White Ice

by Celia Brayfield

  Now the calm of the hour held a sense of premonition, as if the next phase of the apocalypse was soon to begin. A soft, veiled light, dimmed early by gathering clouds, shone on the white balustrade of the verandah. In the distance the leaves of a line of willow trees gleamed silver as if already in moonlight.

  ‘Aren’t you longing to go home?’ Tata asked her, gazing at the lovely scene with sadness in her eyes. ‘I cannot wait. When I see beauty like this and I’m far from where I want to be it just seems like a cruel joke, as if some malicious devil has conjured the whole thing up to make me feel unhappy.’

  Lydia frowned, unwilling to endure half an hour of mournful nonsense from her friend. Tata was a bore in her oversensitive moods. ‘Come on, show me your portrait,’ she demanded, catching her hand and pulling her firmly to her feet. ‘I’ve seen those wonderful chalk drawings, now I want to see the real thing.’ Five years earlier Lady Ripon had commissioned John Singer Sargent to paint Karsavina; the picture now hung with his companion portrait of Nijinsky in the Marchioness’s study, while the artist continued to be fascinated by Tata’s beauty and returned every year to sketch her in rehearsal.

  The portrait was only a temporary distraction; soon Tata continued her previous train of thought as if uninterrupted. ‘Normally I’d be happy to stay in London for a few more days, but this year I feel different …’

  ‘You’ll be on your way to Petersburg tomorrow,’ Lydia reassured her. ‘And I’ll be on my way to Monte Carlo to wait for my darling Niki. Home is where the heart is as far as I’m concerned.’ False conviction gave her words too much emphasis. She was resolved to stay in Paris for as long as it would take to see Madame Arbeau and dispose of her pregnancy for good.

  Her predictions proved to be untrue. The following morning Tata burst in on her behind Céline with her breakfast tray, her hair flying loose like a maenad’s and her eyes positively sparking with annoyance.

  ‘The nerve of this man! I’ll never work for him again, never! I know I always say that but this time I mean it! Can you believe this?’ She brandished a note under Lydia’s sleepy nose. ‘Take a good look, it’s a note, and Sergei Pavlovich never writes notes, so this is a collector’s item! Do you know that man owed me two years’money? Two years! I knew it was too good to be true, just this week one of his backers came to my dressing room and gave me two thousand pounds. So I banked it. Now Diaghilev wants to borrow back £400, and begs me to delay one more day in London to go to the bank with him! And he knows I’m dying to go home. Fool that I am, why did I ever believe I’d be paid in full?’

  ‘You’re not a fool, you’re an honest person and you can’t understand how the mind of a cheat would work.’ Lydia pulled herself up to rest against the pillows which Céline arranged behind her back and waved the breakfast tray away. The mere smell of coffee made her feel ill.

  ‘He’s not a cheat, he’s a genius, I do believe that. I just wish he would pay more attention to his contracts – heaven knows he’s tough enough when he negotiates them. Wait! Céline, don’t take that tray away …’ Another envelope, identical to her own, was tucked into the toast rack. She passed it to Lydia and watched intently while it was opened.

  ‘Oh dear. Tata, I’m the cause of it all – he owes me £400 and here he is promising that I’ll be paid tomorrow! Robbing Peter to pay Paul – isn’t that typical? Well, I’ll tell him to pay me in Petersburg then we can get out of here.’

  ‘You will do no such thing.’ Tata was suddenly composed. ‘After all this time I’m used to Sergei Pavlovich’s little ways but there’s no reason you should make allowances for him. I feel responsible, I got you into this after all. I won’t hear of you doing anything but accepting your full fee. At least if I have to wait in this wretched place for one more day I shall have good company. We’ll make him buy us the best champagne in town. Oh look, they’ve brought you that wonderful cream for your coffee – if you’re not having some, may I? My own must be quite cold by now. You’re sure you aren’t hungry – look, there’s that bacon stuff, it’s delicious the way they do it in England … isn’t it nice to be able to eat whatever we please now we’ve got nothing to do for the next two months?’

