Margarita, installed a little grumpily beside her brother upon a pair of intricate, gilded chairs, watched the proceedings with avid eyes. ‘Dima, honestly, aren’t you in the least bit interested in what’s going on?’
Dmitri shrugged. ‘I’m hungry, if that’s interested. Come and get some food. I saw it earlier. There’s absolutely everything.’
Margarita’s eyes were upon a group of young men in uniform who lounged elegantly, short furred jackets slung with negligent grace from epauletted shoulders, vodka glasses in hand, surveying the room with a kind of arrogant disinterest and laughing a little too loudly at their own jokes. ‘You go,’ she said, absently.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Her brother looked at her, startled. ‘Do you feel all right?’
Margarita tutted irritably. ‘Of course I’m all right. We don’t all live for our stomachs you know – good heavens! Look at Anna!’
Their Uncle Mischa, Anna smiling shyly beside him, had appeared at the door. ‘Ladies and gentlemen –’
‘What’s she done to her hair?’ wondered Margarita. ‘And where did she get that scarf ? And the earrings – goodness!’ She laughed a little, understanding. ‘A gypsy with good taste. They must be Katya’s. Well, who would have believed it?’
Anna’s coppery hair, usually pulled severely back to reduce its wiry mass, had been piled softly upon her head. Tendrils escaped, artfully casual, tempering the severe lines of her face. Swinging golden earrings glinted, emphasizing the graceful length of her neck. Her narrow shoulders and the stark neckline of the green woollen dress were softened by a scarf of silken blues and greens. The effect was striking. She carried in her hand the violin her grandfather had made fifty years before her birth. Her father’s peace offering.
‘Please – if you would find a seat?’ Mischa’s pleasant voice lifted again. ‘I’m delighted to announce that my charming and talented niece, Anna Victorovna, has agreed to entertain us. It is our hope that afterwards –’ dark eyes gleaming Mischa bowed a little to where his most famous musical guest stood, smiling ‘– Alexander Nikolayevich – the great Scriabin – will also play for us.’ A small, excited murmur rippled around the room. There was a buzz of activity as chairs were pulled out from the perimeter and set into groups. Ladies spread their skirts gracefully, fluttering their fans. Gentlemen settled the tails of their morning suits and hastily replenished glasses.
Considering the circumstances Anna played well, and she knew it. As she gained in confidence, and as she caught the wandering attention of her audience, she found herself playing not so much for them as for herself. Deliberately she had decided to play, for this most Russian of festivals, the music of only Russian composers – music that she and Andrei had studied, analysed, discussed, until their music came to her as naturally as breathing. Rimsky-Korsakov, Glazunov, Tchaikovsky; and the members of her audience loved it. When she finished with the wild Tsigane melody that Andrei had taught her, the most bored of them came to their feet clapping, stamping and laughing delightedly. Flushed and smiling, she bowed and made to leave the stage to the revered Scriabin. Whatever else, she had not disgraced herself. And for those fleeting moments she had been entirely happy; confusion had fled. The great pianist captured her hand, led her onto the floor again. Flowers flew, pulled from Zhenia’s careful arrangements. Katya winked. Her parents were looking at her with slightly bemused pride. Margarita and Dima clapped enthusiastically. Only Lenka sat, still and unsmiling; Anna caught a brief glimpse of her before being swept into Uncle Mischa’s enthusiastic arms. ‘Anna, my love, what talent!’
Scriabin was settled at the piano. An awed hush fell. As the first notes lifted into the quiet air Katya appeared at Anna’s side, slipped an arm about her waist. ‘Well done,’ she whispered. ‘You were splendid!’
The master played Chopin. Even the most restive guest stilled. The applause at the end was deafening. The short and intricate virtuoso piece he chose as an encore brought an even greater clamour.
Katya leaned to her father’s ear. ‘Anna needs a breath of air,’ she shouted through the uproar.
Mischa turned surprised eyes upon his niece who was standing composedly beside her cousin. Anna, who had not heard Katya’s words, smiled.
