by Judith Gould
'Vaslav Danilov!' a loud, sharp voice cracked whiplike from behind them above the strains of Johann Strauss. 'Your . . . Highness!'
Still waltzing, the Prince turned his head in the direction of the voice, his face puzzled at the menacing tone. Senda turned also. They waltzed in place.
The man in evening dress was short and pudgy, and his corpulent face was red and quivered with rage.
The Prince's eyebrows lifted. 'Do I know you, monsieur?'
'You damn well know my wife!' the man yelled in so loud a rage that the dancers around them stopped in mid-step and the orchestra's music slowly faded. A hushed and pregnant silence suddenly hung over the ballroom.
'I am afraid this charming lady is not your wife,' Vaslav Danilov said with amused restraint, but his features had hardened. 'Now, if you will be so good as to—'
'Don't humour me!' the man screamed, his dark eyes flashing fire. 'Of course that's not my wife. My wife's at home! Pregnant with your child!'
The Prince was silent while he collected his thoughts. 'Monsieur, if your wife is indeed pregnant, and you decide to lay the blame at my doorstep, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss it. Now, if you will excuse me—'
'Bastard!'
'Begging your pardon, monsieur . . .' the Prince said quietly through clenched teeth, his temper simmering.
'Don't pretend innocence, you sanctimonious bastard!'
'I think you had best leave at once,' the Prince suggested coldly, fighting to keep control of himself. He signalled to his private guards, but they froze the instant the man reached for a revolver and held it outstretched in both hands, the barrel pointed at the Prince.
Simultaneously, a gasp rippled through the guests surrounding them.
Senda gripped Vaslav's arm, but he slowly pushed her aside, out of harm's way. 'I suggest you put that thing down before something happens which you might regret,' he told the man with steely calm.
'Regret!' the allegedly cuckolded husband screeched in a blind rage. 'You're the one who should regret what he's done!' The revolver clicked malevolently as he cocked it.
Shivers of terror ran up and down Senda's spine. She uttered a silent prayer, knowing a miracle was called for.
Apparently undaunted by the danger, Vaslav took a step forward, his hand outstretched, palm up. 'Give it to me,' he said softly.
'No!' the pudgy man's eyes ran rivulets of tears. 'Don't come any closer!'
'Give it here.' The Prince took another step forward. 'Nothing will happen to you.'
'Get back? the gunman wept. The gun wavered, and just as the man pulled the trigger, a Hussar standing near Senda lunged for the gunman, deflecting his aim as he wrestled him to the floor. The shot rang out like a clap of thunder. A woman screamed, and overhead, a chandelier shook and tinkled; then several crystals, brittle wax stalactites, and pink roses rained down around them with a clatter. A bright bubble of ruby blood welled up on the Prince's forehead and trickled down his cheek. It was a moment before Senda realized the scream had come from her.
'It is nothing. I have only been grazed,' the Prince said mildly, reaching for a handkerchief and dabbing his wound. Senda watched, still paralyzed, as the gunman was dragged off, weeping noisily.
No one dared move. In the silence, one could have heard a pin drop. Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed to Senda that the moment the gun had gone off, the candles in the chandeliers had flickered and dimmed, the cut pink roses had drooped and rotted, and the fairy-tale world had been fouled by the stench of jealousy and violence.
Wordlessly she ran toward Schmarya, while the Princess raced to her husband's side. Schmarya enfolded Senda in his warm, comforting arms. Her eyes filled with tears. 'I want to go back upstairs,' she whispered bleakly.
He nodded, leading her by the arm toward the Ambassador's Staircase. She climbed the steps blankly, as though hypnotized. Below, the interrupted waltzing began again.
'It's funny, isn't it?' Schmarya said softly as he led her back through the succession of enormous rooms, 'I can think of a dozen revolutionaries who would have given their eyeteeth to have a crack at the Prince. And with every good reason under the sun. Now, someone tries to kill the son of a bitch, but for the wrong reason. A woman.' He shook his head in disbelief and laughed mournfully. 'It seems our Prince has made one too many beds for him to safely lie in.'
