Danielle Steel - Zoya

“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.

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.