White Ice

by Celia Brayfield

  ‘Alas, yes. He has a way of persuading one … he wants to take Boris Godunov to Paris, you know – a designer’s dream …’ With an apologetic shrug, Leon Samilovich backed towards the door.

  ‘You’re wasting your time. He’ll never get the backing, which will be a blessing because the Parisians would die of boredom long before the end of Boris.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you’re right, Victor, but for a friend, you know, I promised … farewell, goodbye, until next time!’ Almost squirming with embarrassment, the little artist slipped through the door and closed it silently as if a noise would release a storm of wrath.

  ‘Surely Grand Duke Vladimir will put up the money? Didn’t Chinchilla get him to be the Committee’s President?’ Only those who knew her well could see that Tata was concerned.

  ‘He’ll lose it if he does. My guess would be that he will withdraw. Diaghilev’s not in fashion at the moment. The man’s a swindler, he says so himself. And he can get away with all kinds of degeneracy in private but when his insane arrogance makes him think he can fight over his catamites in public …’ Dandré’s cold stare sifted the loyalties of the whole room.

  ‘He and that awful cousin of his were thrown out of Cubat’s restaurant last week – they were fighting over some boy.’ Anna’s brooding face was the picture of distaste.

  ‘Well’ – Tata turned to the censorious couple with frank eyes and a sweet smile – ‘we’re lucky he’s lost interest in the ballet then, aren’t we? We never see him nowadays, since he fell out with the Director.’

  Despite Bakst’s warm invitation, the party broke up shortly afterwards and Leo walked Lydia and Marie homewards. It was early autumn, and the night sky was still silvery with the afterglow of the aurora borealis, but the wind across the water pinched their faces with cold.

  ‘That champagne was awful.’ Lydia stared across the grey river, feeling her anger rise now that they were alone.

  ‘It was just French – drier than our Russian fizz. Haven’t you ever had French champagne before?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a connoisseur.’

  ‘I’m not.’ For a while they walked on slowly in silence until Leo could not bear any more. ‘So, what do you think of my idea, Lydia? Don’t you think it’s good?’

  ‘You asked Anna to dance the pas de deux.’ At last she turned around, but her stony face shocked him. ‘So much for your admiration for my dancing.’

  ‘Oh Lydia, don’t be hurt. You can see how things are with her and Dandré and he’s the boss, after all. Believe me, I’d a thousand times rather create something marvellous for you than have to beat my brains out finding something she can do with those pitiful knees of hers. But don’t worry, no one will look at her when you’re on the stage. It’ll be your night, Lydushka, trust me.’

  ‘Trust you! You get me to persuade everyone to come and then this is how you repay me. You know I’m being persecuted by the management. You say you care about me, but when you do things like this how can you expect me to believe you – or trust you?’

  ‘But what else can I do?’

  ‘I just hope she falls into the prompter’s box again, that’s all. That’ll teach you to respect a real dancer.’ She folded her arms crossly and accelerated away from him.

  ‘Oh Lydia, you must understand!’ Marie ran to her side and put her arms around her shoulders.

  ‘I understand, of course. But you can’t expect me to be pleased, surely. Leo can understand that, I hope.’

  ‘Please, Lydushka. I can’t do anything else. And maybe it will work out, you know. I know Sergei Pavlovich wants Anna for his Paris season if it comes off.’

  Lydia gasped, momentarily winded by multiple jealousies. ‘Paris! Oh, it’s not fair!’ was all she could say.

  ‘Now what’s eating you?’ Leo halted, waving his arms with anger. ‘You wouldn’t join Chinchilla’s tour if he asked you, you haven’t a good word to say for him, and if it happens it will all be Mikhail’s Greek stuff and you hate that too. I’ll never understand you!’

  ‘It’s not fair! Why should Anna be going to Paris when she hates fun and parties and clothes and having a good time, and she’s a prig and a bore and a cripple and she only gets decent reviews because she sleeps with the critics …’ In the glow of the street lamp Lydia’s eyes were so bright and full it seemed as if she were about to cry.

  Marie hugged her briskly. ‘Lulu, darling! Only one critic, you be fair now.’

  ‘Well, one was enough.’