Chapter 10
Senda spent most of the following two days in the Leather Room of the Danilov Palace, where she was comfortably curled up in a leather armchair. The name of the room derived from the burnished brown and gold tooled French leather covering the walls, as well as the similarly clad bindings of the volumes lined neatly on the shelves and stacked with military preciseness on the gleaming tables all around. A tole lamp cast a warm circular glow of light from the table next to her. Its gleaming surface was cluttered with the piles of hardbound plays she had selected to read, the ubiquitous steaming silver samovar, a plate of petits fours, and glass cups set in sterling holders with sterling handles. There were used cups left over from her last visitor.
Eight times that day, she had had surprise visitors dropping by for tea.
She forced herself to concentrate on the open book in her lap. It seemed unbelievable that after having to share a single precious, tattered copy of a play with the entire cast, here she was, ensconced like a queen, lap robe and cakes on hand, with every available published play bound in tooled leather and printed on the thickest, most expensive rag paper.
Would the luxuries never end? she wondered from time to time. She was so grateful that they had been invited to remain at the palace. They had been informed by Count Kokovtsov that the ever-generous Danilovs were certain the troupe would be receiving invitations for work elsewhere in St. Petersburg and were welcome here until plans were worked out.
Thoughtfully she flipped a page, forcing herself to forget her visitors for a moment and focus all her attention on the lines. Silently she mouthed a few to herself and nodded. Of all the plays she had been thumbing through, Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard impressed her the most. It was definitely the best bet by far. She was glad her first visitor had specifically asked for The Cherry Orchard to be performed at the party soon to be given at the Yussoupov Palace. Princess Yussoupov was the niece of the Czar, young, but not to be taken lightly. And she had dropped in unnannounced, as casually as she would have gone shopping, to ask Senda if she would agree to perform it.
Senda had never felt so dizzy from excitement in all her life. Princess Yussoupov! A real-life princess had come to her, hoping to hire the troupe for a performance at her palace.
She was euphoric with joy.
But even more surprising was what followed: a steady succession of visits from the Shuvalov, Sheremetev, and Stroganov palaces had kept her busy all morning and half the afternoon over tea in the Leather Room while discussing the possibilities of performances in their various palaces during the following weeks. Incredibly, during that one afternoon it would have been possible to actually do the impossible—book the entire season.
With every new offer, her eyes had glowed as she tried to conceal the triumphant excitement building within her. They had done it. She had done it. They were the rage. This unknown theatre troupe which had trudged hungrily from province to province was suddenly the talk of the capital of all the Russias. She couldn't wait to tell Schmarya and the others, but for the moment she kept the secret to herself, cherishing it until she could spring it on them.
Distracted by a mysterious thumping, she glanced down at her feet. Tamara had been playing quietly since Inge, the nurse, had brought her in, but now she was disgustedly shaking the stuffed pink bear she'd dragged in with her.
Smiling, Senda placed the open book flat on her lap and regarded her daughter with fond pride. She shook her head in disbelief. It was hard to imagine Tamara was over two years old.
She was delicate but large, with white-gold hair and inquisitive solemn eyes. Her features and character were
developing at an amazing rate. The loveable if somewhat irascible child had inherited Senda's beauty and Schmarya's temperament. Those pale green eyes, almost almond-shaped, were like her own, but she had definitely inherited Schmarya's boundless energy, curiosity, and cunning. She fought constantly to gain everyone's attention, lurching with determination after any adults within her sharp eyesight, tugging at their legs for the attention she so desperately sought, and assuming a heart-breaking expression if it was not instantly forthcoming. Attention had always been showered upon her, if not by Senda or Schmarya, then by the doting members of the troupe. Tamara had been unofficially adopted by them all.
She's really become quite spoiled, Senda realized. Why haven't I noticed before?
'Surprise!'
Startled, Senda jerked as Schmarya burst into the library with sudden fanfare.
'My God, you gave me a scare!' she reproved him gently as he picked his way around the tables and bent down to kiss her cheek.
Tamara tottered swiftly toward him, whooping: 'U'cle Schmarya! U'cle Schmarya!'
