Russian Winter

  A Novel

  Russian Winter

  Daphne Kalotay

  FOR MAMUKA

  AND IN MEMORY OF IMRE AND BAMBI FARKASS

  It was then that I first came to know that love is not merely a source of joy or a game, but part of the ceaseless tragedy of life, both its eternal curse and the overwhelming force that gives it meaning.

  —Nadezhda Mandelstam

  Her husband had archaic ideas about jewels; a man bought them for his wife in acknowledgment of things he could not gracefully utter.

  —Willa Cather

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Book I

  Chapter One

  The afternoon was so cold, so relentlessly gray, few pedestrians…

  Chapter Two

  It is decided—in that silent, abrupt way that adults make…

  Chapter Three

  Again the phone was ringing. First it had been the…

  Chapter Four

  Ensconced on her sofa, in the corner closest to the…

  Chapter Five

  Good god, Carla,” Grigori said, entering the Department of Foreign…

  Chapter Six

  In the dream the letter arrived by special delivery, a…

  Chapter Seven

  Evelyn leaned her head in around six o’clock, her blond…

  Chapter Eight

  In the wee hours of Monday morning, the blizzard that…

  Book II

  Chapter Nine

  In his mailbox in the Department of Foreign Languages, Grigori…

  Chapter Ten

  Mounting the steep steps of the Department of Foreign Languages,…

  Chapter Eleven

  For a few years, first in Norway and then in…

  Chapter Twelve

  The mail that afternoon contained a letter from Shepley. He…

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cynthia went right back to the catalog the next evening,…

  Chapter Fourteen

  The days just before an auction were always stressful, the…

  Book III

  Chapter Fifteen

  At first Maria thought she was the only one who…

  Chapter Sixteen

  It wasn’t until she arrived at work that she realized…

  Author’s Note and Sources

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Daphne Kalotay

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  BOOK I

  LOT 7

  Diamond Earstuds. Each 4-prong-set with a round brilliant-cut diamond weighing approx. 1.64 and 1.61 cts., color and clarity H/VS2, 18kt white gold mounts, Russian hallmarks. $20,000–22,000

  CHAPTER ONE

  The afternoon was so cold, so relentlessly gray, few pedestrians passed the long island of trees dividing Commonwealth Avenue, and even little dogs, shunted along impatiently, wore thermal coats and offended expressions. From a third-floor window on the north side of the street, above decorative copper balconies that had long ago turned the color of pale mint, Nina Revskaya surveyed the scene. Soon the sun—what little there was of it—would abandon its dismal effort, and all along this strip of well-kept brownstones, streetlamps would glow demurely.

  Nina tried to lean closer, to better glimpse the sidewalk below, but the tightness in her neck seized again. Since her chair could not move any nearer, she bore the pain and leaned closer still. Her breath left patches of fog on the glass. She hoped to spot her visitor ahead of time, so as to better prepare herself.

  Cold rose to her cheeks. Here came someone, but no, it was a woman, and too young. Her boot heels made a lonely clop-clop sound. Now the woman paused, seemed to be searching for an address. Nina lost sight of her as she approached the door of the building. Surely this couldn’t be right—though now the doorbell buzzed. Stiff-backed in her wheelchair, Nina rolled slowly away from the window. In the foyer, frowning, she pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Drew Brooks, from Beller.”

  These American girls, going around with men’s names.

  “Do come up.” Though aware of her accent, and of the cracking in her voice, Nina was always shocked to hear it. In her mind, in her thoughts, her words were always bright and clear. She rolled forward to unlatch and open the door, and listened for the elevator. But it was mounting footsteps that grew louder, closer, until they became “Drew,” in a slim wool coat, her cheeks rosy from cold, a leather satchel hanging from a strap diagonally across her shoulder. She was of good height, with a posture of self-respect, and thrust out her hand, still gloved.

