Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  'If you say so, cousin,' Count Kokovtsov said dubiously.

  'I do.' The Prince stared down at his desk. 'Now, the least I expect, aside from the private performances in Russian which Flora is scheduling at the various palaces, is for Madame Bora to star in the last five performances at the Théâtre Français this season.'

  The Count looked shocked. 'Surely you are jesting!'

  The Prince shook his head. 'I assure you I am not. In due time Olga Botkina is to become ill and Madame Bora will replace her.'

  'I am afraid that illness cannot be contrived as conveniently as you like to think,' the Count said dryly.

  'But a short tour of . . . perhaps, Paris?'

  'If you insist upon squandering the family fortune, yes.' Count Kokovtsov sighed heavily and made as though to rise from his chair.

  'One moment. There is another subject I wish to discuss with you.' The Prince consulted the papers on his desk. 'The day after tomorrow, you will leave for Moscow. I want the sale of our Ural estates to be concluded as hastily as humanly possible.'

  'The Ural estates!' The Count sucked in his breath. This was the first he had heard of this new development. 'But . . . we are hardly what you would call financially strapped! If anything, we have an overabundance of cash.'

  'Be that as it may, there are other reasons for disposing of the property.'

  'But that could take months to do. Years, even. Vaslav, do you have any idea of how difficult it is to sell twenty-nine million acres?'

  The Prince forced a smile. 'I do. Finding a buyer for that massive tract would not be easy, although there are several families who might be interested. But I suggest you subdivide it into smaller parcels, say, of one million acres apiece. That way, I think we will not only be rid of it quite readily, but make a substantial profit besides.'

  For a moment they sat in silence.

  'Vaslav, as your financial adviser,' the Count said at last, 'I can only urge you to reconsider this.'

  The Prince held his cousin's gaze unblinkingly. 'And hold on to all our real-estate holdings?'

  'As your father, and his forefathers before him,' the Count said silkily, relieved to be back on familiar turf instead of the murky world of footlights and stage props. 'Need I remind you that a large part of the Danilov fortune is based on land acquisition and ownership? Do you have any idea how much money flows in from the timber, the mines, and the rents?'

  'I have all your figures right here at my fingertips,' the Prince replied gravely, fanning the papers out on the desktop. 'Now, as my financial adviser, may I ask you a few questions?'

  'Ask what you will.'

  'Then I shall speak candidly, and expect you to answer likewise. Mordka, do you have any idea of what is happening to this country?'

  'You mean . . . politically?'

  The Prince nodded.

  'Well, there is quite a bit of unrest, of course. But what country doesn't experience those difficulties at times?'

  'Mordka. Mordka. Put aside, for once, your rationalizations and blind faith in the Motherland. Look beyond our palace grounds and the vaults of our banking institutions.'

  'So?'

  The Prince sat forward. 'So what do you see?'

  'Well . . .' Mordka's mind was suddenly a maelstrom of thoughts. 'To tell you the truth,' he said uncomfortably, 'I haven't given it much thought.'

  'As I was afraid. But I have, Mordka.' Frowning, the Prince got to his feet and slowly paced the Chinese Room, his hands clasped in the small of his spine. 'I am concerned, Mordka, far more than most, about the current political unrest, and its repercussions down the road. I'm afraid I have trouble playing the ostrich, hiding my head beneath the sands of reality like so many of our fellow nobles.' He paused and sighed deeply. 'Have you listened carefully to what is going on all over Russia? I don't mean among our peers, but among the majority. The peasants. The students. Their teachers.'

  'Of course I've gotten wind of silly notions such as revolution.' Count Kokovtsov waved his hand irritably. 'Who hasn't? But you can't really believe—'

  'I do, Mordka.' The Prince laughed bitterly. 'It must not go beyond these four walls, but I've kept my ear to the ground. For quite some years now, I have been paying a network of . . . informants, and handsomely. Their prognosis, I hate to say, is not good.'

  'Prognosis! You make it sound like . . . like some disease!'

