Danielle Steel - Zoya

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.

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.