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العودة   شبكة روايتي الثقافية > مكتبات روايتي > English Library > Fiction > Drama > Danielle Steel

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قديم 29-04-11, 03:58 PM   #21

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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¬» مشروبك   pepsi
¬» قناتك mbc4
?? ??? ~
My Mms ~
Chirolp Krackr


“Is that how you think of me? As your grandmother's friend?” She didn't want to say yes, but it was. He seemed a thousand years old as he stood looking at her. “Do I seem so old to you then?”
“Not at all … I'm sorry … I have to go. … I'll be late and they'll be very angry at me.”
“Let me drive you then. We can talk on the way.”
She hesitated, but she was going to be late. Reluctantly, she let him open the taxi door for her and she stepped in, leaving the white roses between them on the seat. It was nice of him to bring her gifts, but she knew that he could ill afford to bring her anything. No wonder Yelena was annoyed at them.
“How is Yelena?” she asked to pass the time as they drove, and she avoided his eyes, as she glanced at the other cars and then slowly back at him. “She seemed very quiet last night.”
“She's not happy here.” He sighed. “I don't suppose many of us are. It's such a sudden change, and no one was prepared….” He said the words and then reached over and touched her hand, startling her with what he said next. “Zoya, do you think that I'm too old for you, my dear?”
Her voice caught in her throat and she gently took her hand away. “You're my father's friend.” Her eyes were sad as she looked at him. “It's hard for all of us, we are all clinging to what we no longer have. Perhaps I am part of that for you.”
He smiled. “Is that what you think it is? Do you know that you're very beautiful?”
She could feel herself blush and silently cursed the fair skin that went with her fiery hair. “Thank you very much. But I'm younger than Yelena … I'm sure she'd be very upset….” It was all she could think of as she wished they would get to the Châtelet so she could escape him.
“She has her own life to live, Zoya. And I have mine. I would like to take you to dinner sometime. Perhaps at Maxim's.” It was madness … the champagne … the roses … the idea of dinner at Maxim's. They were all starving, he was driving a cab, she was dancing with the Ballet Russe, and there was no point spending the little he had on her. He was far too old, but she didn't want to be rude.
“I don't think Grandmama …” She turned unhappy eyes to his, and he looked hurt.
“You'd be better off with one of us, Zoya Konstantinovna, someone who knows your world, than with some young fool.”
“I don't have time for any of that, Vladimir. If they keep me on at the ballet, I'll have to work day and night to keep up.”
“We can find the time. I can pick you up at night …” His voice drifted off as he looked at her hopefully, and she shook her head with an unhappy look.
“I can't … truly … I can't.” She saw with relief that they had arrived, and she turned to look at him for a last time. “Please don't wait for me now. All I want is to forget … what was … we can't bring it back. It wouldn't be right for us … please …” He said nothing as she slipped out of the car and hurried away, leaving the white roses on the seat beside him.






Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
التوقيع
أنْت يـَـــا اللَّـه 【 تَكْفِينِي 】ツ

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قديم 29-04-11, 03:59 PM   #22

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

? العضوٌ??? » 130321
?  التسِجيلٌ » Jul 2010
? مشَارَ?اتْي » 49,796
? الًجنِس »
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?  نُقآطِيْ » Dalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond repute
¬» مشروبك   pepsi
¬» قناتك mbc4
?? ??? ~
My Mms ~
Chirolp Krackr

CHAPTER
12






“Did Vladimir bring you home?” Her grandmother smiled at her as she came in, and Zoya noticed with a sinking heart the white roses in a vase next to her on the table.
“No. One of the others gave me a ride.” She sat down with a smile and rubbed her legs. “It was hard today.” But she didn't mind. Dancing with the Ballet Russe made her feel alive again.
“He said he'd bring you home.” Evgenia frowned. He had brought her fresh bread, and a jar of jam. He was such a kind man, and he was being so good to them. And in an odd way, it comforted Evgenia to think of him taking care of Zoya.
“Grandmama …” Zoya looked at her, struggling for the words. “I don't want him to.”
“Why not? You're far safer with him than with someone you don't know.” He had said as much to her himself that afternoon, when he came to the apartment to drop off Zoya's roses, and the pain of Zoya dancing with the Ballet Russe struck her again like a knife to her heart, but she knew there was no stopping her now. And she had to admit that one of them had to work, and Zoya was the only one who could. She just wished she would find something else, like Yelena's teaching. And perhaps, if Vladimir took her under his wing, Zoya might even stop dancing. He had suggested it only that afternoon, and it made Evgenia see him in a different light. That of hero and savior.
“Grandmama … I think Prince Vladimir … I think he has something more in mind.”
“He's a decent man. Well mannered, wellborn. He was a friend of Konstantin's.” Evgenia didn't want to show her hand too soon, although Vladimir had convinced her.
“But that's just what I mean. He was Papa's friend. Not mine. He must be sixty years old.”
“He's a Russian prince, and a cousin of the Tsar.”
“Does that make everything all right?” Zoya asked angrily as she sprang to her feet. “Don't you care that he's old enough to be my grandfather?”
“He means you no harm, Zoya … someone has to take care of you. I'm eighty-two years old … I will not always be here for you … you must think of that.” And secretly, she would have been relieved to know that she was leaving Zoya in Vladimir's hands. At least he was someone she knew, someone who understood the life they had led before. No one in Paris could possibly understand that, except one of their own, and she looked imploringly at Zoya, begging her with her eyes to think of that, but Zoya looked horrified.
“Would you have me marry him, then? Is that what you want?” Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of it. “He's an old man.”
“He would take care of you. Think of how kind he's been to us since we arrived,”
“I don't want to hear about it anymore!” She ran into the bedroom and slammed the door, and then threw herself on the bed crying hopelessly. Was that all that was left? The prospect of marriage to a man three times her age, only because he was a Russian prince. The very thought sickened her, and it made her long more than ever for her lost life and friends.
“Zoya … don't … darling, please …” Her grandmother came to sit on the edge of her bed, and gently stroked her hair. “I'm not trying to force you to do anything you don't want. But I worry about you so much. Feodor and I are so old … you must find someone who can take care of you.”
“I'm eighteen years old,” she sobbed into the bed, “I don't want to marry anyone … and not him….” Nothing about him appealed to her, and she hated Yelena. The thought of being doomed to live with them made her hysterical. All she wanted to do was dance, she would make enough money doing that to support herself, and Feodor and her grandmother. She vowed to herself then that she would do anything rather than marry a man she didn't love. She'd work day and night … she'd do anything….
“All right … all right … please don't cry like this … please …” Her own eyes were filled with tears, thinking of the cruelty of their fate. Perhaps the child was right. It had only been a thought. He was of course too old, but he was one of them, and that mattered to her a great deal. But there were others who had survived, there were younger men too. Perhaps Zoya would meet one of them and fall in love. It was her fondest hope now. It was the only hope she had left … that and the little bit of jewelry concealed in the bed where they slept. There was nothing else left … except a few diamonds and emeralds» a long rope of exquisite pearls, and the Faberg6 egg Nicholas had given her … and a lifetime of broken dreams. “Come, Zoya … dry your tears. Let's go for a walk.”
“No,” Zoya pouted unhappily, turning her face into the bed again, “he'll be waiting for us downstairs.”
“Don't be ridiculous.” Evgenia smiled at her. She was still such a child, although she'd grown up rapidly in the past two months. “His manners are impeccable. He's not a hoodlum lurking in the streets. Don't be foolish about this.”
Zoya rolled slowly onto her back, looking incredibly beautiful. “I'm sorry, Grandmama. I don't want to make you unhappy. I promise I'll take care of us.”
“That's not what I want for you, child. I want someone to take care of you. That's how it should have been.”
“But everything's different now. Nothing is the way it was.” She sat up with a shy smile. “Perhaps I'll be a famous dancer one day.” She looked excited at the thought and Evgenia laughed.
“God help me, I almost think you're enjoying this.”
Zoya smiled openly then. “I love the Ballet Russe, Grandmama.”
“I know you do. And you're very good. But you must never think of this as something you will do for the rest of your life. Do it now, if you must. But one day things will change again.” It was not a promise, but a prayer, but as Zoya swung her legs off the bed, and went to get her coat, she realized that she wasn't sure she wanted them to. She loved dancing with the Ballet Russe … far more than her grandmother understood.
And as they walked slowly toward the Palais Royal, and glanced at the arcades and their many wares, Zoya felt a thrill fill her soul. Paris was beautiful and she liked the people there. It wasn't such a bad life. She suddenly felt happy and young. Far too young to waste her life with Prince Vladimir. Ever.


