Encore (59 page)

“But now he doesn't love you anymore,” Galina said quietly.

The finality of her words, their gravity, slapped against Natalia like a corded whip. She blinked and wet her lips. It was all so simple for Galina, so irrevocable, so black and white. “No matter what he said to you,” Natalia said in a dead voice, “it isn't you he loves. It's himself. He loves himself, Galina. He hated Boris because he couldn't control him, and he hates me for the same reasons. He wants to create his own universe, and if a woman fits into his picture, he seems pleased enough. But that's not love! All these years, whenever there's been another woman, I've known it wasn't love, and I've stood by. Don't let him make a fool of you, the way he did that nice little English girl, Vendanova, or the Swiss one, Fabiana. They meant nothing to him. I was always there since the beginning!”

“But love is like life, it sometimes ends,” Galina declared. She spoke softly, almost gently, and yet resolution pierced through her blue eyes, beyond her tears. Then she added in the same tone: “And he can't make a fool of me. You can't turn someone into what she isn't, and I'm no fool.”

Natalia burst into the harshest laughter that Galina had ever heard.

He did not knock on her door but opened it noiselessly and entered, with a care that was contrary to his habit. She was lying on the bed, fully clothed, her face buried in her arms, and when she looked up at him suddenly, he stepped back instinctively. Her small face stared at him with tears bathing the hollow cheeks, unashamed and haggard. He raised his hand to his mouth and nervously bit his forefinger.

As he stood before her, she could not help seeing the broad shoulders slightly straining his jacket, the still slim waist, the strong legs beneath their broadcloth. His face had thickened slightly in recent months, from drinking a bit too much, she thought. But the eyes held her with the same magnetism as before, and if there was considerable gray among his tight curls, it was all the more becoming. “You haven't changed,” she told him with a bitter smile.

“In what way?” The comment had startled him, quickened his response.

“In every way. What do you want now, Pierre? Haven't you caused enough damage in this household?”

He stiffened. “What I want is a divorce, Natalia.” He kept his face averted to the ground, counting the seconds as they ticked by.

Finally she asked: “Just like this? No regrets, no apologies whatsoever? Just ‘I want a divorce, Natalia,' as if you were saying, ‘I want roast pork for dinner?' Isn't that a bit crass, even for you, Pierre?”

His black eyes flew to her face in a flare of emotion. “It was you who willed this,” he said tightly.

“I? It was I who seduced a young girl in my own house, who turned her life into a positive hell? I who broke up a marriage of seven years? Who split apart a family, separating two women who loved each other?” Her tears were flowing again, and Natalia did not brush them away.

“Nobody breaks up a marriage, you know that! Our marriage was ruined almost from the beginning because you didn't want it, didn't want our daughter, and didn't love me! As for Galina's being split from you—about that, of course, I'm sorry. You were really good with her, good for her. But she had nothing to do with this. She didn't plan this. We didn't deceive you, either one of us. I never once touched her, and she loves me. And I intend to marry her, as soon as you give me this divorce. I intend to marry her in the Orthodox Church, to be my wife forever under God—in whom you profess not to believe.”

“No,” she cried, her voice rising with passion. “I do not believe in Him! How could a God, any deity, have allowed a man such as you to exist, breaking everything in your path, hurting others guiltlessly? There can be no God!”

He took a deep breath, clenched and unclenched his fists. “Please,” he said. “We need to discuss Tamara. Of course you know I want her with me.”

“A divorce takes a long time!” she cried, sitting up completely. “And while you wait for the final decree, do you plan to rear your daughter all by yourself, or put her between you and your mistress? Did you suppose for a single minute that I would not fight for her?”

The muscles in his jaw tensed. “Galina isn't going to be my mistress,” he countered brusquely. “And I'm going to use every bit of influence I can get to speed up the divorce. One year! I promise you that in one year, we won't be married even on paper! As for Tamara,” he continued, looking away from Natalia, “I can give her love, which is what she needs most of all.”

“You know nothing of love,” she said, beginning to scream. “Tamara is one part of me you will never touch. Get out of here, Pierre! Get out of my room and get out of my house, and leave me and my daughter alone from now on!”

He watched her for a moment, watched the fevered cheeks, the brown eyes flashing with hysteria, and then he turned his back to her. His hands were trembling. “Natalia,” he said quietly, “can't we keep the hatred out of this? For Galina's sake?”

