The Last Days of the Romanov Dancers

by Kerri Turner

  Luka’s eyes found the casting notice pinned to the middle of the board, and his gaze travelled down it slowly. There were no surprises really: Mathilde Kschessinska was cast as Princess Aurora—a role Luka thought her too old for; Pierre Vladimiroff was Prince Désiré; and Valentina Yershova was to be the Lilac Fairy. The roles of the other fairies, Gold, Silver and Sapphire, were given to Olga Spessivtseva, Lubov Yegorova and Felia Doubrovska; and the Bluebird was Anatole Vilzak. Still no surprises. Luka would have been shocked if their names hadn’t appeared on the casting list.

  Then he saw it. The reason Xenia had been so insistent on getting him to look at the noticeboard. There, beside the role of Puss in Boots, was the name Luka Zhirkov.

  He looked at Xenia incredulously. Her hands were clasped together, and in her onyx eyes was an excited light that Luka knew mirrored his own.

  ‘You got it,’ she said. ‘You got a role.’

  Luka let out a shout and picked Xenia up by the waist, swinging her so the skirt of her ballet dress flared out around her like a snowy fan. Those nearby looked at them with disdain, but Luka didn’t care. It was only a small role—a comic pas de deux in the wedding scene with the White Cat—and if Luka had been given a choice he would have preferred the Bluebird, where he could show off his virtuosity and draw the audience’s eyes to him, not his partner. But it was a step out of the corps de ballet and it tasted glorious.

  ‘Luka, stop!’ Xenia gasped, her fingers clawing at his back through the fabric of his tunic. ‘I’m going to hit someone!’

  Luka gently put her down and she swayed, pink-cheeked, then took a couple of stumbling steps to the side. Luka laughed at her, his own eyes swimming with dizziness.

  ‘Oh, sorry!’ Xenia cried, straightening herself. She stepped aside to let the person she’d bumped into pass by.

  It was Valentina Yershova. Rubbing her arm where Xenia had jolted it, she stared at them. ‘Perhaps the corridor isn’t the best place to be doing … that,’ she said, her low voice holding a cool edge of displeasure.

  ‘Sorry,’ Xenia said again, looking anything but. ‘Luka got cast in his first role and we were celebrating.’

  Valentina’s eyes flickered to Luka. She barely held his gaze for a second before she walked by. She didn’t look at the noticeboard.

  ‘You got the Lilac Fairy,’ he called after her, thinking she would want to know. It was the most sought-after female role aside from Princess Aurora herself.

  Valentina paused, but didn’t say anything before sweeping into one of the studios.

  Xenia grimaced at Luka. ‘What a cheerful soul that one is.’

  Luka laughed in agreement. Nothing could bring him down now. Not the surly demeanour of another dancer, nor the loss of his gloves. Their disappearance couldn’t be an omen; not after this sign of recognition from the company. He would find the gloves again, and send up a prayer of thanks to his mother when he received his renewed contract.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Winter 1914

  Dismissed from her Lilac Fairy rehearsals for the day, Valentina roamed the halls of the Mariinsky, looking for a spare rehearsal room to continue practising on her own. She had a pair of long socks pulled over her pointe shoes, and a short fur cape wrapped tightly around her shoulders to keep the cold at bay. She paused at the doorway to one of the studios, saw it was taken, and went to move on. But then she recognised the person inside and hesitated.

  It was Luka Zhirkov, the promising young corps dancer. His hands were held out in front of him, and in his reflection in the wall mirrors Valentina saw a frown. He was practising the Puss in Boots pas de deux; Valentina had performed it many times herself and recognised the playful steps. There wasn’t much use in practising without a partner, though. Stepping into the studio, she cleared her throat.

  Luka jumped, his hands falling to his sides as a blush crept up his cheeks.

  ‘Puss in Boots pas de deux?’ Valentina asked, pulling the collar on her fur cape higher.

  ‘Yes. I … I was just practising …’

  ‘A little difficult without the White Cat.’

