Last Dance

by Jeffrey Fleishman

  “Always a dreamer, huh, Sam?”

  “Taking in the sidewalk scenery.”

  “No, Sam, you dream like little boy. You go places. Where do you go?”

  I turn. Slide my notebook into my pocket. Stefan walks toward me, changing from shadow to person in the sunlight. We stand at the window. Stefan traces on the glass. His hair falls over his forehead. He pushes it back. His face is pale and unshaven, his eyes sleepy and narrow. No hint of cologne.

  “I was here a few times when we went out,” he says. “Katrina never made it a home. I told her this was wrong. She needed a place. But I don’t think she knew how to make a home.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I need—”

  “I’m still pissed at you.”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “This is deep-shit stuff, Sam.” He grins, shakes his head. “C’mon, Sam, let’s get a drink. We are better when we drink.”

  We walk down the hall. Stefan nods to Garcia’s door.

  “Not in,” he says.

  “No.”

  “He may be gone a while.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He lifts a finger to his lips. We take the elevator down and walk toward Fifth street, saying nothing, turning the corner, and stepping into the Little Easy, where Lenny is wiping the bar and listening to Betty Davis and her funk guitar, playing low in the speakers. Lenny looks at me, cuts his eyes left to a blond woman in a tapered blue dress, a scarf loose around her neck, her glasses black and sleek. I don’t recognize her at first. She stands, steps toward me, kisses me on the cheek.

  “Mr. Sam,” she says.

  “Zhanna?”

  “You like? New look for me, no? I am blond. Like Madonna.”

  I step back, take her in, look at Stefan.

  “Sit, Sam,” he says, and goes to the bar.

  We sit in two French-style brocaded chairs, the kind found in flooded and forgotten Louisiana mansions. A portrait of a woman who looks like Napoleon’s wife, Josephine, looks down, keeping with the Little Easy’s ragged, bygone charm. A small candle burns between us. Zhanna lights a cigarette. Lenny starts to say something, but I wave him quiet. No one else is in the place. Stefan sets two scotches on the table and returns to the bar.

  “So, Mr. Sam. I am not supposed to be here. My disguise. Don’t tell your FBI friend. What’s her name? Azadeh, yes? The Iranian.”

  “Iranian-American.”

  Zhanna sips.

  “I heard about the shooting,” she says. “This Krause man is dead. Very professional assassin kill him.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “No. Not me. The man you are looking for knows who.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I think the story is coming out now, Mr. Sam. The story we talked about in Brussels.”

  “The diaries?”

  “We have.”

  “Where did you find them?”

  “This funny little costume man. The cat feeder.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I told you about men in my country who read phones. You remember this? Faceless men all the time reading phones. No secrets anymore. You have faceless people too. So we both know about the costume man. But I know before you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He had to go someplace,” she says, blowing smoke, smiling. “He will be back, I think. Short trip. Very interesting, strange man. Talking all the time. Like little puffing train.”

  “He’s a suspect.”

  “You must find him, then.”

  “I could take you in,” I say.

  “Mr. Sam, please, let’s be smart people.”

  “What’s in the diaries?”

  “Such a direct man you are. I like it.”

  She lowers her voice.

  “All what I knew but did not want to know about Katrina,” she says. “Her life was hard, Mr. Sam. People with such talent—it is like a sin, you know; it always must be forgiven. Too hard to live with. There are beautiful times too. She had them. I’m glad for this. But she didn’t understand. She wanted something she could not have. Something impossible.”

  “What?”

  “You will see.”

  “Is Stefan involved?”

  “Only for loving her or, at least, lusting her. It is as he told you. They were together and then apart.”

  “Is Mickey Orlov mentioned?”

  She crushes out her cigarette, sips her whiskey, and sits back. She is cold and lovely, this remade Zhanna. She looks years younger, her voice alluring, ageless. Stefan brings two more scotches and returns to the bar. So unlike him to be the second man, but Zhanna and her world are bigger than his, and Stefan, in his sly way, gauges the odds and acquiesces, as he did when he was a war orphan in the mountains of Bosnia.

  “He did care for her, Mr. Sam,” she says, nodding toward Stefan. “Katrina told me so, but I didn’t know how much until I read the diaries. She wrote of him. S, she called him. She loved him, too, but not to be. By then, you know, the pills and all those things made her someone else. Not the girl I knew. I tried, Mr. Sam, to bring her back. I could not.”

  “It’s hard to do.”

  “Yes. But now she is gone.”

  She lights another cigarette.

  “Why can’t all Americans love Russia like Mr. Trump?” she says, raising her eyebrows, smiling. “The world would be safer, no? The Cold War never ended. Americans thought it did. You had your Osama bin Laden and new bad men. But Russians, men like Mr. Putin, never let it end. He is a man of pride. Too much, maybe. Americans did not understand this. Russia must win. Like Olympics long time ago. Americans are foolish. You think you are better, and don’t see what makes you weak. Mr. Putin sees. Your Facebook and Twitter. He knows all about you. Like mind reader. Is that right, mind reader?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Mr. Putin is not the smartest one. He is a good spy but not great spy.”