'How's my favourite princess?' He scooped Tamara high in the air and twirled her around like a madly flying bird, his lips making the buzzing noises she adored so much. She flushed with pleasure, squealed with delight.
Senda's eyes filled with tears. They usually did when she heard their child calling him 'uncle' instead of 'poppa'. For the thousandth time she cursed their decision of two years before. It had been a mistake, she often thought. After fleeing the pogrom, they should have pretended to be husband and wife, but when they had first joined the troupe of players it had been easier on both their consciences not to have to lie too boldly. Of course, there had been no end of questions. Even actors were not without curiosity. Why did they not get married? Especially since she was with child?
How could they have begun to explain?
It would have been easy enough to marry. Solomon was dead, and marrying his brother would have brought no shame upon any of them. Indeed, under Jewish law Schmarya would have been expected to marry her. But curiously enough, both she and Schmarya shared the belief that it would somehow be morally wrong to legalize and sanctify a union which had begun as the most dreadful of all sins. It was yet another problem which on occasion had threatened to tear them apart, and at the root of it all lay guilt: her guilt for disgracing her husband, his guilt for stealing his brother's wife, their combined guilt for having survived the pogrom.
Schmarya was saying, 'Hey! Senda! Why the morose face?' He swept Tamara through the air, her arms spread like wings, steered her toward a chair, and plopped her down in a smooth, sweeping landing. Then he grinned, flashing Senda a triumphant sparkly smile. 'I've got wonderful news! Guess what?'
She reached for his hand. 'What?' She smiled.
'I've found us a theatre!' Excitedly, he crouched beside her chair, his eyes glowing. 'Put on your best dress, lover, we're going out on the town. We're all going to celebrate. But not too formal, eh? No gowns tonight.' He laughed, obviously pleased with himself.
Senda was too stunned to speak.
He'd found them a theatre?
Senda felt a thin cold knife slicing into her belly, and she had to avert her gaze, staring down at The Cherry Orchard on her lap so that he would not see her dismay.
'Where is . . . this theatre?' she finally managed to croak.
'Well, not in the best section of town, naturally. I mean, we can't expect that. We just came here. It's across the river in the Vyborg section; it's poor and industrial. We're certainly not going to become rich, but we'll have everything we need. It's a theatre, Senda! I couldn't believe my luck. Some acquaintances of mine knew about it and steered me there. We can rent it for a song. The last troupe which played there put on socially significant plays. So will we. What do you think?'
'And how did the last troupe fare?' she asked pointedly.
He ignored her. 'It seats two hundred and has an adequate stage. Nothing fancy, and not much in the way of wings, though . . .'
Suddenly she felt fearful. There were so many questions she'd avoided lately. Questions she'd adroitly sidestepped or silenced before they reached her tongue. Questions such as: Where were you last night? Questions whose answers she was afraid to hear.
She sighed deeply. She had always tried to avoid making so-called wifely noises, knowing how he hated them. But now she felt compelled to ask one of those questions, fear of the answer aside.
'Just who are these acquaintances of yours? And where did you meet them?'
'Can't tell you that, my love,' he said lightly. He jumped to his feet, tugged off his jacket, and flung it over his shoulder. He stooped to plant another kiss on her unyielding cheek. 'I've got to go change. I can tell by your expression that you're surprised. I would be too, in your shoes. Who can believe such luck?' He laughed again.
She had to clear her throat in order to speak. 'Schmarya,' she said shakily, no longer sure of herself, 'I have something to tell you too.'
'Later,' he said breezily. 'Over dinner tonight.'
'No! It's important.'
'Can't be as important as the theatre, can it?' His eyes twinkled as he swaggered past the tables piled high with books. 'Especially not with your stage blood. No, I didn't think so.' He was already at the door. She had watched his progress as though in a dream. 'Now, go along and get changed. We'll break the news to the others over the wine.'
She nodded numbly. 'All right,' she whispered tightly as the door shut. She sighed deeply and pressed her forehead with her fingers. She'd been too startled, too shaken, to interrupt and tell him about Princess Yussoupov and the others.
