She bit her lower lip, looking suddenly very young and vulnerable. “I am afraid I am not the best judge of what you would like. You should choose whatever you prefer. My opinion doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does. If—”
A shout—really more of a bark—from a nearby man interrupted me. He had stopped a few feet away from us on the snow-covered pavement and was looking across the street at the Grand Hôtel, which stretched the entire length of the block along Mikhaylovskaya ulitsa. I followed the direction of his gaze to one of the narrow balconies gracing some of the first-floor rooms of the hotel. There, stood a dancer, costumed as if for Swan Lake, on her toes, her arms stretched above her, waving a long red scarf.
In an instant, everyone on both sides of the pavement was watching and calling to her. I heard many cries of Nemetseva. Next to me, Katenka, her face a mask of fear, crumpled into a heap on the snow. I knelt next to her, patting her cheeks in an attempt to get her to regain consciousness. Soon, a crowd had circled around us, and someone passed me smelling salts, which brought her around as soon as I waved them under her nose. She insisted on rising to her feet and looked immediately back to the balcony. The dancer had disappeared.
I went in fast pursuit, crossing the street and running back to the hotel lobby and up the stairs to the first floor. Trying to gauge how far along the corridor the room from which the dancer had accessed the balcony would be, I knocked on the first door in a location I thought might be favorable. No answer. I tried to open it, but it was locked. Katenka had followed me, and, taking my lead, started knocking on more doors.
An elderly German gentleman opened one of them. I explained as quickly and efficiently as possible what had happened and asked if we might see his balcony. Katenka headed straight for it the instant he let us in, leaving me space to make a quick search of the rest of the suite.
Not surprisingly, I found no trace of our mysterious dancer, and Katenka saw nothing on the balcony. We thanked the man and returned to the corridor, where one of the housekeepers was unlocking the door to another suite, her cleaning supplies on a cart. She told me that this was the last room she needed to clean on the floor and agreed to let me search it before she set to work.
Neither the dancer nor anyone else was in the room, but a red scarf, silk like its twin I had found across from the Yusupov Palace, was draped over the handle of the French doors that led to the balcony.
“Who was staying here last night?” I asked.
“A woman and her daughter from Paris,” the housekeep said. “They were with us for nearly a month. This morning they overslept and very nearly missed their train. I saw them rushing out. They were in quite a state.”
“Do you know what time that was?”
“Quite early, certainly no later than nine.”
So they were gone in plenty of time for our dancer to have used the suite to stage her performance. “Is it usual that a room would still not be cleaned by this time of day?”
“New guests may not check in until four o’clock, so we begin with the rooms already occupied and move to the empty ones after lunch,” she said.
I wondered if our dancer had a connection with anyone in the hotel. If not, she had left to chance that her scheme would work, for she could not otherwise have known which room was likely to be vacant. More important, what was her purpose? As she had on her pedestal on the Moika Embankment, our dancer had caused a sensation, and I did not doubt that she would dominate all conversation on Nevsky Prospekt for the rest of the day.
Katenka did not look well. I ordered a carriage and accompanied her home, amazed at how easily she climbed what to me felt like the unending flights of stairs to her flat. Inside, she sank onto her settee, leaned back, and flung an arm over her eyes.
“What do they want from me?” she asked.
“Who?” I asked.
“These people. I feel so harassed.” Her voice was barely audible. “Her presence must be meant as an indictment of me.” She removed her arm from her eyes. “Many of Irusya’s most ardent admirers are unlikely to accept me—or anyone—as her replacement. What if some of them blame me for her death? I received a letter yesterday, saying I would never be as good a dancer as she.”
“May I see it?” I asked. Could Katenka be in danger? I did not think any of Nemetseva’s admirers were likely to harm her, but I had to consider that if the murderer was a jealous dancer, Katenka could be the next target.
“Mitya burned it. He said it was nothing more than an incoherent rant.”
