Dandré drew near and shook the governor’s hand. “Let’s drink both to the Russians and to the Americans! May our people be friends forever!” he said. An awkward silence followed, as the governor made no answer but stared suspiciously at Dandré. It was rumored that soon the new Soviet government would ally itself with the Central Powers and Americans and Russians would become enemies: this was verified several months later, when the treaty of Brest-Litovsk between Russia and Germany was signed. But we weren’t aware of this because of our recent isolation at sea. As usual, Dandré was making an ass of himself, and Madame innocently followed his lead. “The United States has so much and our country has so little. Almost ten million people have died in Europe since the war began. Americans and Russians must help each other and put a stop to this bloody war.” The commissioner stood nearby and, lifting his glass to Madame’s, he drank to the Russians’ health without blinking. I gulped mine down, eyes shut, terrified of seeing Madame ridiculed.
Fifteen minutes later Novikov, Madame’s partner, pushed his way through the crowd and asked if she wanted to dance a foxtrot. He was short and lithe—a perfect size for Madame on the stage—and he had a splendid physique. We were used to his eccentricities. He spoke with a lisp, lifted his little finger every time he drank from a glass, and was always on the lookout for new romantic conquests. Madame could dance with him as much as she wanted: Dandré was never jealous. At that moment we could see Dandré in the background still talking with Molinari; his tall, tuxedo-clad figure loomed darkly in the distance. Novikov took Madame’s arm and led her to the adjoining ballroom, where a musical ensemble was playing. She looked over his shoulder and saw that several local young people were about to join them on the dance floor. Beautifully dressed girls were checking out their carnets with their partners to see who had the first dance.
Novikov whirled Madame around the elegant hall, decorated with gilded eighteenth-century mirrors and marble-topped consoles. I followed as unobtrusively as possible. He was keeping his eyes pegged on a brown-haired ephebe standing near the bar, who looked at him with lovelorn eyes. Madame noticed someone interesting also: the one-legged poet who had held her attention so thoroughly at the school that afternoon. He was sitting by himself next to a potted palm at one end of the room. Madame asked Novikov to whirl her in that direction. When they were near the gentleman, Madame stopped dancing and asked Novikov to get her a second glass of champagne. Novikov winked at her and went off toward the bar.
The gentleman was slender, his neck almost swimming inside his impeccably starched collar. His ears, which stuck out of his head like pale, almost transparent bat wings, gave him an alert and at the same time pathetic look. He trembled slightly, but the same fire was smoldering in his eyes we had noticed that afternoon. “Was that a poem you were reciting in Spanish at the school earlier?” she asked softly. “I heard you from the street, and it was beautiful, even if I couldn’t understand a word. What was the title?” Madame spoke to him in French, convinced that the gentleman would understand her, and she wasn’t mistaken. His eyes were the color of amber. “It’s a poem about death and resurrection,” he said. “The school principal didn’t know I was going to recite it when they invited me to talk to the students, and when the police arrived, it was too late, they couldn’t shut me up. Next time, however, it’ll be more difficult. If there is a next time, that is. At least my daughter, Estrella, has promised to recite it at my wake.” He looked directly at her, smiling under his huge mustache.
“Why do you write about death?” Madame asked him softly. “You should write about life!”
“Because I can’t go on living when freedom isn’t possible!” the poet answered vehemently.
Madame shivered and wrapped her shawl more closely about her.
12
THE CRUSH OF PEOPLE milling about in the Hall of Mirrors began to make me feel claustrophobic. We were about to step into one of the enclosed galleries of louvered windows, which had fanlike, gaily colored panes of glass on top, for a breath of fresh air when Madame ran into a young man with a wide mourning ribbon tied around his upper sleeve. He was slender, with delicate hands and tapered fingers. He wore glasses, and behind them his eyes glowed like coals. He was very good-looking, and he knew it.