  It has begun, Nina thought, with a slight drop of her heart; I have begun it. Knuckles wincing, she briefly grasped the outstretched hand. “Please come in.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Revskaya.”

  Miz, as if she were a secretary. “You may call me Nina.”

  “Nina, hello.” The girl gave a surprisingly confident smile, and creases fanned out from beside her eyes; Nina saw she was older than she had first thought. Her eyelashes were dark, her auburn hair tucked loosely behind her ears. “Lenore, our director of fine jewelry, is very sorry that she can’t be here,” she was saying, removing her gloves. “Both her children came down with something.”

  “You may put here your coat.”

  The girl extracted herself from her coat to reveal a short skirt and a fitted high-necked sweater. Nina assessed the short skirt, the long legs, the low boots and pale tights. Impractical, showing off her legs in weather like this. And yet Nina approved. Though most people knew the phrase “Suffer for beauty,” few truly embraced it.

  “We will sit in the salon.” Nina turned her wheelchair, and a current of pain shot through her kneecaps. It was always like this, the pain, sudden and indiscriminate. “Please have a seat.”

  The girl sat down and crossed her legs in their thin tights.

  Suffer for beauty. It was one of the truer maxims, which Nina had lived to the fullest, dancing on sprained toes and rheumatic hips, through pneumonia and fever. And as a young woman in Paris and then London, she had of course served time in finicky gowns and treacherous heels, and in the 1960s those hopelessly scratchy skirt suits that seemed to be made of furniture upholstery. In 1978 she had undergone what was known as a “mini facelift.” Really it was just a few stitches behind the ears—so minor, in fact, that on the day that she was to have the stitches removed, it had occurred to her that she might as well do it herself. And she had, with a magnifying mirror and a tiny pair of pointy nail scissors.

  Smoothing her skirt, the girl removed invisible lint with a light, flitting hand. Petersburg airs, Nina’s grandmother used to call them, these little feminine adjustments. Now the girl reached inside her satchel to pull out a clipboard with a leather cover. Wide cheekbones, fair skin, brown eyes flecked with green. Something about her was familiar, though not in any good way. “I’m here to compose a basic list. Our appraisers will take it from there.”

  Nina gave a small nod, and the knot at the base of her neck tightened: at times this knot seemed to be the very heart of her illness. “Yes, of course,” she said, and the effort made the pain briefly stronger.

  Opening the clipboard, the girl said, “I have all sorts of things I’d love to ask you—though I’ll try to keep it to the business at hand. I love the ballet. I wish I could have seen you dance.”

  “There is no need to flatter me.”

  The girl raised an eyebrow. “I was reading about you, how they called you ‘the Butterfly.’”

  “One of the Moscow papers was calling me that,” Nina heard herself snap. “I dislike it.” For one thing, the image wasn’t quite accurate, the way it made her seem, weak
and fluttery, a rose petal blown about in the air. “It is too…sweet.”

  The girl gave a winking look that seemed to agree, and Nina felt the surprise of her coldness having been acknowledged. “I’ve noticed the butterfly motif in some of your jewelry,” the girl said. “I looked back at the list from the St. Botolph’s exhibit. I thought that might make our work today simpler. We’ll go through the St. Botolph’s list”—she indicated the pages in the grip of the clipboard—“and you can let me know which ones you’d like to auction and which ones you might be keeping, if any.”

  “That is fine.” The knot in her neck twinged. In truth she possessed something close to affection for this horrible knot, which at first had been just another unrelenting pain. But then one day, only a few months ago, Nina happened to recall the way her grandmother used to tie her winter scarf for her, back in Moscow, when she was still too young to do it herself: knotted at the back, to easily grab at if she tried to run off. The memory, which Nina had not alighted on for a good fifty years, was a balm, a salve, a gift long ago lost and returned at last. Now whenever Nina suffered the pain there, she told herself that it was the knot in her old wool scarf, and that her grandmother’s hands had tied it, and then the pain, though no less severe, was at least not a bad one.