‘Perhaps a stroll along the canal?’ Katya’s face was the very picture of innocence. The applause was dying, chairs were being scraped back against the wall, conversation was lifting again. ‘We won’t be long, I promise. We’ll be back for tea and the dancing.’
‘Of course, my dear. But please – not too long, eh? You really mustn’t neglect our younger guests you know.’
‘Yes, darling Mischischa, I do know. But I can’t leave poor Anna to take the air alone, can I?’ She kissed him, lightly. ‘It must be a great strain you know, playing to such an audience.’
Mischa nodded, patted the surprised Anna’s arm solicitously before turning away.
‘What was that for?’ Anna asked.
Katya giggled. ‘In sympathy for the vapours you are resisting so valiantly.’
‘I don’t have the vapours! I’d go so far as to say I’ve never had the vapours in my life! Katya, what are you talking about?’
Her cousin slipped a firm hand under her elbow, steered her rapidly towards the open double doors. ‘I thought –’ she nodded sweetly to an elderly couple, side-stepped them smartly ‘– that you might enjoy a breath of fresh air. A little stroll. Along the canal.’ She held on as Anna tried to release her elbow. ‘Half an hour, that’s all. It will do you good.’
‘Katya!’
‘You look a little pale,’ her cousin said, solemnly. ‘And it was very hot in there.’ She was still steering Anna firmly, down the hall towards her bedroom where their outdoor clothes were. ‘All that cigarette smoke –’
Anna stopped. Katya, perforce, had to stop too. Anna disengaged her elbow. ‘What are you up to?’ As always she could not help but smile as her pretty cousin lifted fair, innocent eyebrows.
‘Up to? Why, what could I possibly be up to? Oh, come on, Anna. Do let’s go for a short stroll? If I have to smile and be polite for a single moment longer I shall burst! There’s hardly anyone worth talking to, now is there? And if one other ancient dowager tells me how very grown-up I’ve become and how amazing it is that I’m not already married with a string of brats about my skirt I shall pull someone’s hair out by the roots. Now, you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?’
Anna, still laughing, shook her head. ‘All right. No, I shouldn’t want that to happen. A stroll it is.’ She followed Katya into the large and airy room that was almost the only thing of her cousin’s that she truly envied her. ‘But – they’re right, aren’t they?’ She caught the short cape that Katya tossed to her, picked up her hat from the bed. ‘I suppose you will have to think about marriage?’
‘Sooner or later I suppose.’ The words were airy. Katya slipped her arms into a neatly fitting green jacket, perched a small feathered hat on her mass of hair, skewered it expertly with a pin, pulled a pair of green kid gloves from a drawer. ‘But if I have anything to do with it, it will be later.’ She leaned to the mirror, tweaked a few curls about the brim of the hat, caught Anna’s eye in the mirror. ‘Much, much later!’
They strolled in the early spring sunshine, watching the activity on the canal. The ice was gone, the grip of winter was loosened, and the water flowed again, bright as new-minted coins in the sun. The trees were in bud, a small boy bowled a hoop along the pavement.
And a couple of young men in uniform leaned in apparently casual conversation upon the embankment wall. Anna recognized them both instantly. ‘Katya!’
‘Isn’t it amazing,’ her cousin asked, with a bland, disarming smile, ‘the people you can come across on the Fontanka on an Easter Monday afternoon?’
* * *
‘Where did you go?’ Margarita asked, fiercely. ‘I looked everywhere for you!’
‘Katya wanted to go for a walk,’ Anna said. ‘We strolled along the canal, that’s all
.’
Margarita eyed her suspiciously.
Anna returned the look unblinking, suppressing the desire to laugh. I, she thought, am becoming as bad as Katya herself. She had enjoyed the past hour. That both young men undoubtedly had their eyes on the same prize – Katya – had not prevented them from courteous and entertaining conversation with Anna. Katya had flirted outrageously with both of them, Anna had watched, astounded and entertained. Altogether it had been an extremely diverting interlude. She had not even taken Katya to task for her quite shameless scheming; not, she was aware, that it would have done an iota of good if she had.
‘Well, do come on, now – the dancing’s starting.’
