Encore

by Monique Raphel High

  Natalia started to laugh. “Too bad for our gallant Harvard blue-blood,” she said. “He’ll have to put up with us all the same.”

  Natalia adjusted the netted veil over her small face and made certain that the little black velvet hat fit her perfectly. For this strange occasion she had carefully chosen a gray wool suit bordered with silver fox fur and ankle-strap high heels of black patent leather. She had told her driver to wait in a cafe and had walked up to the tall house on the narrow Rue de Lille, across the Seine on the Left Bank. It was a long, picturesque street filled with small arches, balconies with flowers, and old restaurants with antique signs jutting above them. These Left Bank streets made one think back to the lusty days of France, the days of Louis XIII and Richelieu, of wenching and duels, of pestilence and sweat and plots and counterplots, of peasants and illiteracy and the intrigues of the court. Natalia’s heel caught on a cobble, and then she pressed a shining brass button and passed through a heavy black wooden carriage entrance into a small courtyard, somewhat dismal but well kept and also cobbled. In front of her was the house: the apartment was on the third and top floor. She now rang the doorbell.

  A rather dour-faced maid, in bombazine and white lace, let her in. “Madame is expecting you, but she is resting. If Madame will follow me?” Natalia nodded, and looked around her. They were standing in a beamed, white hall, adorned with four large, antique mirrors. In the corner was a Chinese vase filled with dried wildflowers, arranged to greet the eye with a splash of color. Natalia walked behind the servant into a dark passageway, hung with blue and gold wallpaper, and into a large, airy salon, where she was left alone.

  The salon had one enormous window, all of stained glass. Below it was a bench upholstered in green velvet, and to the left an alcove where a wide couch of lighter green stood flanked by tiny English Queen Anne tables. On each one lay a special knickknack: an antique music box, a cut-glass paperweight, and a miniature globe. Over the mantlepiece was another mirror and two vases from Thailand, adorned with coiling dragons. A bookcase was enclosed on either side behind glass panels. Natalia sat down on the sofa and tilted her head to examine the painting above it. Yes, of course, that was natural: the mermaid on her rock, overlooking the emerald sea, was perfect, her blue eyes mirroring joy, and peace, but also a certain fear and shyness, evidenced by the waves of golden hair that covered one round breast ever so gently, leaving only its twin exposed to the rays of the setting sun. How could he have failed?

  She heard a rustling noise and looked up. Galina stood holding on to the door jamb, and something caught in Natalia’s throat. The girl’s eyes were on her, large and full of that old serenity, the age-old wisdom of the elderly and those who have borne witness. Beneath a new coiffure of upswept hair that coiled into a full chignon on top of her head, her face appeared less round, more linear. The willowy shape, in its simple tailored dress of royal blue, only hinted at new plumpness just below the bustline. Where we all first show, Natalia thought. Three months . . .

  She rose suddenly and took two steps toward Galina. For a moment they stared at each other, each hesitating. Then, without looking at Galina’s face, Natalia pressed her arms around her, held her—and quickly released her. “You’re not doing so well?” she asked.

  Galina uttered one short nervous giggle, then stopped it with a hand to her throat. She shook her head lightly. “It’s nothing. It’s worth it, Natalia. Just dizziness, nausea. I’ll be fine next month, you’ll see.”

  “Have you informed your doctor about your mother? Her pelvis was very small. That’s why she was told not to have other children after you were born.”

  “It’ll be all right, really. I’m not worried. I want this child, Natalia,” The blue eyes were gently reassuring, bright with serene joy. Natalia bit her lip and said nothing. “I want this child.” How he must have exulted, hearing these words! Another one of my mistakes, she added bitterly.

  “That’s wonderful, Galina,” she said. “You’re very good with children. And Pierre will take care of you.” Her eyes blinked rapidly, like fluttering butterflies. “Galina,” she continued, “it’s about a child that I’ve come today. You must have wondered why this sudden visit.”

  “I was happy that you had at last decided to come. It didn’t matter why. When I came to you last time, I had hoped ...” She let the sentence hover in midair.

