Flight of the Swan (11 page)

“We mustn’t lose any more time in San Juan,” he said, adjusting his glasses on his nose and drawing his arm protectively around Madame’s shoulders, defying suspicious stares. “We should pack up and leave for the countryside immediately. In smaller cities like Arecibo, Aguadilla, and Ponce, the enforcement of the liquor legislation won’t be as strict, and people will have more money to spend.” Also, he had
independentista
friends in
el campo
who would be willing to help us, he said. Madame accepted Diamantino’s plan.

On our way back to the hotel we discussed what was to be done. Neither Custinen nor Volinine could speak a word of Spanish, and they were afraid to leave the capital. They kept silent and hung their heads, but it was evident they wouldn’t set out on the trip. Half the troupe would stay behind in San Juan. Custine would take care of Poppy, one of the ballerinas would see to the nightingales, and the male dancers would all remain at the Malatrassi. They would live on the three hundred dollars we left them until we got back. Lyubovna insisted she couldn’t go, either—her arthritis had flared up because of the humidity on the island, and she was in pain. It was wiser for her to stay at La Fortaleza, where the governor had extended her an invitation for as long as she wished and where she could keep Madame’s jewels safe. Her daughter could go traipsing around the country all she liked.

Only three musicians and six ballerinas would accompany Madame on her tour in addition to Smallens, the orchestra director; Novikov, her partner; Juan, the cobbler; and myself (for a moment panic struck at my heart like an ice pick, so afraid was I that she would leave without me!). Molinari said he would go too; he could help translate. We would take only our costumes in wicker baskets and no stage props, as we’d be traveling by train. Diamantino, of course, needed no invitation. He would be our scout and help Molinari contract the performances in the local theaters. The income from the tickets would tide the troupe over from day to day.

Once the journey took a concrete form we felt better. It would be an adventure, Madame said, and we’d survive thanks to our own ingenuity. “Now we can finally enjoy ourselves,” she declared, laughing, “free of Dandré’s stuffy constraints.” Tears of rage welled up in my eyes.

I
HAD TO PACK
my bag, since we were leaving at six in the morning the next day. But instead of going to my small bedroom in La Fortaleza’s lower quarters, I went to Juan’s workshop, La Nueva Suela, on San Sebastian Street. I asked him if he could take a message to Lyubovna. I had to see her immediately, I scribbled on a scrap of paper, and she should come and meet me at the shoe-repair shop.

A few minutes later I was leaning out the window and saw a tall, bony figure come out of La Fortaleza’s wrought-iron gates and walk, half limping, down the cobblestoned street.

Lyubovna was wearing a black cotton scarf printed with red roses, tied under her chin Russian peasant style, because it was raining lightly and she didn’t want her head to get wet. She was more than sixty, but she didn’t look it; she was as straight and tall as a fir. Fortunately Juan wasn’t with her; she was alone.

(When Madame passed away some weeks ago, I read in the papers that Lyubovna was living in Russia, and that she expected to inherit all the money from Ivy House because proof of Madame’s and Dandré’s marriage couldn’t be found. I laughed at the irony of it. “She has me to thank for that, the old witch,” I told myself, “though she’ll never find out.” But knowing what the Communist regime is like, I doubt the money will ever reach her.)

Lyubovna knocked on the door and I quickly let her in the shoe-repair shop. “I can only be a minute, Masha. Niura is driving me crazy with her packing and we still have a lot to do,” she said hurriedly. Lyubovna embraced me cordially. We had had our difficulties in the past—once she had been jealous of how close my mistress and I were—but we were on relatively good terms then. She insisted I was like a second daughter to her. I didn’t feel sorry for Lyubovna; traveling as Madame’s personal maid must have been a lot easier than doing the laundry for her clients in the public baths of St. Petersburg, especially in winter. And I never opened my heart to her completely because of her close friendship with Dandré. When the chips were down, I knew she would side with him instead of with her daughter, and my goal was to defend Madame.

“Have you noticed the romance blossoming right under our very noses?” I asked her point-blank when she crossed the threshold, since I’ve never been one to beat around the bush.

“You mean that young violinist Niura is going around with? Isn’t he the son of some local political chieftain?” Lyubovna asked. She was so preoccupied with Dandré’s departure, she hadn’t noticed anything was amiss.

