The Last Days of the Romanov Dancers

by Kerri Turner

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Then why do you keep looking at it?’

  Luka stared at his hands, taking a deep breath as though to remind himself she didn’t mean her sharp words.

  Valentina’s heart was racing so fast it electrified her. She wanted to lash out at someone, to make someone answerable, and he was the only person here. The only person she could trust not to lash back.

  ‘What is it muzhiki like your family don’t understand?’ she demanded. She saw Luka flinch and knew she was being dishonest, but she pushed on. ‘If you want more in this life, you either get it, or don’t complain about those that do. It’s what I did. I was just as poor as any of them, and look at me now.’

  ‘Not everyone can—’

  ‘Sell themselves? Is that what you’re going to say? That those pitiful peasants and factory workers out there are too good to sell their bodies like the rest of us do?’ Her voice was rising in volume, threaded with venom. She couldn’t stop herself. ‘There is only one way to get ahead in this world. I didn’t create the rules, and I won’t be accused of indecency for following them. Neither will I allow it for my friends. And if you don’t like it, perhaps you should go back to the way your life was before, Malysh.’

  ‘Don’t.’ Luka’s voice was as cold as the air around them, and Valentina came to a standstill. She’d never heard him speak like that to her before. ‘Don’t call me that. And don’t make threats to separate us. Not again.’

  Valentina felt her chest rising and falling rapidly. She didn’t know what she was doing; why she was attempting to ruin the one good thing she had left.

  Slowly, Luka raised himself off the bed. She tensed as he reached her, but all he did was put his arms around her. Her anger dissipated. Not wanting him to see her weakness, she buried her face in his chest, swallowing again and again in an effort to keep her emotions down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered finally, her voice small and pathetic. She hated the way it sounded, but Luka only tightened his arms around her, giving her warmth that no stove could compete with.

  ‘It’s alright,’ he said, and his voice was so gentle that she let a tear escape. He held her for a moment longer, then whispered in her ear, ‘Leave him.’

  At first, she thought she’d misheard. Then she started, as though the words were obscene. Luka tightened his arms around her, and she felt like a bird trembling within a soft grasp, looking to take flight. As he shifted his weight, the newspaper with the offensive cartoon crumpled underneath his foot.

  ‘I know this is the one thing I’m not supposed to ask you,’ he said. It was a silent agreement they’d both understood. ‘But I am asking you. I can’t help myself. I want you to leave Maxim and be only with me.’

  ‘Luka, I—’

  Perhaps he heard her instinct for refusal, for he stepped away to stop it. Her frozen hands were still in his, though, and she couldn’t tell which of them was shaking.

  ‘We don’t know how you and I will end up,’ he said. ‘But I want to give it a chance. Valya, only months ago I could never have imagined kissing you, holding you in my arms. And if I had, I would have sworn that road led to nowhere. But think of all we’d have missed out on if we’d given in to that uncertainty.’

  They were beautiful words, and they made Valentina’s chest ache. But he was missing what seemed to her the most obvious thing.

  ‘But what can I offer you, Luka?’

  ‘I … I don’t understand.’

  She lived in a world where everything was for sale; and she had no value beyond what she could give away. Mamma had taught her that.

  ‘You have no need of my connections, no desire for my money. You already have my body, but that will fade in time, as will my dancing. There’s not much else I can give.’

  Taking her face gently in both hands, Luka looked into her eyes for a long time. Valentina felt herself wavering under his intense gaze. She mustn’t though; she must stay strong.

  ‘How can you not see that to me you are the whole world?’ he said. ‘You offer me love.’

  They stayed that way, looking into each other’s eyes, Valentina searching for the hint of a lie. Her rage of a few moments ago had felt like a symbol of the control that was slipping through her fingers like watery silk. But this was something else altogether. Her heart lifted into her throat and it was as though she was no longer anchored to the ground.

  ‘Luka, I … I don’t know.’

