beseech you as a Christian, as a man, as a theatergoer, as a cultured person, we will be in your eternal debt, we will pray for you and for your family, Andrei Danilovich—”
“I don’t have a family,” I interrupt.
She looks at me silently with large, moist eyes. Susanin sings “My time has come!” and crosses himself. The Zemstvo widow lies on the floor. I ask:
“Why are you, a favorite of His Majesty’s family, asking me?”
“His Majesty is terribly angry at the former chairman and all of his assistants. He doesn’t want to hear anything about clemency. But the clerk Koretsky personally wrote that very letter to the French. His Majesty doesn’t want to hear a word about the Koretskys.”
“All the more…What can I do?”
“Andrei Danilovich, the oprichnina is capable of miracles.”
“Madame, the oprichnina creates the Work and Word! of the state.”
“You are one of the leaders of that mighty order.”
“Madame, the oprichnina is not an order, but a brotherhood.”
“Andrei Danilovich! I beseech you! Take pity on an unfortunate woman. In your masculine wars we are the ones who suffer most. And life on earth depends on us.”
Her voice trembles. The Zemstvo woman’s sobs are barely audible behind her. The culture head glances sideways in our direction. What can you do, people ask us to intercede almost every day. But Koretsky and that whole gang of the Public Chambers chairman—they are double-dealers! Better not to even look their way.
“Tell her to leave,” I say.
“Klavdia Lvovna, dear heart…” The ballerina leans over her.
Koretskaya disappears in the dark, sobbing.
“Let’s go outside.” I head toward the door with the illuminated word “Exit.”
Kozlova hurries after me. Silently, we leave the building through the service entrance.
On the square I go to my Mercedov. Kozlova follows me. In daylight the best Giselle in Russia is even more frail and plain. She hides her thin little face in a luxurious arctic fox collar with a short throat wrap. The prima ballerina wears a long, narrow skirt of black silk; under it, pointed black boots with patches of snakeskin peek out. The prima has beautiful eyes—large, gray, anxious.
“If it’s uncomfortable for you, we can speak in my car.” She nods in the direction of a lilac-colored Cadillac.
“Better in mine.” I show my palm to the Mercedov and it obediently opens its glass top.
Even tax collectors don’t make deals in other people’s cars these days. A seedy scrivener from the Trade Department would never sit down in someone else’s car to talk about a black petition.
I take my place. She sits to my right in the only seat.
“We’ll take a ride, Uliana Sergeevna,” I say as I start the engine, and drive out of the government parking lot.
“Andrei Danilovich, I’ve been in worried to death all week long…” She takes out a pack of women’s Motherland and lights up. “There’s a sense of doom around this affair. It turns out that I can’t do anything to help my oldest friend. And I have a performance tomorrow.”
“She’s truly dear to you?”
“Terribly. I don’t have any other girlfriends. You know the ways of our theater world…”
“I’ve heard about it.” I drive out of the Borovitsky Gates, turn onto the Great Stone Bridge, and speed down the red lane.
Taking a drag on her cigarette, Kozlova looks at the Whitestone Kremlin and the barely distinguishable snow on it.
“You know, I was very anxious before meeting you.”
“Why?”
“I never thought that asking for others would be so difficult.”
“I agree.”
“And then…last night I had a strange dream: the black bands were still on the main cupola of Uspensky Cathedral and His Majesty was still in mourning for his first wife.”
“Did you know Anastasia Fyodorovna?”
“No. I wasn’t a prima ballerina at the time.”
We reach Yakimanka Street. The Zamoskvoreche neighborhood is noisy and crowded as usual.
“So, I can
“I don’t have a family,” I interrupt.
She looks at me silently with large, moist eyes. Susanin sings “My time has come!” and crosses himself. The Zemstvo widow lies on the floor. I ask:
“Why are you, a favorite of His Majesty’s family, asking me?”
“His Majesty is terribly angry at the former chairman and all of his assistants. He doesn’t want to hear anything about clemency. But the clerk Koretsky personally wrote that very letter to the French. His Majesty doesn’t want to hear a word about the Koretskys.”
“All the more…What can I do?”
“Andrei Danilovich, the oprichnina is capable of miracles.”
“Madame, the oprichnina creates the Work and Word! of the state.”
“You are one of the leaders of that mighty order.”
“Madame, the oprichnina is not an order, but a brotherhood.”
“Andrei Danilovich! I beseech you! Take pity on an unfortunate woman. In your masculine wars we are the ones who suffer most. And life on earth depends on us.”
Her voice trembles. The Zemstvo woman’s sobs are barely audible behind her. The culture head glances sideways in our direction. What can you do, people ask us to intercede almost every day. But Koretsky and that whole gang of the Public Chambers chairman—they are double-dealers! Better not to even look their way.
“Tell her to leave,” I say.
“Klavdia Lvovna, dear heart…” The ballerina leans over her.
Koretskaya disappears in the dark, sobbing.
“Let’s go outside.” I head toward the door with the illuminated word “Exit.”
Kozlova hurries after me. Silently, we leave the building through the service entrance.
On the square I go to my Mercedov. Kozlova follows me. In daylight the best Giselle in Russia is even more frail and plain. She hides her thin little face in a luxurious arctic fox collar with a short throat wrap. The prima ballerina wears a long, narrow skirt of black silk; under it, pointed black boots with patches of snakeskin peek out. The prima has beautiful eyes—large, gray, anxious.
“If it’s uncomfortable for you, we can speak in my car.” She nods in the direction of a lilac-colored Cadillac.
“Better in mine.” I show my palm to the Mercedov and it obediently opens its glass top.
Even tax collectors don’t make deals in other people’s cars these days. A seedy scrivener from the Trade Department would never sit down in someone else’s car to talk about a black petition.
I take my place. She sits to my right in the only seat.
“We’ll take a ride, Uliana Sergeevna,” I say as I start the engine, and drive out of the government parking lot.
“Andrei Danilovich, I’ve been in worried to death all week long…” She takes out a pack of women’s Motherland and lights up. “There’s a sense of doom around this affair. It turns out that I can’t do anything to help my oldest friend. And I have a performance tomorrow.”
“She’s truly dear to you?”
“Terribly. I don’t have any other girlfriends. You know the ways of our theater world…”
“I’ve heard about it.” I drive out of the Borovitsky Gates, turn onto the Great Stone Bridge, and speed down the red lane.
Taking a drag on her cigarette, Kozlova looks at the Whitestone Kremlin and the barely distinguishable snow on it.
“You know, I was very anxious before meeting you.”
“Why?”
“I never thought that asking for others would be so difficult.”
“I agree.”
“And then…last night I had a strange dream: the black bands were still on the main cupola of Uspensky Cathedral and His Majesty was still in mourning for his first wife.”
“Did you know Anastasia Fyodorovna?”
“No. I wasn’t a prima ballerina at the time.”
We reach Yakimanka Street. The Zamoskvoreche neighborhood is noisy and crowded as usual.
“So, I can
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