Zoya

He looked at her in equal amazement, as he stared at her with wide eyes, momentarily silenced by her unexpected beauty. I'm sorry, mademoiselle … I … your grandmother …”

“Is she all right?”

“Yes, of course. I believe she is in her room”

“And who are you?” Zoya couldn't understand what he was doing there in his shirt sleeves, and she almost reeled from his next words.

“Didn't she tell you? … I live here. I moved in this morning.” He was a pale, thin, youngish man in his early thirties, with thin hair and a crippled leg. He walked with a marked limp as he went back to Fe-odor's room and closed the door, as Zoya flew into hers in a fury.

“What have you done? I can't believe it!” Zoya stared at her angrily as she sat in the bedroom's only chair, and then Zoya noticed that Evgenia had moved a few more things into their room for their private comfort. “Who is that man?” She offered no preamble, she couldn't believe what her grandmother had done, as Evgenia looked up quietly from her knitting.

“I've taken in a boarder. We had no choice. The jeweler offered me absolutely nothing for my pearls, and there's very little left to sell. Sooner or later we would have had to do it.” Her face was filled with quiet resignation.

“Couldn't you have at least asked, or even warned me? I'm not a child, and I live here too. That man is a total stranger! What if he kills us in our sleep, or steals the last of your jewels? What if he gets drunk … or brings in awful women?”

“Then we'll ask him to leave, but calm yourself, Zoya, he seems perfectly nice, and very shy. He was wounded at Verdun last year, and he's a teacher.”

“I don't care what he is. This apartment is too small to take in a stranger, and we get enough money from my dancing. Why this?” She felt as though she'd lost her home to him, and she just wanted to sit down and cry at the indignity of it. For her, it was the final blow. But to Evgenia, it had seemed the only way out. And she hadn't told Zoya because she had suspected how she'd react. And Zoya's outrage only confirmed it. “I can't believe you would do this!”

“We had no choice, little one. Perhaps later we can do something different. But not for the moment.”

“I can't even make a cup of tea now in my nightgown.” Her eyes were filled with tears of rage and sorrow.

“Think of your cousins and what their life must be like in Tobolsk. Can't you be as brave as they are?” The words made Zoya feel instantly guilty, as she slowly deflated and sank into the chair her grandmother had vacated to go and stand by the window.

“I'm sorry, Grandmama … I just … I was so shocked …” She smiled then, looking almost mischievous but not quite. “I think I frightened him to death. He ran into his room and bolted the door after I shouted at him.”

“He's a perfectly nice young man. You should apologize to him in the morning.” But Zoya didn't answer her as she contemplated the extremes they had come to. Everything seemed so constantly dreary. Even Clayton seemed to have let her down. He had promised to come to Paris as soon as he could, but there seemed to be no hope of it for the moment.

She wrote to him the next day, but she was too embarrassed to mention their boarder. His name was Antoine Vallet, and he looked terrified when he saw her in the morning. He apologized profusely, knocked over a lamp, almost broke a vase, and stumbled as he made every effort to get out of her way in the kitchen. She noticed he had sad eyes, and she almost felt sorry for him, but not quite, he had invaded the last bastion they had, and she wasn't anxious to share it.

“Good morning, mademoiselle. Would you like some coffee?” he offered, and the aroma was pleasant in the kitchen, but she shook her head and growled at him.

“I drink tea, thank you very much.”

I'm sorry.” He stared at her in terrified admiration, and left the kitchen as quickly as he could. And shortly after that, he left to teach his classes. But when she returned from rehearsal that afternoon, he was back again, sitting in the living room, at the desk, correcting papers. Zoya slammed into her room and paced nervously as she glanced at her grandmother.

“I suppose this means I can't ever use the desk again.” She wanted to write a letter to Clayton.

“I'm sure he won't be there all night, Zoya.” But even her grandmother seemed to be confined to their room. There was nowhere she could go to be alone, no way she could collect her own thoughts, or get away from any of them. It seemed unbearable suddenly, and she was sorry she hadn't gone to Portugal with the Ballet Russe, but as she wheeled around and saw tears in Evgenia's eyes, she felt a knife of guilt pierce her heart as she dropped to her knees and put her arms around her.

“I'm so sorry … I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm just tired and nervous.”