Is something wrong?” he asked with concern. 

Imagination.   She shook her head and forced a smile.  “I have a late appointment with Madame Danilova.”  And then, “Have we met?”

He looked down at her for a moment, then returned her smile.  “Only if you’ve been here before.  Or if you frequent Off Broadway. 
Very far
Off.”  He gave a slight bow.  “I am Nikolai.  Bartender for Madame Danilova.  And would-be actor like every other bartender in New York City.” 

He took her elbow, steering her to the left, through double doors into a dark, narrow bar of rich woods and candlelight.  Several couples sat toward one end, talking quietly in the flickering shadows.  Beyond them, a beaded doorway led into a brighter dining room.  She had a glimpse, through the swaying beads, of white linen, silver candlesticks, and walls lined with black and white photographs.  Delicious, exotic smells, clinking glasses and throaty laughter floated through the curtain.  

The bartender gestured to a red leather stool.  “Please have a seat.  Madame is occupied, but she will be with you shortly.  It is almost closing time.  Let me pour you a raspberry vodka and tell you the sad story of my life.”

His features were shadowed by candlelight, but there
was
something familiar about him.  She searched her memory.  The smooth, velvety voice?  Or had she seen his Dr. Zhivago-like face painted on a red-laquered box in the Baranski’s Russian collection? 

Imagination
.  Alexandra slipped onto the stool and leaned her elbows on the shining copper bar with a slight smile.  “I thought bartenders were supposed to listen to
other
people’s life stories.”

“All in good time,” he murmured.  He set the narrow iced glass in front of her, and poured one for himself.  “Na Zdorovye.”

“Your health.”  She clinked her glass to his and took a sip.  Pure fire slid down her throat.  She set down the crystal and glanced around the dark bar as a Rachmaninoff concerto played softly from a hidden speaker.  “This atmosphere is wonderful.  Tell me about the restaurant.”

“One moment.”  He checked on the guests at the end of the bar and then returned to her.  “I’ve been here with Madame for five years, since the restaurant opened.”  At her raised eyebrow, he nodded.  “Yes, of course, there have been acting jobs.  But somehow, I could never leave here.  Mother Russia has a strong pull.”  He gestured toward the dining room, his hand gold in the candlelight.  “And Madame Danilova has been good to me.”

Something pulled at her memory.  What?   Give it time.  She leaned forward.  “She is more than an employer to you.”

“You read between my lines, yes?  Much more.”

Alexandra leaned forward.  “Tell me.”

He gestured toward the glass cabinet of old world treasures that stood against the wall.  “I knew nothing about these things when I arrived in Baltimore without a ruble from St. Petersburg.  But - she took me in, no questions asked.  She gave me a place to stay, work, a new life.”

“She sounds like a very special woman.”

“There is no one like her!” he said with passion.  “She emigrated to America seven years ago.  No family.  There was a rumor that she is descended from royalty - the nobility, you understand - and that there had been a great, tragic love in her youth.  You’ve heard such stories, of course.”  He watched her face.  “She never married.  But she did manage to bring several treasures from the old country, God knows how.  She’s a survivor, my Madame.  She sold a few of them - Czarist icons and so forth - and opened a small café for émigré Russians in Baltimore.”

Alexandra looked around the darkened room.  “But this place is so...”  She held out her hands.

“Yes.  Elegant.  Madame hired Russians to cook the old, authentic recipes.  And then - there was the mystique of her nobility.  She herself is a mystery.  A Russian Greta Garbo, if you will, who prefers to stay out of the spotlight.”

“One reason for such a late night meeting?”

He nodded.  “Her preference for the solitary only increased her mystique.  Her first restaurant was hugely successful, and her collection grew.  Three years ago, she bought this brownstone.”

“I don’t really know Russian cuisine,” said Alexandra, “but I know art.”  She gestured toward the walls.  “And clearly, so does your employer.”

“Madame believes that it is important to share our ancient Russian heritage as well as our culinary arts.  She has a passion for Russian literature, music, antiques.  Our decorative and performing arts.  And this is just the tip of the iceberg, Dr. Marik.  We have many rooms of treasures here now, upstairs and down.  She will give you the grand tour, if you ask her.”  The distant sound of an elevator door.  He cocked his head, then gestured toward the door.  “She is here.”

