The Model Page 7

  Elena realized that in a way it was just as well because Asmara had slipped away, her guide through the ascending labyrinth.

  Elena had been aware of the noises on the other side of the curtain. They reminded her of the first sounds at the weekly cattle and horse market, though every time it was far, far noisier when she had woken up properly. One of the girls in the book had spoken of audiences as cattle, but that had been when the girl was in a bad temper.

  “I stay here until I dance?” inquired Elena. On the stage it was none too warm, and she was wearing fewer clothes, but exertion would no doubt compensate. The book had spoken of coryphées frequently perspiring, even though not of the ballerina doing so.

  “You do,” said Irash, once more the disciplinarian. He walked towards her. “Watch.” With his left hand, he made a curving, complex gesture in the air quite slowly. To Elena it was like scooping a beautifully proportioned segment from a big round moon. Certainly, it was fascinating.

  Then Irash touched her right cheek with his pointed lips. It was far from Lexi’s peculiarly fervid embrace, at the recollection of which Elena still had to draw upon all her reserves.

  “See that no one notices anyone else,” said Irash.

  “But isn’t the ballet in the middle of an opera?” The book conveyed that all ballets were.

  “It is,” said Irash. He pointed with his brown finger. “There is a room through there with a golden divan. Lie down and rest. You will hear sounds from time to time, and in the end the boy will come to you.”

  “Which boy?” asked Elena.

  “The black boy. He is descended from the Imperial pages.”

  Fortunately there was a golden fleece or coverlet, as well as a golden divan, or Elena’s legs would have frozen, which she knew would have been all wrong. The golden divan was a stage divan, not really meant to be comfortable. For regular use Elena would have preferred the less ornate object in her Father’s room. So many people seemed to speak of gold in this inexact way.

  However, Elena had no wish to rest, even though she knew that everyone did, and that it was what one was supposed to do. As she lay there, thoughts were beginning to race about within her, and manifold sensations. It was as if her brain were being penetrated by a dozen swords, entering from all directions at once. It was at least as much a torment as a revelation.

  The idea that had begun to stir within her when Lexi had spoken of her needing no tuition if in the hands of Irash now linked with a dream she often had. It was not one of those dreams that happen again and again and always terminate at the same tantalization. Mikhail’s Aunt Tosha often said she had a dream like that, though she never went into detail, but merely looked momentarily ethereal, churning up the bonbon mixture the while. With Elena the experience was a dream situation that took a different form almost each time, or so it seemed.

  Sometimes she was an orator, called upon to rouse an assembly of women, stretching to the horizon, and beyond it.

  Sometimes she was a diva, for whom all the women in the enormous hall were waiting in unbelievable silence.

  Sometimes she was a cook, with a hundred or more distinguished ladies waiting, mostly in gala dress.

  Sometimes she was a divine healer, and female victims of the plague, the palsy, and of paroxysms clustered thickly round the dais, raising clasped hands.

  Sometimes even she was a young man in gorgeous uniform, at whose word armies would live or die—certainly one army, ranged in ranks before and around her at that moment.

  A common factor was that Elena had no rhetoric; could not sing with power or in tune (Mikhail had confirmed that); was soon bored when trying to follow a recipe; felt people were going to die, herself included, when they were in the least indisposed; and, as has been seen, resisted all politics, let alone strategy, tactics, supply, and heroic sacrifice.

  On certain occasions, the form of the experience subtly differed, though Elena felt that really it was still the same experience, the same dream.

  Thus: while she had seen as many pictures of the Tsar as everyone else, she sometimes dreamed that she was one of a throng assembled to acclaim him; and that when the Tsar appeared, he was a small man, clean-shaven, myopic, and not at all handsome or well-dressed. In the dream she always knew perfectly well that this could not possibly be the Tsar, but she simultaneously realized that as everyone said it was, she must be mistaken. Somehow she had at that moment learned what the Tsar really looked like, and yet she knew that she had not. The whole experience was doubtless mixed up with the disappointment she had often felt at meeting people who had been frequently described and talked about, but very much more than that was involved. Things were involved that she could not trace at all.

