Ms. Kvasov

Everything in life is a test. You just don’t know it at the time.

School is the only place where somebody tells you “There will be a test,” or “This material will be on the test,” or even “This is a test!”

I wonder if—in this respect—educators do more harm than good. Conditioning our youngest and most impressionable to believe that evaluations present themselves only when boorish cat ladies scrawl “REMEMBER—TEST THIS FRIDAY!!!” on the front of a chalkboard is clearly a disservice.

That is what the visitors to the Grand Hotel do not yet realize. This, like everything else, is a test.

Like it or not.

* * *

The corridor soon terminates in a wooden staircase leading up. We begin our ascent. The stairs twist through sloping, wood-paneled hallways where timeworn paintings hang. Some are portraits, but most show landscapes or crowd scenes. The visitors look the paintings over quickly, trying not to make eye contact with the portraits. I always want to say: “If you’re looking at the faces, then you’re missing the point.” But I don’t. Of course I don’t.

The staircase ends and the corridor straightens out again. (We’ve taken so many turns that it’s quite difficult to guess the direction in which we now proceed. Several of the visitors remark on this. I do not supply any clarification.) The paintings remain, but now take a turn for the fanciful. The canvasses show cavorting acrobats, magicians gesturing with wands, and dancing circus elephants. The subject matter is so carefree, almost none of the visitors really stop to look at the figures represented. In their hurry to get to the next thing—a side-effect of modern life, I am told—they fail completely to notice the consternation and existential terror on the acrobats’ faces. The anguish of the elephant forced to perform against its will. The dark, insidious smile of a magician who knows his next trick will ensnare the souls of the children in his audience.

“Aww, look at the elephants,” one guest says, after the most cursory of glances.

Yes, look at them. But never too closely.

Soon, we begin to hear the percussive footfalls of a dancer hammering a tango into well-worn floorboards. We can also detect the tinny playback of recorded music on a phonograph.

“Down that way,” I encourage the group. “The ballroom is just around the corner.”

I shoo them along.

“We won’t be interrupting a performance, will we?” one of them asks. She is clearly so excited to see the ballroom that nothing will stop her, yet poses this question to appear considerate.

“It is possible,” I say evenly. “But I can guarantee that your presence will be appreciated by the performers.”

This brings a wide grin to her face and she advances with renewed enthusiasm. The music grows louder, and louder still. One begins to detect the smell of chalk and oil.

“Ooh, I see people,” says a woman at the front of the pack.

“Dancing people!” cries another.

All at once, they rush forward to where the bright ballroom beckons.

And there they pause. Their expressions grow cagey as they survey the immense space beyond and the unmoving tuxedoed figures within. They say nothing, waiting in vain for something to explain the strange sight. After a while—this becomes a pattern, of course—they look back to me make sense of it for them.

I clear my throat.

“This is Ms. Kvasov,” I say, indicating the woman in the center of the ballroom with her arms wrapped around a life-size tuxedo-wearing figurine. Probably in her late sixties, she is clad in a dance leotard and a frilly hat with a flower. Her face is made up and her hair is tied back.

“And these,” I continue with a sweep of my hand, “are her dance partners.”

The room is full of wooden mannequins dressed for dinner. There are thirty-three in all. Instead of feet, their fixed maple legs terminate in wheels.

Ms. Kvasov takes in the audience and smiles. A painted eyebrow arches skyward. She leans into the nearest mannequin and sensually trails her fingers across its featureless face. Then, suddenly, with a practiced motion, she pulls the figure close. Its oiled wheels roll in absolute silence.

Ms. Kvasov poses dramatically with her partner, eyeing the audience. She gives them a look as if to say “Yes?”

Kvasov has her own story to tell, but the performance always comes first. To move things along, I step to the side table and replace the phonograph’s needle. The band strikes up, and the dancer springs to life. Or should I say dancers? The unique power of Ms. Kvasov to imbue her mechanical partners with the appearance of life is positively uncanny.

Moving to the center of the ballroom, Kvasov and her mannequin sway and twist to the music. At times she leads, but just as frequently it seems the wooden man is leading her. The illusion is remarkable. As she switches from partner to partner, the maple figures do more than dance. She gives each one a personality. Some show great alacrity to command her. Others appear timid, and it is up to Ms. Kvasov to cajole them along.

Time passes quickly in the thrall of such a spectacle. After what feels like only a few short moments, the song winds down and Ms. Kvasov disentangles herself from the figures. She does not breathe hard, but a healthy sheen of sweat now glistens on her brow. She smiles through her made up face.