With a whisper of electric wheels and a rustle of silks, a petite, birdlike woman glided slowly into the bar on a silver wheelchair.  The candlelight flickered across a floor-length amethyst skirt and shimmering midnight-blue tunic.  A long red gossamer scarf floated from a swan-like neck.  Her face was completely hidden in the shadows.

Alexandra stood up.

“Madame Danilova,” said the bartender with great formality and a respectful bow.  “May I present Dr. Alexandra Marik?”

The woman, who appeared to be in her early sixties, held out a narrow ringed hand.  In profile, her face was beautiful, pale, fine-boned and delicately-lined, her hair pure white, the chignon bright as a crown of snow. 

A graceful hand touched the chair’s mechanism.  Alexandra barely managed to suppress a gasp as the woman moved from the shadows into the candlelight.

The left side of her face was grotesquely scarred.

CHAPTER 45

“Dancing in the dark...”

Lyrics, Cole Porter

“Don’t be frightened, my dear.  Some people tell me that my scars just add to the eccentric allure, that, after awhile, they don’t even notice my face.  Isn’t that so, Nicky?”  The older woman flashed an ironic smile at the bartender.  “After
quite
awhile, I suspect.”  Her voice was musical and amused.

Alexandra held out her hand, barely resisting the urge to curtsy.  “Madame Danilova, this is a pleasure.  Your restaurant is exquisite.”

“You have good taste, Doctor Marik,” she murmured.  She tugged gently at Alexandra’s hand.  “Come closer, my dear.  My eyes see only shapes and shadows.”

Alexandra bent, feeling a slender hand explore the planes of her face.  The papery skin smelled like lilacs.

“You are very beautiful, Doctor Marik, I think.  Will you come with me?  My last dinner guests are preparing to leave.  Please allow me to show you my world.” 

Madame Danilova lifted the gossamer scarf to her hair, letting it fall like a ruby curtain across the left side of her face.  Delicate ringed fingers touched Alexandra’s sleeve with the lightness of a bird, and with slow but regal movements she maneuvered her chair through the curtained doorway into an elegant St. Petersburg dining room.

“This mansion is the culmination of a dream,” she said softly.  She gestured toward the small tables set with fine crystal, linen and fresh flowers.  “My ambition was to bring back the grand cuisine that graced Russian tables in the old days.  To the Russian nobility, Dr. Marik, an elegant table was as important as the food served. My restaurant is a tribute to the Czarist tradition.”

Alexandra stopped to admire an oil painting on the deep crimson wall. 

“It’s from a Diaghilev ballet,” said Madame Danilova.  “And there,” graceful fingers waved toward the far wall, “are photographs of my early days in St. Petersburg.  Leningrad, of course.  But always St. Petersburg to me.” 

St. Petersburg
.  Bells sounded in Alexandra’s head.  She looked over at the wall of framed black and white photographs on the far side of the room.  The answers are here, she told herself.  On that wall?

Madame Danilova raised an imperious hand in summons and turned toward purple-paned French doors.  “This mansion is built around a lovely courtyard.  If you won’t be too cold, my dear, let us go outside, while the last diners take their leave.”

Nikolai appeared at Alexandra’s elbow with her coat and a warm shawl for the older woman, which he draped tenderly over stooped shoulders.

“My cane, Nicky.  I am feeling a bit stronger tonight.”  Dropping the scarf from her face, she smiled at Alexandra.  The bartender placed a beautifully carved ivory cane across her lap and disappeared.

Madame Danilova turned her chair, and, with a last glance at the wall of photographs, Alexandra followed her.

“I prefer the dark,” said the older woman, steering toward an iron bench.  She lifted her face to the clouds that rushed across the stars and hugged her shawl closer.  “Tonight I can feel the snow in the air.”

When they were settled, Madame Danilova leaned forward expectantly. “So.  My friend at
Tresors de la Vielle Russie
tells me, Dr. Marik, that you have a Firebird brooch in your possession.”

“It was given to my sister, and I need to trace back the ownership.  I’ve come to ask if you sold your brooch recently - or perhaps gave it to someone?”

“I would never part with such a treasure!  No, I cannot help you, my dear.  My brooch was stolen from my collection several weeks ago.”