  The girl was already handing her the clipboard. Nina took it with shaking hands, as the girl said, conversationally, “I’m actually one-quarter Russian, myself.” When Nina did not respond, she added, “My grandfather came from there.”

  Nina chose to ignore this. Her Russian life was so very distant, the person she had been then so separate from the one she had become. She set the clipboard on her lap and frowned at it.

  In a more confidential tone, the girl asked, “What inspired you to put them up for auction?”

  Nina hoped her voice would not shake. “I want to direct the income where I like, during my lifetime. I am almost eighty, you know. As I have said to you, all proceeds shall go to the Boston Ballet Foundation.” She kept her eyes down, focused on the clipboard, wondering if her stiffness hid her emotions. Because it all felt wrong now, a rash decision. The wrongness had to do with this girl, somehow, that she should be the one to sift through Nina’s treasures. Those primly confident hands.

  “Well, these pieces are sure to bring in a good sum,” the girl said. “Especially if you allow us to publish that they’re from your collection.” Her face was hopeful. “Our auctions are always anonymous, of course, but in high-profile cases like this, it often pays to make it public. I imagine Lenore mentioned that to you. Even the less valuable items can fetch a good price that way. Not that we need to include keepsakes, too, but—”

  “Take them.”

  The girl angled her head at Nina, as if in reassessment. She seemed to have noticed something, and Nina felt her pulse begin to race. But the girl simply sat up a bit straighter and said, “The very fact that they’re yours would bring in so many more potential bidders. And there’s of course the added allure that some of these pieces were smuggled out of Soviet Russia. In life-or-death circumstances.”

  Here it came, as it always did, the part of the conversation where Nina would be molded into that brave old woman, the one who had escaped oppression and defied her government in the pursuit of artistic freedom. It always happened this way; she started out an artist and ended up a symbol.

  “When you escaped, I mean.”

  Those soulful brown eyes. Again Nina breathed a whiff of the past, the recollection of…what? Something unpleasant. A faint anger rose inside her. “People think I fled Russia to escape communism. Really I was escaping my mother-in-law.”

  The girl seemed to think Nina was joking. The creases showed again beside her eyes as her mouth pressed into a conspiratorial smile. Dark lashes, broad cheekbones, the wise arch of her eyebrows…It came to Nina in a swift, clear vision: that luminous face, and the shivering wave of her arms, a delicate ripple of muscle as she drifted across the stage.

  “Is there a…problem?”

  Nina flinched. The girl from Beller was watching her intently, so that Nina wondered if she had been staring. Taking a breath to collect herself, she said, “You remind me of a friend I had. Someone from a long time ago.”

  The girl looked pleased, as if any comparison with the past must be a flattering one. She dealt in antiques, after all. Soon she was discussing the St. Botolph’s list with a brisk professionalism that whisked Nina past any tug of emotion, any last-minute regrets. Still, it felt like a long time until the girl finally donned her coat and went tromping confidently down the stairs, her inventory pressed tightly between the covers of the clipboard.

  WARM MOSCOW MORNING, early June, school will soon be ending. “Can’t you sit still?” A yank at the top of Nina’s head, prickling tips of a comb on her part. The question is purely rhetorical. Nina learned to run as soon as she could walk and never tires of hopping from step to step in the dark stairwell of their building. She can cross the courtyard corner to corner in a series of leaps. “Stop fidgeting.” But Nina swings her legs and taps her heels against each other, as Mother’s fingers, precise as a surgeon’s, briskly weave her own hope, her own dreams, into two tight plaits. Nina can feel her mother’s hope folded into them, the tremor of quick fingers, and rapid heartbeats through the thin fabric of her blouse. Today is of too much importance to allow Nina’s grandmother, with her poor eyesight and sloppily knotted headkerchief, to fiddle with her hair. At last the braids are done, looped up onto the top of her head and fastened with a big new bow to secure all the hopes and dreams inside. Nina’s scalp aches.