“Are you the famous Russian ballerina?” the young man asked eagerly, stepping aside to let Madame through. “I’ve been looking for you all evening. I’m the one who sent the Pierce-Arrow to pick you up at the wharf this morning. I wanted to receive you in style!”
Madame looked pleasantly surprised, and as they walked out onto the verandah together, I purposely stayed behind a few steps.
They stood looking toward the garden. A Moorish fountain spilled a jet of water into a mosaic basin, and its soft murmur echoed through the enclosed patio. The young man wanted to know everything about the company—where we were staying, how long we were traveling around the island, and what Madame was going to dance that night.
He’d lived in New York, he said, where he had studied journalism, and it didn’t take Madame long to discover that he was very well educated. He had read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, and began to quote her a passage from Das Kapital, his voice full of enthusiasm, until she begged him to stop. Politics upset her, she said. He looked downcast at her lack of interest. Like many young men his age, he wanted to show off.
“I saw you talking to Aljama, our local poet, a minute ago,” the young man added. “He’s the Don Quixote of our independence movement, you know. Quite a picturesque character.”
“I would have liked to talk to him longer, but he walked away. He seemed ill,” Madame said.
“He is ill. He’s a diabetic and lost his leg to gangrene recently. I hear that he’s become addicted to morphine. He won’t last very long.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is he one of your well-known poets?”
“He is the poet; people travel for miles on foot, across rivers and mountains, just to hear him read his poems in public.”
“This afternoon I saw the police manhandle and arrest him at a public school. Why on earth has he been invited here tonight?” Madame said, looking amazed.
The young man laughed softly and took off his glasses to polish them with a linen handkerchief. He shook his head.
“They weren’t really arresting him. They pick him up and take him back home all the time. And of course, that’s why he was invited here tonight. It’s wise to keep your enemy in sight; that way he can do less harm.” Madame listened with interest. The young man had eyes with deep shadows in them, and he stared at her shamelessly. Half concealed behind a Sevres porcelain urn that stood on a pedestal, I began to feel uncomfortable.
At that moment the governor approached with Diana and another girl accompanying him, one on each arm. Four uniformed security guards followed, a walking wall of muscle and sinew. “This is Estrella Aljama, our famous poet’s daughter,” the governor announced to Madame. “And this is Diana, my daughter. They are very good friends and they were looking forward to meeting you.” The girls giggled, and it was obvious that Estrella, especially, was very shy; she hardly dared look at Madame. Madame turned on the charm and embraced them both, kissing them on the cheek. Then she called over Nadja Bulova and Maya Ulanova and introduced them to the girls, since they were more or less the same age.
“Now you go with them,” she said. “You must join our corps de ballet.” The girls laughed, immediately at ease, and the four of them went off, chattering away like magpies. The governor shook hands coldly with the young man and then turned his back to him. He asked Madame if the accommodations at the Malatrassi were adequate and then politely put himself at her service before he walked away.
“Estrella Aljama studies at Lady Lane School, in Norton, Massachusetts, the same finishing school as Diana Yager,” the young man explained to Madame. “They are each other’s best friends.” Madame nodded and looked interested. “Do you know what estrella means?” the young man went on. Madame said no. “It mea
ns star; the poet named his daughter after the star on our flag. Since the Americans have forbidden us to fly or even to own the Puerto Rican flag, he named his daughter for it. Don’t you think that’s wonderful?” the young man observed ironically. Madame stared at him, baffled. “I find the lame poet heart-wrenching. He’s not at all funny,” she murmured.
“We don’t get visitors from a country like Russia every day, where everything is being torn down in order to build a brave new world,” the young man went on. He took out a silver flask from his vest and discreetly poured some of its contents into Madame’s glass, then took a short nip himself. “I think what you’re doing in your country is extraordinary. You got rid of the czar and his boyars at a single stroke. But here the American governor and the sugar barons are still very much in power.” He took a sip from his glass and looked at Madame with interest. “I hear you sympathize with the Russian Revolution. Is that true?”
