The Last Days of the Romanov Dancers

by Kerri Turner

  She flipped open an enamelled box and ran her fingers through the jewellery inside. Pulling out two pairs of diamond earrings, she tucked them into the sleeve of her dress. A few long strings of pearls were hooked over one arm. She was about to close the box and move on to others when she saw a smaller velvet box in one corner. She hesitated, then pulled it out and peeled open the mossy lid. Inside was the swan brooch Maxim had given her. It alone could pay for their travel, food, and a roof over their heads.

  She wondered if Luka might take it as evidence of some indecision about what she was leaving behind. She didn’t feel any. She was more scared of the choices she was making than she would ever admit to Luka, but it was a thrilling kind of fear. The only other time in her adult life when she hadn’t known her future with any certainty was when Dimitri had blindsided her with the introduction to Maxim. This time, though, the uncertainty was her own doing, and the feeling was like taking a flying leap headfirst, not knowing if a partner would be there to catch her but blindly trusting he would.

  It was hard to let the brooch go. Valentina took it out of the box, resting the heavy swan on the palm of her hand. With one fingertip she touched the pearl clutched in the swan’s golden feet. This wasn’t Odette; it was just a piece of twisted gold that showed her how lifeless she had become.

  ‘Going somewhere?’

  Valentina whirled around; the brooch flew out of her hand and hit the floor with a loud rap. She scrambled to pick it up, the strings of pearls on her arm clattering, and tucked it into her palm as she faced Maxim. Her heart was beating violently and her ears felt hot.

  She tried to keep her voice calm. ‘Of course not. Why would you say that?’ She gave a breathy laugh.

  ‘Those jewels are a little dressed up for staying inside.’

  Maxim stood in the doorway, no shirt on, leaning heavily on the frame. His eyes were bloodshot, and his moustache stuck up on one side in an almost comical manner that yet had nothing funny about it. His breathing was heavy, and as he took a step into the room the stink of alcohol hit Valentina’s nose—so strong, it was like poison.

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ She looked down at her arms hung with necklaces, and the retrieved brooch that sat in her hand. ‘I was … I was just going through my things. Just admiring them.’

  Maxim’s unchanging expression told her he didn’t believe her. ‘When I woke you weren’t there.’

  She let the necklaces slide off her arm to the floor, and stepped over them as if they were nothing more than trinkets. She was about to walk to him, the way she usually would, but realised she needn’t do that any more. Maxim might not know it, but she was free of him now. Still, the way his voice had dropped sent a chill over her skin. She wanted to lead him away from her room to rest and allow the drink to leave him. Anything to be alone again. In her head she could swear she heard the ticking of a clock, marking off the seconds she was wasting by not readying herself for her flight from Russia.

  ‘You’re all worked up, Maxim. Why don’t you rest?’

  Used to giving him comfort, Valentina found it difficult to prevent herself going to him. She tucked her hands nervously into the fabric of her skirt; they were beginning to go cold, although the bedroom was warm from the heat of the stove.

  Maxim’s red eyes finally focused on Valentina. She shrank back from his gaze. A mistake she instantly realised.

  ‘A man demands obedience from his family,’ he said, pulling the bedroom door shut behind him. ‘And my family must be above ridicule.’

  Valentina heard the lock fall heavily into place. Her heart was pounding. She was sure he would be able to hear it from across the room.

  ‘Maxim, I … I’m not your family. Not really. I’m paid for. But even if I weren’t, I would never expose you to ridicule.’

  ‘That’s strange, because your dvornik seems to be under the impression that you’re running away in the middle of the night. Which is just the sort of thing that gets a man laughed at and pitied.’

  Valentina froze; she hadn’t told Madame Ivkina that her departure was to be a secret.

  ‘Maxim, I—’

  ‘No!’

  The word was a shout, and she jumped. Her hands flew to her chest, pressing on the rapid beating of her heart as if she could still it with her cold palms. Maxim’s own hands were gripping the hair at his temples. His face was red.