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
التوقيع
أنْت يـَـــا اللَّـه 【 تَكْفِينِي 】ツ

رد مع اقتباس
قديم 29-04-11, 03:59 PM   #23

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

? العضوٌ??? » 130321
?  التسِجيلٌ » Jul 2010
? مشَارَ?اتْي » 49,796
? الًجنِس »
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?  نُقآطِيْ » Dalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond repute
¬» مشروبك   pepsi
¬» قناتك mbc4
?? ??? ~
My Mms ~
Chirolp Krackr

CHAPTER
13






Zoya danced with the Ballet Russe all through June, and she was so totally involved in her work that she scarcely knew what was happening in the world. It came as an enormous surprise to her when General Pershing and his troops arrived on June 13. The city went wild, as they marched to the Place de la Concorde and the facade of the Hotel Crillon. People shouted and waved, and women threw flowers at the men, screaming “Vive l'Amérique!” Zoya could hardly get back to the Palais Royal to tell her grandmother what she'd seen. “Grandmama, there are thousands of them!” “Then perhaps they will end the war for us soon.” She was exhausted by the nightly air raids, and some secret part of her thought that if the war came to an end, perhaps things would change in Russia again and they could go home. But most people knew there was no hope of it.
“Do you want to take a walk and see?” Zoya's eyes were bright. There was something wonderful about the hopeful look of the French, and the fresh-faced men in their khaki uniforms. They looked so wholesome and alive. Everywhere, there seemed to be hope again, but her grandmother only shook her head.
“I have no desire to see soldiers in the streets, little one.” She had ugly memories of that, and she was safe at home and urged Zoya to stay there too. “Stay away from them. Crowds can quickly become dangerous.” But there was no sign of that here. It was a happy day for everyone, and rehearsals had been curtailed for the remainder of the week. For the first time in a month, Zoya had some time to herself, to lie in bed, to go for walks, to sit by the fire and read. She felt carefree and young, and she appreciated the time now. That night, she sat in the living room and wrote a long letter to Marie, telling her of Pershing's march, and her work at the ballet. There seemed to be more to tell her now, although she didn't mention Prince Vladimir. She knew her friend would have been shocked at her grandmother's encouraging his pursuit, but it didn't matter to her now. He had understood, and although he still brought the Countess fresh bread while Zoya was at work, she herself hadn't run into him in weeks.
As she wrote to Marie that night, little Sava sat cozily in her lap, snoring happily.“… She looks so exactly like Joy, she makes me think of you the moment she bounds into the room. Although I don't need any reminders of you. It seems incredible to me still that we are in Paris, and you are there … and we won't be joining you in Livadia this summer. The funny photograph of all of us is next to my bed …” Zoya looked at it every night before she slept. She had also brought a photograph of Olga with Alexis on her lap when he was three or four … and a beautiful one of Nicky and Alix. Only memories now, but writing to her friend kept them alive in her heart. Dr. Botkin had sent her a letter from Marie only the week before, in which she told Zoya that all was well, although they were still under house arrest, but they'd been told that they would be going to Livadia in September. And she was all well again. She apologized to Zoya for giving her the measles, and said she would have liked to see her all covered with spots. Reading the letters made Zoya smile through her tears.
She was rereading her letter, when a message came. She was to dance Petrouchka at the Opéra with the Ballet Russe for General Pershing and his troops. Her grandmother, as usual, was less than happy at the news. Dancing for soldiers seemed even worse than the performance at the Châtelet, but she didn't even try to dissuade Zoya this time, knowing full well that there was no hope of it.
By then, Pershing and his staff were well ensconced in their headquarters on the rue Constantine, across from the Invalides, and he was living on the Left Bank, near the rue de Varennes, in a beautiful hotel particulier loaned to him by a fellow American, Ogden Mills, who was serving elsewhere in the infantry.
“I want Feodor to go with you tonight,” her grandmother said darkly as she left for the Opéra.
“Don't be silly, Grandmama, I'll be fine. They can't be any different from Russian generals. I'm sure they're quite well behaved. They're not going to storm the stage and carry us off with them.” Nijinsky was dancing with them that night and Zoya could hardly wait. Just being on the same stage with him was almost more than she could bear. “I'll be fine. I promise you.”
“You're not going alone. Either Feodor, or Prince Vladimir. Take your choice.” She knew easily which one it would be, although she secretly regretted it, but she hadn't pressed Zoya about the Prince again. In a way, she knew Zoya was right, Vladimir was a great deal too old for her.
“All right.” Zoya laughed. “I'll take Feodor. But he'll be miserable waiting backstage.”
“Not if he's waiting for you, my love.” The old servant served them with a devotion that bordered on the fanatical, and Evgenia knew that Zoya would be safe if he was standing by her. And Zoya only agreed to it to put her grandmother's mind at rest.
“At least tell him he mustn't get in the way.”
“He wouldn't think of it.”
Together they took a taxi to the Opéra, and within moments Zoya was swallowed up by preparations for the performance for Pershing and his men. She knew there were other festivities planned for them as well, at the Opéra Comique, the Comodie-Frangaise, and in other theaters around town. Paris was opening its arms to them.
And when the curtain went up that night, she danced as she never had before. Just knowing that Nijinsky was there spurred her on, and Diaghilev spoke to her himself at the end of the first act. She felt as though she could fly after hearing his kind words, and she put even more of herself into it, and was stunned to realize that the performance had flown by as the final curtain fell. She wanted the evening never to end. She took her bows with the rest of the troupe, and retreated with the others to their common dressing room. The primas had their own of course, but it would be years before she could look forward to that, but she didn't really care. All she wanted was to dance, and she was. She had danced well, and she was filled with pride as she slowly untied her shoes. Her toes were sore from the blocks, but even that didn't seem to matter now. It was a small price to pay for so much joy. She had even forgotten the General and his staff. All she could think of that night was the ballet as she danced and danced and danced … and she looked up in surprise as one of the teachers entered the room.
“You are all invited to a reception at the General's home,” she announced. “Two military trucks will take you there.” She looked at them with pride. They had done well, each and every one of them. “Champagne for all!” she added with a smile as everyone began to talk and laugh. Paris seemed to be coming alive again with the Americans at hand. There were parties and performances everywhere, and Zoya suddenly thought of Feodor waiting for her outside. She wanted desperately to go with them, to be like everyone else, in spite of her grandmother's fears. She slipped quietly outside and went to look for Feodor, and found him standing near the stage door, looking as miserable as she had told her grandmother he would. He felt ridiculous there, surrounded by women in leotards and tulle, and men striding past him less than half dressed. The obvious immorality of it horrified him.
‘Tes, mademoiselle?”
“I must go to a reception with the rest of the troupe,” she explained, “and I can't bring you, Feodor. Go home to Grandmama, and I'll come home as soon as I can.”
“No.” He shook his head solemnly. “I promised Evgenia Peterovna, I told her I would bring you home.”
“But you can't come with us. I promise you I'll be safe.”
“Shell be very angry with me.”
“No, she won't. Ill explain it to her myself when I come home.”
“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?”
“I am.” He was one of his aides-de-camp, but he spared her the details. “Have you been with the Ballet Russe for long?” It couldn't have been very long, he suspected that she was a very young girl, although she had a great deal of poise as they switched from French to English finally. She spoke it very well, after her studies at the Smolny Institute.
“I've been with them for a month.” She smiled at him. “Much to my grandmother's chagrin.” She laughed and looked suddenly even younger.
“Your parents must be very proud of you.” But he instantly regretted the remark as he saw the sadness in her eyes.
“My parents were killed in St. Petersburg … in March….” She almost whispered the words and suddenly he understood. “I live with my grandmother.”
“I'm sorry … about your parents, I mean …” The flash of blue eyes nearly made her cry again. It was the first time she had said the words to anyone. Her fellow dancers knew little about her, but for some reason she felt she could say anything to him. He reminded her in an odd way of Konstantin, the same elegance, the graceful way he moved, the dark hair shot with gray, and the brilliant eyes. “You came here with your grandmother?” He didn't know why, but he was fascinated by her. She was so young and so beautiful, with those big sad green eyes.
“Yes, we came two months ago … from … after …” But she couldn't go on, and he came and gently tucked her hand into his arm.
“jLet's go for a walk, shall we, mademoiselle?” She felt safe with her hand in his arm. “And then perhaps a glass of champagne.” They wandered to the Rodin statue and back, talking about Paris, the war, subjects that were less painful to her, and then with a smile she looked up at him.