  At least once she had been taken in a dream to see a performance by the great actress, Rachel, and Rachel had proved to be enormously tall, and blond, and not at all Jewish: more like an ordinary peasant woman. “That can’t be Rachel,” she had actually whispered to her Father. “Of course it is Rachel,” her Father had whispered back in his stop-talking intonation. Once again: it was and it was not.

  Rest, in fact, was absurd. In the small room was a tall looking glass, with the usual gilt edges. Elena sprang up, and began to examine her reflection. Was she the same person, especially in this strange dress which she had designed and made, and yet had not designed and made?

  Elena realized that her very lack of any musical gift necessitated the most instant proficiency at the dance.

  Elena wished that Bábaba had not abstracted her ananas, meaning nothing but the best.

  Into this tall glass, the star should gaze and beseech.

  Elena had heard nothing at all of any opera. She heard only voices praising and cautioning.

  Elena saw by reflection that the black boy was in the room. He wore a silver suit as if he were his own ancestor. Elena crossed herself. She followed the black boy.

  There, at the side of the stage by which the ballerina entered to a storm of applause, stood Irash, elegantly dressed now, and making signs in the air, though not the sign of the cross.

  And there, Elena saw, were the coryphées, ranged in the order of the moon’s last quarter. They were dressed simply and identically; perhaps, Elena fully realized, because no one had bothered enough about them. To Elena, they seemed every bit as wooden as in the box. It was to be hoped that Irash would prove to have done something for them, where she had not.

  Elena stood quite still for a second. Then she advanced upon the stage, and there was a storm of applause, exactly as promised.

  Elena curtsied carefully, while everybody clapped and yelled. She saw that even the Military Governor was present in his box, with a gypsy woman. Down below, the conductor indicated a thump to his crew. Elena rose upon her points, and lifted both arms into the same quarter of the moon.

  It was not the dream. Realizing that, Elena was inspired by an overwhelming wave of happiness.

  Baron de la Touque would guard and guide her, if necessary. But everyone present would guard and guide her also. Everyone. Everyone.

  Irash was on his knees again, but both knees on this occasion—and at the side of the stage.

  “Incomparable. Perfection. Divinity.”

  Words like that streamed from him; Elena remembered that ballerinas can marry only their business managers. Embarrassingly, she had little wish to marry Irash. She had no idea why not. At that age, one seldom asks. A few yards away the tornado of applause was still raging. Elena could never have survived such a scene had it not been for her book and her model. The police might have to be sent for yet, perhaps the Cossacks.

  Soon Elena was in a quite different room, filled with costumes and shoes and accessories and flowers; all without number, all presumably hers. There were several middle-aged women in grimy wrappers—presumably hers also. It was as hot as in the costume room, if not hotter. That might have been partly on account of the crowd which was all the time pouring through the one door, emitting heat and compliments; some of the
compliments many-faceted, many-edged, multipurposed. Refreshments were being shuffled about also. Elena wondered how much champagne she would have to drink. So far she had never exceeded two small glasses, much smaller than these; and French champagne she had never yet attempted, though only through lack of opportunity.

  “Where is Asmara?” Elena called out as best she could. After all, Elena was supposed to be the cause of all this turmoil, though she was wise enough to speculate upon what could be happening to the opera people meanwhile. She knew that they probably had horses and elephants to look after as well as themselves. Perhaps they were preoccupied.

  Disappointingly, the throng merely giggled at Elena’s inquiry. She realized that the Military Governor had not yet entered. Doubtless there would be welcome silence when he did. Irash would be escorting him. Then would be the time when her lightest request would be granted. Elena hoped she would not faint before the moment came.