  ‘You are taking what I gave you, a symbol of my—of our love—and using it to pay your way with another man.’

  ‘That’s not—it’s not …’ Her voice was breathy. The brooch in her hand suddenly felt like it was burning her. She wanted to fling it away. To pretend innocence when guilt was so clearly in her nature.

  Maxim’s eyes were shut, and he beat his fists on the door behind him. Valentina flinched.

  When he opened his eyes, they were just a dark glint in his face. He crossed the room and grabbed her shoulders, pushing her back so she slammed into the dressing table. Something crashed off it to the floor. Valentina put her hands behind her, trying to grab the table for support, but they slipped in the slick puddle of her perfume. Maxim had pushed his face right into hers, and she could smell the alcohol strong on his breath.

  ‘Maxim, please,’ she gasped.

  His hands stroked the sides of her neck, and she felt the sweat on his shaking palms.

  ‘My Odile. My little, perfect Odile,’ he whispered.

  Through her fear came a flash of anger, hot and tinged with reckless panic.

  ‘What about that?’ she said, glaring into his feverish eyes. ‘What about what you promised me? I did all you asked of me, yet Odette never came.’

  Her hands still fumbled over the table behind her, looking for something to get Maxim away from her. She would have been grateful for the weight of the brooch now, or the sharp point of its clasp, but it had slipped out of her hand.

  ‘All I asked of you?’ His words were a roar, flecks of spit hitting her face. His fingernails dug into her skin, and his red eyes were so wild they looked like they might jump right out of his head. ‘There was only one thing I required more than anything else. And you couldn’t do it, could you? Couldn’t keep your legs closed to that … that malysh.’

  Valentina couldn’t move. Her senses were clouded by the spilled perfume, the musk becoming stronger and stronger until she thought she might choke on it.

  Maxim’s eyes met hers, and she saw something that terrified her. The man glaring at her was a complete stranger.

  ‘You’ll turn me into a laughing stock,’ he said, and his fingers curled around behind her neck.

  For a moment she thought he might be softening. Then his thumbs were pressing at the dip of her throat. She didn’t realise at first what was happening. But the uncomfortable sensation turned to pain, and her breath wouldn’t come properly. She panicked, grasped at his hands with her own. Her fingernails clawed him, leaving deep red lines in his skin. He didn’t seem to notice.

  The pressure increased, and dark spots swam in front of her. Valentina kicked her feet wildly, knocking over anything that was nearby. She wanted to scream, but didn’t have enough breath left to do so. Why didn’t anyone hear her struggles and come to her aid? But the house was empty; the staff gone on her own orders.

  ‘Maxim,’ she managed to choke out.

  ‘Shhh,’ he said, almost tenderly as he forced her to the ground. Valentina felt the floor meet her back like it had come up to catch her. She flung out a hand and grasped at a string of pearls. She tried to lift it, to hit him with it, but her body, usually so responsive to her orders, would not obey.

  ‘If you fight, it will only get worse.’

  Her hearing was fading, Maxim’s voice and her own struggles drowned out by something else. What was that? A strange sound that didn’t belong here, in her bedroom.

  It was Tchaikovsky. The swelling score of Le Lac des Cygnes was filling the room, pulsating in time with the pressure in her ears. She still struggled, but it was becoming a distant feeling. As if she h
ad stepped outside her body and was watching herself fight with one eye, and looking out for Odette with the other. Where was she? She should be here. Odette should be here.

  The musky scent that Valentina had never liked filled her nostrils. Luka’s name was on her lips, but she couldn’t speak. And still Tchaikovsky’s yearning melody continued to play.

  Her hand caught on something. Lifting the object, she put all the strength she had left into thrusting it at Maxim. The delicate silk of the pillow gave way under her torn fingernails and white feathers burst into a billowing cloud around them.

  The feathers danced mid-air, and in that moment all pain faded away. Valentina could barely see through her tears and the black spots that obliterated most of her vision. She didn’t see the way the feathers hovered, nor how they descended in undulating waves. But she felt them.