  “Like Mickey Orlov.”

  “Great spy. Built new life here. Movie producer. Rich man. Flying around world. He’s like man with twirling plates. You look at plates and don’t see the man. I knew him long ago. Now your FBI, CIA all peeking into Mickey Orlov. Yes? I think so. But to prove is a hard thing.”

  “You admire him.”

  “I think, yes. But hate too.”

  “Who are you, Zhanna?”

  She laughs. “I am a woman with many friends.”

  “And disguises.”

  “Like actor.”

  “You were a dancer.”

  “Many years ago. In Russia, to be dancer was like to be saint. Once, Mr. Sam, I danced in snow on a night outside Kremlin. You might not think this, but it’s true. It was for celebration of state. It was cold. But I danced and did not feel the cold. Katrina was there. She was just a girl. She wrote in her diary that on that night she wanted to be ballerina. I did not know that.” She stops, looks toward the door and back at me. “I don’t know how this case will be solved, Mr. Sam. It is in too many worlds.”

  She reaches down, pulls up a large envelope, and slides it across the table.

  “Read, Mr. Sam. You will know.”

  “The diary.”

  “A copy. Not everything, but what you need. Translated.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Maybe we’ll meet again in another disguise, and I’ll tell you a long story.” She finishes her scotch, rises. “Be careful,” she says. “Faceless men are everywhere.” She nods for Stefan, and they leave in a slant of light.

  “Not your average customer,” says Lenny, setting up a scotch on the bar. “Is there a movie shoot going on downtown? I usually know all the shoots. Like keeping up on that kind of thing.” He puts the bottle back on the sh
elf, turns, and leans close to me. “What’s in the envelope, Sam?”

  Chapter 28

  january 20: Where is he? He promised. Always he is late. What to do? Sit. Scratch my skin. Like you, Nishka. One pill. All I need. One pill and vodka. It hurts. The body. It never ached when I was prima child. In Moscow. Paris. St. Petersburg. New York. They loved me. I was like toy. Where is he? I need to buy tights, toe shoes, bandages, cream. You need food, Nishka. But we sit, waiting. My mother was good at waiting. Very patient. I am not. But ballet taught me to make body one with time, to make air part of skin. I still do this. Not so pretty now, but most cannot tell. They see my name and see me how I was. Like old rock star with broken voice. You still want to hear. No? I am still pretty. I am not that old. But ballerinas live in cat years. Like you, Nishka. Pity. Where is he? My Oxy man. I am still not used to LA. This loft. I miss winter. The hard cold of Russia. Coming out of rehearsals, wrapped in fur. Snow falling. Like dream. My apartment above the river. My barre that looked over the czar city below. “You are like dove, my child.” I still hear her. My mother. She is deceitful, like crow. My head hurts. My toes. I met Nicole Kidman in restaurant last night in Hollywood. She came over to my table. She saw me in Swan Lake years ago. I was wonderful, she said. I blushed. I said, “I am not wonderful anymore.” Her face went very sad. Like her movie face. She hugged me and walked away. Where is my Oxy man? When will he come?

  I put the pages down, pour another drink, and stand at the window. Night. I see Katrina. You never get to see most people, even those closest to you. But I see her. Hear her. Echoes of a life of cruelty and privilege. The bruises, blisters, and broken places we don’t see onstage. We see only the sublime. But that disappears in increments. What must that be like? I suppose we are all witnesses —and conspirators—to our own diminishment. I sit at the piano. I close my eyes and play and see her in this room, dancing over the street, spinning. I feel the way Levon must have felt setting loose a firefly. I stop. I go back to the chair and sit with the diary pages. They are marked only by month and day, no year. I turn backward and forward through her life.

  may 14: I am thirteen today. They brought me cake at rehearsal. Suly told me, “Only sliver, Katrina.” He is good teacher. Mommy says best choreographer in Russia. But I am girl and I eat cake. It is my birthday. I met a boy outside the train station. He followed but was shy when I turned. He ran away. Boys are funny when they are not mean. Mommy tells me to stay away. I have to dance. Only dance. We fly to Paris tomorrow. Daddy is not coming. He has work and likes his dacha. Nureyev died in France. Of AIDS, Mommy said. He was my favorite of all. Suly has tape of him dancing. It makes me cry. Will I ever be that good?

  december 4: I’ve decided I like men and women. I sleep with both. Depending on mood. I’m told I’m getting a reputation. So what. I did not like my performance in Romeo and Juliet tonight. Mommy did not like it either. I do not care what Mommy thinks anymore. I love New York. It is old but new, like pieces changing in same picture. But I never dance the way I want the city to see me. Suly says I have to work harder. He gives me pills. The pain goes away. Sometimes it is blurry, sometimes I can fly. I looked at my body in the mirror. Naked. I saw age. Suly says age is like evil whispers sneaking into you. He says a lot of things like that. I should write more of them down. My weight is just right, and my lines still are good. Maybe too puffy near chin. I was thinking. I’ll never have a child. My body won’t give one. I feel lonely. I was glad Molly walked in Central Park with me. She is good with advice. I’m going down the hall to her room now. It is 3:00 a.m. I hope she lets me in. I want to sleep with her. Not in that way. But just not to be alone.