  Natalia shrugged. “Well. You must understand, Galina, that there’s been no person in my life about whom I’ve felt so good and so bad at the same time. I loved you the way a woman can only love another woman. I trusted you. And then, of course, I hated you. Now …well, things are different. You can’t expect the good to return to the way it was. I wish you all the best, but our lives don’t touch anymore, except in a single area. And that’s Tamara. That’s why I came.”

  Galina’s face had set, a glaze had come over her eyes. Now her mouth worked, and she leaned forward. “What’s wrong with Tamara?” she asked.

  “Everything. She feels betrayed, Galina. You know how she always felt about her father: He was perfect, brilliant and perfect; and I was human, and negative, and strict. You were her older sister. When Pierre …left me, she wanted above all to go live with you, her two favorite loves. I was the mean one, the barrier. I suppose I’m much to blame, because I was never a mother by choice, and because I had my own life to deal with. But I did try. It’s difficult to keep trying when a child resists you and prefers the other parent, the one who’s hurt you beyond all hurts, torn up your self-esteem. Still, I tried, because I loved her and she was my child. And very slowly she’s come around. She’s disoriented and afraid and confused, but at least she no longer detests me. We dance together. She wants to become a petit rat. When we don’t quarrel about the mess in her room, we even get along fairly well together. So you see, here we’ve been attempting to rebuild our lives, the two of us, but rather in vain: She feels that you and Pierre have abandoned her, that there’s no room in your lives for her anymore, now that you’re expecting a baby of your own.”

  Natalia had been speaking fast, the words pouring out, for she had been afraid to pause, afraid that if she did, her courage would vanish, her resolve seem silly, and her presence here, in this apartment where he now lived and which they had turned together into a home, would make her ill. “Tamara misses her father,” she added. “I know I resented his visits when I first learned of them. But I never told him not to come! It was his idea to go behind my back, to hide his comings and goings from me. Still—I didn’t think he would drop her, just like that!”

  “Pierre adores her, he always has,” Galina said, her tone somewhat hurt and defensive. “He used to go to the house, to see her, as you know. But then after the marriage it was more difficult. We had to move into—this place. Then I became pregnant. He’s had commissions, right now this canvas for Winnie de Polignac—and then, too, Natalia, your attitude was less than encouraging.”

  “Then he should have written me, or called me. She is more important than my feelings, or his, or even yours. Why didn’t he get in touch with me or inquire about his daughter? Why didn’t you?” Now Natalia’s face had reddened.

  “Because your words to me, that last time in your house, were plain enough. You thought that I was bad for Tamara!”

  Natalia swallowed. “All right. Look. Enough of that. I was bitter, you were offended. Do you or do you not wish to be involved in Tamara’s life? Because if you do, this is the moment to step in. It can’t wait any longer.”

  Galina pressed tremulous fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes. She looked suddenly very frail, exhausted. Natalia sighed and rose, and went to her at the opposite end of the long sofa. She bent over her and touched her face, with quick, deft strokes. Galina looked up, but Natalia tossed her head impatiently. “Lean forward,” she said brusquely.

  Then, climbing behind the girl onto her knees, Natalia applied her fingers to the nape of Galina’s neck, and began to massage her, smoothly, rhythmically. Silent tears welled
into the blue eyes, fell on her folded hands. Natalia rubbed between the shoulder blades, applying soft pressure. She moved down to the small of Galina’s neck, made little circles up and down, Something seemed to break inside Galina, and Natalia felt rather than heard the sob, through the tense muscles. Her hands stopped moving, remained poised over Galina’s shoulders.

  Natalia felt paralyzed by Galina’s tears, by the force of her distress. She wanted to pick up her bag and run, forgetting Tamara, forgetting everything. What was she doing in their home, anyway? She felt ashamed, embarrassed, afraid. Flee, Natalia, this is not your concern, she thought, and then, all at once, she realized that she was lifting Galina backward, toward herself, that her hands were firmly locked around the girl’s waist, that Galina, like a child had sagged against her breast, and that she was rocking with her back and forth, back and forth, in the eternal gesture of comfort.

  “It’s all right, my darling,” Natalia whispered. “It doesn’t matter anymore, it doesn’t matter. You can love him freely. I don’t love him anymore, it’s all right.” She buried her chin in Galina’s hair, kissed it soothingly, and repeated, with muted wonder: “I don’t love him anymore.”