  ‘She preferred to sit next to the stage and knit.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Valentina had been in the wings when Luka had rehearsed the pas de deux in front of the ballet master. He’d only learned the choreography that week and was struggling with his timing. The woman cast as the White Cat had made her disdain for him clear. It made Valentina scornful. The woman had been in the company for nine years and was only now being given small roles. Luka had already matched her after just a few months. If she were smart she would foster a relationship with him instead of letting jealousy get the better of her. But that was the reason people like her stayed in the lower ranks, while those like Valentina rose through them.

  Valentina thought it likely that Luka’s timing was off due to nerves. She’d seen it in the way his movements became almost frenetic with energy when he stepped onto the stage. With practice and a few more roles behind him she doubted it would be a problem any more. As yet, the young man seemed unaware of his own talent, or the fact that the company had noticed it and no doubt had plans for him. Which meant he was ripe for cultivating as a partner. With luck and clever manipulation on her side, they might one day be a great duo, like Karsavina and Nijinsky. But first, she needed to test his skill for herself.

  She undid the ribbon of her fur cape and dropped it to the floor. Luka drew back, as though he expected her to remove the rest of her clothes too. Valentina almost sneered. Luka Zhirkov was not the kind of man who could afford that pleasure. Bending down to hide her expression, she tugged the socks off her feet, then pressed first one foot, then the other, onto the tips of her pointes. ‘Well, come on then,’ she said, and strode to one corner of the studio. She stood there, arms ready à la seconde.

  Luka was still standing in the same spot, watching her with a bewildered face. ‘I don’t …’

  ‘Don’t what? Don’t think I know the pas de deux?’

  ‘No! I know you’ve performed it before.’

  Valentina gave a nod. It always satisfied her when people remembered her performances. ‘Then you also know that I know what the company looks for in the piece. So come on.’

  Luka gazed at her, his expression still unsure, then slowly moved to the opposite corner.

  With a couple of arabesques and some cat-like hand gestures, Valentina moved around the open space, the familiar steps igniting a spark in her that was rarely there these days. A moment later, Luka had joined her in the centre of the room. Valentina stepped into an attitude en pointe, and Luka’s hands landed on her waist, his cheek pressed against hers. The roughness of his stubbled skin took her by surprise; she’d been thinking of him as a boy, naive and pliable. But of course, he was a young man. Valentina broke away, and Luka pursued her. She turned on him and chased him back with a series of playful pas de chat. Both their hands were curled in cat-like claws, which they unfurled at each other—and when Luka met her eyes she saw that he was smiling. She turned her face away.

  Maxim would not like this. He was a possessive man, and Valentina did her best to please him. But she couldn’t pin all her plans on him. Dimitri had left her before she became principal, and there was no saying that Maxim wouldn’t do the same if she failed to make him her husband. She was not going to ignore opportunities to make useful connections of her own. And besides, Maxim would never find out.

  Luka moved to stand behind her again. Her leg was raised to the side, and he ran his hand down it. Even through the thick material of her stockings she could feel the warmth of his palm. The smell of his soap mixed with sweat made her suddenly aware of his masculinity again. Her weight almost shifted off her pointe, but Luka sensed it and corrected it for her. That was promising—a good partner should always be able to sense the centre of balance of the other and help compensate when it went wrong. His hands were on her waist again, and Valentina unfurled her leg to the side in a long développé. Luka’s hand reac
hed for her foot and she batted it away, perhaps a touch too hard. His grip changed, one arm curling protectively around the front of her body. Another développé, and another hit of his hand, then she was turning to face him. She saw that he was grinning.

  ‘You’re not supposed to laugh,’ she said, lowering herself to flat feet and running her hands down the skirt of her ballet dress to smooth it.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just the piece …’

  ‘It is a comical one. That’s why the audiences enjoy it so, I suppose.’

  Their eyes met, and Valentina took an unconscious step away from him. He no longer had the boyish softness the young ones all entered with. She knew that in the years she’d been with the Imperial Russian Ballet, her face had changed too, becoming older, harder and yet more refined. She had the urge to reach up and touch his features, to trace them, as if that way she could understand the meaning behind their change, and perhaps find some answers to her own.