  The people in the room were beginning to argue about where Elena had better spend the night. The scene corresponded to the description in the book, though the details were different. Many of the people adhered for only a few seconds to any single subject. It would not have been bon ton to go beyond that.

  “Please give me a glass of water,” said Elena to one of the women in wrappers. Instantly it was in her hand, as always in Russia, whether bond or free, as Lexi might have described the alternatives. Elena sank upon a gold-painted chair in order to drink it. The chair seemed so weak that Elena wondered about the other stars who had sat on it: stars of opera, perhaps. The people in the room, though still increasing in number, would soon be losing interest in her altogether, unless something conclusive happened. She realized that it was only to be expected.

  But a skinny woman in a dress which was the same dull brown from chin to ankle had clutched hold of both Elena’s arms, nearly knocking over the glass.

  “She is mine.”

  A tiny moment of less din could have been detected by keen ears. Elena fancied there were even some hints of rivalry. But there are always hints of rivalry, and by no means least when an audience is eating from one’s hand, like the horses and elephants.

  “The star always goes with me. It is the tradition.”

  It was not what Elena wanted to do at all, but the reference to tradition made her hesitate. Moreover, she fully realized that it was necessary for her to spend the night somewhere, and not, for choice, among the street mountebanks or with the chanting nuns. Elena took another sip of water.

  Then the woman in the brown dress was lifting her up and dragging her, face to face, through the preoccupied multitude. Elena, so vague about age, thought she might be little more than forty, though her hair was quite gray. Elena had perceived that it is childish to think people older than they are.

  “It is less than an hour away,” hissed the woman into Elena’s face. She hissed because she had little spare breath amid her exertions. She had the eyes of an eagle. Several times, Elena had seen eagles only inches away.

  “I must get my real clothes,” hissed Elena, closely squeezed.

  “You will need no clothes.”

  “I may be cold,” hissed Elena, managing to be practical even in such terrible heat.

  “I have furs,” hissed the woman. Again, it might have been an eagle speaking to her.

  Now they were through the one door, and many people in the room were waving elaborate adieux, throwing kisses and flowers and peppermints, or shouting “Come again.” The woman herself was preventing any of them from emerging.

  In the passage, strong and dark as in a prison, it was not merely chilly always but draughty now. Probably the heat in various places dragged cold air from other places; especially at midnight, which Elena realized that of course it now must be. The crowd in the room might feel no wish to emerge.

  A slender figure advanced towards Elena, carrying a vast fur cloak. Elena supposed the figure was a young man, because of the costume, and the burden, but as soon as the figure spoke, Elena knew otherwise.

  “I am Tatiana’s distant cousin, Anna Ismailova Gorsakova. I am here to rescue you.” As the figure spoke, she dropped the heavy furs over Elena’s head and shoulder, almost bringing her to the ground with the enormous weight.

  “Do I need rescue?” asked Elena, struggling upwards.

  “Yes. But I am in disguise and can say no more now.”

  The woman in the brown dress was striding towards them. There were still one or two people interested enough to watch the scene from the door, each with a glass in one hand and a sausage or chop in the other.

  “Yes, thank you. But I still ought to get my real clothes.”

  “There is no time,” said the woman in an offhand way. “Vassily has gone to call the carriage. The bed will be heated when the word is given.”

  Elena supposed that Vassily was Anna Ismailova Gorsakova. Certainly the latter, after her warning, had instantly disappeared.

  The woman pushed Elena into the street.

  Outside was a very large carriage, much larger than Lexi’s. There were lighted lamps and candles at every corner, without and within. This time a footman in a white wig stood at the carriage door, though Elena could not but wonder whether it was not really a footwoman. The person was very slender and wore the longest possible topcoat. The street was otherwise deserted, except for the many inebriates, and a few first wolves.

  The interior of the carriage was like a beautiful drawing room or boudoir: black silk, streaked with gold; a black carpet, enriched with golden asps; small black candles in small golden candelabra; golden ovals containing small likenesses of ballerinas in black, and often with black chaplets. Squatting in a corner of the floor was Anna Ismailova, or Vassily, as the case might be.

