Encore by Monique Raphel High Page A

kokoshnik: a diadem of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds worn at the coronations of the Tzars. Lydia had found it at the Jewish market, and of course the stones were clever imitations. The gown had been sewn by the old nurse. Her entire appearance was striking: the pale, smooth skin, the enormous eyes, the gilded headdress on the shining brown hair, the brightness of the cloth over her small shapeliness. She looked at once very young and frozen with apprehension—detached and aloof, regal and imposing.
    During the drive over the snow-covered pavement, she did not move. The darkness outside hypnotized her, and the horses’ hooves reverberated inside her head. But when the Swiss doorman of the building on the Boulevard of the Horse Guard opened the front door, and when, at the entrance to the huge apartment, she heard the noise of laughter, a shaft of pure pain pierced through her. She had never felt so oddly set apart as now. The door opened, and a servant removed her wrap; she fancied that he disapproved of it, for it was old and out of fashion. At last she stood in the brilliant room.
    She stood there for a full minute before she was noticed. Then she saw strange heads turn toward her—Napoleon in his tricornered hat, a bewigged Louis XIV, Mary Stuart. She noticed the room with its intimate silks and velvets, its oil paintings, porcelain vases, and lamps of opaline and jade. It was all a dream. Louis XIV was coming toward her, executing an elaborate bow, and he said in the ironic voice of Count Boris Kussov: “A charming sight. Come, ma chère, I shall introduce you.”
    There was nothing to say. So many faces thrust at her, so many names—names that all meant something to her. There were singers, actors, painters, statesmen, names from books and periodicals, names whispered in gossip. There were ballerinas present, too, but none with whom she was personally acquainted. She could barely speak, but Boris kept her arm in his, and was murmuring to her, with a certain familiarity that she found puzzling. She did not belong here at all, any more than her mother had belonged in the salon of Baroness Gudrinskaya.
    â€œYou see, dear Mala,” a gruff voice said jovially, “our little
    dove is in awe of you tonight, but I assure you, one day she will provide you with some interesting challenges.” Beneath the Louis XIII plumes, Natalia saw that the speaker was the Grand-Duke Vladimir, and that the woman he had addressed so lightly was his son Andrei’s acknowledged mistress, Matilda Kchessinskaya, the prima ballerina assoluta of the Imperial Ballet. Natalia had no idea how to accept this compliment with grace: She wanted to die, and executed a deep curtsy. Then, thankfully, Boris brought her to yet another luminary.
    Alone in the corner Pierre Riazhin waited. Tonight he resembled a figure from a painting done by Frans Hals in the seventeenth century. His dark face, with its serious black eyes, seemed ápropos beneath the Dutch hat, so large, imposing, and classical. His fingers closed around the thin stem of his champagne glass as he watched Boris and the girl. How proprietary Boris looked. The girl seemed removed, in a stupor. He could well understand. It had taken him two years of exposure to learn how to be clever in society, and as it was, he was most often rude and unable to conform to polite and witty rituals. She was so beautiful, he thought, and something inside him swelled with pain. Pierre suddenly hated the girl for being slim and pale and wide-eyed; he wanted to strangle the life out of her, to obliterate the vulnerability and empathy that she brought to the surface in his own heart.
    Boris had brought Natalia before a zakuski table set against the wall and laden with hors d’oeuvres: meat-filled pastries, tongue, stuffed mushrooms, caviar, smoked whitefish, and salmon. He heaped a small dish of Sèvres china with various foods and handed it to her. “You see,” he was