The visitors quickly recover from their stunned silence and erupt into applause.

“That was amazing!” one of them says.

“I’ve never seen anything like it!” offers another.

“Oh, thank you for bringing us here,” one says appreciatively to me.

Then someone finds the temerity to address Ms. Kvasov directly: “Where did you learn to dance like that? With these . . . things as your partners?”

An inelegant phrasing, but it gets the job done.

Ms. Kvasov looks to me. I curtly nod back. She may proceed.

Her lipstick twists into a smile, her eyes unfocus, and suddenly she is far, far away.

In an accent thick enough to strain the ear, the master dancer begins to speak.

When it happened, I was a young student at the Royal Ballet School in England. I had grown up poor; a serf’s daughter in the Russian countryside. I was, however, lucky. Lucky and gifted at dance. Attending a serious ballet school in England would open doors that a girl of my upbringing could seldom hope for. It was my only ticket to a better life, and I knew it. Accordingly, I undertook my studies with the greatest of seriousness and discipline.

My lone friend at the Royal School was another outsider—Irina, a gypsy girl from near Bucharest. Like me, she was just fifteen years old. Unlike me, her English was very good. She could speak fair Russian too, and because of this I often relied on her.

It was rare for us to have time to ourselves, but whenever we did, Irina and I would almost always spend it together—usually in the countryside just outside of town. One summer afternoon we walked deep into the northern forest to have a picnic atop a hill we both liked. After we had eaten, Irina took a nap while I walked down to the valley to gather water from a stream.

No sooner had I dipped my jar into the babbling brook than a hunting party rode up on the other side. There were three riders, all men. Two were old and bearded and wore unpleasant frowns. The third, however. . . . He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen! He could not have been more than two or three years my senior. He had broad shoulders, thick black hair, and electric green eyes. He looked me over and smiled.

“Gavin,” barked one of the old men, warning him to pay me no attention.

And so I knew his name.

As the noblemen dismounted and let their horses drink from the stream, Gavin and I stole glances at one another. He seemed as desperate to speak to me as I to him, yet instead he only fidgeted, brushed his horse, and counted the bullets in his knapsack. Never had a young man made me feel like this. My chest fluttered, and my knees felt weak. I was desperate. I knew I must see this boy again . . . but how?

When the horses had had their fill, the old men began to ride away. Gavin looked at me one last time. Then he whistled and clucked his tongue. His horse turned and followed the old men, and they rode out of sight.

Distraught, I returned to Irina and told her everything that had happened. Or so I thought.

“You silly girl,” Irina said when I had finished my tale. “He plans to see you within the week!”

“What?” I said.

“Tell it to me again,” Irina pressed. “Tell me exactly how he fidgeted? Show me precisely as you did before.”

“Like this,” I said, repeating his motions.

Irina shook her head as if I were a fool.

“By hooking his finger in his mouth like that, he was telling you his family name: Liphook,” Irina said. “They are famous. The wealthiest in the county! By touching his gun and his grey horse, he sought to bring to your mind the Greyshot Festival which begins in only three days. By waving his finger once, he gave you the date of your meeting: the first night of the fest. As he rode away, he whistled and clucked to tell you your meeting place: The Whistling Cock. It is a public house with rooms to let, not a mile hence.”

Irina’s interpretation seemed far-fetched, but her English was much better than mine. Also, I desperately wanted to believe that she was right. Irina encouraged me to be brave and meet Gavin Liphook at the proposed rendezvous. I did not need much convincing.

On the first night of the Greyshot Festival, I crept out of the dormitory and stole my way into town. I found the Whistling Cock just where Irina had said it would be. And I could hardly believe it, but Gavin was waiting for me outside!

The dashing young man approached and grasped my hand. I smiled, unable to hide my pleasure.

Gavin took me to a room at the inn, and there we spent the night together. I was not experienced with lovemaking, but it did not seem to matter. We made love four times, each time in a different position. It was nearly dawn before we ceased. I have never known such passion. I was exhausted, sore, and, for a while, quite unable to speak.

At this point I take a careful survey of the faces around me. So often, tales tending to the amorous make my visitors uneasy. As in so many things, this is especially true with the Americans (I sometimes worry that their tendency to fixate on sexual situations may cause them to miss the point of a story entirely.).

On this night, however, the group seems willing to tolerate the racier aspects of Ms. Kvasov’s tale. If any of the visitors are scandalized, they do not let it show.

I return my gaze to Ms. Kvasov, and our narrator continues.

