City of Silence (City of Mystery) by Kim Wright Page B

Paris.  Whenever things were
tense between them, Konstantin would talk of Paris.  The only place in the
world where dancers were held in as high esteem as they were in St. Petersburg,
so when he fantasized about them escaping, of course he would imagine them
there.  He claimed that he would get a job on the stage or perhaps instructing
in the most exclusive academies.   If he could teach hopeless Russian girls,
then surely he could teach hopeless French ones, and then Tatiana would have
dresses even more elaborate than the costumes of the Winter Palace. 
    Tatiana
never challenged these dreams, since they brought him such comfort, but each
time he said the word “Paris” it deepened her despair.  He was so young.  Not
just in years, but in experience.  Konstantin had spent his childhood within
the walls of a ballroom, his young adult years in a theater, and he knew little
of the cold and storyless outside world.  He sincerely believed that a man
could become whatever he pretended to be.
    And
now he misread her hesitation.  “Perhaps you won’t have fine things at first,”
he conceded.  “At first we shall be poor.”
    “I’ve
been poor before,” she said. 
    “Then
why do you look so sad?”
    “You
know the reason.  Filip.”
    “He
ignores you.”
    “He
owns me.  And each time we take this chance, the more likely we are to be
caught.”
    “That
isn’t true, you know.  At least not in a mathematical sense.  Each time one
spins the wheel of fortune, the odds of success or disaster are precisely the
same, no matter how many times one has played that particular game before.”
    “Spoken
like a true gambler.  Or at least like a man who has spun the wheel of fortune
many times.”
    It
was a jibe.  He was three years younger than her but, for his age, he had known
many lovers, and often, she suspected, they had been his students.  Married
women – lonely, ignored, ripe for the picking.
    He
looked at her somberly.  “I’ve never played a game quite like this one.”
    “What
was the Grand Duchess Ella telling you while you waltzed?”
    “Are
you jealous?”
    “At
one time she was called the most beautiful princess of Europe.”
    “At
one time perhaps she was,” Konstantin said.  “She asked me if I knew the ballet
dancers who were found dead this morning.  Which I did, but only slightly.  I’d
seen them in rehearsals.  They were good.”
    “Why
would she even suggest that you knew them?”  Tatiana asked sharply.  
    “You
know how these people think as well as I do,” Konstantin said.  “They assume
that all dancers must know each other, just as they imagine one German of
course must be related to another or that if a man has taken to sea he must
have met every other sailor in the world.  Life beyond their own small circle
is a bit of a blur to them.”      
    “I
was there, you know.”
    When
he frowned in confusion, she tried to explain.  “Filip told me two dancers were
dead, this morning while we had breakfast.  He meant to frighten me, because he
suspects something between us, and I don’t care how many times you tell me I am
being silly, I know that he does.  He tells me that two dancers are dead and
then he smiles this horrid smile with egg all over his teeth.  So when he left,
I went to the theater and I saw them lying there on the floor. The guards were
cleaning up.”
    Konstantin
was still frowning, but more gently.  “You thought one of them might be me? 
Why should I be dead?”
    “I
don’t know.  I suppose I panicked.  But the Grand Duchess Ella was there too,
with that ghoul of an Englishwoman that she drags about with her everywhere she
goes.  She and I discussed the situation.”
    Konstantin
softly laughed.  “Discussed?  I was not aware that Ella discussed anything with
anybody.”
    “She
discussed it with you.”
    He
ignored that. “The guards said it was suicide.  The dancers playing Romeo and
Juliet become too absorbed in the story,