Zoya (15 page)

Together they took a taxi to the Opéra, and within moments Zoya was swallowed up by preparations for the performance for Pershing and his men. She knew there were other festivities planned for them as well, at the Opéra Comique, the Comodie-Frangaise, and in other theaters around town. Paris was opening its arms to them.

And when the curtain went up that night, she danced as she never had before. Just knowing that Nijinsky was there spurred her on, and Diaghilev spoke to her himself at the end of the first act. She felt as though she could fly after hearing his kind words, and she put even more of herself into it, and was stunned to realize that the performance had flown by as the final curtain fell. She wanted the evening never to end. She took her bows with the rest of the
troupe, and retreated with the others to their common dressing room. The primas had their own of course, but it would be years before she could look forward to that, but she didn't really care. All she wanted was to dance, and she was. She had danced well, and she was filled with pride as she slowly untied her shoes. Her toes were sore from the blocks, but even that didn't seem to matter now. It was a small price to pay for so much joy. She had even forgotten the General and his staff. All she could think of that night was the ballet as she danced and danced and danced … and she looked up in surprise as one of the teachers entered the room.

“You are all invited to a reception at the General's home,” she announced. “Two military trucks will take you there.” She looked at them with pride. They had done well, each and every one of them. “Champagne for all!” she added with a smile as everyone began to talk and laugh. Paris seemed to be coming alive again with the Americans at hand. There were parties and performances everywhere, and Zoya suddenly thought of Feodor waiting for her outside. She wanted desperately to go with them, to be like everyone else, in spite of her grandmother's fears. She slipped quietly outside and went to look for Feodor, and found him standing near the stage door, looking as miserable as she had told her grandmother he would. He felt ridiculous there, surrounded by women in leotards and tulle, and men striding past him less than half dressed. The obvious immorality of it horrified him.

‘Tes, mademoiselle?”

“I must go to a reception with the rest of the troupe,” she explained, “and I can't bring you, Feodor.
Go home to Grandmama, and I'll come home as soon as I can.”

“No.” He shook his head solemnly. “I promised Evgenia Peterovna, I told her I would bring you home.”

“But you can't come with us. I promise you I'll be safe.”

“Shell be very angry with me.”

“No, she won't. Ill explain it to her myself when I come home.”

“I will wait for you.” He looked at her stolidly and she wanted to scream. She didn't want a chaperone. She wanted to be just like the rest of them. She wasn't a baby anymore after all. She was a grown woman, of eighteen. And perhaps, if she was very, very lucky, Nijinsky might speak to her … or Mr. Diaghilev again. She was far more interested in them than in any of Pershing's men. But first she had to convince Feodor to go home, and finally, after what seemed like endless arguments, he agreed to go, although he was certain the Countess would be furious at him.

“I promise you, I'll explain everything to her.”

“Very well, mademoiselle.” He touched his brow, bowed, and left via the stage door, as Zoya gave a sigh of relief.

“What was that all about?” one of the other dancers asked as she walked past her.

“Just a friend of the family.” She smiled. No one knew her circumstances here, and no one cared. All they cared about was the ballet, not maudlin tales of how she had come to join the troupe, and having the old servant standing by like a Cossack Guard embarrassed her. She was relieved when he left, and she
could return to the dressing room to change for the reception at General Pershing's house. Everyone was in high spirits, and someone had already begun pouring them champagne.

They piled into the military trucks happily, and crossed the Pont Alexandre III as they sang old Russian songs, and had to be reminded more than once to behave themselves as they reached General Pershing's house. But he seemed like a kindly man as he welcomed them, standing tall and slender in his full dress uniform, circulating in the elegant marble hall. And for an instant, Zoya felt her heart catch as she looked around. It reminded her of the palaces of St. Petersburg, although smaller of course. But the marble floors and the columns and the sweeping staircases were all too familiar to her, and all too sharp a memory of the world she had only recently left behind.

They were escorted into a large ballroom with mirrored walls and gold columns and marble fireplaces, all of it beautifully authentic Louis XV. And Zoya suddenly felt very young again, as the dancers cavorted and laughed, and a military band that had appeared began playing a slow waltz, as others drank champagne. She felt an overwhelming urge to cry as she listened to the music, and feeling breathless, she walked out into the garden beyond.

