Firebird (48 page)

Real surprise – and admiration - sparked in the silver-grey eyes.  “So you know about that, too?”

“I know you were a ballet dancer with the Kirov.”

He made a pained sound in his throat.  “Please, Alexandra.  A
danseur-noble
.  Da, another of fate’s twisted ironies.  A ten-year-old who longed to be a soldier participated in his village folk dancing festival and was chosen by visitors to attend the Kirov’s ballet school in St. Petersburg.” 

He smiled without humor.  “The city was Leningrad, of course, in those days.  Yes, the child of the Cold War, who wanted nothing more than to fight for Communism and make his father proud, became a dancer.  It was a huge honor, not only for me, but for my mother and little sister, for my village.”  He turned toward the window, and spoke to the distant peaks.  “The amazing thing was, in the months that followed, I discovered that dancing was my soul’s true passion.”    

“A passion you chose to leave behind.”

“No.  I chose to dance in the west.  Like Nureyev.  And Baryshnikov.  They were so accomplished, so brave.”  He shrugged.  “That is no crime.”

“You became a spy,” she accused him.

“You’re speculating,” he murmured.  “What is it about Russian dancers?  Are we all guilty until proven innocent?  The Americans thought Nureyev was a spy, too, did you know that?  The FBI launched an espionage investigation into Nureyev in 1964.  They’d discovered a cryptic note in his California hotel room, behind a wall plaque.  Something about ‘contact with an agent.’  Absurd, of course.  Ludicrous.  Trumped up charges, as usual!”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I
knew
him.  He was obsessed with ballet!  Just as I was.” 

She drank again, deeply, grateful for the hot tea that was seeping warmth into her bones.

Ivan said, “Nureyev was
born
in motion, on a train on the eve of World War II.  I, too, believed that I was born in motion.  For me dancing meant possession.  When I was accepted into the Kirov, it was
everything
.  Surely you understand having such a passion?”

Yes
. 
Ruby.  Art.  Avenging my sister’s death
.

“But you never danced again.  Your life became a lie.”

“You believe I
chose
to stop dancing?”

When she remained silent, he went on.  “I was secretly baptized by my mother,” he told her, “but never religious.”  He sighed.  “No, I found my faith on stage. 
There
was my exaltation.”  He gestured with a dancer’s grace in the shadows.  “Home was no longer the forests in the north.  The ballet became my true home.”

It sounded as if he was finally unlocking thoughts that had stirred inside him for many years.  “Then how could you bear to leave that life behind?”

Melancholy eyes locked on hers.  “I left because I was reaching for a dream,” he said.  “In Russia, we had no freedom to dance.  Your life depended on someone saying yes or no - for no logical reason.  I had to fight just to get on stage two or three times each month, to get the partners I wanted, to dance the
danseur-noble
roles.  But I would have to wait years to dance the
Corsaire
.”

He shook his head as if the memories still burned deep.  “I was so young.  I wanted to dance new ballets, modern ballets.  I wanted to choreograph!  But the company’s
artsoviet
- the artistic committee - vetoed all the creative roles.  There would be no doorway for me to the international dance world.  The Kirov was a mini police state.

“In those days,” he said softly, “Pushkin’s dancers were so purely trained that we could not
survive
in Russia.  If I had remained, I would be dead, because impotence and rigidity corroded everyone.  Understand this, Alexandra.  Like Nureyev before me...   To be an artist, I
had to leave Russia
.”

She swallowed her tea, drank again.  She’d been moving around the room, was standing next to the fireplace now, one hand resting lightly on the sharp iron poker.  An unsettling wave of dizziness passed over her, and she shook her head.  “It still makes no sense,” she insisted.  “How could you agree to remain loyal to a country that gave you no freedom?”

“You ask the most complex question of all,” he said softly.  “To be a Russian artist in the Soviet era was perhaps the greatest oxy-moron.  You have to be Russian, to be born there, to understand.  I loved my country.  It is
still
my spiritual homeland.  The Russian exile becomes a Byronic figure, haunted, melancholy, filled with grief and longing for his homeland.  It goes far, far beyond politics, into the deepest regions of the Russian soul...”

“But you sold your damned Russian soul to men who would rule you for the rest of your life.”