“He was probably right,” I said. “Public figures are always vulnerable to the base thoughts of a critical public. You cannot be the first dancer to have received a nasty letter.”
“No, I am not. But this woman on the balcony—who is she and why is she tormenting me?”
“This is not the first time she has made an appearance, and the previous incident occurred when you were not present, so it hardly seems likely that she means to rebuke to you.”
“I suppose you are right,” she said, rising and crossing to the samovar. She poked its coals and peeked into the small teapot. “Will you have tea? It will not take long for the water to boil.”
“I shouldn’t stay,” I said. “Unless you would prefer not to be left alone?”
“No, thank you. I do appreciate you bringing me home, but I should like to rest. Irusya’s funeral is tomorrow, much later than it ought to have been, but I am told this is to be expected when one meets such a violent end. I am to dine with her parents tonight and can hardly bear the thought of facing them.”
“Would you like me to contact anyone for you? Is Mitya nearby?”
“No, he’s quite busy these days. He will accompany me to the funeral, but otherwise I am content on my own. Thank you for all your help today.”
I took my leave from her and had made my way down the first flight of stairs when I heard someone approaching me from above. It was Katenka, her face damp with tears.
“May I have the scarf you found today?” she asked.
“I’m sorry; I must keep it,” I said. “I need to compare it to the first one I found. When the investigation is over—”
“No, that’s all right,” she said. “It wouldn’t make any difference, would it? I don’t know why I even want it.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t leave you on your own,” I said. “Let’s go to your flat and have some tea.”
“No, please. I need to be alone.”
Without another word, she turned and went back up the stairs.
Ekaterina Petrovna
November 1897
Enrico Cecchetti, a brilliant dancer in his own right, had started teaching in 1890 and was now the Imperial Theatre’s second ballet master. Katenka had rarely worked with him, but she knew many of the company’s best dancers trained privately with him. Why would he want to waste time on a lackluster corps dancer? But she dared not ignore Legnani’s advice, and four days later found herself headed to Cecchetti’s studio, more nervous than she had ever been in her life.
Now, after nearly three months of private coaching, Katenka was convinced Cecchetti despised her. This belief, coupled with the fact she had run through nearly all of her money, led her to tell him that she could no longer study with him. The Italian raised his eyebrows.
“You need me, Ekaterina Petrovna,” he said, his posture still that of a dancer. “If you are too foolish to see this, I cannot be of any service to you.”
“I am afraid, sir, you misunderstand me,” she said. “It is a question of funds. I am only in the corps. I cannot afford you.”
He leaned his head to the side and studied her. “I understand all too well,” he said. “My parents were both dancers. I was born in a dressing room. Did you know that?” He did not pause for her to answer. “I will continue to work with you, once a week, regardless of your ability to pay.”
“Thank you, sir, I cannot begin—”
“That’s quite enough,” he said. “We will waste no m
ore time. Where did we finish last week?” He sat at the piano and began to tap out a melody. Katenka stood in the center of his studio, prepared for the choreography she knew accompanied the music, hardly able to concentrate, but knowing that, somehow, she must. She could not squander this opportunity.
After a grueling two hours with Cecchetti, Katenka rushed home. Irusya was coming to dinner, and for the first time in months the two friends would be together, away from the rest of the company. Pierina Legnani had fallen ill that autumn, leaving Mathilde Kschessinska to fill most of her roles. This created an opening for other dancers to shine, and Irusya was one of the first to benefit. This was a boon to her career but left her with almost no time to socialize. The following night, she would make her debut as Swanilda in Coppélia.
“I am so fraught with nerves, Katenka,” she said as they sat, eating. “There is no place I would rather be than here with you right now, having this abominable sausage. You really must learn to cook better if you are going to live without servants.”
“Someday, when you are a principal dancer, you will look back on these days with great fondness. You will grow tired of overblown French meals and beg your cook to make you something plain, but he will refuse, and you will fling him out of his kitchen, roll up your sleeves, and make a good, Russian meal.”