As the sky threatened to lighten, Gavin said to me: “So, you were able to figure out my little message? Such a bright girl!”

Without thinking, I answered him truthfully: “Actually, it was my friend Irina from school. I described your actions to her, and she deciphered their meaning.”

“Ha!” roared Gavin, slapping his side. “Then I owe that girl dearly! She must have a show of my appreciation. Does she have a favorite food?”

“She adores chocolates,” I answered. This was true.

“I’ll send her a selection of the finest Belgian chocolates as a reward,” Gavin promised.

As dawn broke, I hurried back to the dormitory in a daze. My head was swimming with thoughts of the handsome British boy. Even so, I stayed sensible enough to remain in the shadows and elude detection. Only Irina noticed as I crept back in through the dormitory window.

At breakfast, I told Irina everything that had happened. Though only a girl of fifteen, Irina was quite worldly and did not seem impressed when I told her of our four ways of lovemaking. I believed that Irina’s worldliness came from her gypsy upbringing. She frequently spoke of things she had seen in her parents’ caravan that seemed beyond the ken of most fifteen year olds—things to do with sex, yes, but also with the larger world. In addition, she knew how to tell fortunes with a strange deck of cards she always kept in her backpack.

The next day, I returned to the dormitory after classes to find Irina holding a large box of chocolates tied with an elaborate bow. The other girls were whispering that Irina had a secret admirer. When she saw me, Irina took me by the shoulder and forcefully walked us outside.

“These are obviously from your boyfriend,” she said when we had reached the empty clearing at the back of the school. “But they are addressed to me.”

“Oh, yes,” I said brightly, and told Irina how Gavin had promised to send chocolates to thank her for deciphering his signals.

Irina’s expression turned foul. It was as if someone had poured ice water down her back. Her hair visibly bristled.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“These chocolates will be poisoned,” Irina said flatly.

“What?!” I cried. I was dumbfounded. If anyone else had said this, I would have insisted that they were joking. But Irina had a way of knowing things, and I had never heard her make this kind of joke.

Still, I refused to accept it.

“No,” I insisted. “Gavin would not do that. He wishes to thank you. He is wonderful. He is my lover. He—”

I was cut off as Irina put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Moments later, one of the feral dogs that lived in the woods behind the school loped into view.

Irina untied the ribbon and opened the box. The chocolates inside looked normal enough. Irina carefully plucked one from the gold-foil lining with her thumb and forefinger. She turned it this way and that—inspecting it closely—then threw it to the approaching animal.

“Irina, no!” I said. “Chocolate is bad for dogs.”

With a voice like ice, Irina replied: “This chocolate, especially.”

The canine ate the treat so fast it was like it had disappeared. The dog looked up at Irina for more. Irina’s expression stayed cold. She motioned for me to wait.

Moments later the dog coughed. It seemed to lose interest in getting more chocolate. It lowered its head and walked twenty paces away. Then it lied down at the edge of the forest and stopped moving. Within five minutes it was dead.

Irina smiled. It was a smile that was terrible to see.

I did not want to believe what my own eyes had just shown me. I walked over to the dog and turned it over with my foot. The beast was no longer in the realm of the living.

“My God,” I said to Irina. “How can this be happening? Why would Gavin do this?”

“In a way, he acts out of love for you,” Irina explained coolly. “It would be disastrous for both of you if your lovemaking were discovered, no? You would lose your scholarship. And he? Who knows what punishment awaits him? The risk of being disinherited, I should think, at the very least.”

“But how could he do this?” I asked. “It’s murder!”

Irina seemed to grow distant. Her face assumed the strange aspect it held when she read fortunes on her cards.

“The rich and powerful live in a different world,” she said. “You may think you understand them, but you do not. Their way of seeing things would not make sense to one such as yourself.”

It was all too horrible. I needed to think.

I left Irina and walked into the woods where the wild dogs lurked. There I stood for several minutes, pondering the way forward. When I had made up my mind, I returned to my classmate. She was still standing in the clearing beside the dead dog, silent and pensive.

“We have to do something,” I told her.

Irina nodded. She knew I meant that we must get revenge.

Inside the school, a bell sounded. It was time for our evening meal.

“This is what you must do,” Irina said matter-of-factly. “You must write him a letter. Say that you ache to see him again; that you are driven by desire. Do not mention me or the chocolates. He may be confused when you do not allude to my death, but he will still be curious. Say that you will meet him again at the same location, next Thursday night. Do not give any specifics or sign the letter. Tell him to burn it after reading.”