  She saw an infinitesimal shift in his features, a slight falling of disappointment. He was getting better at hiding his true feelings. For some reason, that made her unbearably sad. She didn’t want Luka to become one of them; she wanted him to stay the outsider who said what he meant and could only lie clumsily. But if she wanted that, she had to offer him some truth in return. Not about Maxim’s threats—that would only worry him. But about another, not quite as strong but still persuasive motivation.

  ‘Maxim has offered me Odette.’

  Understanding dawned, followed by confusion. ‘But the company isn’t scheduled to do Le Lac—’

  ‘I know. But he says it’s coming—a surprise performance. I know, Luka, don’t look at me like that. I’m no fool.’

  ‘Then why do you—’

  ‘Because what if it’s the truth?’

  She could see that Luka understood, and loved him all the more for it.

  ‘You can get Odette on your own merits, you know,’ he said eventually. ‘Without Maxim’s help. I’ve danced with you, Valya, and I do believe that.’

  Although she appreciated the assurance, Valentina knew it wasn’t true.

  ‘Grant me some time?’ she asked.

  Luka nodded his silent, reluctant agreement.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Luka sometimes felt he must be one of the last few young men left in Petrograd. He still saw many, the rich and aristocratic men who attended the ballet and dined in restaurants whose prices had become extortionate, but there were so many deaths reported in the newspapers that he wondered how they all continued to escape being sent to war. Perhaps that was why he accepted the invitation to dine at Mathilde’s city mansion. With the worsening death toll, and the warning from his father, it seemed inevitable that his own time to fight must be coming, ballet contract or no ballet contract. Surely the country had run out of peasants, workers and farmers by now.

  ‘Do you need help choosing, Malysh?’

  Luka stared at the wine catalogue Mathilde had handed him, unable to tell the difference between the various vintages. She smiled at him from the head of the table, her Fabergé diadem glittering in the electric light. With her own power plant next door, her house gleamed with brightness and warmth; a stark contrast to the bitter cold outside. Luka couldn’t help thinking of all the soldiers who had frozen to death at the front. Was that how Pyotr had met his end?

  He gave his order, not knowing what he was asking for.

  Tonight’s party was clearly designed to flaunt; Mathilde’s display that the ever-increasing public taunts hadn’t hurt her. A lace cloth was spread over the long table, nearly obscured by the array of gold plates, silver sugar basins and antique granyonyi stakan that Luka was almost afraid to drink from. Scattered around the dinnerware were animals made from brightly-coloured polished enamel, and arrangements of hybrid tea roses from the imperial greenhouses that defied the fact it was winter. A large wreath made of solid gold hung on the wall behind Mathilde, with two smaller matching ones either side. They created a sort of hovering crown for their host, an image Luka was sure couldn’t be accidental.

  ‘Wait a moment!’ Mathilde’s cry caused the entire table to freeze. Djibi, seated at his mistress’s feet, barked. ‘There’s thirteen of us. We can’t have a dinner party with thirteen seated at the table. It’ll bring bad luck. Where’s Madame Roubtzova? She can join us.’

  Madame Roubtzova entered the cellar at the same time a suckling pig with horseradish was brought in. Luka used the distraction to steal a glance a
t Valya, who was seated next to her sullen-looking protector. Apart from a cool-voiced greeting when he’d walked in, she’d carefully avoided speaking to him. Now, she seemed attentive towards Maxim, commenting on the food and slipping bits from her own plate to his. Luka wondered if he had ruined things between them by asking her to leave the man.

  The guests dined with quiet but hearty enjoyment. Just as they were beginning to complain of being too full from the feast presented to them, Mathilde clapped her hands together in excitement.

  ‘I have some entertainment for you all,’ she cried, pointing towards the cellar door.

  Her guests turned to look. Out came Pasha Alexandrovich, a first soloist in the company who had been sitting at the table not ten minutes ago. Piles of white feathers were tucked into his clothing, poking out from the cuffs of his sleeves, the neck of his shirt, even sticking up absurdly from his hair. His trousers were rolled to his knees, and on his feet were a pair of Mathilde’s pointe shoes, bulging from toes that were too big for them. He strutted into the centre of the room, then struck a tragic pose.