  'Mordka, Russia is suffering from a disease. A terminal social disease. But then, why should you be aware of it? You are insulated from day-to-day life and its tragedies. Everyone else within our circle is. I would be too, were it not for my informants. I realize, naturally, that when the time comes, they too shall turn against me. Even now, only the gold I distribute so lavishly among them assures their loyalty. That too will soon change.'

  'And this . . . disease you fear so greatly, cousin. What is it, exactly?'

  'Poverty, Mordka,' Vaslav Danilov said gravely. 'For centuries now, we have lived on the sweat and toil of millions— millions of slaves—and it is catching up with us. I fear we are hopelessly outnumbered. Perhaps we will even become extinct.'

  'Extinct!'

  'In the future, the same fate shall befall us as befell the slave owners in America and the aristocracy in France.'

  Vaslav continued, 'I also want you to start cataloguing and shipping our finest art treasures and antiques to the estate in Geneva. I feel they will be safer there.'

  Dumbfounded, Mordka could only nod again, and wonder for how long Vaslav had been planning this. He seemed to have thought of everything.

  Vaslav consulted another paper and pushed it aside. He sighed heavily again. 'As soon as you've parcelled the property in the Urals,' he continued, 'I want the proceeds of each sale to be deposited immediately in the Banque Danilov in Geneva. I do not want to wait for it all to accumulate before being sent. By then it might be too late, and the losses would be astronomical. Also, convert most of our cash assets into Swiss francs and have them sent out of the country.'

  'As you wish.' Mordka's mind was swirling with such a blizzard of thoughts that it was impossible for him to sort them all out. For the time being, he found it simplest to agree to anything his cousin ordered.

  'And one last thing, Mordka.'

  'Yes?' What else could there possibly be?

  'Our train.'

  'What about it?'

  'It is ready for immediate departure?'

  'At our usual railroad siding, yes.'

  The Prince's lips tightened. 'From now on, it will be waiting in readiness wherever we happen to be, whether in the Crimea, Moscow, or here. I want it fully fuelled and crewed at all times. That does not mean a skeleton crew, either. Oh, and have two extra wagons of coal added to the front.'

  'Really, Vaslav—'

  The Prince gestured to the Count. 'I have not finished. I also want six empty box-cars and two passenger cars added to the existing train, ready to be loaded within a few hours' notice.'

  The Count stared, tongue-tied, transfixed.

  Vaslav Danilov remained silent.

  When he recovered enough to find his tongue, Count Kokovtsov's voice was shaky. 'Vaslav,' he whispered in strangely pitched words. 'You're giving me quite a fright!'

  Vaslav still did not speak.

  The Count shuddered. 'I mean, a contingency plan is fine and well, but something on such a massive scale as what you're suggesting . . . well, don't you think you're carrying this a bit too far?'

  'I am not carrying it far enough, I fear. Now, it is important that the train looks ordinary and unostentatious in case we are forced to make a rather hasty ... ah, departure. Our coats of arms are to be sanded off the engine and the coaches, and painted over to look like any normal train.'

  The fear which already choked Mordka coursed ever more coldly through his veins. 'Vaslav, I hope for all our sakes that you are not clairvoyant.'

  'So do I, believe me, so do I. Meanwhile, follow my instructions to the letter. And do not fail me.' The Prince gestured
with authority. 'Now, go. You have plenty to occupy yourself with.'

  Count Kokovtsov rose and beat a hasty retreat, his mind spinning out of control. He was glad to leave so he could sit down to sort things out in his muddled mind.

  Once alone in his parlour, Mordka rang for iced vodka and drank straight from the bottle while he brooded, his eyes fixed on the dancing fire. After a while the icy heat of the vodka and the warmth emanating from the redolent spruce logs began thawing his ice-cold fears.

  Vaslav obviously had matters well under control, so why worry himself unnecessarily about the fickle future? he asked himself. Besides, there was a sterling-silver lining to the particular storm clouds Vaslav was predicting. If anything . . .

  Mordka's heart skipped a beat and he suddenly sat bolt upright.

  If anything, the winds of political change only played into his hands. He usually received a five-per cent commission on all purchases and sales conducted for the Danilovs, and would earn likewise on the sale of the Ural estate. Five per cent of twenty-nine million acres would amount to a tidy sum. Plus this was the ideal opportunity to skim a little off the top. After all, with twenty-nine million acres, one or two million wouldn't be missed.