  ‘But now she’s stuck with that revolting Dandré and you and I can dance in his gala and have our pick of all the officers in the Horse Guards. So, who’s having all the luck really?’ A small sniff wrinkled Lydia’s nose. ‘And you’re strong and she’s weak, and you’re beautiful and she’s got a nose like … like … a haystack … and think what she’ll look like in that short skirt, and your legs are the best in the whole company.’

  Balancing on the edge of the pavement, feeling his calves stretch as he dropped his heels towards the gutter, Leo distracted himself from their hideous frivolity by analysing the way the two women were posed to express despair and consolation; this useful intellectual exercise was all that prevented him from screaming with exasperation.

  In a little while Lydia allowed herself to be restored to reason, and they prepared to walk the remaining few hundred yards to their apartment, the women arm in arm, with Leo sulking beside them. ‘Wait,’ he ordered at the next corner. ‘We can’t separate like this, still at odds with each other. Aren’t you hungry? There’s a little place I know just over there, we can have some fish with salad and a drink perhaps …’

  ‘I know your “little places”,’ Lydia snapped at once. ‘It’ll have sawdust on the floor and some drunk scribbling on a napkin and calling it poetry. You only want to bore us with your ideas for another couple of hours. No thank you, all the same. I wish I’d stayed in and done my sewing, at least then I’d have achieved something tonight.’ They proceeded miserably onwards until they reached their building, which was entered through a small courtyard.

  After the women went inside an overwhelming gloom descended on Leo; he sat on the mounting block in the gateway as if pushed down by a giant hand. Lamps were turned on and off behind the blinds of the apartment, but the shadows were so faint he could not make Lydia out or identify the room where she slept. He shut his eyes and filled his head with imaginary dancers, tireless automata with bright smiles who demonstrated whatever combination of movements he chose to consider. When the lamplighter passed in the milky mist of dawn he was still awake, but so cold the old man had to drag him to his feet and walk him down the road until the blood was again pumping freely in his veins.

  They were given the Ekaterinsky Theatre in which to rehearse, a small, windowless auditorium more like a concert hall and seldom used. Lydia worked in a poor spirit. Her anger towards Leo grappled for attachment but found none and so raged unexpressed and consumed her energy. As time passed and Les Pléiades took shape it became clear that it was a major achievement for such a young aspirant to a profession which demanded maturity.

  The pas de deux proved to be precisely as Leo promised, a romantic piece pervaded with neurotic melancholy, ideal for Anna’s emotional manner. Technically it was harder than it appeared, for Leo had borrowed his mentor’s style of blending turns and jumps into expressive sequences, but it was within the older dancer’s range. The dances for the remaining six stars were charming and gave each the opportunity to do what she did best. In Lydia’s case she was to begin by flying diagonally down the stage in two thrilling series of leaps; what followed was fast and brilliant, testing her strength to its limit, until she left the stage with another jump into the wings. Hard as they were, she found it easy to infuse the steps with character and make them into something witty and coquettish.

  ‘Magnificent!’ Leon Samilovich was almost jigging with delight when he arrived with the final costume designs. ‘The Shooting Star, eh Leo? You’ll bring the house dow
n, I guarantee it. What do you think – the white dress?’

  ‘I thought the red.’ Leo was demonstrating a gesture to the angular Inna and did not look round.

  ‘Leo, how could you? I look awful in red, you know I do.’ She sounded shrewish, even to herself, but was unable to sweeten her tone.

  ‘Whatever you like. I didn’t plan the ballet around the colours of the dresses!’

  Leon Samilovich shrugged and winked at her. ‘The white one, yes?’

  As the rehearsals continued the rest of the young company became a gleeful conspiracy, keeping to themselves the certainty of their success. Their excitement was noticed, and shadowy figures began to appear in the dim hall while they worked. One day Lydia was surprised to see the once-familiar dark mass of Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev assuming a seat in the exact centre of the auditorium.

  ‘What’s Chinchilla doing here?’ she asked of no one in particular. Six of the girls were sitting at the back of the stage, watching Inna run through her variation.

  ‘Leon must have asked him, they’re really thick still, aren’t they?

  And look at him buzzing over like a wasp homing in on the jam pot.’

