Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (30 page)

'Well, I'm through with all of you, you hear? I'm packing
my bags and leaving!'

Senda reached out to touch his arm, but he recoiled as
though from a serpent. 'Bitch!' he whispered.

Her eyes were shining. 'Please, Schmarya, don't be so
angry. It's the opportunity of a lifetime. Can't you see that?'

'Listen to yourself. You're stage-struck.' He eyed her mock
ingly. 'The big actress. The leading lady.' He gave a hollow
laugh. 'Well, so be it. I wash my hands of you. All of you! See how far your kowtowing and ass-kissing get you with these
princesses and countesses, but don't come running back to
me.' He snatched a bottle of vodka off the table and, although
he was not drunk, lurched heavily to the door.

Only Senda was aware of how truly hurt he was. Otherwise
he would never have lashed out like that. 'Schmarya . . .' she
pleaded one last time.

He whirled around and flashed one last withering glance
back at her.

Senda jumped up and ran to the door. She grabbed his arm
frantically, somehow feeling that if she couldn't sway him now
he would be lost to her forever. 'Schmarya,
please?
she
begged. 'Don't walk out on me and Tamara. We love you.
Nothing is worth losing you.'

He stared at her grimly. 'Does that mean you'll turn Princess
What's-her-name down?'

Senda hesitated. 'We have to consider her offer. All of us,'
she said carefully. 'Don't you see? It's just that. . . well, hers
is better than yours.'

'Better, eh?'

She tightened her lips and nodded miserably. 'Come back
to the table and talk it out.'

'Bitch.' She barely saw the blur of his hand coming, and even after the slap knocked her backward against the wall,
she still couldn't believe it had happened. She looked at him in
surprise, her hand flying up to her cheek, where his handprint
stood out whitely. Schmarya had never hit her. Never. No
matter how angry he might have been.

'Bitch!' he hissed again under his breath. Then a gust of
arctic wind blasted into the warmth of the little dining room,
causing the candles to sputter and die. Only the dim glow
of the electric lights coming from the open kitchen doorway
illuminated the restaurant.

When the door slammed, the walls shook.
He was gone. She had lost him.
Lost
him. And through the flood of tears, she couldn't help blaming herself.
It was the day her career as Russia's biggest star began.
And the day when Schmarya's love for her completely died.

That night Vaslav Danilov summoned Mordka Kokovtsov to
the Chinese Room of the palace. 'Well?' he asked his cousin.
'Did all our friends respond to my suggestion?'

'Wholeheartedly, I would say,' the Count replied dryly. 'Of course, I wouldn't have expected otherwise. Especially in light of the fact that you'll be footing the entertainment bill for half
the city for the entire season.'

The Prince ignored the pointed jibe. 'Arrange to have the
director of the Théâtre Français invited to every palace where
she'll perform.'

'Really, Vaslav!' Count Kokovtsov raised his brows. 'She
doesn't even speak French. She can only perform in Russian.
It's unheard of!'

'She can learn French quickly enough. I would say she is
one person who can learn almost anything quickly. You would
do well not to underestimate her. Arrange for the director to
find her a tutor. And be discreet.'

'Very well. No one will be the wiser that you have contrived it. But you don't really think her acting is good enough for the
Francois, do you?'

'I do.' The Prince steepled his hands and sat back thoughtfully. 'She's very, very good. A little unpolished, perhaps, but
her performance was spellbinding nonetheless.' He paused.
'She has it within her to become Russia's greatest living
actress. Why not speed her on her course? The Français's
director can see to it that she is schooled in acting, also.'

'You must want her very badly, my cousin.'

'That I do,' the Prince said mildly. His eyes looked bland.
'And she will be mine.'

'Very well.' The Count rose and walked to the door.

'Oh, and one more thing, Cousin Mordka. Tatiana
Ivanova.'

'What about her?'

'She has become rather . . . tiresome.' The Prince gestured
wearily. 'She is no longer in favour.'

Which means, the Count mused as he walked the
extravagantly inlaid parquet hall on his way back to his apart
ment, that slut Tatiana is finished.

Mordka was not surprised. He had aided his cousin through
countless affairs.