  Odette’s feathers, landing on her face and neck in a gentle caress, resting beneath her dropping hands and shoulders so that they cupped her as she fell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Luka tossed aside a pair of trousers that he’d only just placed in his suitcase, then picked them up and put them back in. He and Valya hadn’t chosen a destination yet, but the enormity of the last few hours sat heavily on him and it was impossible to think with any clarity. By the time he’d finished packing he was no longer sure what was in the case beyond a few pairs of ballet slippers. He looked hopefully at his Buhré pocket watch: there were still three hours left until he could meet Valya. His heart sank. He put his case by the front door, underneath a heavy black shuba, then sat down to wait.

  His nerves got the better of him, and he stood back up, grabbed the back of a chair and ran through a plié exercise. Pliés turned into battements tendus, then glissés, and soon he was working through a lengthy barre.

  It was as he was unfolding his leg in a controlled développé that the urge to pray came over him. It was so strong that he kneeled down right where he was. Forehead damp with sweat, he moved his lips with a single-mindedness his prayers had never known before. He prayed for an end to the destruction in Russia. He prayed for the war to be over, for the Tsar to come back and somehow right all that had gone wrong. He prayed for his father, that he was safely inside his apartment with a bottle of vodka. He prayed for Xenia’s safety, wherever she was.

  But most of all, he prayed for himself and Valya, for the shared future he couldn’t quite see.

  When he’d finished, he got to his feet knowing he couldn’t simply wait for Valya. He had to go back for her.

  In the street, Luka had to elbow his way through the crowds. It was a struggle to take even one tiny step at a time, and he was horrified to think that he’d left Valya to face this by herself in the night-time.

  Ahead, a cheering group stood around a fire; in its yellow edges Luka could make out imperial emblems that had been torn off buildings. Trash, stolen furniture and books served as kindling. As he pushed past the bonfire, a face caught his eye. It was withered and bearded, the eyes alight and feverish. Luka’s breath caught. It was his father.

  Vladimir had slid from view, but Luka saw a flash of sheepskin coat. He struggled to get to it, his cries drowned out by the cheers of those around him. Then he saw his father again—the back of his grizzled head on the other side of the bonfire, moving steadily away from him.

  Luka tried to push some men out of his way, and in return was given a giant shove in the chest that sent him sprawling. He scrambled to retrieve his case, earning trodden fingers for his trouble, then clambered to his feet. Where had his father gone?

  A sea of fabric, limbs and faces swam before him, and it was a long, terrifying moment before Luka’s eyes found the sheepskin coat again, turning a corner. He hovered, undecided. Should he follow? He couldn’t be sure, in this madness, if it really had been his father. So many of the men looked alike with their withered, underfed faces. And he needed to get to Valya.

  But what if it was his father? He couldn’t leave him to fend for himself on these streets. Vladimir was old and unwell. He might not believe he needed protection, but Luka had lost enough family already.

  He sprinted forward, this time dodging men and women as best he could instead of getting tangled up with them. Glass crunched beneath his boots. He turned the corner and frantically scanned the street. It, too, was full of chaos. There were no fires, but windows had been shattered, and people were pulling anything they could off buildings with their bare hands, parading them above their heads as they walked back to join the bonfire.

  Was that Vladimir slipping between two buildings half a block away?

  ‘Otets!’ Luka bellowed at the top of his voice, but he could barely be heard over the din of the rioting crowds.

  He bent his head and barrelled forward. He’d made his decision, and he wouldn’t give up until he found his father.

  Luka spent so long following that elusive sheepskin coat that by the time he caught up to the man—not his father after all, but someone closer to Luka’s own age who hadn’t worn life well—there was no longer any point going to Valya’s house. Instead, he went straight to their meeting spot.

  His stomach dropped when he arrived to find no one waiting for him—he’d hoped she might already be there—but he told himself not to worry. There was plenty of time.

  Even now, after loitering in front of The Wandering Dog for what felt like a lifetime, there was still time … He checked his pocket watch again: two minutes until midnight.