She stood silently, staring at a statue by Rodin, wishing that she hadn't come, when a voice directly behind where she stood spoke softly in the warm night.

“May I get you something, mademoiselle?” The voice was distinctly American, yet he spoke perfect French. She turned to see a tall, attractive man with
gray hair and brilliant blue eyes looking at her, and the first thing she noticed about him was that he looked kind. He seemed to sense that something was wrong, and his eyes gently probed hers as she shook her head, the tears still glistening on her cheeks. “Are you all right?”

She nodded silently and then turned in embarrassment to wipe her tears. She was wearing a simple white dress Alix had given her the year before. It was one of the few nice ones she had managed to bring from St. Petersburg, and she looked lovely as she stood looking up at him. “I'm sorry … I …” How could she begin to tell him all that she felt? She wished only that he would leave her to her memories, but he made no move to go as he watched her eyes. “It's so beautiful here.” It was all she could say, but it brought the squalid apartment near the Palais Royal to mind, and reminded her again of how much their lives had changed, in sharp contrast to the elegant garden where she stood now.

“Are you with the Ballet Russe?”

“I am.” She smiled, hoping he would forget her tears, as she listened to the distant strains of another waltz. She said the words with pride, thinking again how lucky she was. “Wasn't Nijinsky marvelous tonight?”

He laughed in embarrassment and came a little closer to her as she noticed again how tall and handsome he was. “I'm afraid I'm not a great devotee of the ballet, it was a command performance for some of us tonight.”

“Aha!” She laughed. “And did you suffer terribly?”

“Yes.” His eyes laughed back into hers. “Until just now. Would you like a glass of champagne?”

“In a minute perhaps. It's so lovely out here.” The garden was so peaceful, as everyone danced and laughed and cavorted inside. “Do you live here too?”

He smiled and shook his head. “They have us billeted in a house on the rue du Bac. It's not quite as palatial as this, but it's very nice, and it's quite nearby.” He was watching her as she moved. She was quiet and elegant, and there was more than just the grace of a dancer as she walked closer to him. There was an aura of almost regal dignity as she moved her head, and a look of immeasurable sadness that belied her smile.

“Are you on the General's staff?”

“I am.” He was one of his aides-de-camp, but he spared her the details. “Have you been with the Ballet Russe for long?” It couldn't have been very long, he suspected that she was a very young girl, although she had a great deal of poise as they switched from French to English finally. She spoke it very well, after her studies at the Smolny Institute.

“I've been with them for a month.” She smiled at him. “Much to my grandmother's chagrin.” She laughed and looked suddenly even younger.

“Your parents must be very proud of you.” But he instantly regretted the remark as he saw the sadness in her eyes.

“My parents were killed in St. Petersburg … in March….” She almost whispered the words and suddenly he understood. “I live with my grandmother.”

“I'm sorry … about your parents, I mean …” The flash of blue eyes nearly made her cry again. It was the first time she had said the words to anyone.
Her fellow dancers knew little about her, but for some reason she felt she could say anything to him. He reminded her in an odd way of Konstantin, the same elegance, the graceful way he moved, the dark hair shot with gray, and the brilliant eyes. “You came here with your grandmother?” He didn't know why, but he was fascinated by her. She was so young and so beautiful, with those big sad green eyes.

“Yes, we came two months ago … from … after …” But she couldn't go on, and he came and gently tucked her hand into his arm.

“jLet's go for a walk, shall we, mademoiselle?” She felt safe with her hand in his arm. “And then perhaps a glass of champagne.” They wandered to the Rodin statue and back, talking about Paris, the war, subjects that were less painful to her, and then with a smile she looked up at him.

“And where are you from?”

“New York.” She had never thought too much about the United States. It all seemed terribly far away.

“What's it like?”

He laughed as he looked down at her. “Big, busy. Not as pretty as this, I'm afraid. But I like it there.” He wanted to ask her about St. Petersburg, but sensed that this wasn't the time or the place. “Do you dance every day?”

“Almost.” And then she laughed up at him. “Until tonight's performance, I was enjoying a week off.”

“And what do you do then … in your spare time?”