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
التوقيع
أنْت يـَـــا اللَّـه 【 تَكْفِينِي 】ツ

رد مع اقتباس
قديم 29-04-11, 04:00 PM   #24

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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“And where are you from?”
“New York.” She had never thought too much about the United States. It all seemed terribly far away.
“What's it like?”
He laughed as he looked down at her. “Big, busy. Not as pretty as this, I'm afraid. But I like it there.” He wanted to ask her about St. Petersburg, but sensed that this wasn't the time or the place. “Do you dance every day?”
“Almost.” And then she laughed up at him. “Until tonight's performance, I was enjoying a week off.”
“And what do you do then … in your spare time?”
“I go for walks with my grandmother, I write to friends, read … sleep … play with my dog.”
“It sounds like a pleasant life. What kind of dog do you have?” They were silly questions, but he wanted to keep her close to him, and he wasn't sure why. She was clearly half his age, but so beautiful, it tore at his heart.
“A cocker spaniel.” She smiled. “She was a gift from a very dear friend.”
“A gentleman?” He looked intrigued and she laughed.
“No, no! A girl! My cousin, in fact.”
“Did you bring the dog from Russia with you?” He was fascinated by her as she bent her head, the cascade of fiery red hair hiding her eyes.
“Yes, I did. I'm afraid she made the journey rather better than I did. I arrived in Paris with measles,” She looked up at him again and grinned, looking once again like a child. “Stupid of me, wasn't it?” But nothing about her seemed that to him, and then he suddenly realized he didn't even know her name.
“Not at all. Do you suppose we ought to introduce ourselves?”
“Zoya Ossupov.” She curtsied prettily, and looked up at him.
“Clayton Andrews. Captain Clayton Andrews, I suppose I should have said.”
“My brother was a captain too … with the Preobrajensky Guard. I don't suppose you've ever heard of them.” She looked up at him expectantly, and once again he saw her eyes grow sad. Her moods seemed to change with lightning speed, and as he looked at her for the first time he understood why people said the eyes were the windows of the soul. Hers seemed to lead one into a magic world of diamonds and emeralds and unshed tears, and he wanted to make her happy again, to make her dance and laugh and smile.
“I don't know very much about Russia, I'm afraid, Miss Ossupov.”
“Then we're even.” She smiled again. “I don't know anything about New York.”
He walked her back inside the main ballroom then and brought her a glass of champagne as the others danced the waltz.
“Would you like to dance?”
She seemed to hesitate, and then nodded. He set her glass down on a table nearby, and led her onto the floor in a slow and dignified waltz, and once again she felt as though she were dancing in her father's arms. If she closed her eyes, she would be back in St. Petersburg … but his voice broke into her thoughts.
“Do you always dance with your eyes closed, mademoiselle?” He was teasing her and she smiled up at him. It felt good to be in his arms, good to be dancing with a tall, powerful man … on a magical night … in a beautiful house …
“It's just so lovely here … isn't it?”
“It is now.” But he had enjoyed his time in the garden with her. It was easier talking to her there than with the music and the crowd. And at the end of the dance, General Pershing signaled him so he left her, and when he came back to look for her, she was gone. He looked everywhere, and walked out to the garden again, but she was nowhere in sight, and when he inquired, he was told that the first truckload of the Ballet Russe had left the party. He walked back to his own quarters thoughtfully, as he meandered down the rue du Bac, remembering her name, thinking of her big green eyes, and he found himself wondering who she really was. There was something deeply intriguing about her.



Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
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أنْت يـَـــا اللَّـه 【 تَكْفِينِي 】ツ

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قديم 29-04-11, 04:01 PM   #25

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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?  نُقآطِيْ » Dalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond repute
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My Mms ~
Chirolp Krackr

CHAPTER
14






“The next time I send Feodor somewhere with you, Zoya Konstantinovna, you will please have the goodness not to send him home.” The old Countess was furious as they shared breakfast the next day. Feodor had come sheepishly back to her, and explained that the soldiers had invited the corps de ballet to go out somewhere, and he wasn't included. Her grandmother had been waiting for her when she got back, almost too angry to speak to her, and by morning, her fury was still white-hot, as she glared at Zoya.
“I'm sorry, Grandmama. I couldn't take Feodor with me. It was a beautiful reception at General Per-shing's quarters.” She remembered instantly the gardens and the Captain she had met, but she said nothing to her grandmother about any of it.
“Ah! So it's come to that, has it? Entertaining the troops? And what is next? This is precisely why proper young ladies don't run away to join the ballet. It is not suitable, absolutely not. And I won't tolerate this. I want you to leave the ballet at once!”
“Grandmama … please … you know I can't!”
“You can if I tell you to!”
“Grandmama … please don't …” She was in no mood to argue with her. She had had such a nice time the night before … and the handsome Captain had been such a nice man, or at least he seemed like it. But still, she said nothing about him to her grandmother. It didn't seem appropriate, and she knew their paths would not cross again. “I'm sorry. I won't do it again.” Not that she'd have the opportunity anyway. General Pershing was hardly likely to give parties for the Ballet Russe after every performance.
She stood up as her grandmother glared at her. “Where are you going now?”
“I have a rehearsal today.”
“I'm so tired of this!” She stood up and paced around the room as best she could, but she was still very spry. “Ballet, ballet, ballet! Enough!”
“Yes, Grandmama.”
She was going to sell a necklace again, an emerald one this time. Maybe Zoya would give up this nonsense then for a while. She had had enough of it. She was not a dancer. She was a child.
“What time will you be home tonight?”
“I should be back at four o'clock. Rehearsal starts at nine, and I don't have a performance tonight.”
“I want you to think about leaving them.” But Zoya enjoyed it too much, they both knew that, and the money did help, much as the Countess hated to think about it. She had bought her grandmother a pretty dress and a warm shawl the week before. And her wages helped pay for their food as well, although there were no little extra treats, except those Vladimir still brought in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Zoya.
“Well go for a walk this afternoon when I come home.”
“What makes you think I'd be willing to go for a walk with you?” her grandmother growled, and Zoya laughed.
“Because you love me so much. And I love you too.” She kissed her cheek, and hurried out the door, like a schoolgirl late for class.
The old woman sighed and cleared away the breakfast plates. It was so difficult having her here. Things were so difficult, and the hardest part was that much as the old woman hated to admit it to herself, Zoya was no longer a child, and it wasn't easy to control her.
Zoya's rehearsal was at the Opéra again that day, in preparation for another performance the following night, and she danced and rehearsed and practiced at the barre for hours and when she finished shortly before four o'clock, she was tired after the late night at General Pershing's house. It was a sunny afternoon in the last week of June, and she walked out into the sunlight with a contented sigh.
“You sound tired, Miss Ossupov.” She wheeled in surprise at the sound of her name, and saw Clayton Andrews standing next to one of General Pershing's staff cars.
“Hello … you startled me.”
“I wish I could say the same. I've been waiting here for two hours.” He laughed and she looked at him with wide eyes.
“Have you been waiting for me all this time?”
“I have. I never got a chance to say good-bye to you last night.”
“I think you were busy when I left.”
“I know. You must have gone back on the first truck.” She nodded in answer, surprised that he had taken the trouble to find out. She hadn't thought she would see him again, but she was happy seeing him now. He was as handsome as she had thought him the night before, as tall and lean and graceful as he had seemed when they danced the waltz. “I was hoping you'd have lunch with me. But it's a little late now.”
“I have to go back to my grandmother anyway.” She smiled up at him, dallying like a schoolgirl just released from class. “She's dreadfully cross at me after last night.”
He looked puzzled by the remark. “Did you go home very late? I didn't notice the time when you left.” Then she was as young as he'd thought. She had the looks of a very young girl, the innocence … and yet, there was such wisdom in her eyes.
But Zoya laughed at the memory of sending Feodor away from the opera house. “My grandmother sent someone to chaperone me, and I sent him home. I suspect he was quite glad of it, though, and so was I.” She blushed slightly then and he laughed.
“In that case, mademoiselle, may I offer you my escort now? I could drive you home.” She hesitated, but he was so obviously a gentleman, there could be no harm in it, and who would know? She could leave him a block or two before the Palais Royal.
“Thank you very much.” He opened the door for her and she slid into the car. She told him where she lived, and he seemed perfectly at ease as he drove her home. She had him stop a block away and he looked around.
“Is this where you live?”
“Not quite.” She smiled and blushed again. “I thought I'd spare my grandmother the agony of getting angry at me again so soon after last night.”
He laughed at her, his handsome face looking very young despite the silver hair. “Aren't you a naughty child! And if I ask you to join me for dinner tonight, mademoiselle? What then?”
She knit her brows as she thought of it, and then looked at him. “I'm not sure. Grandmama knows there is no performance tonight.” It would be the first time she had ever been dishonest with her and she herself wasn't sure why she felt she had to be now. But she knew how Evgenia felt about soldiers.
“Won't she let you go out with anyone?” He seemed both amused and surprised.
“I'm not sure,” Zoya confessed. “I never have.”
“Oh, dear … am I allowed to ask how old you are in that case?” Perhaps she was even younger than he thought, but he hoped not.
“Eighteen.” She said it almost defiantly, and once again he laughed.
“Does that seem very old to you?”
“Old enough.” He didn't dare ask for what. “Not long ago, she was encouraging me toward a friend of the family.” And when she said it, she blushed. It seemed stupid to tell him about Vladimir, but he didn't seem to mind.
“And how old is he? Twenty-one?”
“Oh, no!” Zoya was laughing now. “Much, much older than that. He's at least sixty years old!” This time, Clayton Andrews looked both amused and startled.
“Is he? And what does your grandmother think of that?”
“It's too complicated to explain, besides, I don't like him anyway … he's an old man.”
He looked at her seriously for a moment as they sat in the car. “So am I. I'm forty-five years old.” He wanted to be honest with her, right from the start.
“And you're not married?” She seemed surprised, and then realized that perhaps he was.
“I'm divorced.” He had been married to one of the Vanderbilts, but it had ended ten years before. In New York, he was thought to be an enviable catch, but in the ten years since his divorce, and among the flocks of women he'd taken out, none of them had snagged his heart. “Are you shocked?”
“No.” She thought about it and then looked him in the eye, convinced more than ever that he was a decent man. “Why did you get divorced?”
“We fell out of love, I suppose … we were very different from the start. She's remarried and we're good friends, though I don't see her very often anymore. She lives in Washington now.”
“Where's that?” It all sounded far away and mysterious to her.
“It's near New York but not near enough. Rather like Paris and Bordeaux. Or Paris and London perhaps.” She nodded. That much made sense. But he glanced at his watch. He had spent hours waiting for her and now he had to get back. “What about dinner tonight?”
“I don't think I can.” She looked sadly up at him, and he smiled.
“Tomorrow then?”
“I have to dance tomorrow night”
“What about afterward?” He was persistent in any case, but having found her again, he was not going to let her slip past him.
“I'll try.”
“Good enough. I'll tomorrow night then.” He sprang from the car and helped her out. She thanked him politely for the ride, and he waved at her as he drove back toward the rue Constantine with a song in his heart as he thought of Zoya.



Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
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أنْت يـَـــا اللَّـه 【 تَكْفِينِي 】ツ

رد مع اقتباس
قديم 29-04-11, 04:01 PM   #26

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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?? ??? ~
My Mms ~
Chirolp Krackr

CHAPTER
15






For the first time in her life, she lied to her grandmother. It was the following day when she left for the Opora again. She felt guilty about it, but by the time she left the house, she had forgiven herself for what seemed like a harmless lie. She was sparing her worry about something that wasn't worth worrying about, she told herself. After all, what harm was there in one dinner with a nice man? She had told her that Diaghilev was giving a supper for them, and it was an obligation for the entire ballet troupe.
“Don't wait up for me!” she had called over her shoulder so Evgenia could not see her eyes.
“Are you sure you must go?”
“Absolutely, Grandmama!” And then she had hurried out the door for rehearsal.
And after the performance, Clayton was waiting for her, with another of General Pershing's cars. “All set?” He smiled at her and slid behind the wheel as he watched her eyes. They spoke volumes, far more than her words, and they were the color of emeralds full of fire. “How was it tonight?”
“It was all right. But Nijinsky didn't dance tonight. He's remarkable, don't you think?” And then with a giggle, she remembered that he didn't like the ballet. “Never mind, I forgot you don't like ballet.”
“Perhaps I can be taught.” They drove straight to Maxim's, and Zoya's eyes grew wide as they walked in the door. The rich velvet decor and crowds of elegant people and men in dress uniforms dining there made her catch her breath as she looked up at him. It all seemed so grown-up, and a little startling, and she thought instantly of how to describe her surroundings in her next letter to Marie. But Clayton Andrews was going to be difficult to explain, even to her closest friend. She herself wasn't quite sure why she was dining with him, except that he'd been so kind to her, and he seemed so happy and at ease. She found herself wanting to talk to him, just this once … or perhaps one more time after that. There was no harm in it. He was respectable, and there was a certain excitement to it. She tried not to act like an excited child as they sat down at the table. “Hungry?” He eyed her happily as he ordered champagne for them, but she just wanted to look around.
“Have you ever been here before?”
She shook her head, thinking of the apartment where they lived, and the hotel where they had stayed before that. They hadn't been to any restaurants at all since they'd arrived. She and her grandmother cooked simple meals at home, and Feodor sat down to dinner with them every evening.
“No.” She didn't explain. It would have been difficult to explain it all to him.
“It's pretty, isn't it? I used to come here before the war.”
“Do you travel a great deal? Usually, I mean.”
“Enough. Had you ever been to Paris before … I mean before you came here three months ago?” He had remembered that and she was touched.
“No. But my parents used to come here a lot. My mother was actually German, but she'd lived in St. Petersburg most of her life.” He found himself suddenly wanting to ask her what the revolution had been like, but sensed wisely how painful it had been for her, and refrained. And then, just to make conversation with her, he casually asked a question which made her laugh.
“Zoya, did you ever see the Tsar?” And at the look of amusement on her face, he began to laugh too. “Is there something funny about that?”
“Perhaps.” She felt so comfortable with him, she decided to open up a little bit. “We're cousins.” But her face grew serious then, remembering her last morning at Tsarskoe Selo. Clayton patted her hand, and poured her champagne.
“Never mind … we can talk about something else.” But as she looked at him, her eyes reached into his.
“It's all right … I just …” She fought back tears as she looked at him. “I just miss them so much. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever see them again. They're still under house arrest now, at Tsarskoe Selo.”
“Do you hear from them?” He looked surprised.
“I get letters sometimes from the Grand Duchess Marie … she's my very dearest friend. She was very ill when we left.” And then she smiled sadly at the memory. “I caught the measles from her. They all had them before we left.” It all seemed remarkable to him as he listened to her. The Tsar of Russia was a figure in history, not merely a cousin of this pretty young girl.
“And you grew up with all of them?”
She nodded and he smiled. He had been right after all. There was a great deal more to her than one would have thought at first sight. She wasn't just a pretty little ballerina. She was a girl from a fine family, a girl with a remarkable past. She began to tell him about it then, about the house where she'd grown up, about Nicolai … and the night he'd been shot, and staying at Tsarskoe Selo before they left Russia.
“I have such wonderful photographs of them. I'll show you sometime. We went to Livadia together in August every year. They're going this year again, or so Marie said when she last wrote. We always celebrated Alexis's birthday there, or on the yacht.”
Clayton Andrews watched her with fascinated eyes as they talked. She spoke of a magical world, at a rare time in history, and to her it was commonplace, cousins and friends, and children and tennis, and dogs. And now she was dancing with the Ballet Russe. No wonder her grandmother sent a chapter-one with her. She even explained Feodor to him. And by the end of the evening, he felt as though he knew them all, and his heart ached for the life she had lost in Russia.
“What will you do now?”
“I don't know.” She was honest with him. “When there is no more jewelry left to sell, I suppose I'll just go on dancing and we'll live on that. Grandmama is too old to work, and Feodor doesn't speak enough French to get a job, and he's also quite old.” And when they died? He didn't even dare think of it. She was so open and innocent and fresh, and yet she had seen so much.
“Your father sounds like a nice man, Zoya.”
“He was.”
“It's hard to imagine losing all that. Harder still to imagine never going back.”
“Grandmama thinks things might change after the war. Uncle Nicky said as much before we left.” Uncle Nicky … the Tsar Nicholas … it still amazed him as he listened to her talk. “At least, for now, I can dance. I used to want to run away to the Maryinsky School when I was a little girl”—she laughed at the memory now—” this isn't so bad. I'd rather dance than teach English, or sew, or make hats.” He laughed at the look on her face as she listed the alternatives.
“I'd have to admit, I can't quite imagine you making hats.”
“I'd rather starve. But we won't. The Ballet Russe has been very good to me.” She told him about her first audition, and he silently marveled at her courage and ingenuity. Even having dinner with him was rather brave. And he had no intention of taking advantage of her. He liked her, even though she was barely more than a child. But he also saw her differently now than he had the other evening. She wasn't just a pretty face, or a member of the corps de ballet. She was a girl from a family even more illustrious than his own, and even though she had nothing left, she had breeding and dignity, and he had no desire to violate that. “I wish you could meet Grandmama,” she said as though reading his thoughts.
“Perhaps I shall sometime.”
“She'd be shocked that we haven't been properly introduced. I'm not sure I could explain that to her.”
“Could we say I'm a friend of Diaghilev's?” he asked hopefully, and she laughed.
“That would be even worse! She hates all of it! She'd far rather I marry Prince Markovsky with his taxi than work at the ballet.” But as he watched her, he understood why. It was frightening to think of her out in the world, unprotected, unknown, an easy prey for anyone, even himself.
He paid for their midnight supper then and she looked sad as he took her home. “I'd like to see you again sometime, Zoya.” It seemed such a trite thing to say to her, but he was suddenly uncomfortable about making their outings clandestine. She was so young, and he didn't want to hurt her in any way. “What if I come to tea sometime with your grandmother?”
Zoya looked terrified at the thought. “What will I say to her?”
“I'll think of something. What about Sunday afternoon?”
“We usually go for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne.”
“Perhaps we could take a drive. Say four o'clock?”
Zoya nodded, wondering what she would say to her grandmother, but his suggestion was simpler than all her schemes.
“You might just tell her that I'm General Per-shing's aide, and we met at the reception last night. It's generally easier to tell the truth than a lie.” He sounded just like Konstantin again, as he had several times that night, and she smiled happily up at him.
“My father would have said something like that.” And as they pulled up in front of her address, she glanced at him, looking handsome and dignified in his uniform. He was a wonderful Hooking man. “I had a lovely time tonight.”
“So did I, Zoya … so did I.” He gently touched the long red hair, and wanted to pull her close to him, but he didn't dare.
He walked her to her door and saw her safely inside, as she waved for a last time, and darted up the stairs to the apartment.



Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
التوقيع
أنْت يـَـــا اللَّـه 【 تَكْفِينِي 】ツ

رد مع اقتباس
قديم 29-04-11, 04:02 PM   #27

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

? العضوٌ??? » 130321
?  التسِجيلٌ » Jul 2010
? مشَارَ?اتْي » 49,796
? الًجنِس »
? دولتي » دولتي Egypt
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?  نُقآطِيْ » Dalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond repute
¬» مشروبك   pepsi
¬» قناتك mbc4
?? ??? ~
My Mms ~
Chirolp Krackr

CHAPTER
16






Clayton's introduction to her grandmother went far more easily than either of them had dared to hope. Zoya explained breezily that she had met him at General Pershing's soiroe for the Ballet Russe, and she had invited him to tea. Evgenia was hesitant at first, it was one thing to entertain Prince Vladimir, whose circumstances were as restrained as theirs, but not someone they scarcely knew. But Zoya bought half a dozen little cakes for them, a much sought after loaf of bread, and her grandmother brewed a pot of steaming tea. They had no other niceties to offer him, no silver tray, no lace napkins or cloth, no samovar, but Evgenia was far more concerned about why he wanted to visit them than she was about the elegance of what they could offer him. But as Feodor opened the door to him promptly at four o'clock, Clayton Andrews himself dispelled almost all her fears. He brought them both flowers, and a lovely apple tart, and he was every inch a gentleman as he greeted them both, Zoya quite formally, and her grandmother with respectable warmth. He seemed almost not to notice Zoya at all that day as he chatted comfortably about his travels, his small knowledge of Russian history, and his own youth in New York. And like Zoya, Evgenia found herself frequently reminded of Konstantin, with his warmth, his wit, his charm. And when at last she sent Zoya out of the room to make another pot of tea, she sat quietly watching him, knowing full well why he had come to visit her. He was too old to dally with the child, and yet she could not bring herself to disapprove of him. He was a fine and worthy man.
“What do you want with her?” The old woman asked in a soft voice, unexpectedly, while Zoya was still out of the room, and he met the old woman's eyes with honesty and kindness.
“I'm not sure. I've never even talked to a girl her age before, but she's quite remarkable in many ways. Perhaps I can be a friend to her … to both of you? …”
“Don't play with her, Captain Andrews. She has her whole life ahead of her, and it could be changed unpleasantly by what you do now. She seems to be very fond of you. Perhaps that will be enough.” But neither of them thought it was. The old woman knew even better than he that once he brought her close to him, Zoya's life would never be quite the same again. “She is still very, very young.”
He nodded quietly, thinking of the wisdom of her words. More than once in the past week he had told himself that he was foolish to pursue a girl so young. And when he left Paris afterward, then what? It wouldn't be fair to take advantage of her and then move on.
“In another world, another life, this wouldn't even have been possible.”
“I'm well aware of that, Countess. But on the other hand”—he made a quiet case for himself—” times have changed, haven't they?”
“Indeed they have.” And with that, Zoya came back to them, and poured each of them a cup of tea. She showed him her photographs then, of the previous summer in Livadia, with Joy gamboling at her feet, the Tsarevich sitting next to her on the yacht, and others with Olga and Marie, Tatiana, Anastasia, Aunt Alix, and the Tsar himself. It was almost like a lesson in modern history, and more than once Zoya looked up at him with a happy smile, remembering, explaining it all to him as he listened to her, and he knew the answer then to Evgenia's questions. He felt far more than friendship for this girl. Even though she was barely more than a child, there was something remarkable in her soul, something that reached out and touched him to the core, something he had never felt before, for anyone. And yet, how could he possibly offer her anything? He was forty-five years old, divorced, and he had come to Prance to fight a war. There was nothing he could offer her just then, if he ever could. She deserved a younger man, someone to grow up with and laugh with, and share all her memories with. And yet, he wanted to put his arms around her and promise that nothing would ever hurt her again.
He took them for a drive when she put her photographs away, and when they stopped to walk in the park, he watched her playing with Sava on the grass, as the puppy leapt and barked, while Zoya ran laughing and almost collided with him. Without thinking, he put his arms around her and held her close to him, and she looked up at him, laughing like the child he'd seen in the photographs. Evgenia watched them both, and feared what was to come.
When he brought them home again, Evgenia thanked him and looked at him quietly as Zoya went to give Sava to Feodor. “Think carefully, Captain. What for you may be only an interlude could change my granddaughter's life. Be wise, I beg of you … and above all … be kind.”
“What did you say to him just then, Grandmama?” Zoya asked when he had left them.
“I thanked him for the apple tart, and invited him to visit us again,” Evgenia said calmly as she put their cups away.
“That's all? He looked so serious, as though you'd said something important to him. And he didn't smile when he said good-bye.”
“Perhaps he's thinking about all this, little one.” And then, carefully, “He's really far too old for you.”
“It doesn't matter to me. He's such a nice man.”
“Yes, he is.” Evgenia nodded quietly, hoping silently that he would be nice enough not to call again. Zoya was too much at risk with him, and if she fell in love with him, what then? It could prove to be disastrous.