“Thoughts cannot be forced,” he said gently.  “I expressed my soul in dance.  It was ballet that would
keep me free
.  And if I had to perform a - favor - for the country I loved, it was an
honor
.  Not a price to pay.”

“Was there honor in leaving your family behind?”

“I gave them a
better
life.”  He smiled and drained his glass.  “I went to see my mother before I left, told her everything.  She said, ‘Ty schastliv?’  Are you happy?  She understood.”

The room was growing warmer.  Alexandra felt the dizziness touch her again and swayed toward him, then back.

“I’ve spent over forty years hiding every truth about myself,” he murmured.  “I’ve become someone else.  But still I cannot erase a young boy’s memories of his homeland.   The light of springtime, when the old babushkas would venture out in their shawls and hats of cat fur, to sit and gossip on the benches.  My little sister, eating ripe peaches under a white flowering tree.  My mother, cutting lilacs in her tiny garden, filling baskets to sell in the marketplace.  Ah, the smell of those lilacs...” 

He stiffened, suddenly, as if he’d heard something.   “What was that?” he whispered, moving toward the spiral stairs.  He stopped, held out a warning hand for silence, and listened.  Only the hollow sigh of the wind through iced pines broke the stillness.

Alexandra felt as if she were swimming through thick water.  “It’s a long road from ballet dancer to the inner circle of Presidents.  What happened to that young man’s dreams?”

Anguish flickered across his face.  “Fate Happened. Death Happened.”  He glanced down at his twisted leg.   “But I still had duty.  And honor.”  He gestured toward the stereo speakers on the bookshelf.  “Perhaps I am like Stravinsky’s music,” he told her.  “He took music apart, and put it back together in a new way.  That’s what happened to me.”

“The liar is lying to himself, now, Rens.”

“Let this go, Alexandra.  If you do, I can protect you.  Your accusations will only open a Pandora’s box.”

“You sound like Anthony.”  She drank again, shook her head stubbornly.  “My sister is dead because of you. 
I will prove
that you are the Firebird.”

He froze at the words, then moved to stand beside her.  He bent until his eyes were burning into hers.  “What do you know about the Firebird?” he whispered.

His words were becoming blurred, his voice fading in and out.  What was the matter with her?  Fighting off the fog, she said, “You danced the role of Prince Ivan, in the Kirov’s Firebird Ballet in London.”

Shock glazed his eyes.  She looked away, into the stove’s embers, suddenly mesmerized.  “You called this lodge your Court,” she said softly.  The words sounded slurred in her ears.

“Yes, the Court of Prince Ivan,” he admitted.  “Ivan’s glass palace, the place where the prince was happiest.  Act III in the Firebird Ballet.”   

The room was growing too warm.  Where was the ski pole?  She pulled off her gloves, shoved them into her pocket.  Shrugged off her ski jacket, let it drop to the floor.  “There was a fire in the theater,” she murmured.   “But you rose from the ashes, didn’t you?  Like the legendary Firebird.”

He looked at her as if he knew there was no reason, any longer, to keep his secret.  “Yes, there was a fire,” he said finally.  “The fire changed everything.”

His voice resonated with remembered pain.  “My partner and I were to leave by the alley door, immediately after the performance.  A car would be waiting...”  He looked down at his legs.  “I did not expect the fire, never knew I would be hurt so badly.”

His face crumpled with agony.  “A prince who did not know that his doomed love for his Firebird would lead to unwitting betrayal.  And her death.”

He doesn’t know Tatyana is alive
.  
Use it
! 

“You’re no longer that prince, Rens.”

“I never lost my presence.  I have it still.  Do you understand what I am telling you, Alexandra?”

“Yes.  You’re not going to let me stop you.”

He nodded.  “I
cannot
let you stop me.  But it will be better for you if we are honest with each other now.  Come, the hour grows late.  Do you have any concrete proof that I have committed a crime?”

“Eve knew...  And Charles Fraser.”  The strange dizziness washed over her again and she squeezed her eyes shut.  When it passed, she turned to him.  “Was Fraser’s car crash an accident?”

“He was going to initiate a mole hunt.”  He turned away.  “But I do not know what caused his death.”