  Hours later, when dusk had filtered through the brilliant panes of indigo and gold, Pierre came home and went to the salon to find his wife. The sight which met him glued him in place, stupefying him. Galina lay sleeping in Natalia’s arms, her face strangely restful, and Natalia, her arms around her, was silently waiting, immobile. He noticed her almond eyes first speaking to him, holding him at bay.

  Later he thought to himself, resentful again: It was like being an intruder in the Amazon, where no man is welcome.

  Natalia was packing. First she would be going to Monte Carlo, and then to London. In the spring the Salle Gamier in Monaco’s turretted Casino belonged exclusively to the Ballets Russes, but in winter it belonged to the opera, when, by their contract, the Russians lent their dancers to operatic productions in return for a “home” in which to rehearse for their own spring shows. This season Diaghilev would be putting on two operas by Gounod, Doctor in Spite of Himself and Philemon and Baucis, and it had fallen to Natalia to choreograph them. After that she would join Diaghilev in London, where he was preparing a season of ballet at the Coliseum.

  It was one week since Pierre had come upon Natalia in his apartment, and now he strode into her house, using his old key. Chaillou greeted his master with timid glee and told him where to find Natalia, in her boudoir. It did not occur to the old butler that to send Pierre thus unannounced to his mistress was no longer his job.

  It jolted Pierre to walk in on Natalia while she stood holding up colored hose, and asking her maid to pack them for her. There were beads of perspiration on his ex-wife’s upper lip, and she was clad only in her dressing gown, the Chinese one with the embroidered dragons woven into it. He stood incongruously aside and coughed.

  Natalia turned around, and so did the maid, who clapped a hand to her mouth. Natalia’s lips parted, the color leaving her face; then she appeared to regain her composure and said briskly, “You may come back later, Giselle.” The girl left the room and Natalia sat down in an armchair, swinging one leg over the other. When the dressing gown slid from her knee to reveal one clear, bare leg, she ignored it and asked: “What brings you here?”

  “You’re leaving for Monaco, aren’t you?” he asked rather roughly. He sat down on the edge of her bed, feeling ridiculous in this room, which literally breathed of her, which had seen so many nights with her, witnessed such violent arguments. The contact with her bed, her sheets, burned him. He rose and began to pace the room to relieve his nervousness. He could not look at her and knew that she was enjoying his discomfiture. Suddenly his hatred flared up and he cried: “How could you claim that I’ve stopped loving Tamara? It’s you who never wanted her!”

  “That’s old news, Pierre. Can’t we progress from that point? She’s here, and she’s ours, and we both love her. How many babies do you think are conceived as she was, haphazardly, unplanned? Hundreds of thousands, in and out of wedlock! But most of them are loved, nevertheless! You say that she’s so precious to you: Prove it then.”

  “I intend to. First of all, when you go to Monte Carlo and then to London, I’d like to take her. I’m entitled to her, damn it! She’ll see a great deal more of me and Galina than she would of you, with all your bloody rehearsals. And that American fellow, what’s his name? The one you spend your time with. I don’t want him alienating Tamara from me, d’you understand? She’s not to be a part of that!”

  “A part of what, Pierre?” Natalia asked icily.

  “You know what I mean! The man was your lover years ago. It’s obvious he’s fit right back into his old shoes, that you kept them for him in readiness, dusted and shined in your closet.”

  Natalia started to laugh, succumbing with sensual abandon to the ripple of mirth that cascaded out of her. Finally, she said, gasping: “My gentle Stu! He has ‘been here’ for Tamara, has come to watch her dance, has taken her to tea and to matinées of children’s plays.” Then, regarding him with infinite disdain, she remarked: “It’s not your business what I do. I’m not your wife. But I am Tamara’s mother, and I’ve thought of her. I don’t know how I feel about your taking her. She hardly knows you anymore. Stu knows her better!”

  White-faced, his black eyes glittering, Pierre said from between clenched teeth: “Why are you taunting me, Natalia? Why now?”