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
التوقيع
أنْت يـَـــا اللَّـه 【 تَكْفِينِي 】ツ

رد مع اقتباس
قديم 29-04-11, 04:02 PM   #28

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

? العضوٌ??? » 130321
?  التسِجيلٌ » Jul 2010
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?  نُقآطِيْ » Dalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond repute
¬» مشروبك   pepsi
¬» قناتك mbc4
?? ??? ~
My Mms ~
Chirolp Krackr

CHAPTER
17






Evgenia's prayers that Clayton Andrews would not return were not destined to be answered. After trying to stay away from her for a week, he found himself constantly thinking of her, obsessed with her eyes … her hair … the way she laughed … the way he had watched her play with Sava … even the photographs she had shown him of the family of the Tsar seemed to haunt him. She had made them real to him, and now instead of a tragic figure of history the Tsar had become a man, with a wife, a family, and three dogs, and Clayton found himself mourning the enormity of his losses as he sat imprisoned in his home in Tsarskoe Selo.
And as he thought of her all week, Zoya also found herself constantly thinking of Clayton.
He reappeared at Zoya's home this time, and not the ballet, and with her grandmother's permission, took her to see The Merry Widow. She returned to excitedly tell her grandmother all of it, barely stopping for breath, as Clayton laughed and poured champagne. He had brought them a bottle of Cristal which he poured into crystal glasses. Without wanting to offend them, he found himself constantly wanting to make things easier for them, and bring them the little niceties he knew they missed and no longer had, warm blankets which he insisted had been “given” to him, a set of glasses, a lace tablecloth, and even a pretty little bed for Sava.
Evgenia knew by then that Clayton was badly smitten, as was Zoya. They went for long walks in the park, had lunch at little cafés, as Clayton explained the passing uniforms to her, the Zouaves, the English and Americans in khaki, the “poilus” in their pale blue coats, and even the Chasseurs d'Afrique. They talked of everything from ballet to babies. Zoya still insisted that one day she wanted six children, the thought of which made him laugh.
“Why six?”
“I don't know.” She shrugged with a happy smile. “I prefer even numbers.” She shared her last letter from Marie, it spoke of Tatiana falling ill again, though not seriously this time, and Nagorny being so faithful and kind to Alexis. He never left his side now.“… And Papa is so good to all of us. He keeps everyone feeling strong and happy and cheerful …” It was difficult to imagine and it tore at Clayton's heart as he listened. But they spoke of far more than the Tsar's family when they met, they spoke of all their passions and interests and dreams.
It was a magical and lovely summer for Zoya. Whenever Zoya wasn't dancing, Clayton seemed to be there, amusing her, taking her out, and bringing them both small gifts and thoughtful little treasures. And then in September, all the innocent pleasures ended all too quickly. General Pershing announced to his aides that he was moving General Headquarters to Chaumont, on the Maine, and in a matter of days Clayton was to leave Paris. At the same time, Diaghilev was making plans to take the Ballet Russe to Portugal and Spain, and Zoya was faced with a painful decision. She couldn't leave her grandmother alone, and she had to abandon the troupe, which almost killed her.
“You can dance with one of the other ballets here. It's not the end of the world,” Clayton encouraged, but it was to her. No other company was the Ballet Russe, and it broke her heart to leave them. The worst news of all came two weeks after Alexis's birthday. Zoya received a letter from Marie, sent to her, as always, by Dr. Botkin. On August 14, the entire Romanov family had been removed from house arrest at the Alexander Palace in Tsarskoe Selo to Tobolsk in Siberia. The letter had been written the day before they left, and Zoya had no idea how they were, only that they had gone. The thought was almost more than she could bear. She had imagined that at any moment they would go to Livadia and be safe there. But now everything had changed, and a sense of terror clutched her heart as she read the letter. She showed it to Clayton before he left, and he tried vainly to reassure her.
“You'll hear from her again soon. I'm sure of it, Zoya. You mustn't be so frightened.” But how could she not, he asked himself. She had lost everything only months before, she had seen all too clearly the terrors of the revolution, and the truth was that her friends and relatives were still in danger. It frightened him too to think of it now, but there was nothing anyone could do to help them. The American government had recognized the Provisional Government long since, and everyone was afraid to offer the Tsar and his family asylum. There was no wresting him from the revolutionaries now. All one could do was pray and believe that one day they'd be free. It was the only hope he could offer to Zoya. And worst of all, he himself was leaving.
“It's not very far. Ill come up to Paris whenever I can. I promise.” She looked up at him with tragic eyes … her friend … the Ballet Russe … and now he had to leave her. He had been courting her for almost three months, and she gave him constant delight and innocent amusement. Much to Evgenia's relief, she rightly suspected that he had not done anything she would consider foolish. He simply enjoyed her company, and saw her whenever he could, for walks, an evening at the theater, dinner at Maxim's, or at some little bistro. And she seemed to flourish with his affectionate interest and protection. It was almost like having a family again, and now she was losing him as well, and at the same time she had to find a job with a lesser troupe. Much as she hated the thought, Evgenia knew that they were becoming dependent on Zoya's income.
By September 10, she had found another job, but with a ballet company she abhorred, they had no precision, no style, and none of the brutal discipline of the Ballet Russe that Zoya was used to, and the pay was much less as well. But at least she, Feodor, and her grandmother were still eating. The war news was not good and the air raids continued, and finally, she had a letter from Marie. They were living in the Governor's house in Tobolsk, and Gibbes, their tutor, was continuing their lessons.”… Papa reads us history almost every day, and he built us a platform on the greenhouse so we can take a little sun, but it will be too cold for that soon. They say the winters here seem endless….” Olga had had her twenty-second birthday, and Pierre Gilliard was there too.”… He and Papa saw wood, almost every day, but at least while they're busy, we can escape some of our lessons. Mama looks very tired, but Baby worries her so much. He was feeling so ill after the trip, but I'm happy to tell you that now he is much better. The four of us sleep in one room here, and the house is very small, but at the same time cozy. Perhaps a bit like your apartment with Aunt Evgenia. Give her my love, dearest, dearest one, and write to me when you can. Your dancing sounds fascinating, when I told Mama she was shocked, and then she laughed and said how very like you to go all the way to Paris to run off to the ballet! We all send you our love, and I most especially …” And this time, she signed her letter as she hadn't in a very long time, “OTMA.” It was a code they had devised as children for letters sent from all of them, signifying Olga, Tatiana, Marie, Anastasia. And it made Zoya's heart long for them all.
With Clayton gone, she was even more lonely. There was nothing to do but work and come home to Grandmama after each performance. She realized then the extent to which Clayton had spoiled her. When he was around, there were always outings, presents, surprises, plans. And now, suddenly, there was nothing. She wrote to him even more often than she wrote to Marie in Tobolsk, but his answers were brief and hurried. He had a great deal of work to do in Chaumont for General Pershing.
October was even worse, Feodor caught the Spanish flu, and Zoya and her grandmother took turns nursing him for weeks, but finally, unable to eat or drink, or even see anymore, he succumbed, as both women sat crying silently at his bedside. He had been so loyal and kind to them, but like an animal taken too far from his home, he was unable to survive in a different world. He smiled gently at them before he died, and said softly,“… Now I can go back to Russia….”
They buried him in a little cemetery outside Neuilly, Vladimir had driven them there, and Zoya cried all the way home, feeling as though she had lost her only remaining friend. Everything seemed suddenly so grim, even the weather. Without Feodor there was never enough firewood and both Evgenia and Zoya couldn't bring themselves to use his room.
It was as though the pain of their losses was never going to end. Clayton hadn't been to Paris in almost two months, and when Zoya came home from work late one night, she got a dreadful shock as she opened the door and saw a man standing in their living room in his shirt sleeves. And for a moment, Zoya's heart stopped because she thought he was a doctor.
“Is something wrong?”
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.”
But Evgenia knew all too well what was troubling her. It was Clayton. And just as had been foreseen, he had left to fight the war, and Zoya had to go back to a life without him. It was just as well that nothing more had happened, and that he was an honorable man, or it would have been even more difficult for her. She didn't ask Zoya if she'd heard from him. She almost hoped that he wouldn't write her.
Zoya went to the kitchen and cooked dinner for her grandmother and herself, and as the young teacher kept looking up, in the direction of the good smells, Zoya relented, and invited him to join them for dinner.
“What do you teach?” she asked politely without really caring. She saw that his hands shook very badly, he seemed constantly frightened and very nervous, and it seemed to her that his war wounds had left him far more than a limp. He seemed perpetually shaken.
“I teach history, mademoiselle. And I understand that you dance in the ballet.”
“Yes,” she conceded, but barely. She wasn't proud of the troupe she danced with now, not like when she was with the Ballet Russe, however briefly.
“I'm very fond of the ballet. Perhaps I could come to see you sometime.”
She knew he expected her to say that she would like that, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She wouldn't.
“I like the room very much,” he announced to no one in particular, and Evgenia smiled graciously.
“We are very happy to have you.”
“The dinner is very good.”
“Thank you,” Zoya said, without raising her eyes. He spoke in a series of irrelevant non sequiturs and Zoya disliked him more than ever. He limped around the kitchen trying to help her clean up, and afterward he lit a fire in the living room, annoying her again by wasting the little firewood they had, but as long as he had lit it, she stayed to warm her hands. It was freezing in the small apartment.
“I visited Saint Petersburg once.” He spoke softly from the desk, hardly daring to look up at her, she was so beautiful and so full of fire. “It was very lovely.” She nodded and turned her back to him, staring into the fire with tears in her eyes as he watched her slim back with silent longing. He had been married before the war, but his wife had left with his best friend, and their only child had died of pneumonia. He had his own sorrows too, but Zoya did not ask to hear them. To her he was a man who had lived through great danger and barely survived it. And rather than strengthening him, it had broken his spirit. She turned slowly to look at him then, wondering again why her grandmother had taken him in. She couldn't bear to think that their situation was that desperate, but she knew it was, or Evgenia wouldn't have done it.
“It's so cold in here.” It was just a statement, but he rose quickly and put another log on the fire.
“I'll get some more firewood tomorrow, mademoiselle. That will help. Would you like another glass of tea? I could make it for you.”
“No, thank you.” She wondered how old he was, he looked to be somewhere in his mid-thirties. In fact, he was thirty-one, but his life had been far from easy.
And then, shyly, “Is it your room I have taken?” It would have explained her obvious displeasure at his presence, but she only shook her head, and then sighed.
“One of our servants came with us from Russia. He died in October.” He nodded quietly as he listened.
“I'm sorry. It's been a hard time for all of us. How long have you been in Paris?”
“Since last April. We left right after the revolution.”
He nodded again. “I've met several Russians here lately. They're brave, good people.” He wanted to say “and you too,” but he didn't dare. Her eyes were so big and bright and fierce, and as she tossed her head, her hair flew around her like sacred fire. “Is there anything you'd like me to do, since I'm here? I'd be happy to help in any way I can. I can do errands for your grandmother, if you like. I enjoy cooking as well. Perhaps we can take turns cooking dinner.”
She nodded in silent resignation. Perhaps he wasn't so bad. But he was there. And she didn't want him. He gathered his papers up then and went back to his room, closing the door behind him, as Zoya stood alone, staring into the fire, and thinking of Clayton.