“For Galina's sake. Oh, I don't hate Galina, she's only another one of your victims. I can see through you, Pierre, but she's still young and immature, in spite of having had to grow up faster than most of us. You see her as the ultimate revenge on me—it all boils down to that. She is the last remaining Kussov, and you think that by taking her from me, you have evened the score with Boris for having taken me from you. All those years of courting patrons—even Marguerite—were your manner of showing me that you too could find one of them, a Kussov to protect you! And now you have this fine young girl, the last one of the lot, and she wants you and wants to make the world fit again for you, the way Boris started to do when he cared for you! Only this time there won't be money involved, because

Galina's penniless! Nevertheless, she will protect you because you're weaker than she is, despite her youth. Boris lives on through her, and now you have her and I don't, and in this final competition you've come out the winner!” She thrust her face out at him, her eyes wild. “You see,” she said breathlessly, “our marriage was a ridiculous farce. You married me to prove that you could defeat Boris on his own ground. I was the pawn in your childish chess game with a dead man. But now you've found an even more clever gambit. Not content to have surpassed him once, you've found Galina, his own flesh and blood—a girl he helped to rear, whom he cherished. What irony! Pierre has finished with the Kussovs by marrying a Kussov.”

“You're mad,” he said, gaping at her. “Quite mad.”

She uttered a small laugh. “No,” she answered. “I'm saner than you are. You're the greatest fool of them all, Pierre Riazhin. Don't you see? Don't you see at all that Boris is winning after all, you stupid man? A Kussov is going to enter your bed, is taking over your life. That's what he wanted, more than anything else in the world! Can't you hear him laughing at you from the grave? That's what comes of playing games with a master, when you're only an inept amateur.”

When his hand reached the doorknob, she said, suddenly very cold: “If, however, you wake up to a life that doesn't suit you, I shall expect better behavior out of you than I received. You will not flaunt your other women, Pierre—not to Galina! She will never be subjected to the same humiliation to which you submitted me, for it isn't in her to overlook them. Don't hurt her, Pierre. Don't you dare hurt her.”

When he left the room, her eyes were dry, and her lips were twisted into a grimace of complete disdain.

Y
ou were right after all
,” Natalia wrote on the back of one of her visiting cards to Stuart Markham, who had taken up residence at the Ritz. “The world is filled with toys that don't work, beginning with myself.”

In the wake of the disaster with Pierre she spent no time delving into the whys and wherefores. It was simply over, a part of her life had ended, the way it had when Boris and Arkady had died, leaving her alone. But now she was at the helm of her own ship, in spite of the terrible storm that threatened to drown her. This time she was at the peak of her career, whereas then she had been far removed from the world of dance which made her function.

She threw herself into the creation of ballets with a new frenzy. She needed her work, hung onto it for sanity, to sustain her battered self-esteem. It was most difficult not to think of Galina. In her boudoir Natalia could not avoid the thoughts, the pain, the bitterness, the feeling of rebellion against what had happened. Galina! She had loved her, educated her, confided in her as in no one before or since. Once Boris had understood Natalia without words. Later it had been his niece. But then, Galina had not fully understood Natalia, for if she had, she would have known how very much, beneath the surface anger, Natalia had loved Pierre and needed him. No, Galina had stopped short of understanding. She had stopped short in order to feel justified in allowing what had happened to…happen.

Galina had passed judgment on Natalia and blamed her, and then placed her own needs first because of Natalia's mistakes.

Galina came to see her one afternoon, and Chaillou said to Natalia, averting his eyes and coughing slightly: “The princess wishes to see you, Madame. What shall I tell her?”

Natalia eyed him levelly and replied: “Tell her to go to hell and not to return. This isn't her home any longer.”

The old butler departed, his head wobbling like that of an ancient marionette. Natalia went to the window, parted the curtains, and looked out. Dressed in a tailored linen dress, Galina was emerging from the front stoop, her left hand over her face, the right across her breast. “Cry, then,” Natalia said sarcastically, but as soon as the tall figure disappeared behind a clump of maples, her own tears came and her face twisted with blind yearning—for her or for him, she was not certain.

It was a strange adjustment. She wandered through the house, hating it for its emptiness, for the closets that held no remnants of his suits, none of her dresses. She searched for Galina's creams, for Pierre's pots of paint—and yet, deep inside, she knew that if she had found those small traces, she would have thrown them out of the window, would have sent them crashing to the floor. But still—not to have left her the slightest memento—something tangible to hate—that was the supreme insult on their part, and her frustration was nerve-rending and crimson in its vehemence.

She realized that she could not continue this way, that she must somehow pull herself together. There was her work. But how to avoid him—or how, on the contrary, not to avoid him, to search his face for clues as to what he was feeling, hoping that he would be missing her, and yet, defying all the rules, also hoping that he would make Galina happy, because in spite of everything, Galina's happiness mattered? Crazy, crazy thoughts. Natalia squeezed her hands together until the knuckles had gone very white, until the nails had gashed the soft skin. Damn her, damn them both!

