Danielle Steel - Zoya

When he saw her he bowed low and kissed her hand again, glancing with kindly eyes beyond her at Zoya, and then with obvious surprise at how lovely she was, and how grown up. She had come to be a considerable beauty. “I must apologize for intruding upon you, Evgenia Peterovna, but I have just heard of an apartment … it's quite small, but near the Palais Royal. It is not … quite … the most ideal neighborhood for a young girl, but … perhaps … perhaps it might do. You mentioned the other day how anxious you were to find a place to live. It has two bedrooms.” He glanced past her at old Feodor with sudden concern. “Perhaps that won't be large enough for all of you, though …”

“Not at all” She smiled up at him as though he had always been her dearest friend. It suddenly meant so much to see a familiar face, even one that she hadn't seen so very often before. It was at least a face from the not so distant past, a relic from home, and she introduced him quickly to Zoya. “Zoya and I can easily share a room. We are doing so here at the hotel, and she doesn't seem to mind it.”

“Of course not, Grandmama.” She smiled warmly at her and gazed with curiosity at the tall, distinguished Russian.

“Shall I arrange for you to see it, then?” He seemed very interested in Zoya, but her grandmother seemed not to notice.

“Could we see it now? We were just going out for a strojl.” It was a lovely May afternoon, and it was difficult to believe that there was discord anywhere in the world, harder still to believe that all of Europe was at war, and America had finally joined too.

“I will show you where it is, and perhaps they will let you see it now.” He drove them there as quickly as he could, as Feodor sat in the front seat with him, and Vladimir told the two ladies all the latest gossip. Several more of their acquaintances had arrived only days before, although none of them seemed to have fresh news from Tsarskoe Selo, and Zoya listened with interest as he reeled off the names. She recognized most of them, although none of them were close friends. He also mentioned that Diaghilev was there, and was planning an actual performance of the Ballet Russe. They were to perform at the Châtelet, and begin the following week with a full rehearsal. Zoya felt her heart beat faster as she listened, and she barely noticed the streets they drove through to reach the apartment.

The apartment itself was very small, but it looked out over someone else's very pleasant garden. There were two small bedrooms and a tiny sitting room, a small kitchen, and a bathroom down the hall, which they would have to share with four other apartments. The others had to come from other floors, so they were more fortunate than most. It was certainly a far cry from the palace on Fontanka, or even the hotel on the rue Marbeuf, but they had no choices left to them now. Zoya's grandmother had admitted to her what a paltry sum she had gotten for the ruby necklace. They had brought other jewels to sell as well, but it did not bode well for their future.

“Perhaps it is too small after all….” Prince Vladimir looked suddenly embarrassed, but it was no more embarrassing than his having to drive a taxi.

“I think it will do very well,” the Countess said matter-of-factly, but she had already seen the look of dismay in Zoya's eyes. The hallway had an ugly smell, of urine mixed with fetid cooking. Perhaps a little perfume … the lilac smells that Zoya was so fond of … and the windows open onto the pretty garden. Anything might help, and the rent was just what they could afford. The Countess turned to Vladimir with a warm smile and thanked him profusely.

“We have to take care of our own.” He spoke warmly to her, but his eyes were firmly on Zoya. ‘I'll drive you back to your hotel.” They had arranged to move in the following week, and on the way back, Evgenia began making a list of the furniture they would need. She was going to buy as little as she could, she and Zoya could make the curtains and the bedspreads, she was only planning to acquire the essentials.

“You know, with a pretty rug on the floor, it might make the room seem a little larger.” She spoke cheerfully and forced herself not to think of the treasured Aubussons in the pavilion behind the Fontanka Palace. “Don't you think, my love?”

“Hm? … Sorry, Grandmama?” She had been frowning and staring out the window as they drove down the Champs-Elysoes to the rue Marbeuf. She had been thinking of something far more important. Something they needed desperately. Something that would allow them to live decently again, perhaps not in a palace but in an apartment that was larger and more comfortable than a foul-smelling matchbox. She was anxious to get back to the hotel now and leave her grandmother to her lists and her plans, and her orders to Feodor to go in search of furniture and a pretty carpet.

They thanked Prince Markovsky again when he dropped them off, and Evgenia was startled when Zoya said that she was going out for a walk, but absolutely refused to let Feodor go with her.

“I'll be fine, Grandmama. I promise you. I won't go far. Just to the Champs-Élysées and back.”

“Do you want me to come with you, my dear?”

“No.” She smiled at the grandmother she so dearly loved, thinking of how much she owed her. “You rest for a little while. We'll have tea when I come back.”

“Are you sure you'll be all right?”

“Absolutely certain.”

Reluctantly, the Countess let her go, and walked slowly up the stairs, holding Feodor's arm. It was going to be good practice for the long hike up the stairs to the new apartment.

And as soon as Zoya left the hotel, she rounded a corner and hailed a taxi, praying that the driver would know where it was, and that when she got there, someone would know what she was speaking of. It was a wild, wild hope, but she knew she had to try it.

“The Châtelet, please,” she said imperiously as though she knew what she was talking about, and prayed silently that the man knew its location. And after an instant's hesitation, she saw that her prayers were answered. She hardly dared to breathe as the taxi sped her there, and she gave the driver a handsome tip, because he had found it, and because she felt guiltily relieved that he wasn't Russian. It was depressing somehow to see members of the families she had known driving taxis and talking mournfully about the family at Tsarskoe Selo.

She hurried inside, and looked around, thinking back to her threats to run away to the Maryinsky Theatre, and she found herself thinking of Marie and how stunned she would have been at this. It made Zoya smile as she looked for someone, anyone, who could answer her questions. She found a woman finally, in ballet tenue, practicing quietly at the barre, and Zoya guessed correctly that she was a teacher.

“I am looking for Mr. Diaghilev,” she announced, and the woman smiled.

“Are you now? Might I ask why?”

“I'm a dancer and I would like to audition for him.” She put all her cards on the table at once, and she had never looked younger or prettier or more frightened.

“I see. And has he ever heard of you?” It seemed rather a cruel question, and the woman didn't even bother to wait for an answer. “I see you haven't brought anything to dance in, mademoiselle. That's hardly an outfit in which to audition.” Zoya glanced down at her narrow navy blue serge skirt, her white sailor blouse, and the black leather street shoes she had worn every day during her last weeks at Tsarskoe Selo. She blushed furiously then and the woman smiled at her. She was so pretty and so young and so innocent. It seemed hard to believe that she would be much of a dancer.

“I'm sorry. Perhaps I could come back to see him tomorrow.” And then in a hushed whisper, “Is he here?”