  Vera too, when they meet in the courtyard, has new ribbons in her hair. Strong gusts of wind flop them back and forth and worry the morning glories on the sagging balconies. In mere days the weather has gone from a cold drizzle to so hot and dry that Nina can’t help being concerned about the dust, that it will ruin the cotton dress Mother has sewn for her. Vera’s grandmother, dark eyes glowering from below a white headkerchief, keeps frowning and pulling Vera close to her. Like all grandmothers, she is permanently displeased, calls Gorky Street “Tverskaya,” and gripes loudly about things no one else dares lament even in a whisper. The skin of her face is all tiny broken lines, like the top layer of ice when you step on it for the first time.

  “We were up very late last night,” Vera confides to Nina. The way she says it suggests Nina ought not ask why.

  “How late?” Like Vera, Nina is nine years old and always being put to bed too soon. But Vera just shakes her head, a movement so small and terse her auburn braids barely move. On one of the balconies a woman who lives in the same apartment as Vera leans over the railing, shaking out bedding. With an upward glance, Vera’s grandmother conveys something to Nina’s mother so quietly, it could be another language. Murmurs, back and forth, nothing Nina can make out.

  She worries the day will be ruined—and after such a long wait, ever since Mother first explained about the ballet school. The vague, dreamlike description might have come straight from a fairy tale, a land where little girls wear their hair in high, tightly pinned buns and study not just the usual reading and geography and history but how to move, how to dance. In the old days, girls like Nina would not even have been allowed to audition. Now, though, with thanks to Uncle Stalin, any child old enough can apply for an entrance exam.

  But not everyone will be accepted to the school, Mother has explained. She has taken this morning off specially, asked for permission from the doctors’ clinic where she is a secretary. When at last she looks back to Nina and Vera—“All right, girls, it’s time to go”—Nina is relieved. Vera’s mother was supposed to ask to be excused for today too, but off they go without her, following Mother through the courtyard gate into the alley, a scrawny cat sneaking away as Vera’s grandmother calls after them, “I know you’ll be the best!” Her voice seems to catch behind the iron bars as the gate clangs shut.

  Hot, windblown street. Wide boulevards coated with dust. Each gust brings the gray
fluff of poplars, and Nina and Vera have to keep plucking it off their hair and their dresses, as Nina’s mother walks briskly ahead.

  “I’m cold,” Vera says glumly, despite the sunshine and warm breeze. “I don’t feel well.” Mother slows down and puts her hand out to feel Vera’s forehead. Though she seems worried, she tells Vera, with a sigh, “It’s just nerves, my sweet little chick.” She gives Vera a squeeze.

  Nina wishes Mother would put her arm around her, where it belongs. But soon enough they are at the corner of Pushechnaya and Neglinaya streets, looking up at a four-story house with a sign posted over the entrance:

  MOSCOW CHOREOGRAPHIC SCHOOL OF THE BOLSHOI THEATRE

  The Bolshoi is where Nina’s father worked before he died, when Nina was still a toddler. He was a painter of stage scenery. Mother’s voice whenever she recalls this sounds proud, as if she wishes she too worked at the theater, instead of at a desk in the polyclinic. But neither Nina nor Vera has ever been to the Bolshoi. The first time Nina saw ballet was just this year, at a pavilion in Gorky Park. That too was Mother’s idea. After all, Nina is always jumping and twirling, trying out cartwheels and handstands—and then one day last year, playing in the courtyard, Vera went up onto the top of her toes. Not the balls of her feet; the very tips of her shoes. Of course Nina had to try it too. The glorious sensation of balance, of taking little steps and not falling. All afternoon she and Vera went up onto their toes like that—until Vera’s grandmother yelled at them for ruining their shoes. By then Mother was home from work and, instead of scolding, told them her idea.