“I was a ballerina at the Imperial School of Ballet in St. Petersburg, and the czar was my patron,” Madame answered noncommittally. “A revolution is something terrible. I hope you never experience it.”
The young man shrugged. “You could be both, an ambassador of the czar and a Bolshevik agent! Or perhaps neither. Whatever you are, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he said, bowing. I was so flabbergasted I couldn’t move. There was no way I could approach them unnoticed.
“Tell me more about the lame poet,” Madame said, purposefully changing the subject.
“I know him well,” the young man answered. “He’s published several books of verse. He’s a toothless lion, though.” And he explained how Juan Manuel Aljama, after swearing he would never adopt the enemy’s citizenship, had decided to do so when he had to have his leg amputated. He traveled to New York, to Mount Sinai Hospital, to have the operation done there, because he didn’t trust local doctors.
“You’re very critical of your country, aren’t you, Mr….?” Madame asked. The young man’s tuxedo and starched shirt with diamond studs didn’t exactly label him as working class.
“Diamantino Márquez, mucho gusto.” The young man shook her hand. “I’m a journalist and a poet, and I also play the violin. Forgive me for being sarcastic, but ours is a tragic case. We’re the only Latin American country that never became independent: the little caboose at the end of the train, held up by American troops at the close of the Spanish-American War.”
A shock of dark hair fell over Diamantino’s forehead as he gesticulated angrily. He reminded me of a painting by Caravaggio I saw in St. Petersburg, in which an irate Christ, whip in hand, evicts the unholy merchants from the Temple. He was still wet behind the ears and here was Madame, the star of the Imperial Ballet, listening to him in awe!
It was getting late and Madame anxiously began to look around for Diana Yager. She would be dancing in less than an hour and still had to put on her makeup and costume. She stood on her toes craning her neck to see, and I took advantage of it to reveal myself, stepping out from behind the urn. Madame signaled for me to follow at a discreet distance.
“Well, thanks so much for sending your car around this morning to pick us up, Mr. Márquez. Please excuse me, I have to go now.”
“It wasn’t my car; it was my godfather’s. I was living at his house until recently because my father passed away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And who was your father?”
“Don Eduardo Márquez, Aljama’s best friend. He died six months ago. Thankfully, before Aljama’s betrayal.” His eyes glistened when he said this, and his voice trembled with anger.
“How old are you, Diamantino, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Twenty. But I feel a lot older. In fact, I could easily be your lover.”
Madame was caught completely off guard, and so was I. The idea was outrageous, considering she was almost twice his age. But I could tell she felt powerfully attracted to him because of the dark circles under his eyes and the shadow of a beard on his cheeks. “And have you equally been invited here tonight to be observed, and thus to prevent disaster?” Madame said archly.
“Oh, unexpected things may happen, unexplained accidents that are never solved. But let’s talk about something more pleasant, Madame. What did you say you were dancing tonight?”
Two minutes later Madame was half running, half flying up the stairs behind Diana Yager to the governor’s private apartment on the second floor. There she would change into her swan costume. I ran after her to help her dress, carrying her makeup case. The garment was made of real swan feathers, and it fit her like a second skin. I pulled the hooks at the back closed and helped her tie her hair into a chignon under the delicate white feather headpiece, which had to be fastened with bobby pins. Then we went downstairs again, where the gaslights in the garden had been turned down and rows of people were already sitting in front of a wooden platform, conversing animatedly. The troupe of dancers stood at the back, half hidden among the giant ferns and peace lilies that fluttered in the night breeze, waiting for Madame’s appearance.
Madame stood for a moment next to the platform, took a deep breath, and put her hands around her waist as she collected herself. This was the most important moment of her performance, when she willed herself into becoming what she was going to interpret. Movements had to come from within; they couldn’t be mechanical. Madame had danced The Dying Swan hundreds of times, but she always conjured up its vision in her mind before performing it.