“Yes,” I said. “And he’s also a revolutionary out to make a killing with your daughter, who, in spite of her thirty-eight years, is still a babe in arms.”

I explained Diamantino’s tactics to Lyubovna. Everywhere he went on the island people recognized him as Don Eduardo’s son, and to be seen with Madame, who was an internationally renowned star, gave him a lot of prestige. If he could convince her to publicly espouse the revolutionary cause on the island, it would help him even more. Such support would give him recognition, and they might offer him an important political position. I had convinced myself this was the real reason for Diamantino’s insistence that we leave San Juan and make the trip to the countryside. He wanted people to see her with him. Diamantino didn’t just happen to meet Madame at La Fortaleza a week before. He sent her the Pierce-Arrow to fetch her at the dock and then came to meet her at the governor’s mansion for a purpose.

Lyubovna sat down on Juan’s working stool. The floor around us was covered with strips of leather curled around the edges, sawdust, and centuries of grime. It smelled of glue, wax, and turpentine; of people who had to pinch both pennies and toes, and had their shoes repaired over and over because they couldn’t afford to buy new ones.

“It can’t be. Has Niura gone crazy?”

“She hasn’t yet, but she will if she falls in the arms of that rascal. I know his type.”

“But he’s a total stranger! And he doesn’t even speak Russian. I’m sure Niura thinks of him as her son; you’re exaggerating.”

“No, I’m not. And lots of ‘mothers’ have made love to men young enough to be their sons—remember George Sand and Isadora Duncan. You must speak to Madame and remind her of her duties. It’s not just her life; it’s that of all of us.”

“That’s ridiculous. Niura would never do that.” Lyubovna’s voice was pebbly, and when she got nervous it rasped several notes higher.

“You know Madame when she gets something into her head. She’s convinced that through patience and love, she’ll be able to overcome the differences of age, belief, culture, language, and just about everything else that estranges her from her provincial Romeo.”

I could tell Lyubovna was frightened. For the first time since we arrived on the island she saw there was a real possibility that her daughter might fall into Diamantino’s clutches. “What can we do?” she asked, the blood drained from her face.

“You must stay here and keep an eye out for Dandré when he comes back. We must not lose contact with him. I’ll go with Madame on the trip, and try to protect her from that scalawag.” Lyubovna embraced me and we both went out hurriedly, afraid that Juan might be coming back.

There is only one train on the island; it runs all the way around the coast to La Concordia, then turns around and comes right back by the same route. We boarded it at seven-thirty in the morning at a very European-looking station, with clock tower, glass ceiling, and all—only everything built in miniature—on the outskirts of San Juan. The train was rustic but charming. It had a coal engine, two passenger cars with wide open windows, the mail coach, and one freight car. The passenger cars were of two kinds: first class—$1.50—had slippery straw seats, second class—seventy-five cents—had wooden seats made of slats, both equally hard on your derriere. Madame asked Diamantino to buy two first-class tickets for them and second-class for everyone else—as Dandré used to do—but Diamantino refused. Madame was traveling with
him
now, he said, and he was a gentleman. He took off one of his diamond studs, bought fifteen first-class tickets with his own money, and gave one to each member of the troupe. (Molinari paid for his own ticket, and traveled second class.)

The night before, Madame had left the Teatro Nacional with Diamantino and they walked on the Condado beach for hours. “The sand was strewn with jagged volcanic rocks against which the waves kept smashing,” Madame said. (The next morning she wanted to share with me what had happened. I swallowed hard and prayed to the Virgin that she might spare me, but my prayers went unheard.) “We made love like a pair of playful octopuses crawling over each other,” Madame half sighed, half joked as she lay back on her bed and I fluffed her pillows. “We wanted to know everything about each other, inspect every nook and cranny of our past lives.” I forced myself to go on listening as I bent down solicitously to straighten her bedcovers.

“The sky was perfectly calm and the full moon spilled light over us like an overturned bucket,” she went on dreamily. “It’s a shame not to have met earlier, Masha, not to have been born at the same time. I’ll never let him go!” I began to vigorously brush with a whisk broom the dress Madame would wear the next day, and looked uneasily out the window. The doves were cooing and nuzzling on the balcony’s rail as if validating what she had just said. I could taste blood seeping up my throat and was sure it was coming from my heart, then I realized I had bitten my lips.