  As the night ticked over to a new day, he thought he heard footsteps, and strained his eyes to see further into the darkness. The streetlamps had been damaged in the past few days and were mostly extinguished, so it was hard to make anything out.

  The shape that came into view was that of a man, and Luka shrank back so he wouldn’t be seen. A gunshot sounded close by, but by now the sound was so familiar to Luka that he didn’t jump.

  He looked at his watch again, holding it up to his nose to see the delicate hands properly. It was five minutes after midnight. When he put it back down, it was in the hope that he would see Valya standing in front of him, case in hand, shrouded in a heavy coat. But the street remained empty.

  Back at his apartment, it had seemed impossible that time could ever move more slowly. But now, as midnight passed further behind him, it felt like it had come to a complete stop. Luka pulled his shuba tighter around him, trying to protect himself from the crisp air. When Valya arrived, they would hold each other, sharing their bodily warmth. Relief, too, would probably go a long way to warming him.

  If only she would hurry up.

  One o’clock came and went. A sick feeling gnawed at him. Had she changed her mind? Had she decided to stay with Maxim and take her chances here in Petrograd?

  No. Luka had seen the expression on her face. She wanted to come with him, that he was sure of.

  He reminded himself of this every quarter-hour that went by, using the refrain to try to quell his growing panic. There must be some other reason she was delayed. Something that would seem obvious once she arrived and explained it all.

  ‘She will come,’ he whispered to himself over and over as the hours passed. ‘She will come; I know she will.’

  She had to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Dawn broke and still Valya didn’t appear. Luka thought he might vomit with the tension of waiting for her, but gradually his panic turned into a dull ache that seemed to emanate from his very bones. Something had gone wrong.

  The sky was turning from deep indigo to blazing orange, lit from beneath by hundreds of burning buildings. Luka picked up his case and began walking. His feet, encased in valenki, moved of their own accord. Every time he spotted a woman with bobbed hair his heart leaped a little. But every time he was disappointed.

  As he neared the city’s centre, the sound of gunfire competed with the roar of thousands of voices. Men and women ran past him, screaming that the troops had opened fire on them. Others cheered as they shared the news that the
Grand Duke Cyril, a member of the hated aristocracy, had turned and was now marching on the side of the protesters. All was confusion, and Luka wished it would stop, just for a moment, just until he’d found Valya.

  A pile of red-stained snow sent his heart leaping into his throat; but when he leaned closer, the smell of wine wafted up to him. On the pavement nearby were broken pieces of wood—the shattered remains of the barrel. The looters, unable to carry the heavy load away, had drunk their fill and then smashed it so nothing would be left for the original owners.

  The closer he got to his destination, the faster Luka’s feet went. His breathing sped up too, and he was almost sprinting as he turned into Valya’s street. Her house was untouched. He couldn’t understand how it had been passed over by the looters.

  He walked up to the front door and knocked loudly. There was no answer, and he tried again, then again, this time pounding his open palm against the wood. Nothing.

  He glanced up and down the street. It was almost deserted. He was partially hidden from view by the ridged columns of the portico, but still he waited for the street’s sole other occupant to turn a corner and disappear from sight. Then he kicked at a window. Nothing happened. A second kick resulted in a few cracks splayed across the glass; a third and it finally broke.

  Luka checked to make sure he was still unobserved—although anyone who saw him was more likely to join him than stop him—then crawled through the opening he’d made. The broken glass caught at his clothes as he tumbled into the house. His left palm was scratched, almost deep enough to draw blood, but he ignored it. Clambering to his feet, he ran up the stairs calling Valya’s name, heedless if Maxim heard him.

  He checked the blue reception room first, but she wasn’t there. Nor was there any sign of her. The oil lamps weren’t lit, and he noticed for the first time that the house was cold, meaning that neither was the stove.

  He hurried to her bedroom. The door was closed. As he pushed it open, the smell of her perfume flooded him. It was as though the furniture had been drenched in it. Its familiarity almost knocked Luka backward. Instead, he stepped into the room … and the world came crashing down around him.