Aloud he found himself murmuring, The Prince giveth, and
the Prince taketh away.'

Chapter 11

Senda withdrew from the world and took to her bed, resolved
it would be her coffin. Shut out behind the thick, perpetually drawn curtains, the days and nights blended into one single,
interminably bleak stretch of timeless agony. She was blinded
by tears until there were no more to shed, and for many days
thereafter her eyes felt swollen and scratchy from dehy
dration. She had vague recollections of Countess Florinsky
bustling cheerfully in and out of the dark chamber, Inge bring
ing Tamara on short visits, and listlessly sitting forward to
accept spoonfuls of thick, fatty chicken broth fed to her by
alternating members of her increasingly alarmed troupe. She
waited in vain for Schmarya to come and rescue her from her
despondency, but she saw nothing of him. When she asked
Inge whether he had tried to see Tamara, the young woman
averted her gaze.

Senda's heart echoed listlessly: his capacity for cruelty was
not such that he would desert his daughter. Was it?

No, he loved Tamara. He
had
to return soon.

But he didn't. It was as though he had died, and something
inside her whispered that he had left her forever. She could
only hope she was wrong. She loved him so deeply, pro
foundly, and needed him desperately. She could not come to terms with the fact that he could turn his back on that love.

Living without him was not even an existence. She felt
empty. Desolate. Lifeless. It was as if when he had stalked
out of the restaurant, he had stolen her soul, taken it with him.
Which in a way was what he had done.

Over and over she found herself cursing her decision to put Princess Yussoupov's offer above him. She should never have
hesitated at the door of the restaurant. She should have told
him his decision had been the right one. If only she had.

But she hadn't. And now the joy of living had gone out of
her.

It was on the afternoon of Senda's sixth day of self-imposed
mourning that Countess Florinsky panted into the Prince's
drawing room. Her face was unnaturally white and drawn,
and for once her gushing, inherently ebullient nature was sub
dued. As though to emphasize this fact, she was dressed in
black bombazine, her huge black hat, as wide as her own
generous girth, loaded down with an impossibly abundant
bush of shiny black satin roses.

She found Vaslav Danilov seated behind the desk centred
squarely in the midst of a palace-size Aubusson carpet. She
did not like this room. In fact, it chilled her spirits even further.
The polished furniture was classically austere, not at all to
her liking, and even the parquet floor lacked the arabesque
splendour of the rest of the palace. But the oval room itself,
with its succession of three domed ceilings supported by columns at each end and two sets of caryatids facing each other mid-room, was an architectural tour de force. Nothing was allowed to detract from this monumental magnificence.

'Have a seat,' the Prince offered, pushing aside a thick sheaf
of documents. He looked mildly surprised. 'If I didn't know
better, I would say you look slightly . . . agitated.' He
frowned.

Sniffling, she glanced around for the chair offering the most
upholstery, found one to her liking, and plopped into it. She
produced a handkerchief and dabbed ineffectually at her eyes.

She sniffed. 'I won't beat around the bush, Vaslav,' she
declared stiffly. 'Frankly, I'm
quite
worried.' She nodded
tremulously, as though to herself. 'She still hasn't begun to
snap out of that horrible depression. When I speak to her she
turns away. I was told she even has to be hand-fed.'

'She will snap out of it soon enough,' he said casually, push
ing his chair back. 'She is a woman of reason.'

'Well, I hope to
God
you are right. She is heartbroken, the
poor dear.'

He rang for a servant, and after the Countess was ceremoni
ously poured tea, she blew on the steam and took a sip. She
sighed appreciatively and set her cup and saucer on the desk.
'Nothing like hot tea to take away the winter chill. Now. I take
it there is something you would like me to do, eh?'

'There is. First, here is the balance of what you're due for
the ball.' He slid an envelope, weighed down by a narrow
velvet box, across the desk toward her.

For a moment, her tears were forgotten. She seized upon the box with pudgy fingers and pried it open. 'Oh, Vaslav!'
she breathed. Her giant, magnified eyes shone mistily.

'Well, put them on. Let us see what they look like.'

Countess Florinsky made a production of slipping off her
old metal-rimmed spectacles and looping the new gold-framed
ones carefully over her ears.