Irusya wrinkled her nose and they both laughed. “Tomorrow night, Katenka, after the ballet, will you come with me to a party? It’s hosted by the Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich. There will be champagne and dancing—”
“And overblown French food?” Katenka asked. “I don’t think so, Irusya.” But Irusya could always persuade her to do anything, and, almost without realizing it, Katenka agreed to go. Feeling deflated, she got up to clear their dishes and pulled a box out of a cupboard. “You will be glad to learn that I did not make any pastry.”
“How on earth did you afford this?” Irusya asked, opening the package to reveal a pair of spectacular napoleons filled with cream and raspberry preserves.
“I traded two hours of dance instruction for them,” Katenka said. “The bakery owner has a daughter.”
“You are most resourceful, my friend. Is there nothing you can’t achieve?”
Katenka looked down, and the atmosphere turned in a heartbeat. They both knew what she couldn’t achieve, and not even years of private lessons with Cecchetti could change that.
January 1900
13
Colin’s work kept him from accompanying me to Nemetseva’s funeral, but Cécile agreed to go in his stead. She collected me in Masha’s carriage, and we made the trip to the far end of Nevsky Prospekt and the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity at Alexander Nevsky Monastery. The interior of the cathedral was neoclassical and lit from large windows beneath its dome and a large chandelier, but no light could cut through the gloom consuming it today. There were no chairs inside Orthodox churches, so the mourners had to stand for the entire service, packed close together, crammed so tightly it felt as if we were all swaying in unison. We held the candles we had each been given upon entering, and their flames, bobbing along with the crowd, contributed to the somber mood.
Tchaikovsky’s funeral, at the much larger Kazan Cathedral in the center of Petersburg, had drawn enormous crowds. Those who could not get a seat inside—the church could accommodate only six thousand; rumor said sixty thousand had requested tickets—lined Nevsky Prospekt for a glimpse of the composer’s coffin. Nemetseva was not so famous as he, but Holy Trinity was stuffed full nonetheless. Her fellow dancers, slim and elegant, unmistakable even in ordinary clothes, stood closest to the altar, along with Nemetseva’s family and Katenka. Cécile and I hovered in the back, trying to avoid being crushed. I searched for Prince Vasilii but did not see him.
Able to understand only parts of the service, which was conducted in Russian, I nonetheless found the haunting chants unique to the Orthodox faith profoundly moving. Their beauty reached deep into my soul. At the end of the service, all those who wished to stepped forward to the coffin and kissed the icon placed on top of Nemetseva’s body. I had no desire to see the dead girl again. Once this ritual was complete and the coffin closed, those going to the burial processed from the church to the waiting grave in Tikhvin Cemetery, where the ballerina would rest among other great Russian cultural figures, Tchaikovsky and Dostoyevsky included.
Snow had been falling steadily all morning, and the wind picked up as we exited the church. Cécile, shivering with cold despite her furs, returned to the carriage, but I braved the weather and stood near the grave site as the bearded priest intonated a final prayer and the coffin was lowered. Mourners tossed coins into the grave, and the woman standing next to me, small and sturdy, dressed in felt boots and an ankle-length sable coat, shook her head.
“It is a bad death,” she said. “Nothing good comes after a bad death. All those close to her will suffer, not just from their loss, but from the misfortune that plagues the living after such a death. Destruction and misery will follow.”
“The ghost!” someone cried, and we all turned as one at the sound. I could not see well through the crowd and pushed my way ahead—gently and decorously, I hoped; this was a funeral, after all—until I saw her, standing en pointe atop a convenient gravestone, from which the snow had been removed. She was in the same white costume she had worn before and waved a familiar-looking crimson scarf.