The afternoon seemed suddenly to have darkened, as if an evil cloud obscured the sunshine. Which was ridiculous, of course. There was no sun. Darkness had already fallen.
She slid out of the chair and went stiffly over to the window. She wrung her tapered fingers nervously. The night shone with moonlit clarity, throwing ghostly shadows of the palace's onion domes and spires across the snow-sheathed park.
She shut her eyes in a mournful pain. Like it or not, she had no choice but to upstage Schmarya's find. Steal his thunder. Hers was the golden opportunity of a lifetime. If they didn't seize upon it immediately, it was unlikely to come within reach again.
And yet she couldn't shake the terrible feeling that just as things between the two of them seemed to be on the mend, her news would drive yet another stake, perhaps a fatal one, into the heart of their already strained relationship.
Aloud she prayed, 'Not an ultimatum. Please, Schmarya, don't make it an ultimatum.'
He exploded.
'Damn you!' Schmarya yelled, bringing his fist crashing down on the plank table with such force that the crockery danced and glasses fell on their sides. One of them rolled off the table in the ensuing silence and crashed to the floor, shattering upon impact. Everyone seated at the long rectangular table jumped. 'Damn all of you!'
Senda's face flushed as she felt the eyes of the other diners in the restaurant riveted on their table. In the shocked silence she could have heard a pin drop.
'Please, Schmarya,' she begged softly. 'Everyone's watching. Can't we discuss this quietly, like adults?'
'You bitch!' he stormed, his face a bright crimson as his fury built and brewed like a madly roiling cloud. His body trembled with rage. 'You goddamn bitch! You couldn't tell me about all this this afternoon?'
Her embarrassed gaze held his flashing, accusing eyes. 'I wanted to ... I tried to, but you were so geared up about the theatre that you never gave me a chance!'
He laughed insanely, and she cringed. She had never seen him like this. 'You never got the chance?' he bellowed. 'What about me?' He planted his splayed hands on the rough table and leaned over it, towards her. 'How could you let me make an ass of myself jabbering on and on in front of everybody about the theatre I found and then break in, oh so innocently' —he proceeded to toss his head and mimic her sarcastically in a high-pitched feminine voice—'Schmarya, I didn'
t have a chance to tell you this before, but we've had some offers . . .'
She shut her eyes against the hateful spray of his spittle.
'And you. And you. And you!' He focused his madly burning eyes on each of the other members of the troupe in turn. They sat there stiffly, wide-eyed with shock. 'When we joined up with you, what were you doing? Playing villages! Who brought you to the towns and the cities? Who brought you here? Who always scouted ahead for theatres?'
There was silence.
'I'll tell you who brought you here! Me! I've had the vision and courage to look ahead for you . . . you spineless second-rate idiots! And what do I get for thanks?'
No one dared breathe.
'I'll tell you how you've thanked me! By deciding against me. All for this'—he pushed himself away from the table, straightened, and primped with grotesque feminine gestures— 'this Princess Yussoupov!'
'Schmarya, this is nothing personal against you,' Alex, the old troupe member, murmured, his gaze concentrated on the pine table. 'It's just that the Princess and all the other private performances guarantee us the best chance.'
'Chance? For what?' Schmarya sneered. 'Fame? Fortune? Is that what you want?'
Alex compressed his lips tightly, his cheekbones flexing. He would say no more. It was as impossible to break through Schmarya's ramparts of rage as it would have been to knock through the stone battlements of the Petropavlovsky Fortress barehanded.
'Well, I'm through with all of you, you hear? I'm packing my bags and leaving!'
Senda reached out to touch his arm, but he recoiled as though from a serpent. 'Bitch!' he whispered.
Her eyes were shining. 'Please, Schmarya, don't be so angry. It's the opportunity of a lifetime. Can't you see that?'
'Listen to yourself. You're stage-struck.' He eyed her mockingly. 'The big actress. The leading lady.' He gave a hollow laugh. 'Well, so be it. I wash my hands of you. All of you! See how far your kowtowing and ass-kissing get you with these princesses and countesses, but don't come running back to me.' He snatched a bottle of vodka off the table and, although he was not drunk, lurched heavily to the door.