Without thinking, I said, “At her brisé volé en avant. The way she slides her foot after the demi-plié is very awkward.”
There was complete silence, and then everyone began to laugh. “Well, as long as there is nothing more to worry about than a demi-plié,” Lev Petrovich said, “there is hope for Russia’s future.”
As night came on, thousands stayed to cheer Yeltsin and to demand that the tanks leave, but the tanks remained. Reporters from all over had crowded into the building and were sending out reports of the coup around the world. The fax machines rattled away and the phones kept ringing. We heard a loud cheer go up from the crowd as they learned there was a huge rally against the coup in Leningrad’s Palace Square. I was sure Grandfather would be leading it.
Moments later the joy turned to shock. Three men had been killed. One of the men had thrown a canvas over the window of a tank to blind the driver so the tank could not move. Once the tank stopped, the man jumped up trying to get inside. He was shot by a soldier and died instantly. When his two friends tried to pull his body away from the advancing tank, they were shot. After that Lev Petrovich and several other deputies patrolled the hallways with rifles at the ready. They were obviously unused to guns, and their awkwardness with them made us feel more uneasy than safe. Even the great Rostropovich was guarding Yeltsin’s office with his Kalashnikov rifle.
Outside, the tanks were quiet and the crowd settled in for the night. The continual sound of their portable radios was like waves of a sea washing in. It was nearly light when I finally put my head down on a desk and closed my eyes, thinking what a story I would have to tell Grandfather, forgetting that when the coup was over, however it turned out, I would be far away in Paris.
In the morning I headed for the bathroom with the other women to splash water on my face. We shared combs and lipsticks, trying to put ourselves in some kind of order. The men slicked down their hair with water, but they all had a day’s growth of beard. In spite of a rain that had begun to fall, the crowd had spent the night in the streets. “There must be a hundred thousand people out there,” Lev Petrovich said.
All night famous people had come to entertain the crowd and encourage opposition to the coup. The comic Gennady Khazanov gave a funny imitation of Gorbachev. The poet Yevgeni Yevtushenko, who was a friend of my grandmother’s, read a poem to the crowd. I remembered how he had once written that we all needed to be tormented by our consciences. As long as we hear within ourselves the cry, “What have I done,” he wrote, “then something can be done with this world.” On this day tormented consciences were winning, but what of mine? What would my conscience say to me for running away from Russia?
Yeltsin walked out onto a balcony. When he appeared, a tremendous shout went up. Lev Petrovich pushed his way onto the balcony with the other deputies, pulling me with him. “There will be cameras out there, Tanya. Now is your chance to be famous. These pictures will be in newspapers all around the world. Think how proud your grandfather will be to see you here.”
“Democracy will win out,” Yeltsin shouted. He promised to stay in the parliament building for as long as it took for the leaders of the coup to be brought to justice. A wild cheer went up.
By noon of the second day we were all hungry again. The food from the American embassy had long since been eaten. As we looked out the window, we saw a man make a dash for the parliament building. He was carrying a load of boxes. Behind him came another man also with a tower of boxes. Pizzas! More pizzas came, and we sat around the desks drinking soda from the machines and eating the pizzas, tomato and cheese all over our faces.
Just as we finished our feast, startling news swept the parliament: In front of the KGB building the people had pulled down the statue of the founder of the secret police. Someone called to say Gorbachev had been released and the leaders of the coup had ordered the troops out of the city. The great armored beasts began to move away from the parliament. A rumor spread that Gorbachev was furious over his arrest by the KGB and would issue a decree to put an end to the Communist party.
I had lost all track of time, but now I realized that unless I left at once, I would miss the flight to Paris. Lev Petrovich shook my hand. “They will be cheering in St. Petersburg, and your grandfather will be leading them,” he said to me. For a moment I didn’t take in his words. Then for the first time I realized what had happened. “St. Petersburg,” he had said. Because of the coup’s defeat, my city had its rightful name back. Leningrad was once more St. Petersburg. I said the city’s real name over and over. Leningrad was gone forever. I had watched it happen. I had been a part of it. I could see that change was possible, and my heart filled with hope. How could I leave Russia?
CHAPTER 11
PARIS
I was just in time to hug Natalia, promise to write to her, and board the bus to the airport. On the bus I had to tell my story over and over. Even Madame and Maxim Nikolayevich hung upon my words, but at the end of my story Madame said, “I hope you did not forget your practice sessions while you were in the parliament building. Did you have your toe shoes with you?”
I had to confess that I did not.
We all tried to pretend that soaring thousands of feet into the air and flying along at hundreds of miles an hour was nothing to us. Vera and I held hands at the takeoff and landing, and I was glad Sasha’s St. Vladimir was traveling with us. I wondered how the promise of a new Russia could change things for Sasha and me. I only knew I couldn’t wait to see Sasha and tell him my story. Staying in Paris seemed less exciting than returning to the new Russia, but how was I to tell that to Vera?
Madame announced that on the way to our hotel the bus driver would swing by a few of the best-known Paris landmarks. “Take a good look, for after this you will see nothing of the city but the route to and from the opera house, where you will be practicing from dawn to dusk.”