  The footman shut the door and disappeared somewhere. The carriage was in motion; but such motion! It was the second carriage in which Elena had been a guest in one day, but the difference between the two when it came to motion could hardly have been greater. So quiet was the passage that Elena could hear the howling of stray dogs as they passed. Peering through the window, she could see the eyes of stray cats emitting uncertain flashes.

  In her own time, the woman in the brown dress spoke again. “When do you dance next?”

  “I don’t know,” said Elena.

  “You have much to learn,” the woman commented.

  “Are you sure?” asked Elena, who would very much have liked to know.

  “The greatest dancers in the world have passed the portals of my manor.”

  Elena shifted herself within the furs. “You are not the Countess Totin?”

  “How dare you?”

  At that moment, Anna Ismailova caught Elena’s eye.

  “I’m very sorry,” said Elena hastily.

  “You may call me Angel.”

  “I could not be so familiar.”

  “It is my wish that you are familiar.”

  Fearful that the woman might kiss her, as Lexi had done, Elena simply said “I shall try,” managing to make the words sound almost eager.

  However, no further demand was made, and almost no more was said at all as they glided through the night. It was as if something lay ahead which would speak for itself. The woman was allowing the yellow lids slowly to sink across the pale-brown eye slits. Elena could not succeed in again enlisting a glance from Anna Ismailova, who appeared to be deeply involved in thoughts of her own. Elena realized that they might even be plans. More and more Elena wondered what she herself was doing in such an uncertain situation. At once she perceived the answer: it was, as so often in life (and especially of late), that no alternative had offered. It was not as if she had been Gregori or Boris. She could but speculate what they would have done.

  Elena stared out gloomily at the night birds sweeping and swooping round the carriage: mainly ravens and owls, respectively croaking and hooting. Both were said to be such wise and prophetic birds, if only one could understand what they had to say, as Bábaba could, from time to tim
e. In the end, Elena suspected that Anna Ismailova was keeping out of contact deliberately. If the woman in brown had only started to snore like other people, Elena would have ventured upon a whisper. But the woman was probably not asleep at all. Elena knew that eagles close their eyes but never sleep. That was why eagles were in such demand as national symbols, especially those with two heads.

  There were at least half a dozen footmen with white wigs to help Elena out of the carriage and into the manor. Anna Ismailova followed silently but closely. The woman in brown, regardless of the autumnal chill, was throwing out orders in all directions. Elena would have been too polite to hang back in order to overhear what the orders were, even had the attendant footmen not made it impossible. Making the best of things, she strode across the big hall to the blazing fire. It stood in the center, augmenting the four stoves, one in each corner. The smoke was drawn upwards by a fan in the ceiling above. One could hear the servants who were turning the system of screws. Logs were burning, five or six feet long. Elena threw off her heavy fur cloak, and two of the footmen bore it away between them. Two other footmen stood with logs in their arms, lest the blaze diminish for a second. The strong light enabled Elena to examine these footmen more closely. Her decision was that they were less like either men or women and more like either monkeys or apes. She had never before seen body servants like them. And now she was simply surrounded.

  Anna Ismailova was standing beside Elena, looking like a drawing in The Clubman. As a former sportsman her Father still subscribed to that paper, and sometimes the copies arrived. Elena derived many of her dreams from the back numbers her Father had cast away. Anna Ismailova had just the look she knew so well, of inborn indifference to everything. As well as blazing, the great fire was crackling and roaring, so that Elena dared to attempt a sotto voce inquiry.

  “What do I have to be rescued from?”

  Elena had already made a hundred guesses without one hint from the ravens and owls.

  Anna Ismailova replied in exactly what Elena had always supposed the correct Clubman tone, though perhaps a little more from the corner of the mouth. “In the end, your hostess consumes her guests. You had better know now.”