  Hell, he thought, taking another swig from the bottle, he stood to make a bloody fortune.

  In the meantime, more and more of the Danilov fortune would seep quietly into Switzerland.

  Chapter 13

  Senda's energy and resolve began to return in mid-January.

  Finally forced to accept the fact that Schmarya had deserted her and that languishing in the palace might be the stuff of romantic heroines but highly inconvenient in real life, she drew on all her reserves of strength and came back to life with a new surge of direction. Although she had missed performing The Cherry Orchard at the Yussoupov Palace, Countess Florinsky had arranged for two other shows to be performed soon, one at the Yelagin Palace and the other at the Stroganovs'.

  'It's too soon, Flora!' Senda had tried to beg off numbly when Countess Florinsky informed her of the impending productions. 'I just can't! Not yet!'

  'Oh, but you simply must!' the Countess had cried. 'Not for yourself, of course. We can always take care of you and the little one. But what about the rest of the troupe? My dear, I do believe they're counting on you. If you don't accept these offers, what is to happen to them?'

  What indeed? Senda asked herself morosely, seeing no way out of her predicament.

  The next weeks were crammed with all the exhausting exigencies necessary for Senda's resurrection. It was a tiring but welcoming period of transition, and she had little time to mourn for Schmarya, a fact for which she was extremely grateful. And Countess Florinsky had magically produced what seemed to Senda an astronomical sum of money.

  'It's just an advance installment, my dear. The second half is coming,' the Countess told her, folding Senda's hesitant fingers around the crisp new bills. And she added, lying glibly, 'Of course, I've already taken out my commission, so you needn't worry about that.'

  By the beginning of February, Senda was almost completely back on her feet. On the morning of Friday, the sixth of that month, Countess Florinsky steered her to what she called 'a modest but respectable' high-ceilinged apartment near the Academy of Arts, with tall rectangular windows overlooking the Neva.

  'I know it's on the wrong side of the river,' Countess Florinsky apologized, 'but it is furnished, and rather nicely, and it does have three bedrooms, along with this nice parlour. It's just what you need for holding your salon.'

  'My . . . what?' Senda peered at her friend closely.

  'Your salon, of course! It goes without saying, my dear, that you'll have to do a bit of entertaining. It's the thing to do, you know.'

  Slowly Senda explored the apartment, peering into closets, roaming from one room to the next. Even in the bitter, windswept freeze of deep winter there was a decidedly warm and elegant air about the apartment. The salon was simply furnished and spacious, with heavy wooden furniture, a ceramic fireplace, and a black grand piano. There were classical chiaroscuro prints on the walls, a brass and glass-globed chandelier, and bentwood chairs. Heavy opaque puff curtains and gossamer white net curtains hung over the windows, and the sofa was covered in tapestry. The glossy wooden floor was warmed by several geometric-patterned Oriental rugs, and occasional tables were draped with thick embroidered cloths. The small dining room off the salon was austere, with lilac-coloured walls, a heavily carved armoire, and four chairs around a plain white-draped square table over which hung another brass chandelier. Senda was delighted with the smallest of the three bedrooms, for which the Countess had shamelessly looted some of the treasures from the Danilov nursery: a crib, playpen, pint-size chairs, and a profusion of toys. Tamara would be in heaven, Senda knew, and thanked Countess Florinsky profusely for having thought of it. 'Eh? But it is nothing,' the Countess assured her with an idle wave of her hand, looking rather pleased with herself despite her modesty. The largest of the bedrooms was any lady's dream, Senda thought. The walls were covered with pale blue watered silk, and the brass-framed botanical prints and flowered glazed-chintz curtains gave it a gardenlike cheer. But it was the kidney-shaped dressing table, which flaunted three layers of ivory lace flounces, that made it so decidedly feminine. On its glass-topped surface were laid out all the implements necessary for feminine grooming—two silk-shaded lamps flanked a round silver-framed mirror, and around it were arranged silver combs and brushes, bottles of lotions, perfumes, and eau de cologne, and a delicate crystal vase of pink tea roses. And the Spartan, utilitarian third bedroom, Flora informed her, was for a live-in servant.