  ‘Isn’t that Mikhail Mikhailovich, too?’

  ‘Looks like it.’ The clean-cut face of the ballet master was easily recognizable despite the poor light.

  ‘And there goes Leo – trust him not to get left out when the gods are gathering together.’

  ‘He’s mad.’ Lydia pronounced her verdict as the older men shook Leo’s hand and kissed his cheeks, congratulating him with obvious sincerity. ‘They got the police to throw Sergei Pavlovich out of the theatre last week because he came in and started interfering with the new ballet, and now Leo’s giving him the red carpet treatment. If he wants to get on he really should take more care who he makes friends with.’

  ‘Oh do grow up, Lydia.’ Anna’s eyes never left the conversation in the stalls, though her tone was passionate. ‘Leo knows what he’s doing. Who cares what those fools in the management think? They’re just Court hangers-on, they don’t know anything about art. The world doesn’t end at the banks of the Neva, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s easier to appreciate if you’ve had the opportunity to travel, Anna.’

  ‘So I’ve been abroad a couple of times, so what? I can’t help it if people want to see me dance.’

  The companionable group broke up within a minute, dispersed by the senior dancer’s insufferable complacency, and Anna, oblivious of the rolling eyes and insulting gestures behind her, tripped away to join the men. Mischa Alexandrov appeared to help her down from the plank bridge over the orchestra pit, and jumped up to the stage himself.

  ‘Lydia Alexandrovna! I hoped I’d find you here. And is your little blonde friend around? Ah yes, there she is. Marie, isn’t it? Let’s find somewhere to talk.’ With a confidential touch under her elbow he guided Lydia to a comer screened by discarded scenery, one of those disregarded spots which make backstage a natural habitat for conspiracy.

  ‘My dears, I must congratulate you. This ballet is absolutely exquisite! Dazzling, just dazzling. Everyone’s talking about it. Our little Leo’s going to be a star. You’re so lucky to be chosen, nothing like this ever happens to me.’ A tragic look passed over his noble if rather coarse features and he sat uncomfortably on a trestle. ‘Now, my dears, I’ve a little invitation for you. Some of my friends – and you know I am lucky in my friends, some of them are really quite well connected – some of them are going to be helping at this gala. It’s sort of a tradition for the Horse Guards, you know that too, I’m sure. They want to give a little party afterwards in a restaurant to entertain some of the gorgeous dancers who’ve so kindly worked so hard…’

  ‘Oh, cut the crap, Mischa.’

  ‘My dear, they didn’t ask for a little scrubber with a mouth like a fishwife.’

  ‘Oh don’t be upset, Mischa darling, Marie’s just pulled a muscle and she’s fed up this morning, that’s all. Now, tell us, where is this party to take place and who are these smart friends of yours exactly?’

  ‘The dinner will be at Cubat’s – where else? And the host, will be General Ragosin, so his nephew Alexis will be there, and all his crowd, Basil, Andrei, Pierre, the usual people …’ It was his manner to drop Christian names by the basket-load so that listeners were too afraid of appearing gauche to demand better identification. General Ragosin’s nephew Alexis, however, was known to them by reputation for he was assiduously courting one of Tata’s friends.

  ‘Isn’t Alexis Ragosin the one who’s mad about Lulu Kyasht?’

  ‘You do keep up with the gossip, don’t you?’

  ‘Be serious, Mischa – suppose Marie’s brother-in-law won’t let us accept this invitation? If Lulu is there, then Tata might be too, which will be very good because everyone knows Tamara Platonova never does anything improper.’

  ‘Cunning little vixen! My dear, I’m sure Lulu will be invited, and her prim friend too.’ There was a world of difference between a guest being invited to such a party and her definite acceptance, as all three of them acknowledged with crisp nods of their heads.

  ‘So you will ask this brother-in-law’s permission and let me know tomorrow, yes?’

  By immediate unvoiced agreement, Lydia and Marie adopted expressions devoid of interest and gave their casual assent. Alexandrov had strolled away reflecting on the silliness of all little tarts who affected virginal poses when they were ready to act like cats on heat at the sight of a dress uniform. As if to prove him right, Lydia and Marie fell into each other’s arms miaouing with delight as soon as they were alone.