  Mathilde shrieked with laughter. ‘Magnifique!’ she cried. ‘It’s just too delicious. Tell me who he is, my friends.’

  Pasha stumbled around the room, his arms flapping futilely, his legs trembling with over-the-top weakness. Mathilde laughed so hard tears ran down her face. Her guests were laughing too, and Luka couldn’t help but join in. It was an exaggerated imitation of Anna Pavlova in The Dying Swan, a solo created for her by Fokine. It was a popular piece, and the Imperial Russian Ballet had incorporated it into their productions of Le Lac des Cygnes. Mathilde, who was inadvertently responsible for the rival dancer’s fame and thus harboured a hatred for her, refused to dance it. She insisted that when she was Odette/Odile, the ballet would end with her drowning in the lake, as it always had before.

  Luka glanced at Valya again and saw that a stillness had come over her features. Only she, and Madame Roubtzova, hadn’t joined in the laughter.

  After Mathilde’s joke, the diners became increasingly quiet, lulled by the fine wine and rich food. Maxim was the first to stand, making an excuse for himself and Valentina to leave. Luka didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes darted to him, then narrowed as he told Valya to wait by the front door. But Mathilde was oblivious to the tension. She took Maxim by the arm, demanding to know once again if he’d found Pasha’s likeness of Anna Pavlova amusing, and if he thought it worth running a cartoon about her in the newspaper, like those that regularly skewered Mathilde herself.

  Luka saw his opportunity and darted out to the front door where Valentina waited. She was wrapped in a thick fur coat, a flimsy piece of lace tied around her forehead in a poor approximation of their host’s diadem.

  ‘Luka,’ she murmured in a pleased tone. She looked behind him to see if Maxim was coming.

  ‘Mathilde has him by the arm,’ Luka told her. ‘We have perhaps a minute.’

  ‘I’m glad. For there’s something I want to tell you. I have decided. My answer is yes.’

  Luka’s heart skipped at least two beats. ‘Do you mean …?’

  ‘I don’t want to give in to uncertainty. For once in my life I want to be bold and daring and, perhaps, foolish.’

  A thrill ran through Luka and it was all he could do to keep his voice low. ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll need to figure out a way of leaving without Maxim retaliating against us, meddling with our careers. But know this: my mind is made up. It will happen.’

  ‘I no longer care what Maxim does. The Imperial Russian Ballet isn’t the only company in the world, and he has no influence in others. But … what of Odette?’

  Luka saw the fear flicker across her face and immediately regretted asking lest she change her mind.

  ‘Once again I catch you two in deep conversation.’

  Luka jumped at Maxim’s interruption. How had the man extracted himself from Mathilde so quickly?

  Valentina, though, remained as cool as ever, even reaching an inviting hand out to her protector. ‘He found an earring and thought it was mine. It wasn’t.’

  Maxim’s jaw was tight as he directed his gaze at Luka’s hands. Luka quickly closed one into a fist, as though it concealed a small piece of jewellery.

  Maxim’s upper lip lifted. ‘No feather, Malysh?’

  Valya gave a light laugh and answered for him. ‘Of course not. That was a special thing, a sign from the world. You know that. Although not as special as this.’

  She fingered the swan brooch she was wearing; the one Luka had carried for her the day they’d first made love. She’d pinned it at the lowest part of her neckline, and Luka had wondered during the dinner if she’d worn it to please Maxim, or as a sign for himself.

  Valentina slid her arm through Maxim’s. ‘Come, I want to be at home with you. I’m sure Luka Vladimirovich is eager to get back to the party.’

  Maxim’s eyes were still narrowed with suspicion, but he straightened in triumph as he ushered Valya out the door ahead of him. Even though he knew she couldn’t, Luka wished she would glance over her shoulder and give him one last smile.

  Luka woke with a start. For a moment, he couldn’t think where he was; his head was spinning, his mouth dry. Then he remembered. He had made his departure from Mathilde’s party not long after Valya and Maxim, pretending he was headed home to sleep off drunkenness. In actuality, he’d made his way to Valya’s house in the hope that Maxim’s surly mood meant he would give Valya a rare night alone. His hope had proved correct. The carriage had taken off almost immediately after Valentina had stepped out, Maxim not even waiting to see if she got to the door safely.

