Zoya

“I will wait for you.” He looked at her stolidly and she wanted to scream. She didn't want a chaperone. She wanted to be just like the rest of them. She wasn't a baby anymore after all. She was a grown woman, of eighteen. And perhaps, if she was very, very lucky, Nijinsky might speak to her … or Mr. Diaghilev again. She was far more interested in them than in any of Pershing's men. But first she had to convince Feodor to go home, and finally, after what seemed like endless arguments, he agreed to go, although he was certain the Countess would be furious at him.

“I promise you, I'll explain everything to her.”

“Very well, mademoiselle.” He touched his brow, bowed, and left via the stage door, as Zoya gave a sigh of relief.

“What was that all about?” one of the other dancers asked as she walked past her.

“Just a friend of the family.” She smiled. No one knew her circumstances here, and no one cared. All they cared about was the ballet, not maudlin tales of how she had come to join the troupe, and having the old servant standing by like a Cossack Guard embarrassed her. She was relieved when he left, and she could return to the dressing room to change for the reception at General Pershing's house. Everyone was in high spirits, and someone had already begun pouring them champagne.

They piled into the military trucks happily, and crossed the Pont Alexandre III as they sang old Russian songs, and had to be reminded more than once to behave themselves as they reached General Pershing's house. But he seemed like a kindly man as he welcomed them, standing tall and slender in his full dress uniform, circulating in the elegant marble hall. And for an instant, Zoya felt her heart catch as she looked around. It reminded her of the palaces of St. Petersburg, although smaller of course. But the marble floors and the columns and the sweeping staircases were all too familiar to her, and all too sharp a memory of the world she had only recently left behind.

They were escorted into a large ballroom with mirrored walls and gold columns and marble fireplaces, all of it beautifully authentic Louis XV. And Zoya suddenly felt very young again, as the dancers cavorted and laughed, and a military band that had appeared began playing a slow waltz, as others drank champagne. She felt an overwhelming urge to cry as she listened to the music, and feeling breathless, she walked out into the garden beyond.

She stood silently, staring at a statue by Rodin, wishing that she hadn't come, when a voice directly behind where she stood spoke softly in the warm night.

“May I get you something, mademoiselle?” The voice was distinctly American, yet he spoke perfect French. She turned to see a tall, attractive man with gray hair and brilliant blue eyes looking at her, and the first thing she noticed about him was that he looked kind. He seemed to sense that something was wrong, and his eyes gently probed hers as she shook her head, the tears still glistening on her cheeks. “Are you all right?”

She nodded silently and then turned in embarrassment to wipe her tears. She was wearing a simple white dress Alix had given her the year before. It was one of the few nice ones she had managed to bring from St. Petersburg, and she looked lovely as she stood looking up at him. “I'm sorry … I …” How could she begin to tell him all that she felt? She wished only that he would leave her to her memories, but he made no move to go as he watched her eyes. “It's so beautiful here.” It was all she could say, but it brought the squalid apartment near the Palais Royal to mind, and reminded her again of how much their lives had changed, in sharp contrast to the elegant garden where she stood now.

“Are you with the Ballet Russe?”

“I am.” She smiled, hoping he would forget her tears, as she listened to the distant strains of another waltz. She said the words with pride, thinking again how lucky she was. “Wasn't Nijinsky marvelous tonight?”

He laughed in embarrassment and came a little closer to her as she noticed again how tall and handsome he was. “I'm afraid I'm not a great devotee of the ballet, it was a command performance for some of us tonight.”

“Aha!” She laughed. “And did you suffer terribly?”

“Yes.” His eyes laughed back into hers. “Until just now. Would you like a glass of champagne?”

“In a minute perhaps. It's so lovely out here.” The garden was so peaceful, as everyone danced and laughed and cavorted inside. “Do you live here too?”

He smiled and shook his head. “They have us billeted in a house on the rue du Bac. It's not quite as palatial as this, but it's very nice, and it's quite nearby.” He was watching her as she moved. She was quiet and elegant, and there was more than just the grace of a dancer as she walked closer to him. There was an aura of almost regal dignity as she moved her head, and a look of immeasurable sadness that belied her smile.

“Are you on the General's staff?”