The pain that shimmered in his voice unsettled her.  “Why, Ivan?  Why have you lied all these years, why hurt so many people who never hurt you?”

“You think I do not know hurt?” he asked her fiercely.  “When a fire in London took away all my dreams for the future!”

“You’ve lived in the United States for most of your life.  You’ve enjoyed a good life here.”

“Amazing, is it not?  The country that was my sworn enemy has treated me better than Russia ever did.  I admit, a man can get used to the best vodka, the money, the women, the thrill of power.  The world changes, and so do your dreams.  It’s the ultimate irony, Alexandra.  The child who wanted to be a soldier became a dancer.  And, in the end, the ballet dancer became a Russian soldier - albeit a secret one.” 

Another doll!  Now that he knows I know the truth,
he cannot let me live
.

He talked on, his voice quivering with emotion.  “Now, all I long for is to see my sister, and visit my mother’s grave.  And very soon, to return home...”

“Then do it, Ivan!” she said fiercely.  “No more deaths on your conscience.”

He began to pace back and forth in the shadows.  “You dare to condemn me?  Intelligence is not a game, Alexandra.  You’re being intellectually dishonest if you think the United States has not spied on my people for years as well.  I have tried to
protect
my people.  Most children and older people in Russia still go to bed hungry every night.
 
The West dangles the money that could feed my sister’s family, then pulls it away.”

He threw out his hands.  “How can a Russian allow such outrage?  How can I refuse to help my people now, when I promised I would, so many years ago?”  He gripped her arm.  “
Do you think I love my sister any less than you loved your sister
?”

They stared at each other.  “No,” she said finally.

“We are not so different, you and I.”

“You’re wrong.  I’ve never lied about who I am.  I cannot believe you’ve gotten this far...”

“Anyone can defeat a polygraph with 400 milligrams of meprobamate.”

Her body felt strangely heavy.  “Was it worth it, Ivan?  Did you find what you came for?”

“No.”  He was standing by a collection of painted Russian lacquer boxes.  He chose one, opened it, and extricated a small object.  Then he held a winged Firebird brooch to the light.

Another
brooch? she wondered in confusion.  It had to be the copy.  She’d brought Eve’s Firebird brooch with her, as instructed.  Pinned securely inside the waistband of her trousers...

“Who gave you that?” she whispered.

“The Shestidesyatniki.  ‘Men of the Sixites,’ hard-liners back in St. Petersburg bent on revenge and deeply mistrustful of the West.  This brooch is the signal, to awaken the Firebird.” 

He gazed down at the brilliant stones.  “The Firebird has been caged in St. Petersburg for more than 40 years.  Waiting.  Finally, it is time to set her free.”

He thinks he has the original brooch
.

But it had to be the copy - Tatyana’s brooch.  She touched her waistband, watched him slip the Firebird duplicate into his pocket.  “I must leave you now, Alexandra.”

She’d run out of time.  He wasn’t going to tell her anything more.  She had to act
now
.  Where was the blasted ski-pole?  No matter.  Her hand found the fireplace poker.  He was only steps away from her.  She gripped the heavy poker in her hand and raised it.

“Murderer,” she whispered, her words fading in and out.  Dizziness swamped her, and she staggered.  “All I want from you is to know why!  Why did my sister have to die?”

His face paled, and words in Russian tumbled from his lips as he stared at her.  “Evangeline?  You think
I killed her
?  No.  I never touched her!”

“Someone tried to blackmail her with photographs the day she died.  You must have sent the note, told her to meet you that night by the river.  You filthy murderer.”

“The river?”  His face wavered in the shadows.  “I never contacted her,” he said.  “Whatever my sins, Alexandra, I do not hurt innocent women.”

“My sister is dead because of you.”

 “I am no murderer,” he whispered.   

She held the poker like a sword, ready to attack.

But the pain in his eyes confused her.  She could feel the panic snaking down her back.  Something was wrong, terribly wrong.  Could he be telling the truth?

He stood his ground, waiting for her to strike him.  For a long moment they stared at each other, frozen in a terrible tableau.

She opened her fingers and dropped the poker.  The metal struck the hard floor with a loud clanging echo.  “I must know what happened to Eve,” she said.  “Damn you, Ivan, why did you -”