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
التوقيع
أنْت يـَـــا اللَّـه 【 تَكْفِينِي 】ツ

رد مع اقتباس
قديم 29-04-11, 04:03 PM   #29

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

? العضوٌ??? » 130321
?  التسِجيلٌ » Jul 2010
? مشَارَ?اتْي » 49,796
? الًجنِس »
? دولتي » دولتي Egypt
? مزاجي » مزاجي
?  نُقآطِيْ » Dalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond reputeDalyia has a reputation beyond repute
¬» مشروبك   pepsi
¬» قناتك mbc4
?? ??? ~
My Mms ~
Chirolp Krackr

CHAPTER
18






As the winter wore on, people seemed hungrier and poorer as the weather got worse, and with more and more émigrés turning up in Paris, the jewelers were paying ever smaller prices. Evgenia sold her last pair of earrings on December first, and she was horrified at how little they gave her. All they had were Zoya's wages now, and they were barely enough to feed them and pay for the apartment. Prince Markovsky had his own troubles too. His car kept breaking down, and he seemed thinner and hungrier each time they saw him. He still spoke valiantly of better times, and reported on all the new arrivals.
In the face of such poverty, and the bitter cold and lack of food, Evgenia was even more grateful for the presence of their boarder. His own meager salary barely allowed him to pay the cost of the room, but nonetheless he always managed to bring home something extra, half a loaf of bread, or a log for the fire, or even a few books for Evgenia to read. He even managed to find some for her in Russian, some poor émigrés must have even sold their books for a meager loaf of stale bread. But he always seemed to think of Zoya and Evgenia, and more often than not, he brought some small offering home to Zoya. Once he had even heard her say how much she loved chocolates, and somewhere, by some miracle, he had managed to buy a tiny bar of chocolate.
As the weeks wore on, she was kinder to him, grateful for his gifts, but more grateful for the kindness he showed the Countess. She was beginning to suffer from rheumatism in her knees and just getting up and down the stairs was suddenly agony for her. Zoya came home one afternoon from a rehearsal at the ballet, and found him carrying her grandmother up the stairs, which, with his wounded leg, was a painful task for him, but he never complained. He was always anxious to do more, and Evgenia had grown very fond of him. She was also not unaware of the enormous crush he had on Zoya. She mentioned it more than once to the girl, but Zoya insisted that she hadn't noticed.
“I don't know how you can't see how much he likes you, little one.” But Zoya was more concerned by the terrible cough that racked her grandmother as she said it. She had had a cold for weeks, and Zoya feared the Spanish flu that had killed Feodor, or the dreaded tuberculosis that seemed to be devouring Paris. Even her own health was not as strong as it had once been. With so little food, and such hard work, she had gotten desperately thin, and her girlish face seemed suddenly much older.
“How's your grandmother tonight?” he asked quietly one night as they were cooking together in the kitchen. It was a nightly ritual between them now. They no longer took turns on her nights off, but instead they cooked together, and when she had to work, he cooked for Evgenia himself, more often than not supplying the food himself, buying it on the way home with the pennies he earned from his teaching. Like everyone else in Paris these days, his small funds seemed to be dwindling. “She was so pale this afternoon” Antoine looked at Zoya with worried eyes, as she sliced two ancient-looking carrots to divide among the three of them. She was sick to death of stew, but it seemed to be what they ate almost every night, it was the easiest way to conceal the inferior quality of the meat and the near absence of vegetables.
“I'm worried about her cough, Antoine.” Zoya glanced at him from across the kitchen. “I think it's worse, don't you?” He nodded unhappily and added two small cubes of meat to the pot where Zoya was boiling the carrots in a watery broth. There wasn't even any bread tonight. It was fortunate that none of them were very hungry. “I think tomorrow I'll take her to the doctor.” But even that was more than they could afford, and there was nothing left to sell, only her father's last cigarette case, and three silver souvenir boxes that had been her brother's, but Evgenia had promised her that she wouldn't try to sell them.
“I know a doctor on the rue Godot-de-Mauroy, if you want his name. He's cheap.” He did abortions for the prostitutes, but he was better than most in that milieu. Antoine had gone to him for his leg several times, and had found him skilled and sympathetic. It pained him terribly now in the bitter cold and damp of winter. Zoya had noticed that his limp seemed to be getting worse, but he looked happier than he had when he'd first come to live with them. It seemed to do him good to have decent people to come home to, and her grandmother to worry about. It never occurred to her that his feelings for her kept him alive, and that at night he lay in bed and dreamed of her in the next room, sleeping huddled with Evgenia.
“How was school today?” she asked as she waited for the pot to boil. Her eyes were kinder now when she looked at him. He even dared to tease her now once in a while, and the exchanges vaguely reminded her of her brother. He was not a handsome man, but he was bright, and well read, and he had a good sense of humor. It helped during the air raids and the cold nights. It was what got them by in place of food and warmth and life's little pleasures.
“It was all right. I'm looking forward to the holidays, though. It will give me a chance to catch up on my reading. Do you want to go to the theater sometime? I know someone who might let us in at the Opéra Comique, if you want to try it.” The mention of it reminded her of Clayton and the gentler days of summer. She hadn't heard from him in a while, and assumed he was busy with General Pershing, who was designing the entire French campaign, and Zoya knew it was very secret. God only knew when she would see him again, if ever. But she was used to that now. She had seen the last of so many people she had once loved. It was difficult to imagine loving anyone without losing them. She forced her mind away from Clayton and back to Antoine and his offer to go to the theater.
“I'd love to go to a museum sometime.” He was actually good company, and very cultured, though not in the polished sense of her lost Russian friends. But in a quiet way all his own, which was equally pleasant.
“As soon as school is out, we'll go. How's the stew?” he inquired, and she laughed.
“As rotten as ever.”
“I wish we could get some decent spices.”
“I wish we could get some real vegetables and fruit. If I see another old carrot, I think I may scream. When I think of the food we used to eat in St. Petersburg, I could cry. I never even thought of it then. You know, I even had a dream about food last night.”
He had dreamed of his wife the night before, but he didn't tell her that, he only nodded and helped her to set the table.
“How's your leg, by the way?” She knew he didn't like to talk about it, but more than once she had wrapped a hot water bottle for him and he'd taken it to bed and said it had helped him.
“The cold doesn't help much. Just be glad you're young. Your grandmother and I aren't as lucky.” He smiled at her and watched her ladle out the thin stew into three chipped ugly bowls. It would have made her cry if she had let herself think of the beautiful china they'd dined on every night at the Fontanka Palace. There was so much they had taken for granted that they would never see again. It was horrifying to think of it now, as Antoine went to knock on her bedroom door to bring Evgenia to dinner. But he looked worried when he returned alone and eyed Zoya over the small kitchen table. “She says she's not hungry. Do you think I should get the doctor for her tonight?” Zoya hesitated for a long moment, weighing the decision. A night call to the house would be even more expensive than a visit to his office.
“Let's see how she is after dinner. She may just be tired. I'll bring her some tea in a little while. Is she in bed?”