Our first glimpse of Paris was through dirty bus windows. There was the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame Cathedral and the river Seine. I could feel how ancient the city was, hundreds of years older than St. Petersburg. Handsome as the buildings were, most were of gray stone. The buildings appeared drab when I compared them with the pinks and greens and blues of St. Petersburg’s buildings. On that August afternoon the green trees along the wide boulevards made everything lively, but I imagined how cheerless it would be in the winter if I stayed on. There would be nothing but bare branches and somber stone buildings to keep me company, and at the end of the day no familiar and loving faces to greet me.
While I was searching for a way to let Vera know that I wanted to return to Russia, Vera exclaimed over everything, seeing it as her new home. She had no reservations about the city. “Tanya, look at all the shops and stores. I’m going to go into every one of them.”
Madame put an end to Vera’s ambition. The moment we were unpacked, we were bused to the Paris Opéra. Even Madame was a little intimidated by the size of the opera house. The ornate building rose high up into the air and was crowned by a great dome, upon which stood a golden statue of Apollo, the god of music and poetry. It must have covered several acres and was approached by a wide stairway, on which lovers sat in the summer sunshine absorbed in one another. I lagged behind, thinking of Sasha, but Vera grabbed my arm and pulled me up the steps. Right outside the entrance for everyone to see were posters advertising the Kirov Ballet.
I think Madame was gratified to find the rehearsal rooms were as cramped and unadorned as our own. In no time we had changed into our leotards and toe shoes, and between the demands of Madame and Maxim Nikolayevich we practiced until our shoes wore out and our bodies were one intense ache. Then we practiced some more.
A dinner had been arranged for us in the hotel dining room, and we fell upon it like lions and tigers, reveling in the tasty soup and chicken stew and the luxurious plates of fresh fruit and cheese. Because our first performance was the following evening, rehearsals were called for early the next morning. Most of the exhausted troupe were satisfied to fall int
o bed, but Vera begged me to take a walk with her. “There’s something I must do and I want company.” I was tired and longed for bed, but I agreed, knowing I would soon have to tell Vera I was going to desert her.
Vera insisted we slip out the rear entrance of the hotel to avoid any questions by the KGB agents. She had a scrap of paper and a city map. Consulting an address written down on the paper, she led me up one street and down another; we strayed farther and farther from the hotel into a neighborhood of small shops and rough-looking cafés where I was conscious of men staring rudely at us. “Vera, we are going to be lost. Where are you taking me?”
“It should be just around the corner.” She glanced at the slip of paper once more and then led me to the entrance of a shop with iron bars across the windows. The shop was closed, but she knocked on the door. A woman in a long black skirt and a soiled sweater reluctantly allowed us to come inside. “I want to talk with Monsieur Lepage.” I saw Vera hand one of her father’s business cards to the woman. The woman looked us up and down and then disappeared. Moments later an elderly man shuffled out and gave Vera a knowing smile. “Bonsoir, bonsoir, mesdemoiselles. What can I do for Monsieur Chikov’s daughter?”
Vera reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a handkerchief. Inside the handkerchief was a bracelet, bright gold with red and green stones. “How much for this?” Vera asked. The man appeared delighted with the bracelet. He mentioned a figure that I was sure I misheard. Vera shook her head. “That is too little. Papa says it is worth twice that amount.” Then commenced an intense argument between Monsieur Lepage and Vera. At last the man handed Vera a stack of francs, which Vera stuffed into a large purse she was carrying.
The moment we were out of the shop, I said, “Vera, those were rubies and emeralds. Wherever did your father get it?”
“Papa puts all his money into gold and stones. It’s a kind of insurance. You never know what the ruble will be worth from day to day.”
I was horrified. “Vera, it’s strictly against the law to carry something like that out of Russia, and how did your father get so much money he could buy a bracelet like that?”
“Tanya, don’t be naive. You have guessed Papa deals on the black market. More and more countries are anxious for weapons, and Papa, as a former military officer, knows how to get hold of the arms the Russian army has abandoned. When he and Mama come over, they will be sure to be searched, so he sent the bracelet with me, just a poor ballerina whom no one would suspect. Papa said I could have a few of the francs for my own. I’ll treat you to some perfume tomorrow.”
Mikhail Grigoryevich Chikov was an evil man. He was buying weapons from dishonest men in the army who wanted to make money by selling the weapons to outlaw nations and terrorists, who could turn them on innocent people. I couldn’t blame Vera for what her father did, or for the way her father was using her, but I resolved I would take no money from Vera for French perfume or anything else.
It looked as though the dishonest people were abandoning Russia, and it was not only Vera’s family. Marina was my enemy once again, this time because I had taken Yeltsin’s side. She had learned that her father was one of the men in the government who had organized the coup. Like Vera’s family, Marina’s family would have to leave Russia. If I ran away from Russia, I would be in bad company. I would be going in the wrong direction. More than ever, I knew I was right to plan to return home.