She had chosen her stage to be at some distance from her audience, no doubt to ensure she could easily disappear before anyone might reach her, and the scene unfolded precisely in this manner. Several gentlemen and a handful of dancers ran forward, shouting for her to stay where she was, but with a graceful leap, she descended from the stone. A group of larger grave markers had surrounded her, and now she vanished behind them.
Knowing she would have made her escape before the mass of mourners surging forward reached the spot where she had stood, I followed at a reasonable pace, wanting only to secure the scarf she had left behind. I had to grapple with a burly gentleman who wanted to keep it as a souvenir, but, needless to say, I won the battle. Nothing else could be learned here as the mob had trampled the snowy ground that might have provided a trail of footprints along her escape route. I returned to the carriage. After holding the door open for me, the driver presented Cécile and me with a flask of vodka and two enameled glasses.
“I do not want it,” Cécile said. “But Masha swears it is the only thing that will keep us warm.”
I drained my glass in a single gulp. “I agree with her,” I said. “I feel better already.” Cécile, looking skeptical, followed suit and admitted that the subsequent warming sensation was nothing short of miraculous. The driver, smiling, now gave us a well-insulated vessel filled with steaming-hot, strong coffee. Although I generally despise coffee, in that moment I loved it dearly.
“I was thinking while I waited for you,” Cécile said. “If I were the ghost of a ballerina, I would not limit my appearances to such mundane surfaces as balconies and tombstones. I would hover right above my open grave and dance there, where no one could deny my presence. The fact that this ghost is apparently earthbound suggests to me she is human.”
“I’m not sure that your reasoning is altogether sound,” I said, “but I agree with your conclusions. She is a person, not a ghost.”
“It hardly matters what she is,” Cécile said. “The news of this return of the apparition will already be spreading through the city. It’s all anyone will be talking about by noon tomorrow.” On that point, I had no doubt she was right.
As instructed, the driver dropped me at the Mariinsky Theatre before returning Cécile to Masha’s. It was locked, but I gained entrance through a back door whose lock I picked with the small set of tools I always kept in my reticule. I knew the dancers and backstage workers would have all been at the funeral. If our mysterious ballerina had taken her costume from Madame Zhdanova’s workshop, she could easily return it now without drawing attention.
The costumes for Swan Lake wer
e no longer in the corridor outside the dressing rooms but had been moved back into the costume shop. I wished I had taken note of how many Madame Zhdanova had counted when I had last seen her. As I had not, all I could do was carefully inspect each one for signs of recent use.
Nothing seemed out of place, but it was possible I had beat the dancer back from the cemetery. It was also possible that she would not come here at all, but I thought it worth waiting to see. I looked around the room, pondering the best place to hide. A tall cabinet full of bolts of fabric would have made a snug spot were it not lined with shelves that made it impossible for me to cram myself in. In the end, I draped a mannequin with a piece of heavily embroidered velvet and crouched low behind it, close enough to the Swan Lake tutus that I would be able to observe anyone near them.
Colin has often told me that his work for the palace involves long periods of time doing nothing, and he views this as the most challenging of his tasks. Taking action, even in dangerous circumstances, is preferable to remaining inert. Never have I felt more sympathy for him than in those endless hours I spent on the floor of the Mariinsky costume shop.
At least it felt like endless hours. My knees were stiff and my legs cramped. I was too hot at first and then too cold. I shifted my position, trying and failing to find one that would be less overtly uncomfortable. Giving up, I began to silently recite The Iliad in ancient Greek. This kept my mind occupied but did not distract me from my physical discomfort as much as I had hoped.
An eternity later, I heard the door of the workshop open, followed by two sets of footsteps, one light, one treading harshly on the wooden floorboards.
“You should never have come here.”
I recognized Katenka’s voice.
“And you should be at the funeral reception right now.” The man’s voice was wholly unfamiliar, and while I was situated to be able to observe the Swan Lake costumes, I was not in a position conducive to watching anyone in the front of the room. A large worktable blocked my view.
Death in St. Petersburg Page 12