“And then what?” I asked.

“Trust me,” said Irina.

I did as she advised. In the week that followed, Irina divulged no additional details of her plan. However, when Thursday morning came, she rose early and took me out to the clearing behind the dormitory once again.

“Tonight, you must go to Gavin and make love with him once more,” Irina said.

“What?” I responded. All week I had been hoping that Irina had hired a tough Gypsy hitman who would be waiting to garrote him. The thought of lying down with a would-be murderer made my skin crawl.

“You must,” Irina repeated. “And during your lovemaking, you must scratch him—hard—right next to his testicle sack. Three scratches, just like this.”

Irina drew three lines with a stick in the dirt.

Here, again, I glance at the Americans. A few wince at the anatomical mention, but most seem to be taking it in stride.

“Your fingernails are long,” Irina continued. “Leaving a mark will be no problem. Afterward, tell him you were carried away in the throes of passion.”

“Then what?” I asked.

“You will bring a bottle of wine,” Irina said. “After you lie with him, you will produce the wine and propose a drink. You will pour the glasses, and into his glass you will slip this.”

Irina looked left, then right, and then handed me a small vial with clear liquid inside.

“Poison,” I announced confidently. “But why not simply poison him first? Why do I have to sleep with him again?”

“What I have in mind . . . will be better,” Irina said mysteriously. “That is not poison, besides. It is a laxative. Very fast acting. You will give him the wine with the laxative. He will drink it, and within five minutes he will excuse himself to the bathroom and close the door. He will leave his clothes in the bedroom with you. Ignore his pants, but take his underwear. Also, take anything embroidered, and anything with the name of his school or his family on it. If he has jewelry—”

“He wears a distinctive gold chain!” I announced.

“Yes,” said Irina, nodding and narrowing her eyes. “You must definitely take that.”

“Fine,” I said. “And then what?”

“You will leave him while he is still locked in the bathroom,” Irina said. “You will return to the school before dawn—in through our window just as before—and you must give to me the things you have taken. You must ensure that nobody sees you on the road.”

“And then?

“Then I will do the rest.”

I could hardly stand the thought of being with Gavin again. I had once felt I might be falling in love with the boy. Now I knew that his soul was rotten. Sleeping with him again would be like eating my favorite food after it had been left out for days and was covered in squirming maggots. A distressing thought. Part of me hesitated to go forward with Irina’s plan at all. But no. I had seen the dog die with my own eyes. There could be little room for doubt. Besides, Irina was wise and, moreover, my best friend. She would not betray me. I would do as she said.

That evening I crept from the dormitory and once again found Gavin waiting at the Whistling Cock. He said he had received my letter. Though it hurt even to gaze upon his face, I smiled and tossed my hair as though nothing were amiss.

Inside his room, I forced myself to think not of what our bodies did, but only of the mission. Soon, his hands were upon me, his mouth was on mine, and our clothes were off. The week before, I probably would have agreed to elope with him, had he proposed it. Now it was as if I were going to bed with a monster.

When he was fully distracted in his passion, I scratched him as Irina had instructed. My nails were long and sharp, and suddenly he had three long gashes on his inner thigh. For a moment he flinched and grabbed my hand away. I was afraid he would kill me, but no. He only laughed and made love to me all the more vigorously.

When it was over, I remembered the wine. I poured two glasses and put the laxative into his. I brought the glass to Gavin. He drank it down in a quick gulp and asked for more. While I was pouring the second, a look of anxiety crossed his face. I could hear his stomach gurgling from the other side of the room. When I turned back around, he was already running for the bathroom. He dove inside and slammed the door.

Working quickly, I took his gold chain, his underwear, and his socks—which were stitched with his initials—and put them in my handbag. Then I left the inn and ran back to the dormitory as quickly as my feet would carry me. It was a moonlit night, but the roads were nearly empty. I hid behind a tree whenever someone came close.

I arrived back with time to spare. Irina was awake and waiting for me.

“You have been asleep all night,” she said to me, accepting the underwear, chain, and socks. “This boy, Gavin? You have never met him before. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I told her. “Whatever you say.”

It was two days later that it happened.

Irina went missing. She did not show up for morning studio, and by the afternoon the instructors were on the point of calling the police.

Then she emerged from the woods looking like a zombie.

Her presence was announced by screams from the girls milling in the back of the school. Her clothes were rent and muddy, and her face was bloody and bruised. She looked numb. Insane. She was taken to the headmistress’s office and did not come out for many hours.