Anna allowed herself to be towed back into the ballroom.
‘Oh, Anna, do look – Mama’s dancing with that General – he looks like the bear we saw at the circus in Moscow!’
‘Rita, honestly!’ But her sister’s description of the man really was so accurate that she found herself bursting into laughter.
‘Oh, and look at Katya! Doesn’t she dance well?’ There was such longing in the young voice that Anna put a sympathetic arm about her shoulders.
‘Rita, darling, don’t fret so! And don’t wish away your childhood. You’ll grow up soon enough, I promise you.’ In a second the light-hearted mood engendered by the occasion and her cousin’s escapade deserted her. The line of her mouth was suddenly sombre. ‘And it isn’t that easy, you know. Being grown up.’
Margarita shook her head impatiently. ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Anna! You sound like Sister Maria at school! And you know what a bore she is! I wonder – could I make a set for my theatre like this room?’
The afternoon passed quickly into evening. To her own surprise Anna was squired onto the dance floor twice, under Margarita’s envious eyes, once by an elderly gentleman with twinkling eyes who barely reached to her shoulder and whose paunch was rather more than a slight disadvantage to graceful movement, and once by a nervous young man with vague, short-sighted eyes and spots who said not a word during the whole proceeding. As darkness fell and the older guests began to leave or to repair to the drawing room, where card tables had been set up, a balalaika band in peasant dress took over from the orchestra and the pace of the dancing changed. Young men swept their chosen partners into line as the rhythmic and vibrant traditional melodies of Russia were played. Small circles were formed; the dancers wove in intricate pattern, hands touching and dropping, the girls’ eyes demurely downcast. People around the floor turned to watch. Several began to clap in time to the music as the tempo speeded up. As the girls still wove their pretty circles the young men, one by one, leapt to the centre, whirling, stamping, clapping, spinning like tops, heels clicking, booted feet flying, each vying to outdo the other. Many were officers of the Cossack regiments and no strangers to such displays; as many a cafe owner in St Petersburg whose table tops had been used to stage such competition would have testified.
Margarita was ecstatic. She clapped until her hands hurt, eyes glued to the handsome, arrogantly athletic figures who cut such a dash. One in particular caught her eye; a lithe, dark-haired young man in Cossack uniform who leapt higher and with more grace than any other. She stopped clapping, her gaze riveted upon him.
‘Really – it’s time we were getting home.’ Victor appeared fussily beside Anna and her young sister.
‘Oh, Papa, no!’ Margarita was agonized.
Her father cast a disapproving glance at the goings-on on the dance floor. ‘Anna, where’s Yelena?’
‘I don’t know, Papa. I’ve hardly seen her all afternoon.’ Anna had sought her sister out just once during the day, but her reception had been so cool that she had shrugged and left her to herself. She knew Lenka of old; once the sulks had set in there was little to do about it but to let the mood run its course. Obviously Lenka was annoyed with her; Anna guessed she’d find out soon enough what, if anything, she had done to upset her.
‘Well, do find her then. And Dima too.’ Victor was not in a good mood. Not only had he had to spend the day surrounded by the all too clear evidence of his brother-in-law Bourlov’s material and social successes but his empty-headed wife had made a positive exhibition of herself with that gold-braided hulk of a General. ‘Anna! Hurry up!’
‘Just a moment, Papa – look – Katya’s dancing.’
