Zoya

“The Châtelet, please,” she said imperiously as though she knew what she was talking about, and prayed silently that the man knew its location. And after an instant's hesitation, she saw that her prayers were answered. She hardly dared to breathe as the taxi sped her there, and she gave the driver a handsome tip, because he had found it, and because she felt guiltily relieved that he wasn't Russian. It was depressing somehow to see members of the families she had known driving taxis and talking mournfully about the family at Tsarskoe Selo.

She hurried inside, and looked around, thinking back to her threats to run away to the Maryinsky Theatre, and she found herself thinking of Marie and how stunned she would have been at this. It made Zoya smile as she looked for someone, anyone, who could answer her questions. She found a woman finally, in ballet tenue, practicing quietly at the barre, and Zoya guessed correctly that she was a teacher.

“I am looking for Mr. Diaghilev,” she announced, and the woman smiled.

“Are you now? Might I ask why?”

“I'm a dancer and I would like to audition for him.” She put all her cards on the table at once, and she had never looked younger or prettier or more frightened.

“I see. And has he ever heard of you?” It seemed rather a cruel question, and the woman didn't even bother to wait for an answer. “I see you haven't brought anything to dance in, mademoiselle. That's hardly an outfit in which to audition.” Zoya glanced down at her narrow navy blue serge skirt, her white sailor blouse, and the black leather street shoes she had worn every day during her last weeks at Tsarskoe Selo. She blushed furiously then and the woman smiled at her. She was so pretty and so young and so innocent. It seemed hard to believe that she would be much of a dancer.

“I'm sorry. Perhaps I could come back to see him tomorrow.” And then in a hushed whisper, “Is he here?”

The older woman smiled. “No, but he will be soon. He is holding full rehearsal here on the eleventh.”

“I know. I wanted to audition for him. I want to be in the performance, and join his troupe.” She said it all at once and the woman laughed out loud.

“Do you now? And where have you been training?”

“At Madame Nastova's school in St. Petersburg … until two months ago.” She only wished then that she could have lied and said “the Maryinsky,” but he would have known the truth almost certainly. And Madame Nastova's school of ballet was also one of the most prestigious in Russia.

“If I get you a leotard and some shoes, will you dance for me now?” The woman looked amused, and Zoya hesitated only for a split second.

“Yes, if you like.” Her heart was pounding like an entire orchestra, but she had to get a job and this was all she could do, and all she wanted to do. It seemed the very least she could do for Evgenia.

The shoes that the woman gave her hurt her terribly, and as she went to the piano, Zoya felt foolish to have even tried it. She would look stupid on the stage all alone, and perhaps Madame Nastova was only being kind when she had said she was very good. But as the music began, she slowly began to forget her fears, and slowly she began to dance, and do everything that Madame Nastova had taught her. She danced for almost an hour tirelessly, as the woman watched her critically with narrowed eyes, but nowhere on her face was either scorn or amusement. Zoya was drenched when the music stopped at last, and she made a graceful curtsy in the direction of the piano. And in the silence of the room, the two women's eyes met, and the woman at the piano slowly nodded.

“Can you come back in two days, mademoiselle?”’ Zoya's eyes widened into two huge green saucers as she ran toward the piano.

“Do I get a job?”

The older woman shook her head and laughed, “No, no … but he will be here then. We shall see what he says, as well as the other teachers.”

“All right. I'll get some shoes.”

“You don't have any?” The woman looked surprised and Zoya looked at her seriously.

“We left everything we had in Russia. My parents and brother were killed in the revolution, and I escaped with my grandmother a month ago. I must find a job. She's too old to work, and we have no money.” It was a simple statement that spoke volumes and touched the other woman's heart to the core, although she didn't show it.

“How old are you?”

“Just eighteen. And I've studied for twelve years.”

“You're very good. No matter what he says … or the others … don't let anyone frighten you. You're very good.” Zoya laughed out loud then, it was just exactly what she had said to Marie, that afternoon at Tsarskoe Selo.