  Long afterwards both women were never able to see a silver jug of cream without remembering that morning, the last carefree hours they were to enjoy for many years. One day’s delay for the sake of their improvident impresario was to cost them more than they could possibly have imagined.

  The evening brought another telegram from Orlov. ‘Come home at once, fastest possible. My worst fears confirmed. No peace until I see you, Niki.’ She hesitated. They had already waited a dreary hour with the concierge, who had difficulty in changing their carriage reservations, and was able only to offer Tata an ordinary second-class seat for part of the journey to St Petersburg.

  Diaghilev called on her before dinner with a grave face. ‘Tata tells me you still intend to stop in Paris – don’t do it, Lydia Alexandrovna. I’ve heard from Petersburg that the order for general mobilization will be given tomorrow. The embassy will advise all Russian nationals to return home immediately. Then there’ll be a mad stampede, so go now, I beg you.’

  ‘But why? I don’t understand.’ She was still reluctant, looking forward to the sybaritic life of the Riviera. Madame Arbeau’s ministrations were not so vital, since at home the Finnish woman would be just as capable of freeing her from her stubborn burden.

  ‘There’s going to be a war.’ He nodded with raised eyebrows, as if teaching a simple word to a small child. ‘Russia is going to declare war on Germany, and with any luck our allies England and France will pitch in. Don’t worry, if they do it’ll all be over by Christmas. But you mustn’t be caught in the wrong country or you’ll be interned – or worse. There have been riots all over London today, mobs turning on anyone they consider a suspicious foreigner. We’ve all got to leave.’

  ‘But there are no reservations to be had – Tata’s had to go second class half the way.’

  ‘My dear, would you rather travel second class or spend six months in a rat-infested prison and be grateful because you’ve escaped lynching on the streets?’

  She saw that he was serious and sighed with annoyance. ‘Very well. I’ll change my plans.’

  ‘Here are your tickets.’ He pulled them from his jacket pocket, neatly wrapped in the Thomas Cook folder. ‘I took the liberty of having the concierge change them as soon as I got the news. You leave together at six a.m. God go with you. Now let’s go down to our last supper.’

  ‘Won’t you travel with us?’

  ‘Alas no. I shall be sailing for New York tomorrow. The Americans have pleaded with me every year to take the Ballets Russes over there, and now I think the time is right to give them what they ask.’ He extended his arm and she took it with every outward show of grace, feeling nothing but dislike and distrust. ‘I’m so excited about America. They have no ballet, indeed, scarcely any culture at all. Can you imagine what an impact our dancers, our composers, our artists will have on them? It will be extraordinary, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. How thrilling to appear before people who have no idea what to expect, to step out on the stage and capture their entire hearts – but not by the tired old expectations of tradition, no! Raw emotional impact – that will be all! Do you know, I’ve heard that even savages in the jungles of Brazil will respond to the music of Mozart played on a phonograph …’

  He was still painting the picture for them when they sat down for dinner. Lydia waited until he drew a new breath and then remarked, ‘How gratified my Niki will be to see his mobilization strategy in action at last. Do you remember how proud he was, Tata, when His Imperial Majesty honoured him with the order of St Gabriel for his work on the plan?’

  Diaghilev paused, open-mouthed. She imagined him to be properly reminded that she was one of the most powerful women in Russia, even if she had agreed to return there in a second-class seat.

  As their train crawled through Berlin it stopped at every stati
on and yet more Russians embarked, thrown into a panic by the mysterious rumours which they trusted totally while ignoring official statements, and consequently desperate, terrified and determined to return home no matter what dangers or discomforts lay ahead. They were a few miles from the border, late in the day, when the news passed from mouth to mouth that the German Kaiser had declared war on his cousin the Tsar.

  As if to confirm the words, the train ground to a halt a few minutes later, and a detachment of German soldiers stationed themselves along its length. The passengers were allowed to leave the sweaty, airless carriages and walk along the track while the sergeant argued with the train driver and signals were sent back and forth.

  Russia lay only a few yards away. Every time she had crossed at this point in the past Lydia had looked with contempt at the tumbledown houses of unpainted wood, surrounded by scrawny chickens and haphazard haycocks, on the side of her own country, and preferred the solid stone cottages of the Germans, with their neat, abundant vegetable patches and flocks of fat geese.