A violinist, a cellist, and a harpist sat under a frangipani tree, its white blossoms filling the night air with their perfume. A cool evening breeze came up and made Madame’s skin crinkle like old silk over her arms and across her exposed chest as she bourréed across the stage to Saint-Saëns’s haunting music. The melody began to spin its silver thread into the tropical darkness as she slowly glided over the floor and fluttered her arms, just like a swan struggling to continue its flight. Her body was a ray of light wavering in the darkness. Eventually she fell forward and lay still, her arms stretched over her head in a gesture of surrender. The lights were extinguished, and Madame rose to the applause and received a bouquet of roses from the governor. The last measures of the tone poem lingered in the air.
All of a sudden a bolt of lightning flashed over our heads and a noise like a gunshot rang out. Gray clouds that were accumulating on the horizon collided like powder kegs over the fortress’s ramparts, and it began to pour. The red ribbon tied around the bouquet dissolved in a crimson stream of water, staining both the governor’s white linen suit and Madame’s feather costume. They looked as if they were spattered with blood. Madame shuddered and crossed herself at the bad omen.
Everybody ran for cover under the arched gallery of the restored stables that opened onto the garden, but as Madame hurried offstage, her feet gave way. The crimson stain spreading over her dress was blood, after all. Someone had taken a shot at her, but the bullet had only grazed her. We all rallied around, crying out in concern, and helped her down the stairs. Diamantino Márquez, like everyone else, had disappeared. Only one person stayed behind in the garden: the lame poet leaning on his crutches, completely heedless of the downpour. “You’re a poet in your own right, Madame,” he said, clapping slowly as the rain streamed down his face. And he bowed deeply as Madame went by.
13
WE TOOK MADAME TO a nearby hospital run by the Sisters of Charity. The nuns rushed about with sail-like bonnets on their heads and bandaged Madame’s arm. They insisted on dressing it with gauze, although her wound was no more than a scratch. Dandré went with Molinari and several bodyguards to La Fortaleza’s police station to report the accident. The next morning I rushed out of the hotel to buy the local newspaper, but to my surprise, there was no mention of the attempt on Madame’s life. No shot had been fired at the reception; no panicked guests had run out of the garden gates or hidden under the darkened shrubbery the night before. It was all kept quiet.
I was astounded that something like this could happen,
when I ran into Molinari on the street. He appeared suddenly from behind a building and loomed over me like a threatening shadow. “Could I have a word with you?” he said quickly, taking me by the arm as I was about to go back upstairs. He reminded me of the devil because of his black suit. He smelled of camphor and mothballs, like my stepfather, and I had a hard time breathing whenever he drew near me. We went into a coffee shop around the corner and he ordered ham-and-cheese bocadillos with café con leche for both of us. I was terrified, but I wasn’t going to let on.
“I want to know what that stuck-up prig talked about with your mistress last night,” he said. “She shouldn’t be seen with him.” I felt relieved it wasn’t me Molinari was after. “They were talking about the weather,” I said defiantly. He looked at me and smiled. “I like you. You’ve got spunk. Let’s make a deal: you want to get rid of Diamantino Márquez and so do I. We should be allies from now on.” I gulped down my coffee and bocadillo, “Fine,” I said, pretending to agree with him. “As soon as I hear something interesting I’ll let you know.” “Trato hecho,” he replied, winking at me as he squeezed my hand.
The attempt on Madame’s life made her so nervous that Dr. Malatrassi, the father of the hotel owner, had to be summoned to her room. He prescribed bromuro and valerian pills for her, and chamomile tea for the dancers. The whole company was on edge. Novikov refused to walk Madame’s dog and wouldn’t go out of the hotel at all; Custine began to give the dancers their daily exercises in his bedroom, after moving the bed out into the hallway. Smallens practiced his scores at the hotel’s piano bar. The Malatrassi was buzzing like a beehive.
Flight of the Swan Page 6