All the next day our excitement built up. We were nervous and irritable at rehearsal. Madame criticized and Maxim Nikolayevich shouted and even cried real tears, telling us that we would disgrace the Kirov forever with our awkwardness. Though I knew we were dancing better than we ever had, when I saw the immense stage, a stage large enough for four hundred performers, I was shaken. Looking out at tier upon tier of golden boxes, imagining two thousand people sitting there watching us, I did not see how I would get through the night.
Everything was new and different. We had to accustom ourselves to the opera house orchestra and they to us. While the Russian method of ballet has much of the French method, still there are differences. The French director of dance had problems with our choreography. The scenery had been designed for the Kirov Theater and was lost on the huge stage of the Paris Opéra. The costumes had been made especially for the tour, and we were wearing them for the first time. The strain of the trip and the increased practices had made many of us lose weight, and the wardrobe mistress’s needle was flying to take in seams. No one believed we could put together a decent performance that evening.
Much to Marina’s disgust, I was dancing Juliet, leaving her with a secondary role. I stood in the wings waiting to go on. At the first notes of the overture a wave of nausea swept over me, and I thought I would be sick. Vitaly must have seen me turn pale, for he grabbed my arm and pinched me. The next minute I was following the dancers onto the stage. I remember nothing after that until the coda, when all the principal dancers made their final appearance. A rolling thunder of applause came from the audience. There was a standing ovation. Ushers hurried onto the stage with bouquets. I found my arms full of roses. Backstage we hugged and kissed one another. There was a party in Maxim Nikolayevich’s hotel room for the entire corps. I was too tired to go, but Vera went and returned after midnight to shake me awake and feed me caviar and chocolates.
The next day we crowded together in the breakfast room of the hotel to read the newspaper reviews of the ballet. Though the critics sang our praises, we heard nothing but harsh criticism from Madame and Maxim Nikolayevich. “Vitaly, your grand jeté looked like the cow jumping over the moon. Tanya, your extension was too brief. You must keep your leg high. Marina, your entrechats had all the grace of an egg-beater.” Of course we all knew that Madame and Maxim Nikolayevich’s criticism was to keep us from believing we could relax because the reviews were good, for we caught them poring over the reviews themselves, broad smiles on their faces.
Between the morning and afternoon rehearsals we were awarded a whole hour to see the city. “Hurry, Tanya,” Vera said. I guessed she was headed to the Galeries Lafayette to spend some of her francs. I was about to send her on her way and head for the Louvre to buy postcards of the paintings for Sasha.
“No,” Vera said. “You must come with me. They want us.”
“Want us? Who wants us?”
“You fool. What have we been talking of all year? There is a representative of the Paris Opéra who saw the performance last night. He came backstage, and I whispered a word to him about our wanting to defect and stay in Paris.”
I should have told Vera long since that I was going back to Russia, but I was too cowardly. “Maybe you ought to talk with him and let me know what he says.”
“Are you mad? You are the better dancer. He’s sure to want you, but if he knows he can have you, he will take me as well.” She looked at me. “You aren’t getting cold feet?”
“Vera, it just doesn’t seem fair to be thinking of deserting the Kirov when we have done so well as a troupe. Besides, after what has just happened, everything will change in Russia. We’re going to be a democracy. In a few years we’ll be like Paris, so there is no need to leave now.”
“Leningrad like Paris! Not in our lifetime. I can’t wait, Tanya. Even if I wanted to go back, with my parents coming here, there would be nothing for me to go back for. As a member of my family I might even be punished.” Her face hardened. “Do what you like, Tanya, but at least come with me and help me get a place in the ballet here.”
I trailed after her to the small café where the man had said he would meet with us. Every so often Vera made me stop, just as they did in mystery films, to study the reflections in the shop windows to be sure we weren’t being followed. We sneaked into the café and joined a man whom Vera recognized, and who introduced himself as Monsieur Durant. He was gray-haired with a creased face, but I could tell he still had the muscular strength of a dancer. When the man saw us looking over our shoulders, he said, “You needn’t worry. Those KGB agents are
spending all their time on the telephone calling back to Moscow to see if they still have their jobs. The KGB won’t have the power it had under the Communists.”
He ordered coffee in thick white cups and croissants served with great lumps of butter and a whole pot of beautiful currant jam. That was what Paris would be like, I thought—every day something delicious—and I felt myself wavering.
He complimented us at once on the performance. “Extraordinary. One does not often see such a combination of fire and grace. Of course we have our own ballet at the opera house, so we are used to magnificent performances, for we see them every week.”
Certainly there was nothing modest about the man, and I began to take a dislike to him, but Vera hung on his every word.
“We are always looking for new talent,” he said, “and even from my limited observation of only one performance, I could see both of you are skilled dancers. Naturally every ballet company, no matter how excellent, will look for new talent to freshen the repertoire.” He looked at us as if we were objects in a shop window.
Vera asked, “Then you would offer us positions if we stayed on after our troupe left?”
Monsieur Durant threw his hands out as if to say “of course.”
Before I could stop myself, I said, “You would be very lucky to get Vera, but I’m going back to Russia.”
The man frowned. “I understood you were both interested in remaining in Paris. To be perfectly frank with you, it was this young lady”—he nodded at me—“whom we were especially interested in. We have our own candidates for the corps de ballet.”