  In normal times she despised the Russian porters, who scrambled forward to welcome each traveller with the words, ‘Safe homecoming!’ They intended no goodwill, it was done to get a good tip. The chief Customs officer, a balletomane, had once recognized her and come running from his office to order that her luggage be treated carefully. Orlov had smiled with satisfaction at that. ‘Your face says more than my coat of arms ever could,’ he whispered in her ear as they followed the caravan to their new stateroom.

  Russia was now dark and quiet. The German sergeant ordered them all back to the train and as they wearily boarded their carriage Lydia heard one man tell another that the first shots had already been fired.

  It was still light when they reached Berlin. As they walked from the station down Unter den Linden, kicking up crumpled proclamations like autumn leaves under their feet, they clutched their silk wraps around them and tried to conceal their jewel cases in their folds, uncomfortably aware that they were sufficiently elegant to attract attention. Behind them their maids dragged their feet fearfully. Lydia felt her petticoat cling to her thighs with more than the mere clamminess of perspiration. She was aware of a faint raw ache in her lower abdomen and, convinced that she was bleeding at last, shook off her weariness and strode forward with new energy.

  The Russian Embassy was like a house where a death had occurred, shuttered and still. She remembered it blazing with light and noise the year before, when she had attended a ball for the Kaiser. Now there were only two obdurate officials in the hallway, facing a desperate crowd who waved papers and shouted their demands to the empty rooms.

  ‘I can’t help you, Mademoiselle. The embassy train is completely full. Look, look – here is the list of passengers. We can’t even get all of our own staff on it, let alone people who walk in off the street …’

  ‘How dare you refer to me in that manner? Do you know who I am?’ Lydia flew into a tantrum of rage. She shouted her name, the name of Prince Orlov and the names of every prince and duke she had entertained in Monte Carlo. The tirade immediately produced a result. A door at the far end of the hallway was unbolted and opened, and a clerk appeared to invite her and Karsavina to the Ambassador’s office. Their maids scuttled after them.

  The Ambassador was hastily struggling into his jacket. The room was in chaos, with packing cases full of papers stacked on every surface and more clerks frantically writing labels and lists.

  ‘I most deeply regret that I cannot offer two such honoured artists immediate conduct out of Germany, but the authorities have told me that anyone travelling on the embassy train who cannot produce a diplomatic passport will be executed summarily as a spy.’ He spread his manicured hands, asking mutely what one could do with such people. ‘What I can do is commend you to the embassy of a neutral power. His Excellency the Spanish Ambassador has been a dear friend to us here in Berlin and you may have complete confidence in him.’

  He gestured to a clerk to bring pen and paper, and a note was rapidly written and sealed. To their relief a car and a driver were summoned.

  The Spanish Embassy was also shuttered, but it was clear that the kindness of the Ambassador had been well known to all his colleagues, for the building, large as it was, was bursting with English, French, American and Russian people, shepherded from one room to another by dark young men who glanced uneasily at each other as if for reassurance. The atmosphere was tense but ordered. Their introduction took them directly to the Ambassador’s office; Lydia was immensely embarrassed to notice that she was indeed bleeding heavily. Dark red streaks marked her stockings and so much blood had collected in her shoes that her feet made squelching noises at every step.

  The Spanish Ambassador gave them shelter for the night in his own home, but by morning pains like knives were tearing at Lydia’s stomach. A Spanish doctor came, treated her with contempt when he realized her condition and gave her tablets which she did not take. Tata, from whom she could no longer conceal the truth, hovered over her like an anxious angel.

  ‘What are we to do? What are we to do?’ she asked no one in particular over and over again. She was the kind of woman whom everyone was always alert to help. Lydia began to run a fever. She had lost a great deal of blood, and was dramatically pale and immobile.