“When he turns thirty you’ll be forty-eight; when he turns sixty you’ll be resting quietly in your grave,” I said dejectedly, without turning around to look into her eyes.

T
HE NEXT DAY, AS
we plowed through the steaming cane fields rustling on either side of the train, I spoke to Madame in private. Diamantino and Novikov had walked to the last car to get us some breakfast, and we were alone for the first time. “You’re making a terrible mistake,” I said over the train’s nerve-racking clatter. “How can you behave like this? Everybody’s judging you. You’ll end up poor, alone, and unloved if this goes on!”

Madame looked at me, pale with anger, and the wind from the open window whipped her words around me like wasps. “How dare you, Masha!” she cried. “You don’t own me. I can do whatever I want with my life.” She slapped me, and her hand left an imprint, bright as a tulip, on my cheek. Just then Novikov walked in, a tray of steaming coffee in his hands. It spilled over the straw seats and we jumped away. “Christ! What’s come over you?” he cried, taking hold of our arms.

“It’s a relief to be away from Dandré,” Madame sighed. “We’ve been together for eleven years—a lifetime—and everybody has a right to be free once in a while. But I can’t even talk to another man without this calfless cow butting in to reproach me.” Novikov understood perfectly. He smiled and nodded at Madame while I kept tactfully silent. Novikov was an expert in the science of love. “Make him suffer, darling,” he said. “Dandré is an old alligator, enjoy yourself as much as you want.”

I was always wary when Madame criticized Dandré, because she always forgave him in the end. Maybe that’s why at that moment I turned into the devil’s advocate and tried to defend her husband.

“Dandré is a kind man,” I said to Madame. “He pampers you even more than your mother—always making you drink milk and eat meat so fresh it’s practically breathing on the plate because it gives you energy. I see him take such special care of you. ‘Your feet are your fairy wings, my dear, you must give them maintenance,’ he keeps saying. It’s true that he’s like the front bumper on a train and understands life from only one perspective. In Dandré’s eyes what’s black is black and what’s white is white—there’s never a double take. But that’s why he’s so successful at everything and is such a good manager. He thinks the world of you and is a good companion because he’s your own age.” And I emphasized the last sentence, giving Madame a reassuring smile.

Novikov roared with laughter and agreed with me. “Of course, Dandré is my friend and he’s everything you said. But one must live for the moment, dear. Don’t worry about the future. It usually takes care of itself.”

That same afternoon we made up. Our bickering was like a tropical shower—angry raindrops one minute, serene sunlight the next. We were the heart of the company. The other members came and went—they were always looking for romance, though usually, thanks to Madame’s preaching, common sense prevailed. But Madame and I remained faithful to each other for years.

“I
FEEL EXHAUSTED FROM
so much traveling, Masha,” Madame admitted, sitting beside me. “After a while you don’t want to stop anymore; you just go on dancing until your feet wear out. The feeling of home evaporates; it doesn’t exist at all. There’s only the stage, where you disrobe your soul for others every day. It’s a scary feeling—as if music took hold of your life and were leading you to your death.”

I agreed. In the States alone we’d traveled for three whole months and visited forty towns by train.

We relaxed, looking out the window at the beautiful scenery speeding past us. Diamantino was still somewhere else; he knew many people on the train and liked to converse with everyone.

“You and the girls have sacrificed a lot for me, Masha,” Madame went on in a conciliatory tone. “Your work is anonymous and thankless. Tulle skirts evaporate in an instant; there are so few testimonies of our art. But you mustn’t worry. Thanks to the photographs Dandré is always taking of us, our art will become eternal, like Schubert’s, Tchaikovsky’s, or Chopin’s.”

She was concerned that when she was gone the girls and I would be left out in the cold. Many of us were already past our prime, and there was very little Madame could do to remedy the situation. How could she, an impoverished dancer from a country that had evaporated from the face of the earth, assure our survival? It was impossible for a ballet company like ours to have more than one star—it took too much money for promotion, costumes, clothes. The dancing was important, but it wasn’t everything. “One must constantly give birth to oneself, become one’s own creation,” Madame said. As Niura Federovsky, the reserve officer Matvey Federov’s illegitimate daughter, had struggled to become the great Madame. And that took guts, because it was easy to lead quiet, mediocre lives, but terribly hard to live up to an image of perfection all the time.