The last time I saw Irina again was when she returned to the dormitory to gather her things. One of the instructors was with her and helped her pack. She did not even look at me. Her face stayed blank and cold.

As she left, she hugged me goodbye. In the instant it took us to embrace, she whispered: “Thank you.” This was the only clue that told me she was okay.

It did not take long in the subsequent days for us to hear gossip that Irina had been assaulted by a local boy. Apparently, his family was among the wealthiest and most powerful in the community. The authorities could have been called—and many thought they should have been—but the school wished to avoid a scandal, as did the boy’s parents. At first the young man had denied the crime. Yet Irina had seemed to provide indisputable proof—identifying intimate defensive marks made during the attack, and producing shreds of the boy’s clothing and jewelry.

The gossip went that the young man’s wealthy father had insisted to the headmistress that something could be “worked out.” If the issue went no further, he was prepared to make large donations to the school and to Irina’s family. Both Irina and the headmistress were quick to agree, and Irina returned to Bucharest a wealthy young woman. Though word of the crime spread privately through the community, it stayed out of the newspapers. The boy’s family must have considered this a victory. It was the kind of scandal that, in a few years, would pass out of memory entirely.

For my part, I never heard from Irina again. Except once.

On the occasion of my retirement from the Royal Ballet—what? Nearly thirty years ago, now—I received cartloads of gifts from my fans and admirers. One of them—an inconspicuous looking package postmarked from Romania—contained a very large sum of money, with no card or explanation. I did not have to wonder who it might be from. On a whim, I used the money to commission the dancing figures you see before you.

Of course, hardly a day goes by that I do not think of Irina. And wonder, privately, if the boy’s chocolates were actually poisoned by her.

Silence.

With the story concluded, I turn back toward my guests.

It is not unusual for Ms. Kvasov’s tale to raise objections in a “Now, see here—” sort of way. I brace for them as one might raise an umbrella in anticipation of a sudden summer squall.

“Why that’s horrible . . .”

“I don’t even like to think about things like that!”

“I guess that’s how people behaved. You know, back in the old days.”

I smile at this final notion, as if time were something that tempered the harshness of the universe. As if it could!

Ms. Kvasov, it should be said, is also used to these disagreeable reactions. It’s clear that she does not take them to heart.

I quickly thank her for indulging us and motion to indicate the door on the far side of the ballroom. I’ve found that if I do not urge the visitors to move along, they may attempt to press Ms. Kvasov for additional details. They so wish to discover the truth of what happened, suddenly fancying themselves a flock of Sherlock Holmeses.

“Come along, everyone!” I announce. “We have so much of the hotel yet to see! We must leave Ms. Kvasov and her partners to their important rehearsals. They have a performance upcoming, and a lot of work still ahead, I’m sure. If you would kindly follow me in this direction . . .”

I conduct them across the room—away from Ms. Kvasov and her thirty-three friends—and we begin to trudge down the darkened hallway beyond (Though the visitors are reluctant to go, the unfamiliar environs do make them tend toward obedience. At this point, I’m confident not a one could successfully navigate his or her way back to the lobby. Without their tour guide, they are completely lost.).

Already, I feel the guests at my heels. Good. Whether or not they want to, they follow the lead dog.

I turn slightly, and see that the one closest to me is the red-haired girl.

Dare I?

I dare.

“So, what did you think?” I ask nonchalantly as we creep down the corridor.

“A sad story,” the girl says evenly.

“Yes,” I say. “An old one, too. Ms. Kvasov . . . I mean. She is not young.”

“Still sad,” the red-haired girl insists.

“But you know . . . I’m curious about something,” I say, stroking my chin pensively. “So many people behaved poorly in that tale. Who do you think behaved the most poorly of all? Surely it was Irina, with her plot to extort money from the tragedy. Or else the headmistress of the school, keen to accept a bribe in exchange for concealing a ghastly crime.”

“It was the boy’s father,” the red-haired girl answers without hesitation. “The father of the rich boy, Gavin. He behaved the worst.”

“Ahh, of course,” I say. “For offering to pay to keep the crime quiet. I see your point.”

“No,” the girl corrects me. “For making such a grave decision so quickly, without due consideration. The evidence of the crime was counterfeit, but he just accepted it as true. He should have been more careful.”

“Mmmm,” I reply thoughtfully. “A grave decision, indeed. Speaking of the grave, at least no one died in Ms. Kvasov’s story. That ought to count for something, no?”

“The dog died,” she answers.

She says nothing more.

We continue in silence down the hallway.

This one. I must watch her closely.