47

“One, two, three, four—that’s terrible extension! Come, girls! You are professionals—act like it!”

Talia brushed a bead of sweat from her brow. The dancers had been practicing for two hours without a break. She was getting a cramp in her leg. She didn’t think driving the dancers like serfs was going to make them any more professional, but she certainly didn’t have the nerve to say as much to the coach. One of the other dancers finally protested.

“Vera,” the bold girl said to the coach, “I am ready to drop. We must have a break.”

“If that is all the stamina you have, then perhaps you should stay behind when the rest of us go to America, eh?”

“We can only take so much.”

“Is that how the rest of you feel?”

Emboldened now, the other dancers readily agreed.

The coach threw up her hands. “With that kind of attitude, we will be a monumental flop on our tour.” Then she shrugged. “All right, take a five-minute break.”

Talia limped to a table where a pitcher of water and glasses were laid. She poured herself a drink and a second for another girl who approached.

“I’m so excited about going to America,” said the girl. “I suppose it’s worth the extra practice.”

“I suppose,” said Talia without matching enthusiasm.

“Surely, Talia, you want to go to America?”

“It’s so far . . .” Talia sipped her water.

“I think it is just as well to get away from Europe while the war is on.”

Talia had joined the company of the Ballets Russes last season. It had been a difficult decision because the company did not perform in Russia and probably never would. But the chance to work with the great Diaghilev had been too marvelous for her to pass up. When she rejoined the company after her summer sabbatical, it had been far easier. During that summer, her life had been turned upside down with Yuri’s whirlwind declaration of love and just as stunning rejection. After learning of Andrei’s love and his subsequent disappearance, Talia had found some relief in distancing herself from Russia for a while. The grueling discipline of her work had been quite welcome. But it hadn’t prevented her from thinking about Andrei. And the more she thought about their friendship, the more she realized how much Andrei meant to her. This separation from him also made her acutely aware of the truth of Yuri’s words: “If that’s not love, what is?”

She wondered constantly what would happen if she saw Andrei again. And often she would actually ache with yearning for him. But he seemed determined to stay away from his loved ones. Her mama wrote that Andrei had sent his mama one letter shortly after the war started asking her to understand and forgive his need to leave. There had been no word since from him. But there was a rumor that he had joined the Bolsheviks in European exile.

At least he was out of the war, or so she hoped.

During her performances she always fantasized that she would gaze out into the audience and see his face. But she was to depart for America in two days. Hope of seeing him again soon was dwindling to nothing.

Still, if she did see him . . .

She certainly wouldn’t let him go away again. And she would love him—yes, love him! She’d not let him go another minute with his love for her unfulfilled. Since Yuri opened her eyes to Andrei’s feelings, Talia’s feelings for Yuri had simply faded away. She had been clinging to a childhood dream for too long. Now she thanked God for Yuri’s rejection, for only when the flimsy bubble had been burst had she been able to truly see how insubstantial it really was.

If only Andrei had waited a little longer. But patience never was his best quality, she thought with an affectionate smile. She couldn’t be angry at him, though. They had all behaved foolishly and blindly. She just hoped they could soon set everything right. She was tempted not to go to America, but the tickets were bought and all the arrangements were made. Besides, if she stayed here, she’d go crazy hoping for him to appear around any corner or in any crowd. The tour to America would only be for a few months. Perhaps by then Andrei would have come to his senses and returned to Russia.

Andrei and Inessa planned to take the four o’clock train from Paris to Bern. But before they departed for the station they had a meeting with the French Bolsheviks, whom Inessa had finally contacted. The meeting went on far longer than Andrei’s store of patience. His grasp of French was adequate enough to follow the conversation, but it was so much tedious political debate that at times he wanted to scream. Part of the source of his impatience, of course, was a growing anxiety to return to Switzerland. Since learning that Talia might be there, he could think of little else. He tried logically to debate the positives and negatives of seeing her—just like a hardened Bolshevik! But all the while he knew that no matter what logic told him, he would see her.