  ‘Excuse me, do you know—oh!’

  Valentina and Luka both turned to the doorway. Standing there, one hand on the frame, was the corps woman Luka had been flinging around in the hallway the day of the casting announcement.

  ‘I apologise. I didn’t realise you were in here,’ the woman said.

  ‘You were talking to an empty room, then?’ Valentina couldn’t help the retort. She didn’t like the way the woman was looking at her. There was a superior glint in her eyes, and the way her mouth twisted up at one side spoke of disdain.

  Luka was already crossing the room with eager steps. Valentina’s chest burned. She was the highest-ranking dancer here; it was she who should be given favour. Not some rude little nobody who’d interrupted where she wasn’t wanted.

  ‘Xenia, you were looking for something?’ Luka asked, meeting the woman near the door and taking one of her hands in both of his.

  ‘You, actually. I thought you might need some help practising your pas de deux. That viper they paired you with wasn’t exactly forthcoming.’

  Luka laughed. ‘You were correct. I was rehearsing by myself when Valentina Yershova came across me and offered to help.’

  Xenia’s eyes shifted over Luka’s shoulder, and Valentina saw the way her mouth compressed into a grim line. ‘She did? How very … surprising of her. Well, I’m sure she has other things that need attending. I’ll be glad to take over.’

  A derisive laugh escaped Valentina’s mouth. This woman had never performed outside of the corps. She was no match in skill for a soloist.

  But the two of them looked at her as if they couldn’t understand why she might laugh. It felt like an insult, and caused Valentina to tilt her chin up. She crossed the room casually, her pointe shoes tapping against the timber floor, picked up her fur cape and draped it around her shoulders, then threw her socks over one arm.

  As she reached Luka, she turned her back to the woman, deliberately blocking her from view. ‘It was lovely to dance with you. Perhaps we’ll have the chance to do so again sometime, on the stage.’

  She saw the way Luka’s eyebrows lifted and left before he or the woman could say anything else. She’d achieved what she’d wanted: she’d experienced Luka’s skill as a partner firsthand, and laid the first claim to him. That woman could have him when Valentina was done with him.

  Not ready to go home in case Maxim had let himself into her house again, Valentina returned to the Mariinsky Theatre’s stage to watch the rehearsals. But when she got there, the dancers had been dismissed or sent to the rehearsal rooms to learn further choreography. The theatre was unnaturally quiet, only the scene-shifters pulling up pieces of scenery on ropes disturbing the stillness. It made her restless; her body itched to be somewhere noisy, somewhere she didn’t have to think too much.

  She decided to stop by Leiner’s, the delicatessen which was popular with the Petrograd elite, for a light meal. While there, she would pick up some of the prohibitively expensive Black Sea oysters Maxim preferred—that should take the edge off if it later turned out he had been waiting for her. She was leaving the theatre when she noticed a pair of gloves folded neatly over the top of a piece of painted scenery. She picked them up: they were small, no bigger than a child’s, and had been patched so many times she could barely make out their original colour. She held them to her cheek; they smelled warm and distinctly human. She wondered who had left them behind; or who, for that matter, would be wearing so tattered a pair. It wasn’t likely any of the Imperial Ballet School students would wear their gloves for more than one winter—Valentina knew that from her own experiences as an outsider among the wealthy.

  Despite the gloves being so worn, there was something about them that made her feel comforted. She could almost see a mother lovingly darning them and promising that next year her child would get a new pair. The gloves didn’t deserve to be left here in the theatre, tucked over a fake shrub; they deserved a real home. It was a silly thought, but it made Valentina smile, and she tucked the gloves into the bodice of her white practice dress.

  Maxim was sprawled next to her, his breathing thick and wet from a night of drinking at one of his favourite restaurants. He was taking up most of the bed, and Valentina was curled uncomfortably next to him in the space left between his splayed arm and leg. Carefully, she slid out of the bed, landing softly on all fours like a cat. She glanced up to make sure he hadn’t stirred. The floor was cold against the naked balls of her feet and hands.