He shook his head with a look of concern. “She's dozing in the chair, with her knitting.” She had been working on the same tiny square of wool for months, promising that one day it would become a sweater for Zoya.
The two of them sat down to dinner then, and by silent agreement did not touch the third bowl, no matter how hungry they were. There was still a chance that Evgenia might decide she wanted her dinner.
“How was rehearsal?” He was always interested in what she did, and although he wasn't handsome, there was a boyish look about his eyes. He had thinning blond hair, which he parted carefully in the middle, and nice hands, which she had noticed long since. They no longer shook, and though he was constantly in pain from his leg, he no longer seemed as nervous.
“It was all right. I wish the Ballet Russe would come back. I miss dancing with them. These people don't know what they're doing.” But at least it was money for food. A job was too precious to lose in the winter of 1917 in Paris.
“I ran into some people in a caffe today who were talking about the coup d'otat in Russia last month. It was an endless discussion about Trotsky and Lenin and the Bolsheviks with two pacifists who got so mad, they threatened to punch the other two.” He grinned impishly. “It was pacifism at its best. I actually enjoyed the discussion.” There was a great deal of hostile feeling against the Bolsheviks at the time, and Antoine shared the pacifist view like so many others.
“I wonder what effect that will have on the Romanovs,” Zoya voiced quietly. “I haven't had a letter from Siberia in a long time.” It worried her, but perhaps Dr. Botkin hadn't been able to get her letters to Mashka. One had to consider that, and be patient in waiting for an answer. Everything seemed to require patience these days. Everyone was waiting for better times. She only hoped that they all lived to see them. There was even talk of the possibility of Paris being attacked, which seemed hard to believe with English and American troops swarming all over France. But after what she'd seen in Russia only nine months before, she knew that anything was possible.
She stood up then, and took the remaining bowl of stew to her grandmother's room, but she came back with it a few minutes later, and spoke softly to Antoine in the kitchen. “She's asleep. Maybe we should just let her sleep. I put a blanket over her to keep her warm.” It was one of the blankets Clayton had given them the previous summer. “Don't forget to give me that doctor's name tomorrow before you go to school.”
He nodded and then looked at her questioningly. “Do you want me to go with you?” But she only shook her head, she still had a strong streak of independence. She hadn't come this far, almost on her own, in order to depend on anyone now, even someone as unassuming as their boarder.
She finished the dishes and sat down in the living room, as close to the fire as she could, and warmed her hands as he quietly watched her. The fire shot gold lights into her hair, and her green eyes seemed to dance. And unable to resist the lure of her, he found himself standing nearby, partially to keep warm, and partially just to be near her.
“You've got such pretty hair….” He said it without thinking, and then blushed as she looked up at him in surprise.
“So do you” she teased, thinking of the insulting exchanges with Nicolai they had so loved. “I'm sorry … I didn't mean to be rude … I was thinking of my brother.” She stared into the fire pensively, as Antoine watched her.
“What was he like?” His voice was gentle, and he thought his heart would break in half, he was so hungry to reach out and touch her.
“He was wonderful … thoughtful and funny and daring and brave, and very, very handsome. He had dark hair like my father, and green eyes.” And then suddenly she laughed, remembering. “He had a great fondness for dancers.” Most of the imperial family had and Nicholas among them. “But he'd be so angry at me now.” She looked up at Antoine with a sad smile. “He'd be furious at my dancing now …” Her thoughts drifted off again as Antoine watched her.
“I'm sure he'd understand. We all have to do what we must to survive. There aren't many choices. You must have been very close.”
“We were.” And then, out of nowhere, “My mother went mad when they killed him.” Her eyes filled with tears as she thought of him bleeding to death in the front hall, and her grandmother tying her petticoats over his wounds to no avail to try and save him. It was almost more than she could bear thinking about it, as Sava came quietly to her chair and licked her hand, and forced her mind back to the present.


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
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قديم 29-04-11, 04:04 PM   #30

Dalyia

إدارية ومشرفة سابقة وكاتبة بمكتبة روايتي وعضوة بفريق التصميم والترجمة و الافلام والسينما ومعطاء التسالي ونجمة الحصريات الفنية ومميز بالقسم الطبى

 
الصورة الرمزية Dalyia

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They sat quietly for a long time. He had pulled up the room's only other chair, and they sat by the fire, lost in their own thoughts, until Antoine dared to be a little braver. “What do you want to do with your life? Have you ever thought about it?”
She looked surprised at the question. “Dance, I suppose.”
“And after that?” He was curious about her, and it was a rare opportunity to find her alone without Evgenia.
“I used to want to marry and have children.”
“And now? Don't you think about that anymore?”
“Not very often. Most dancers never get married. They dance until they drop, or teach, whichever comes first.” Most of the great dancers she knew had never married, and she wasn't sure she cared. There was no one she knew that she could imagine marrying. Clayton was only a friend, Prince Markovsky was too old, and the men in her troupe were beyond hope, and she certainly couldn't imagine herself married to Antoine. And there was no one else. Besides, she had to take care of Evgenia.
“You'd make a wonderful wife.” He said it so seriously that she laughed.
“My brother would have said you were crazy. I'm a terrible cook, I hate to sew. I can't do watercolors or knit. I'm not sure I can run a house, not that that matters now …” She smiled at the thought as he watched her.
“There's more to marriage than cooking and sewing.”
“Well, I certainly don't know if I'm good at that!” She blushed and laughed and he blushed too. He was easily shocked and she had shocked him.
“Zoya!”
“Sorry.” But she looked more amused than contrite as she stroked little Sava. Even Sava had grown thin from the meager remains from their table.
“Perhaps one day someone will make you want to give up dancing.” He had misunderstood, it wasn't that her passion for the ballet was so great. It was only that she had no choice. She had to work to support herself and Evgenia, and it was all she knew how to do. At least it was something.
“I'd better get Grandmama into bed, or her knees will be killing her tomorrow.” She stood up and stretched and Sava followed her into the bedroom. Evgenia had already woken up and was changing into her nightgown. “Do you want your stew, Grand-mama?” It was still waiting for her in the kitchen, but she shook her head with a tired smile.
“No, darling. I'm too tired to eat. Why don't you save it for tomorrow?” With all of Paris starving, it would have been a crime to waste it. “What have you been doing in the other room?”
“Talking to Antoine.”
“He's a good man.” She said it looking pointedly at Zoya, who seemed not to notice.
“He gave me the name of a doctor on the rue Godot-de-Mauroy. I want to take you there tomorrow before rehearsal.”
“I don't need a doctor.” She was braiding her hair and a moment later she climbed painfully into bed. The room was cold, and the pain in her knees was brutal.
“I don't like the sound of your cough.”
“At my age, even having a cough is a blessing. At least I'm still alive.”
“Don't talk like that.” She had only been saying things like that since Feodor died. His death had depressed her deeply, that and the fact that she knew they were almost at the end of their money.
Zoya put her own nightgown on, and turned o£F the light, and she held her grandmother close to keep her warm as they huddled through the December night together.


Dalyia غير متواجد حالياً  
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