Once he and Inessa got under way, the trip to Bern was maddeningly long. Inessa tried to distract him by reading several essays she had written on free education, one of her pet causes. They arrived in Bern only to learn that Krupskaya’s mother had died. The old woman had been practically a mama to all of the Bolsheviks, and she had been especially kind to Andrei. Andrei could not turn immediately around to go off after a woman. He had to remain at least long enough to attend the funeral.

Two days later he began his pursuit of Talia.

Talia took one last backward glance at the villa where she had lived and practiced for several weeks. It was a lovely place, but she wasn’t going to miss it. The only misgivings she had about leaving were lodged in the knowledge that she would soon be farther than ever from Andrei. But it was impractical to stay in one place forever in a futile hope that he would miraculously appear on her doorstep.

Her career might not be everything to her, but it was important. She loved to dance, and she had made close friends among the other performers. And the opportunity to travel to America was just too much to give up, especially for a romance that might never happen. Besides, Diaghilev had promised her two or three small solo appearances, and to be so honored was no small thing. With Nijinsky and Pavlova no longer with the company, Talia’s chance for larger roles was even greater. Surely Andrei, who had always supported her in the past, would not want her to turn down such an opportunity.

Still, it was not easy to drive away. It was still harder to board the train that would take her a world away. But the tour would not last forever. By fall she would return to Europe—and maybe by then Andrei would also be in Russia.

The Villa Belle Rive, overlooking the Rhone River, was in a beautiful setting, especially with spring blossoming all around. Andrei thought it a perfect locale for a reunion with the woman he loved. He had procured a ride to the isolated colony from a farmer who was returning from town after selling a wagonload of hay. Andrei offered the man a coin to pay for the ride, but the farmer would not take it, so Andrei thanked him and jumped from the back of the wagon.

Bits of hay clung to his wool jacket and trousers, and he spent a moment brushing them away before he strode up the dirt path that led to the villa. He emerged from a thick stand of trees that fronted the villa, and the view left him breathless. How quiet and peaceful the place was! Almost too quiet. There had to be a large entourage connected with the Ballets Russes, from dancers to stagehands. But there was not a soul to be seen about the grounds. It was late afternoon; perhaps they were napping or something. But all of them?

He walked up to the door and knocked loudly. A minute or two passed before he heard footsteps approach inside. A woman in a plain dress and apron answered the door.

“May I help you?” she said in French.

“Yes,” said Andrei, aware of his heavily accented and rough French. “I’m looking for one of the performers in the ballet company.”

“The company left yesterday on tour.”

“Yesterday?” Andrei quickly deflated, then just as quickly he thought of something and hope sparked him again. “Where did they go?” Perhaps he could catch up with them on the road.

“They’re off for America.”

Now he was truly deflated. “America . . .”

She must have perceived his disappointment because she added brightly, “But they will return in the fall.”

“Did they all go?”

“Yes. There’s just my husband and myself left. We’re the caretakers.”

“Did you know any of the dancers?”

“Some I did. But others were a bit snooty, you know.”

“There was one dancer—sweet as a spring blossom, and delicate as a bird. She hasn’t a snooty bone in her. Perhaps . . .”

“What was her name?”

“Talia Sorokin—”

“Oh yes, I spoke to her several times. A very kindly girl. I’m sorry to tell you, but she also left with the American tour.”

So that was it, then. She was gone. Perhaps she would return in the fall, but who could say where he’d be? With shoulders slumped and hopes dashed, he walked away. The five-mile walk to town didn’t improve his spirits.

Maybe there was no such thing as fate, after all. Worse still, if there was, it appeared as if it was stacked against him ever being with Talia.

And God?

He tried to think what his mama would say about God in such a situation as this. That God’s timing was perfect. That He was the giver of good things. That they who wait on the Lord would be blessed.

Maybe if he were closer to God, such words would help. But he was too confused to see God clearly, much less trust Him or even wait for Him. He might have thought differently if God had come through for him now—if Talia had been there to affirm his love and devotion. But now there was a void in Andrei’s heart even larger than before.