  Crouching down further, she felt along the underneath of the bed frame. She couldn’t quite reach. She lowered her knees to the floor, stifling a gasp at the iciness that penetrated through her silk chiffon nightgown, and stretched out her hand. It brushed against something and she knew she’d found what she was after. Holding the box against her chest, she rose slowly to her feet, willing her overused knees and ankles not to crack.

  Maxim was still fast asleep, and she tiptoed away from the bed, almost slipping on the newspaper she’d thrown on the floor last night. Even in the darkness, the headline—‘Grigori Rasputin: Tsar in All But Name?’—screamed at her.

  In the room next to her bedroom—a room her staff weren’t allowed to enter—it was even colder. She’d have to be quick, otherwise the iciness of her skin would wake Maxim when she slipped back into bed. Pushing the door to, Valentina sat the object she’d taken out of hiding on a dusty octagonal table with gilt edges. It was a candy box; the kind given to children in the theatres on the Tsar’s name day. This particular box was the first Valentina had ever received, and its once bright colours were faded now, its sides gone soft and malleable with age.

  She opened the lid carefully, thinking, as she usually did, that she could smell the sugary sweetness of the long-gone candy, even though it was impossible. She would never forget that smell for it was the scent of her mother. Mamma had worked in a candy factory, coming home in the evenings with the smell of sugar clinging to her dress, and her fingertips raw and bloodied from wrapping endless pieces of candy in waxed paper. Valentina had known the smell of sugar her whole life, but this box from the Tsar was the first time she’d ever tasted it. Prior to then, candy had been a luxury for others who didn’t have to concern themselves with how it was made. Holding that box in trembling hands, a hard sweet resting on her tongue, was the first time that Mamma’s words about how money could buy you all sorts of things you didn’t even know you wanted made sense to Valentina. She’d jealously guarded the box until every last piece of candy in it had been eaten, and still she hadn’t been able to get rid of it. Now, of course, it had its own special use.

  Nestled inside was a small group of mismatched objects that would make sense to no one but herself—treasures that had no worth when compared to her jewels, her house and all the fine things that filled it. A letter written in a childish hand and declaring schoolboy love for the sullen and silent child-Valentina rested on the bottom; a letter that had gone unanswered. In a corner lay a teardrop-shaped pearl snatched from when she had danced one of the Little Swans in the D
anse des Petits Cygnes in Le Lac des Cygnes. And now, carefully laid inside with shivering hands, went a pair of tattered children’s gloves.

  Valentina took one last look at the contents of the box before closing the lid. She would leave it in this room tonight, and return it to its hiding place when Maxim was safely gone. For now, she was satisfied to have added to her little stash of treasures.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Spring 1915

  It was almost the end of the company season. Since he’d been with the Imperial Russian Ballet, Luka’s feet had bled and his muscles had ached, but his ambitious heart had never been happier nor more determined. He was shocked by how time seemed to move so quickly; it slipped through his fingers like grains of sand—and he still had not gotten either a renewal or notice of dismissal from the company. Puss in Boots was behind him, and although he’d received a brief mention in one of the newspapers, the company had not acknowledged his success. The gloves that were so precious to him remained lost, and he began once again to dread their disappearance as an omen.

  As he sat uncomfortably on the polished seat of the tram heading towards the city’s outskirts and his father, he tried not to think of his losses but rather to remember all he had achieved in the past few months. It seemed only weeks ago that he’d begun living this dream that had been years in the making. It had also served as an excuse not to visit his father: he was always too busy, or too needed. They’d both known it was a lie, but had both preferred it that way. Now, with the off-season on the horizon, Luka no longer had reason to put off the visit.

  He disembarked from the tram near the Putilov Mill where his father worked and looked with trepidation at the forest of factory chimneys standing against a sky made dull grey by the endless billowing smoke. The sounds of his childhood, in those years before the ballet had rescued him, enveloped him: the rattle of enormous rollers, the clanking of iron bars, the hiss of escaping steam, and the never-ending hum of the steam boilers which vibrated the earth beneath your feet if you got close enough.