  ‘At last! Now we’re on our way!’

  ‘But do you really think we should go, Lydia? You know what people say about Mischa’s friends. They can be pretty wild and we don’t want to get bad names right at the start.’

  ‘Are you serious? The first nibble we get in two years of waiting and you’re messing about wondering if we’ll ruin our reputations?’

  ‘It can happen – we’ll never do as well as my sister if we get a bad name.’

  ‘We won’t get bad names unless we deserve them, silly. We’ll be as proper as nuns and everything will be perfect, trust me.’

  ‘I trust you until the end of creation, pet. It’s me I’m worried about – all those lovely men!’

  The day of the gala seemed blessed by Providence. Lydia had decorated her daily round with a dozen tiny superstitions, beginning with the encounters on her way to Theatre Street. That morning she passed a hunchback, which seemed even luckier than a pair of magpies. Her right foot was leading when she reached the staircase; in class Legat had no words of criticism for her at all, which was quite just since she was moving like an angel. To crown everything, at the Ekaterinsky for the last rehearsal a high wind blew in a window pane, which even Leo agreed was the hand of God breaking glass for luck.

  Since the time when she had danced her solo as a child at the Hermitage, she had a private name for the sense of being possessed by a high destiny which had animated her then and had since recurred, although randomly and seldom. She called it simply the Magic Spirit. As she was hooked into the white dress for Les Pléiades she craved that blissful sense of certainty in her limbs again, but attempted to smother the impulse, feeling sure that if she was too knowing the spirit would not come.

  The ballet was well received immediately, with warm applause breaking out so often there was a danger that they would spend more time bowing than dancing. Pavlova’s claque had infiltrated the event, no doubt subsidized by Dandré, but there was so much enthusiasm, and so many boisterous young men in the audience, that their orchestrated responses were drowned.

  When Lydia took the stage for her solo she felt confident, but sad that she was correct, and that the Magic Spirit had been scared away just by her invocation. And then, when she made the final jump in her first series, she knew it was with her. All sense of weight and effort left her body, and she had a split second in which
to catch the conductor’s eye before flying away upstage to begin the next sequence. Throughout the audience she heard people murmur and gasp, and then applause began to break out even before each new display of her virtuosity was fully completed.

  By her final attitude the audience was in uproar, and she saw through the haze of the footlights that half the crowd was on its feet to hail her. She made her curtsies to the prescribed formula – right to the Imperial box, tonight occupied by Dandré and General Ragosin, left to the Director, whom she was gratified to see had risen to his feet; two steps forward, a sweeping curtsey to the stalls, then looking up with a smile for the final curtsey to the gallery. Looking sidelong into the wings too she saw her companions bruising their hands in a frenzy of appreciation, and Leo with his dark face convulsed with emotion. She heard whistles and cheers, cries of ‘Bravo’and ‘Bis, bis’, calls for an encore, but another glance offstage revealed Pavlova in a shadowy corner, her face immobile with anger.

  The spirit seemed to be with her still, and Lydia found her arms gathering the love of the mass to her heart and then asking, with a gesture of modest grace which was quite unfamiliar, to be released. In a few seconds people began to sit down and the noise rolled away like passing thunder, allowing her to skip prettily aside and the next section of the pas de deux to commence.

  Her state of grace passed, and as soon as the performance had reached its triumphant finale she was impatient to don the pink mousseline dress at last and be away to supper. Leo’s praise, reserved for her first, was rudely brushed aside and she paused only an instant longer to receive the congratulations of Leon Samilovich, who appeared backstage with a tall white-haired man, the eminent balletomane General Count Besobrasov, whose endorsement could well make all their fortunes.

  Alexandrov, hitherto in the young women’s eyes nothing but an ageing dancer who grew more pretentious with each passing year, suddenly appeared magnificent in his evening clothes, with a monocle which comically magnified one of his large blue eyes. Complimenting them on their own finery, he escorted Lydia and Marie to an open carriage driven by a fat coachman with a groom in uniform beside him. At their appearance the two men jumped smartly down from the box to settle them comfortably with a heavy fur rug over their knees.