The White Russian

8

T he front door of the Mariinskiy Theatre was ajar, and as Ruzsky slipped through into the foyer, he heard the noonday gun being fired from the St. Peter and St. Paul Fortress on the far side of the river.

Ahead of him, two young women stood by the main entrance to the auditorium in animated conversation. He interrupted them with less grace than he intended. He felt, suddenly, the way he had on the ice.

The women looked taken aback. “Who wants to know?” one asked.

“Chief Investigator Ruzsky. City police.” Ruzsky fumbled in a pocket for his small, dog-eared identification card, but the girls were not interested. They nodded toward the wooden doors that led into the auditorium.

The door snapped back as he entered and one of the dancers on the stage turned in his direction.

It wasn’t her.

Ruzsky’s mouth was dry. He pulled the collar of his shirt away from his throat.

He stood beneath the royal box, the blue and gold decor of the auditorium sumptuous even in the semidarkness. At the center of the small group of dancers on the stage stood the ballet master in a blue velvet jacket, bathed in light. He had dark hair and a long mustache. He stepped back to allow his dancers room. “And again,” he shouted. “And one and two and jump… No, no, no.”

The ballet master became aware of the dancers’ distraction and spun around to face Ruzsky. “Yes?”

It was a moment or two before Ruzsky acknowledged that the remark had been directed at him. “Maria,” he said, “Maria Popova.”

“What about her?”

“I was just looking-”

“And who are you?”

“Ruzsky, Alexander Nikolaevich. Chief investigator, city police.”

“Has a crime been committed?”

“No. I mean, yes. But it’s not…” Ruzsky began to recover his wits, spurred on by the look of theatrical exasperation on the man’s face. “Where is she?”

“So it’s a private matter?”

“It’s certainly none of your concern.”

The ballet master’s smile told those around him he understood exactly the nature of Ruzsky’s confusion.

“Where will I find her?” he asked again.

“Dressing room number one. Through the side door.” The man dismissed him with a peremptory flick of the hand.

Ruzsky walked slowly toward the side exit. He glanced up at the huge gold crown above the royal box and then at the seats his family customarily occupied.

Ruzsky knew where to find the dressing rooms. It was quiet backstage and he stood alone in the dark corridor outside dressing room number one.

He ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed distractedly at his lower lip with his index finger. Now that he was here, he did not know what to do.

A dancer appeared from one of the rooms farther down the corridor. She was in a hurry. “Can I help you?” she asked as she ran past him, toward the stage, but Ruzsky had failed to reply by the time she turned the corner.

He took another pace forward.

He felt the blood pound in his head. He didn’t need the ballet master’s help to feel he didn’t quite belong here.

For a moment, he was transported back to their first meeting at Krasnoe Selo just outside the capital-the site of the summer camps of many of the Guards regiments-shortly before the outbreak of war. On that bright day, the French president had joined the Tsar for an inspection of the serried ranks of guardsmen on a dusty field leading down to a shimmering sea. Ruzsky had forgotten not a single detail. Standing here, he could almost feel the intense heat and smell the acrid odor of burning turf from a distant forest fire. He recalled the sight of the Emperor on his white horse, the stillness in the crowd, and then the cheers rising with the strength of an approaching storm.

Irina had persuaded him that they should accompany his father. After the inspection was over and a sinking sun cast shadows across the gray battleships anchored in the bay, he had been introduced to Maria. They had exchanged only a few words, but as she walked away, in a cloud of dust kicked up by a thousand horses’ hooves, she had turned to look back at him, the wide brim of her white hat pushed up and her hand shielding her eyes from the fading sunlight.

Ruzsky took another pace forward. In that moment, his life had been transformed and yet the truth was that he had nothing more concrete to go on than an instinct for her feelings.

He thought of Anton’s assertion that she had kept a picture of him on her dressing table and his face flushed with pleasure once more. Was he too late? He knocked.

“Come in.”

The adrenaline pumped through him. He put his hand on the door and pushed it gently.

Maria stood on the far side of the room, in front of a mirror, half-turned toward him.

She was tall, with long, dark hair that stretched all the way down the center of her back. She had a petite nose, long eyelashes, rich green eyes, and full, slightly upturned lips.