  'But I've never had a servant!' Senda moaned with dismay. 'I wouldn't know what to do with one!'

  'You don't have to do anything, which is the point of having a servant. I think a general housekeeper with nurse's training is best. You don't really need more than one servant for the time being, but you do need a housekeeper and a nurse for Tamara. After all, you can't drag her to the theatres for rehearsals every day, and then to performances every night, can you? She would become an exhausted wreck, the poor thing. Besides which, all respectable families have at least one live-in.'

  'When do you think we can move in, then?' Senda asked softly. She barely trusted herself to speak, so afraid was she that vocalizing anything to do with her good fortune would somehow cause her to awaken from this cornucopia-filled dream.

  'Anytime, I suppose,' Flora said with surprise. 'After all, it's yours. The pantry is stocked and there are linens on the beds. The kitchen has all the pots and pans and dishes you are likely to need.'

  Senda took a deep breath and barely hesitated. 'This afternoon, then,' she said firmly.

  Countess Florinsky smiled. 'As long as it makes you happy,' she said warmly, hugging Senda tightly.

  The palace slid out of sight as the sleigh carrying Senda and Tamara turned down an allée of ice-frozen trees, the skeletal branches glassy with the veneer of crystalline ice. Nightmare trees, she thought, each one a solitary sentinel well-spaced from the next. A sob caught in her throat. Damn. Those wintry trees were but a reflection of her own life.

  The sleigh picked up speed, the bells on the horses jingling with false merriment. She blinked her eyes and sniffled. A lump blocked her throat and the mist in her eyes welled up into a blur of full-fledged moisture. Lost forever, she feared, was the warm, welcoming touch of Schmarya's body. The safe haven she had sought in his arms. His loins. His heart. His soul. She drew a quivering breath and dabbed ineffectually at her eyes with a gloved knuckle. Her stomach was squirming and the length of her intestines gnarled into a tight, spastic cord.

  You're alone, alone, alone! a voice within her chanted its singsong message. You're now father and mother both. You're the breadwinner of the household and solely responsible for your daughter. Nothing you want counts for anything anymore! You've made your choice and you have a career. But you're alone, alone, alone!

  Alone!

  Impul
sively, as though to draw strength from her daughter, she leaned forward and pressed a trembling kiss against the back of Tamara's bright red knitted cap, resting her lips on the scratchy wool in a long, drawn-out kiss of anguish.

  She could feel Tamara's strong arms and feisty legs as she squirmed impatiently on her lap. For a moment longer she held her child close, then let her go. Even before she loosened her grip, the little girl was clambering about the seat.

  She closed her eyes, making the rest of the short journey in self-imposed darkness. She dreaded facing each long, empty minute remaining of that year. That month. That week.

  Especially the rest of that day.

  To her surprise, however, there was no time to spend considering the bleakness of her situation. Tamara explored every nook and cranny of the new apartment, mesmerized with the room full of toys and insisting that Senda play with her. Then she was hungry, and Senda made them both something to eat. To her astonishment, she herself had a ravenous appetite.

  The afternoon was gone.

  That night, when shadowy self-recriminations over losing Schmarya were sure to engulf her, promising to keep her awake, it was other doubts which preyed on her mind. Turning down her new bed, she let out a cry of dismay, dropping the sheet as she recoiled. She stared at the white linen as if she'd found a snake lurking under the covers.

  In a way, she had.

  Elegantly but discreetly embroidered in white silk thread, the comforter, sheets, and pillowcases all displayed the small but unmistakable twin-headed eagle crest of the Danilovs.

  She sat heavily on the slipper chair, wearily covering her face with her hands.

  So the bedding was the Prince's.

  Her mind began to reflect unhappily on the probable course of events.

  If the bed linens were the Prince's, didn't it only make sense that the pots and pans in the kitchen belonged to him also?

  And if they did, wouldn't the furniture? And perhaps even the apartment itself?

  What, then, about the stage roles which she was scheduled to play at the various palaces? Had they, too, been arranged through the Machiavellian machinations of Vaslav Danilov?