“I go for walks with my grandmother, I write to friends, read … sleep … play with my dog.”

“It sounds like a pleasant life. What kind of dog do you have?” They were silly questions, but he wanted to keep her close to him, and he wasn't sure why. She was clearly half his age, but so beautiful, it tore at his heart.

“A cocker spaniel.” She smiled. “She was a gift from a very dear friend.”

“A gentleman?” He looked intrigued and she laughed.

“No, no! A girl! My cousin, in fact.”

“Did you bring the dog from Russia with you?” He was fascinated by her as she bent her head, the cascade of fiery red hair hiding her eyes.

“Yes, I did. I'm afraid she made the journey rather better than I did. I arrived in Paris with measles,” She looked up at him again and grinned, looking once again like a child. “Stupid of me, wasn't it?” But nothing about her seemed that to him, and then he suddenly realized he didn't even know her name.

“Not at all. Do you suppose we ought to introduce ourselves?”

“Zoya Ossupov.” She curtsied prettily, and looked up at him.

“Clayton Andrews. Captain Clayton Andrews, I suppose I should have said.”

“My brother was a captain too … with the Preobrajensky Guard. I don't suppose you've ever heard of them.” She looked up at him expectantly, and once again he saw her eyes grow sad. Her moods seemed to change with lightning speed, and as he looked at her for the first time he understood why people said the eyes were the windows of the soul. Hers seemed to lead one into a magic world of diamonds
and emeralds and unshed tears, and he wanted to make her happy again, to make her dance and laugh and smile.

“I don't know very much about Russia, I'm afraid, Miss Ossupov.”

“Then we're even.” She smiled again. “I don't know anything about New York.”

He walked her back inside the main ballroom then and brought her a glass of champagne as the others danced the waltz.

“Would you like to dance?”

She seemed to hesitate, and then nodded. He set her glass down on a table nearby, and led her onto the floor in a slow and dignified waltz, and once again she felt as though she were dancing in her father's arms. If she closed her eyes, she would be back in St. Petersburg … but his voice broke into her thoughts.

“Do you always dance with your eyes closed, mademoiselle?” He was teasing her and she smiled up at him. It felt good to be in his arms, good to be dancing with a tall, powerful man … on a magical night … in a beautiful house …

“It's just so lovely here … isn't it?”

“It is now.” But he had enjoyed his time in the garden with her. It was easier talking to her there than with the music and the crowd. And at the end of the dance, General Pershing signaled him so he left her, and when he came back to look for her, she was gone. He looked everywhere, and walked out to the garden again, but she was nowhere in sight, and when he inquired, he was told that the first truckload of the Ballet Russe had left the party. He walked back to his own quarters thoughtfully, as he meandered
down the rue du Bac, remembering her name, thinking of her big green eyes, and he found himself wondering who she really was. There was something deeply intriguing about her.

CHAPTER
14

“The next time I send Feodor somewhere with you, Zoya Konstantinovna, you will please have the goodness not to send him home.” The old Countess was furious as they shared breakfast the next day. Feodor had come sheepishly back to her, and explained that the soldiers had invited the corps de ballet to go out somewhere, and he wasn't included. Her grandmother had been waiting for her when she got back, almost too angry to speak to her, and by morning, her fury was still white-hot, as she glared at Zoya.

“I'm sorry, Grandmama. I couldn't take Feodor with me. It was a beautiful reception at General Per-shing's quarters.” She remembered instantly the gardens and the Captain she had met, but she said nothing to her grandmother about any of it.

“Ah! So it's come to that, has it? Entertaining the troops? And what is next? This is precisely why proper young ladies don't run away to join the ballet. It is not suitable, absolutely not. And I won't tolerate this. I want you to leave the ballet at once!”

“Grandmama … please … you know I can't!”

“You can if I tell you to!”

“Grandmama … please don't …” She was in no mood to argue with her. She had had such a nice time the night before … and the handsome Captain had been such a nice man, or at least he seemed like it. But still, she said nothing about him to her grandmother. It didn't seem appropriate, and she knew their paths would not cross again. “I'm sorry. I won't do it again.” Not that she'd have the opportunity anyway. General Pershing was hardly likely to give parties for the Ballet Russe after every performance.