At first the Riazhin scandal sent ripples of shock into the artists of the Ballet. Natalia went among them with her head held high, trying to smile. But everybody talked, whispered, wondered. Nobody knew how to behave. Smooth and debonaire, Diaghilev placed a hand on her arm and said: “Don't worry, my dear. We have no Riazhin productions on the books for the winter season.”

“It wouldn't matter if you had,” Natalia countered dryly. “For me he simply doesn't exist.”

“He has burned all his bridges behind him, it appears,” the impresario said.

“He's a stupid man,” Natalia commented. But she wondered: Have they all turned against him because of me? Or is there more to it? Serge Pavlovitch has never liked me, and he does like Pierre.

Tamara was beginning to be a problem. One day, retaliating after a punishment, she burst into tears and cried: “Oh, it's your fault, I hate you. It's all because of you that Papa and Galina have left us, that they don't want to live with us anymore! They hate you, too!” Her words tore deeply into Natalia's heart.

That winter she took Tamara to Monte Carlo and set to work on a new ballet called
Les Biches.
It was a modern
Sylphides,
with no plot save that of flirtation among the idle, fashionable classes. Her young people teased and played in their pastel-colored outfits, gracefully belying the seriousness of life. Oh, Galina, Natalia thought bitterly, why didn't you tease and play with the casual ease of your generation?

Before leaving Paris she had signed the divorce agreement, which guaranteed her custody of her daughter against her promise not to contest the proceedings. She had heard that Pierre was renting a small apartment for Galina on the Île-St.-Louis so that she would be close to the Académie des Beaux-Arts, and that he himself was living in a studio in Montpamasse. Ah, so he had not yet taken her as his official mistress, Natalia had thought. He had had no such compunctions where she herself had been concerned, in Lausanne. Then he had moved into her house, purchased with Boris's money, and had fathered Tamara out of wedlock as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Suddenly Natalia felt old, abused, emptied of all illusion and hope. Where had they all gone, the dreams and the promises that she had once held in the palm of her hand, promises fashioned by the optimism of youth and ambition? She had achieved stardom, had collected the bouquets and reappeared for endless curtain calls. But once she had wanted the unknowable glory of tomorrow. Now it was Galina who felt this way, Galina who wore Boris's pearls around her neck, who wore Pierre's love around her heart. Galina had also stolen from Natalia that marvelous quality of expectation. Rage shook Natalia—impotent rage. Life didn't bring its promised gifts; instead, it robbed one even of the will to hope.

She returned to Paris in the late spring, feeling aggravated and weary and hopeless. Chaillou had kept the house going beautifully, and all the vases had been filled with spring flowers. But the old butler too seemed sad, listless. I have tried, Natalia thought. I've worked and I've parented and I've entertained, but still the core of me is burned out, dry as bone or ashes.

Chaillou brought her tea in the small parlor and her mail on a silver tray. Tucking her feet underneath her, she slit open the envelope from her lawyer. The final divorce was about to be pronounced. Could it be that almost a year had passed already? Natalia let the paper slip to the floor and held onto her china cup with shaking fingers. Ah well, old girl, you knew it was in the offing. But there was such a sense of the irrevocable, of the official now. What do I do? she thought. Where do I go?

On the morning of the divorce hearing she dressed carefully, finally deciding on a tubular navy dress that displayed her slenderness and her appeal. It was not truly the color of mourning, but almost. She selected a broad-brimmed hat adorned with a large navy ribbon and set off. Think about something else, Natalia, she admonished herself. Don't think about seeing him, what that may do to your precarious sanity. Don't wonder if she'll be there. Oh, damn, why didn't I ask Stuart to come with me? Stuart may not love me anymore, but he cares, he's my friend.

At the courthouse she mounted the steps, feeling caught up in something beyond her control, beyond her understanding. The May sunshine filtered through the dirty casement windows, but it was chilly inside the marble rooms. Am I in someone else's ballet, dancing steps I don't know? she wondered. She could feel panic swelling within her, pushing upward, upward. She went to the bench outside the hearing room and sat down, clutching her thin alligator bag. Her solicitor walked up, shook her hand—am I not pretty enough to him to kiss it?—and she stood up next to him, finding it difficult to breathe normally.

She felt him before seeing him, as she had done so many times before during their life together. Life together: What a farce that had been! she thought with a sudden surge of hatred. She looked up then, her lips parted over her handsome, even teeth, a female animal provoked. He was mounting the steps alone, in a gray suit, his gold watch chain elegantly dangling from one vest pocket to the other. There were slight pouches beneath his dark eyes. He seemed ill at ease, like a boy in man's clothing.

When he caught her regarding him, he stood in position, his body awkwardly rigid. Suddenly, stupidly, tears began to form in her eyes, and she swallowed hard, seeking to dispel them before they could fall. Tamara's father, her beloved father. Goddamn him to hell for all eternity.