  The events which took place thereafter were recounted to her by Céline. She herself was only rarely conscious. She felt as if she floated through each day, dimly aware of people in the distance expressing worry and distress. The pain in her abdomen raged and throbbed. Her head was like a baby’s, too heavy to hold up. She was eternally thirsty but vomited even water. After a while she saw no more faces, but heard only voices telling her she was leaving, but she did not know where she was or what her destination would be.

  As she surrendered to her illness, the Ambassador consulted his wife, and the three of them had a long, awkward discussion. The embassy could not shield them without risking its own status. Paris had just declared war on Germany, the border with France was closed, and might shortly become a battleground. Karsavina could have a pass to Holland and might, from there, be able to get a boat to England, from whence she could travel on to St Petersburg, but Lydia was in no state to endure such a long, uncertain and dangerous journey, and with such a handicap Karsavina herself might be unable to find a passage.

  Immediately a perfect solution presented itself. The Monegasque consul, no longer able to share a roof with the French Embassy, arrived to open a temporary office in this welcoming pocket of Spanish territory. On seeing his car and trunks, all emblazoned with the Monaco arms, Tata proposed that Lydia travel in the care of her maid to her own villa in the principality, there to recuperate and travel north again when her health was restored.

  In a day she was provided with temporary Monegasque documents. Tata travelled with her in the embassy car to Hamburg and saw her settled aboard a Swedish liner bound for Marseilles. She revived slightly once at sea, and took a little liquid, but at the end of the week-long voyage she was still feverish and too weak to speak. The driver came from the Villa Cassandra to fetch her. It was some weeks later when she woke up to find a pink face peering into hers.

  ‘There you are,’ she heard a voice heavy with the accent of the South of France purr above her. ‘You’ve come back to us at last. You’ve been very ill. You’ve had pneumonia. But our prayers have been answered. And don’t worry about your baby, Madame. Everything is fine.’

  18. Leningrad, 1988

  When he heard that Mikhail Gorbachev was the new Soviet leader, Lovat decided to telephone Kolya Kusminsky and suggest that he drop in for a chat. ‘Is better you come evening.’ The old man gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Evening I am good.’ The shop in the courtyard off the Rue Jacob now sold stationery, Florentine paper, Mont Blanc pens, sealing wax in a dozen bright colours, under the management of Etienne Sokolov. Kusminsky worked from the apartment.

  An entryphone admitted Lovat from the street, and another opened the door of the apartment
itself. Kusminsky’s voice called, ‘Come, please,’ from the half-open door of the sitting room and Lovat found him at his desk in a swivel chair. Age and illness had shrivelled him; he was now a small figure and his glow of good living had dimmed to a grey greasiness. His eyes were invisible below the slack overhang of their lids. He wore an opulent jacket of midnight-blue brocade, and a cashmere rug covered his legs.

  ‘You drink champagne.’ It was somewhere between a question and an order. He retrieved a bottle from the deep, brass-rimmed ice bucket on a side table, patted it tenderly with a napkin and removed the cork with a chromium contraption. Pouring was a test of his strength, and when he passed a glass to Lovat he swayed off balance and a few drops splashed to the floor. ‘Excuse please. I give last year one leg to cigarettes. L’artériosclérose. Is difficult’ He patted his left thigh, producing a dead, metallic sound. Involuntarily, Lovat’s eyes went to the feet. Two black velvet slippers embroidered with stars rested on the floor, one foot less symmetrical than the other, although the black silk socks made it hard to tell.

  ‘I am sorry.’ How chilling the difference in the man in only five years.

  ‘I also. Nostrovya! Cheers!’ They touched glasses and sipped, then paused in appreciation to watch the bubbles rise. ‘I expect you. Your wife come …’

  ‘We are divorced.’

  ‘Of course. I remember. She come, she ask if you also come, I say no, she say very good. But he will. He will come. And then – you telephone.’ He seemed to be thoroughly amused. Suspicions teemed in Lovat’s mind. Did Kusminsky consider himself loyal to Bianca, because she was Charlotte’s granddaughter? Would he offer bad advice or send him on a false trail? ‘You also looking for early twenty-century Russian work, Constructivists, Blue Rose Group – Popova, Larionov, Goncharova?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stage design, ballet design, backcloth …’