  july 10: Ahhhh. Summer. The sea is green. The waiter boy is bringing drinks. Nobody knows who I am on this island. My tendon is healing. I am girl in paradise.

  august 7: Andreas Stein called. He wants to do Giselle in LA. Am I interested? Am I okay? Am I too much on pills? He has checked on me. Talked to people. Read stories. Mostly lies. They love lies, those people. Taking one thing and making it all of you. Why? Do they not remember? The same ones who christen you send you to hell. Mommy says this. She should know with all her Putin friends. Daddy in his dacha ignores it all. Ignores me too. For a long time. I don’t know why. I like Andreas. Always to the point. I remember the night years ago we walked through Paris. We had done it. Our La Bayadere was a great success. It was good to do it in Paris, where Nureyev died. I felt him. I told Andreas this as we walked along the Seine. Isn’t that romantic? To say that. “Walked along the Seine.” Like something beautiful. We ate fresh bread and drank wine in the dawn and watched the flower ladies come. Andreas kissed me on forehead. I leaned under his arm. I felt worth. How long ago that was? I tell Andreas I would think about Giselle.

  The things we hold, what we set free. I stand and go to the window. I don’t want to hurry. I want the pages to seep into me. We are a bit alike, Katrina and I. Her diary, my notebooks, the asides and the deeper things scribbled in bursts of thought. Moments that return to us. My mother kept a diary for a while in the years after my father died. She stopped at some point. I don’t know when. I remember seeing her small bound books as a boy. Tied with string and full of secrets, even though a son doesn’t imagine that his mother has secrets. She does. I would like to read them one day when she is gone. She doesn’t know me anymore. I hope I am in her pages. I never peeked, but I must be there with my father, who was dead when they were written. I’m sure he fills lines, just as he did when he’d step with his hurts and scrapes through the doorway of our small house on Malbone Road. My phone buzzes.

  “So?” says Lily.

  “Still reading,” I say.

  “What time is it?”

  “Little past eleven.”

  “You’re not bringing tacos, I guess.”

  “Tomorrow. How you feeling?”

  “Headache, but better. The moon is big tonight.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just never been shot. I opened that bottle of merlot you were saving. I poured a glass and watched an old movie. Key Largo. It was all right. I’m on the porch. The moon is so big, Carver. Go out and see it. It’s a special moon. It’s like white and see-through.” She yawns. “Call me when you get to the part about the killer.”

  “What?”

  “He’ll be in there. You know what’s weird, Carver? I feel bad about Jimmy Krause. Guy didn’t even know what’s what. Cruel goddamn world.”

  “You just figuring that out?”

  “No, just being reminded.”

  “Get some sleep.”

  “Hey, Carver.”

  “What?”

  “Wish you were here.”

  I slide my phone on the counter, walk the room, look at the pages. I boil water, feel the steam on my face, make tea. I wonder if Dylan Cross kept a diary: what she wrote about after she was raped, the years that passed, her buildings, designs, decision to kill. On the page, vengeance must look clean, logical, and redemptive. I wonder where she is. I see her in this room, looking out over the street in the moments before dawn. Her kiss. I taste her still. I sit, pull the lamp closer, turn a page.

  may 14: I am thirty-three today. No cake. I am on a yacht somewhere off Greece. The islands scatter like stones. The water is calm. Like blue-green lake. Suly is with me. He is old. His eyes are going. He says we are “like two beaten-up gunfighters in old American movie.” An oligarch has given him the yacht for the weekend. I don’t like oligarchs. They pretend what they took is theirs. Many such men admire Suly. They do him little nice things. We are alone on the yacht with the crew. Suly sleeps and drinks. I read and listen to Beyoncé and watch DVDs Suly brought of my dancing, from child to now. I don’t like to watch, but sometimes I see me like you see somebody else. That is when you are greatest. When you don’t recognize who you are. I danced at the front of the yacht today. I felt the sun, and for a moment, I was part of the air. The crew clapped, and
we ate fish caught from the sea below us.

  october 12: A boy came to the hotel with roses. Dozens of them in vases. It was early. He had night’s chill on him. He was cheery. He said they were from admirer. A man who did not want to be known. There is no obligation except to enjoy them. That’s what the boy said. He set them by the window, over the river. I tipped him and curled back into bed. I am taking too many pills. But how to stop? I try. But the urge. Like applause at final curtain. You must have. Nothing so pure, nothing so vanishing. Levon will play for me when I get to LA. He is such a child, so big but a child. But he plays as if he is making each note in the exact moment I hear it. Like things being born. He is easy to be with, and he likes me. I see him looking through his half-closed eyes when he plays his cello and I dance. Two strange creatures in a loft. He is like drug. I need him. The roses are pretty. The room smells like garden. St. Petersburg. So many years since I’ve seen you. I meet Mommy tomorrow. I don’t want to. But she has news. This is what she says.

  october 14: My life is lie.