“Natalia,” he said stiffly, at length walking up to her.

“Pierre.” Her eyes said, outraged: Leave me alone! What do you want?

“Natalia.”The awkwardness persisted. He chewed on his lower lip, fumbled with his signet ring. She noticed that he was no longer wearing his wedding band and thought with quick, self-directed anger: But I, the fool, am still wearing mine!

“Well?” she said sarcastically. “What is this message that ties your tongue in knots?”

“I'm sorry,” he stammered, reddening. “That's all, really, Natalia. I didn't mean for it to be this way between us.”

She shrugged and raised her eyebrows. “How else could it be? Did you hope for my blessing?”

“Don't. Don't tease the wounds the way you always do. I just wanted to say—it's sad, isn't it, the death of a marriage?”

“Tragic. So said Henry VIII when word reached him of the execution of Anne Boleyn. And so much for clichés. You were never good with words, my dear.”

They were silent, her face alive with resentment, his with acute discomfort. At length he said, almost shyly: “Natalia, she misses you. I wanted you to know that. Sometimes she wakes up crying in the night—”

An ironic light glinted in her eyes then, and they widened. “So the chaste interlude has come to an end,” she murmured, the corners of her mouth turning upward. “Bravo,
mon cher.
Virgins have always been your specialty, haven't they? Beginning with me.”

His face had become congested. “Shut up, Natalia!” he cried. “Don't be vulgar! If you're so curious, then I'll tell you, I'll tell you all about it, so that you won't judge her this way when she doesn't deserve it. She's terribly lonely, Natalia, and she's a mess of nerves because of you, thinking she's the cause of your pain. She felt so guilty that she hasn't been able to sleep, to function properly. And so I've spent a few nights in her living room, to be with her when she awakened, to make certain she was all right.”

“How touching! I'm gratified that one of you still has a conscience. It's also nice to know I wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep. And were you there to hold my hand, Pierre? Did you ever hold my hand? Do you remember the night of Tamara's birth? Did you even feel the slightest twinge of guilt that time?”

“Why bring this up now?”

“Because you make me sick, that's why,” she replied, placing her hands over her throat to contain her exploding hatred. She could feel the cords standing out on her neck, knew that she had started to sob, that more sobs were coming that seemed to scream out of her like a siren, a siren that continued even though she was certain she had shut her mouth. The solicitor was kneeling in front of her, holding her arms, and still she was shouting something, she couldn't hear what—

Pierre had disappeared into the hearing room, and the lawyer was repeating gently: “Come now, it's our turn.”

To make her life worse, Natalia ran into problems with Diaghilev. He had set to work rehearsing a new ballet,
The Blue Train;
his mind could not remain for long on a certain style, and now he appeared to chase each new trend, seizing on the modern to the detriment of substance. This was an acrobatic ballet to display the charms of his new lover, Anton Dolin—and so she was parodying the sports of the twenties, as she had parodied the party habits of its young generation in
Les Biches.
Diaghilev had commissioned one of his friends, the
couturière
Chanel, to make up the bathing costumes, since the action was taking place on the beach.

She could feel the director's cold eyes on her during the rehearsals, and then the quick glances to her star, Dolin. With a start she thought: Of course! He wants Anton to take over my position. He has always wanted to turn his dancers into choreographers—the ones who slept with him, that is. She clenched her fists and took a deep breath to calm the angry feelings inside her.

She did not have much time left before the première on June 20. But she had problems in her private life. Since the divorce, a terrible nervousness had beset her. She could not sleep and her stomach would not digest a single morsel. At odd times her hands would start to shake, and sometimes she could not control her speech and uttered choppy phrases of garbled words. She was plagued with blinding headaches. But with the inevitability of the oceans' tides, deadlines pressed upon her. She did not care anymore whether the dancers and prop crew knew of her distress, whether they gossiped about it on their own. It only mattered that she continue to arrive on time at rehearsals so that Diaghilev would not have reason to smirk. This became her obsession: to keep up the facade for his sake, to protect her last remnant of self-respect. If she did not yield, it had to mean that she was not a failure.

She was lying on her bed, a cold compress over her eyes, when the door creaked open and Tamara poked her head into the semi-darkness. She had grown into a very vivid girl of seven, leggy and well balanced, with her father's proud carriage and his fine black eyes and tumbling black hair. Her complexion was swarthy but touched with a rich coral glow, and her full lips pouted above the small, delicate chin, the sole heritage from her mother. She was an intelligent girl but an obstinate one, who learned only when she wanted to, and only what interested her. Natalia saw in her daughter the same quick temper that Pierre had: With the least provocation, she could enter into a towering rage, the rage of the self-centered.