The music had changed. A man playing an accordion stepped forward. A dozen or more girls, led by Katya, had formed themselves into a line, hands linked, coloured scarves floating from their fingers. They moved sedately, heads poised, feet hidden beneath their long skirts as they glided smoothly into a traditional village dance, weaving and bobbing, ducking beneath the arches of their own lifted arms, their line like a colourful ribbon enlaced about the dance floor. One of the group of young officers began to sing in a deep melodic voice, one or two others joined him, their lighter voices mingling with his in that harmony that was so deeply and so especially Russian. The music changed subtly. The line broke into two, came together, broke again and then linked, scarves drifting gracefully about it. And now the girls were laughing; their tiny steps were as sedate, their backs and shoulders as straight, their heads as haughtily and gracefully lifted. But eyes gleamed from beneath lashes, there was a certain movement of the hips, a seduction in the gestures of scarf-draped hands. Katya, mischief written in every line of her pretty face, eyes downcast in a modesty so false as to be in itself a challenge, led them on. She moved with a grace that brought a smile to the sourest face, gliding like a swan upon water, back straight, arms poised above her head. Several of the card players had come to the door, crowding around to watch. One of the balalaikas began to play, lifting the rhythm, the deep male voices urged the dancers on. They moved faster, the smoothness of their movements unbroken. More instruments took up the challenge; the young men could stand it no more. They swept with a whoop onto the floor, chose a partner – most of whom turned a haughty shoulder in charming pretence of offence – and were off again, on knee and heel and pointed toe, some with more grace than others, all with an infectious energy and vitality that had the onlookers stamping and shouting with them, until in a final crescendo of sound it finished.
Margarita was standing, hands clasped in front of her, as if in a trance.
Victor was rigid with disapproval. ‘Anna. Find the others please. Margarita, come. Find your coat please. Margarita!’
His daughter blinked. ‘Yes, Papa.’ With one long last look at the laughing dancers she turned and preceded her father from the room.
* * *
The family walked home almost in silence, each wrapped in thoughts it seemed they did not care to share with others. Varya, dazzled by dreams of conquest, innocently certain that every other female in the room must have envied her her triumph, failed utterly to notice that the quality of her husband’s silence was, to say the least, ominous. Yelena, pointedly walking as far from Anna as she could, answered any question addressed to her with a monosyllable. Dmitri’s thoughts centred mostly on his regret that he hadn’t been able to eat more, whilst both Margarita and Anna, walking together, each had more than enough to occupy her mind and imagination.
It was dark by the time they reached the apartment building. As they approached it Anna could see light glowing from the two windows that were Andrei’s. All day she had told herself that she must not see him. That she did not want to see him. That he most certainly would not want to see her –
‘Papa – might I pop in to see Uncle Andrei for a moment? I think I left some music in his room.’ The words were out with no conscious thought before she could prevent them; it was as if someone else had spoken.
‘What? Oh, yes. Of course.’ Victor’s face was set in forbidding lines. He hardly looked at Anna. He held the outer door open, glowered at the oblivious Varya as she swept past him with the poise of a queen.
‘Lenka, would you take my violin?’ Anna held out the case.
Lenka shrugged, took it in silence.
Anna turned
from them and tapped lightly on Andrei’s door. As she pushed it open she heard Margarita say from above her, her voice soft, ‘– And the uniforms, Mama! Oh, weren’t they just the most handsome things?’
Andrei was sitting upon his stool at his workbench. He was dressed as he liked in loose shirt and trousers, belted peasant-style about his slight waist. He was intent upon the strong and slender wand of wood upon which he was working, planing the curve of the bow. He glanced up as Anna entered the room, his hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their skilful, sure movements. ‘I told you not to come,’ he said, quietly.
‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just – it’s been such a lovely day – I wanted to tell you –’ She did not finish the sentence; the words trailed to nothing.
The room fell to a silence broken only by the small sounds of the tiny plane Andrei was using.
Anna crossed the room to stand quietly beside him, watching. She flicked a quick glance to his calm face. Apart from a certain pallor he showed no sign of yesterday’s excesses. His eyes were steady upon his work. ‘You’ve changed your hair,’ he said.
She was startled. She had, in fact, forgotten. ‘I – yes. I suppose I have. Katya did it.’
‘How was it? The day?’
‘Lovely. It was such a shame you couldn’t come. There were hundreds of people, and mountains of food. Mama flirted with a General and I’m afraid Papa isn’t best pleased with her. Rita,’ she smiled faintly, ‘fell in love with a soldier, I think. Dima didn’t stop eating all day. He’ll be lucky if he isn’t sick.’ She stopped abruptly. She was babbling, and too well she knew it. ‘And you? What did you do?’
‘I visited some friends.’
Strange Are the Ways Page 12