  Rolling over, Luka reached out to hold Valya close to him, to breathe in her smell and cherish this moment of intimacy. But his hand landed on an empty, cool space. He sat up, wondering what time it was, and squinted into the darkness. She wasn’t sitting in a chair, covered by a fur blanket and gazing out the window, the way he sometimes woke to find her.

  He rolled out of the warm bed. The trousers he’d been wearing to the party were on the floor, and he pulled them on. He couldn’t see his shirt, so grabbed his thick broadcloth coat with silver fox fur lining to protect him from the cold night air, and walked out into the hall. Tiptoeing past crystal vases that held purple, yellow and white winter crocuses that stood out against the vaguely threatening dark shapes of the furniture, Luka thought he heard a noise. It came from the direction of the studio, and he realised with something like relief that Valya must be inside, perhaps going through some exercises to work off the effects of the champagne and rich food.

  He walked softly to the studio doors, pulled one open and peered inside.

  Valya was standing in the middle of the room, arms arched overhead, face downcast. She wore her nightgown, but had tied it in knots around her knees to make movement easier. On her feet were an old pair of pointe shoes, frayed threads sticking out around the toes. Her skin, glowing whitely in the darkness of the studio, was prickled with goosebumps, but she didn’t appear to notice.

  Luka opened the door a little wider, about to say something to her, when she moved. It was only slight, but enough to make him hesitate. He edged back, suddenly not wanting to interrupt, and watched.

  She rose en pointe and began to move her feet in tiny waves, as if she was treading water. Her arms reached out to the sides, undulating and pushing at the air around her. Her head was tilted backward, her eyes closed, a sadness etched on her features that Luka had never seen before. It was the Dying Swan solo. Valya was dancing Odette at the moment when, heartbroken and defeated, the cursed woman slowly died.

  There was no music, but it didn’t matter. Valya sank to her knees, bent backward as far as her supple back would allow, and opened her arms wide in a silent plea. There was a softness to her movements Luka hadn’t thought she was capable of. She was no Pavlova, but there was a beauty in the yearning extensions and resigned contractions that her typically vivacious roles didn’t showcase.
He held his breath, afraid that even that slight motion would be enough to disturb her.

  Valya repeated the movements, and each time they became more damaged and broken. She kept her eyes closed, feeling her way around the small studio. When she curled her arms around herself protectively, one over her head and the other around her body, Luka shut his own eyes. He had wanted to hold her exactly like that when he’d woken. For some reason, it hurt to see her doing it for herself.

  She turned on the spot a few times, reaching towards the sky, before falling to her knees again. Luka thought he saw tears streaming down her face, but didn’t know if they were real or his imagination was placing them there. It was too dark for him to tell. Either way, he knew he couldn’t watch any more. Silently, he pulled the door to. As he turned away, he could still hear her pointe shoes tapping softly at the floor of the studio.

  He walked back to the bedroom, glad he hadn’t stayed to watch the rest of the dance. He didn’t want to see the moment when she sank to her knees, exhausted, an arm and leg stretched out in front in a last moment of yearning. The moment when Odette finally gave up her fight and succumbed to death, brought to it by the man who was supposed to love her most.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Luka jerked awake to the sound of his name, and saw Valya standing in the bedroom doorway. She was wearing an opera cloak trimmed in ostrich feathers that she used as a dressing gown, and her face was an unnatural shade of white. She ran to his side of the bed and as she grabbed his shuba, he saw that her hands were shaking.

  ‘Valya, what—’

  ‘Put this on.’ She threw the coat at him.

  ‘Is it—is Maxim here?’

  ‘No. Put the coat on and come with me.’

  At the tone of her voice, Luka didn’t argue. His feet were cold against the floor, and he glanced at his boots standing nearby, but Valya’s urgency propelled him forward. When he reached the door, he hesitated, still trying to lace his trousers.