  She rose and shook herself easily, the folds of the gown slipping back into place. It was a graceful gesture of nonchalance, which caught at his throat the way only small gestures can. She looked up and was startled, for he stood poised, like a leopard ready to pounce, his eyes glued to her, eager to devour. She could not move. Then he seized her around the waist and pulled her to him, his fingers hurting the small of her back, her heart beating against him. He parted his lips over the white perfection of his large teeth, and drew nearer. Inside she felt as though a hot liquid were running through her veins, and still she could not move, stood dumbly in his arms.

  And then, abruptly, she stepped back and slapped him directly across the face, so hard that her fingers made a red imprint on his cheek, while he reeled sideways, blinking tears. “I am not Vendanova,” she said, her voice like a cutting blade. “Just because your wife is pregnant ...”

  Turning away, his hand on his cheek, he murmured in a monotone: “I’m sorry, Natalia. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t that at all. It was this room, it was …us, you. I can’t put it all away behind us. It’s there, inside me.”

  “Well then, you will have to learn to exorcise it by yourself,” she declared. “You’ve made your bed, now don’t go sleep in someone else’s. You’re out of my life, Pierre, blessedly out of it. Now stay out!”

  “I wish you’d never existed, Natalia,” he said and opened the door.

  I am not “I” anymore, I am “we,” Galina thought, holding her hand over the budding growth of her stomach. We…. He has given me of himself, and I have put my own self in, and the seed has grown and will be a person in his own right, in her own right. She breathed the winter air in deeply, trying to feel it, trying to sense the elements through her pores, so that this moment would last forever.

  “I wish it could be like before,” Tamara said to her, taking her hand. “You and I, and Papa and my mother. When you have this baby, what will it be? My brother? Or some kind of cousin?”

  “Your half-brother or half-sister. Will you help me take care of it, Tama?”

  The little girl shrugged and kicked a stone. “I don’t know. Babies are boring.” She looked into the distance, her eyes narrowing. “But maybe this one will die, like my brother Arkady.”

  Galina stopped in her tracks, her feet crunching the gravel of this forgotten path in the Bois de Boulogne. She blinked slowly. “Tamara, that’s a dreadful thought. Why were you thinking it?”

  “Papa often told Mother that Uncle Boris—was he my uncle, too?—carried weak blood. Wel
l, you’re part of his family, aren’t you? The Kussovs. Everybody talks and talks about them. Papa said that about his blood, so why not yours, too?”

  Galina’s heart was pounding ferociously, and without thinking, she backtracked to a small bench and fell into it, unseeing. Tamara ran up to her, suddenly contrite. “I’m sorry, Galya,” she said, putting her hand on the older girl’s arm. “It was just something I heard.”

  But Galina could not answer. A horrid fear had taken hold of her, was pushing into her, toward the core of her being. To Pierre she was in many ways only a Kussov, a symbol. A symbol of what, though? If Tamara could remember isolated phrases, why couldn’t Galina? A word here and there among Pierre and his various associates: Bakst, Benois, an irritated Igor Stravinsky, Diaghilev. Yes, something like that. A comment about Diaghilev? No, it hadn’t been that at all, it had been Cocteau, teasing Pierre one evening at Weber, just the two of them sketching amusing things on a tablecloth. They hadn’t seen her coming, and Jean had said, laughing: “Well, our immaculate count certainly had us fooled when he married Natalia. We’d always rather supposed that he was keeping you!” Pierre’s features had darkened, grown that purplish crimson hue that always frightened her, and then Cocteau had lightly shrugged and said: “Come now, there are worse fates for a man than to be kept by Boris Kussov.”

  I didn’t understand. I never thought to ask about this, Galina now realized, horror-struck. Pierre and her uncle, Natalia’s husband. But now it made sense, it fit, somehow. Boris Kussov, the missing link. He loves me because of Boris, she thought, despair filling her, her hands pressed together inside her muff. He wanted something out of the Kussovs. Boris is an obsession to him—because they were lovers, or because one of them wanted it and the other didn’t? But—which one? Did it matter? I don’t care! Galina cried silently. I don’t give a damn if he slept with Boris or with Natalia, or with twenty men and two hundred women. But I care about us, about him today, about whether he still loves me, or whether I have already disappointed him. If he married me to make a child with the Kussovs, then it isn’t me, it isn’t me he loves, but a false, gilded image of me! An image that is bound to be better, more perfect than I am.