She was a woman of heart-stopping beauty-talented and womanly and clever-and yet the sight of him made her flush bright red. Her smile was girlish, full of unsophisticated pleasure. “Hello, Sandro,” she said, her voice soft.

Ruzsky felt his stomach lurch.

She wore a simple, elegant, cream and gold dress. “You’re back,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You’ve come home.” Her voice was warm.

Ruzsky did not know what to reply.

“You haven’t changed one bit,” he said.

She gave a tiny smile. “Is that a compliment?”

“Of course.”

“You look older.”

“And that isn’t.”

“I don’t know. It suits you.” She paused, her face serious again. “It’s been so long, Sandro.”

“A lifetime.”

Her cheeks flushed again.

“How was Tobolsk?” Maria asked.

“It was cold.”

“You missed Petersburg. City of our dreams.”

“And yet it got along without me.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. I was told that your wife came home.”

Ruzsky wanted to ask by whom. “She did, yes.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

Ruzsky didn’t reply.

Maria caught sight of a hole in his boot, then shook her head. “Don’t you have anyone to look after you?”

“No,” he said with a rueful smile.

It had been intended as a joke, but her face was instantly concerned.

Warmth flooded through him.

Maria took a step toward him, then leaned against the dresser upon which she stored her makeup. Her dress was tight and low cut, the swell of her breasts almost sculpted. He caught sight of a single rose in a cut-glass vase behind her, and suddenly imagined another man bending to kiss the smooth skin of her neck.

Ruzsky fought to keep his emotions in check, but it was an unequal battle. He was forty-forty-an investigator hardened by more experience than was good for a man; married, betrayed, alone. And yet when he was with her-a girl not much more than half his age-the cares of the world fell away.

Opposite her dresser, a photograph of the male dancer Vaslav Nijinsky as the golden slave-the role that made him famous-took pride of place alongside one of Maria and Kshesinskaya, the prima ballerina assoluta. Russia ’s two best-known ballerinas had their arms draped around each other for the camera. “How is she?” Ruzsky asked, inclining his head.

“Much the same as before.” Maria shrugged. “Still collecting Romanovs.”

“Perhaps not the best currency in these times.”

“The world is at war, Sandro. How many million dead? How many yet to die? Our fantasies count for little.”

Ruzsky felt that she was able to look right through him.

“Was it so bad, what you did? To send you away for so long.”

Her gaze was intense. Was it hurt that he saw there? Ruzsky sighed. “I helped cause a man’s death.”

“But he was a terrible man.”

Ruzsky stared at the floor.

“And you took the blame, Sandro?”

Ruzsky did not answer.

“So you’re the kind of man who will not cheat on his wife, even though she betrays him openly, and who will happily go into exile in order to protect a friend.”

“I wouldn’t say happily, exactly-”

“An example to us all.”

“I’m afraid my father would not agree.”

“Is what he thinks still so important?”

“Yes.” Ruzsky realized he had said too much. He shook his head. “No.” He forced a smile. “Are you rehearsing today?”

There was a shout from the corridor. “Maria Andreevna!” Then another, when she did not respond.

Maria was still looking at Ruzsky. “Something for next month. Two more nights of the Stravinsky and then I go home to Yalta.”

“It’s a long way, at a time like this.”

“My sister is not well. Sandro, I…” As she tried to find the words, her face was soft and more achingly beautiful than ever. This was how he had remembered her. “I would like us to be friends,” she said.

Ruzsky did not move. His heart banged like a drum. Friends… He was not sure if she meant only friends and no more. “We are friends.”

Now he saw sorrow in her eyes. Was it longing, or just a deep loneliness that was the mirror of his own? Ruzsky looked at her for a few moments more, but something prevented him from speaking.

“Maria!” the man shouted again.

Maria touched his cheek, her fingers cool on his skin as her eyes searched his. Then she was gone.

Ruzsky stayed rooted to the spot. By the time he had followed her out of the door, she had disappeared.

At the end of the corridor, he stopped.

He could hear the ballet master already barking instructions. “And one and two and no… Again!”

He waited.

He listened to his own breathing in the silence of the corridor.

After a minute, he continued on his way.