A Company of Swans

  The car arrived. Furo got out and held open the door and Harriet turned to Rom. ‘Could you be so kind as to remember that I love you absolutely?’ she said quietly, almost matter-of-factly. ‘Could you be so kind as to remember that?’

  He bent down then to kiss not her mouth, but her fingers, holding them in a strangely formal gesture to his lips.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I could remember that. Were I to forget it, Harriet, it would go very ill with me.’

  Long after the car was out of sight and he had returned to the house, his Indians still stood on the steps, waving and waving and waving . . .

  The theatre was dark and silent, the seats already shrouded. It would be a month before another company made its way to Manaus – a Cossack choir from Georgia.

  Would they be the last? Harriet wondered, picking her way across the deserted stage. Was Rom right and would this marvellous and fantastical theatre be given over to the mice? Would bats hang from the chandeliers and moths devour the silken hangings? But if it was so – if Mrs Lehmann’s carriage horses had drunk their last champagne and the grandly dressed audience would no longer sweep across the great mosaic square – it had still been a splendid and worthwhile dream to build a theatre here in this place . . . and one day, surely, it would open its doors again, music would stream from the pit and men, perhaps still unborn, would wait with bated breath for the gold glimmer of the footlights that meant curtain rise.

  Down in the wardrobe she found a lone stage-hand, who at first greeted her with respect, not recognising in the elegantly dressed girl the little dancer in her shabby clothes – and then as she smiled, he asked her to sit on the last of the skips so that he could close it, as he had asked her to do three months ago in the Century Theatre when the adventure began.

  Then she went back to the stage-door, where Furo was waiting and was driven to the Metropole, where she went, first of all, to say goodbye to Simonova.

  During the fortnight since Harriet had last seen her, Simonova’s thinness had become spectacular: now she lay like a death’s head on the single pillow. Dubrov for once was absent, supervising the loading of the scenery.

  ‘So,’ said the ballerina as Harriet approached and curtseyed. ‘You are happy. One can see that.’

  ‘Yes, Madame. Extremely happy. But I wish that you—’

  ‘Oh, never mind, never mind,’ said Simonova irritably. ‘Let them clap Masha Repin. Myself, I will be thankful if I can even walk again.’

  ‘But you will, you will! Professor Leblanc is the greatest specialist in the world.’

  ‘Ach, specialists, what do they know? I believe nothing.’ She turned her head restlessly on the pillow and pierced Harriet with her eyes. ‘It will not last, this love of yours, you know that?’

  ‘Yes, I know. At least, it will for me but not for him. He is going back to the place in England where he was born and there is a woman there who . . .’ But this did not seem to be a sentence that one finished.

  ‘Yes, yes. It is always so. Dancers, singers . . . we are for pleasure, but it is others who become the châtelaines of great estates. So you must see that you get some jewels and you must work and work. Remember what Grisha always tells you about your shoulders – the left one in particular.’

  ‘Yes, Madame, I will. And I will never forget your Odette – or your Giselle – not if I live for a hundred years. Never, never will I forget them.’

  ‘And my Lise?’ came Simonova’s sharp voice from the bed. ‘My Lise in Fille – what was wrong with my Lise?’

  ‘Your Lise too.’ Harriet was close to tears. ‘To have been in your company even for such a short time has been the greatest privilege in the world.’

  ‘You are a good girl. Now I must rest for the journey, but first . . .’ She seemed to be coming to some decision, a frown etching deep lines into the worn forehead. ‘Yes, I will do it. Go over there to that blue suitcase.’

  Harriet stepped round the stretcher lying ready to convey Madame to the boat and found the case.

  ‘Lift the lid. There is a pair of ballet shoes on top – my last pair. The pair I wore when I had my accident. Take them out and bring them here to me.’

  Harriet did so and Simonova seized them in her bony hands, stroked the pink silk with one long finger as a mother traces the features of an infant in her arms. ‘See,’ she said tenderly, ‘they are hardly worn; I fell so soon. They should go to a museum perhaps – the last shoes of Galina Simonova – but who goes to museums? Take them. They are for you.’

  Harriet, unashamedly crying now, shook her head. ‘No, Madame, I can’t! There must be someone who . . . matters more.’

  ‘Masha Repin, perhaps,’ sneered the ballerina. ‘Or that pretty friend of yours who thinks only of restaurants. Take them. Take them quickly. And now go!’

  It was a very long time before the three friends slept that night. Marie-Claude had a great deal to tell them, for Vincent had secured his auberge and she was to be married in December. ‘And it’s because of you, ’arriette. You made it possible for Vincent to give the deposit and never, never will I forget what you have done.’

  As they talked sleepily in their beds it seemed that Kirstin, too, might soon hang up her dancing shoes, for there was a young man in a village on the Baltic not far from the town were she had been born – a childhood friend who for a long time had been willing to be something more. His father owned a fleet of trawlers which Leif would inherit and he had never been to the ballet in his life, which to Kirstin was very much in his favour. ‘I don’t know,’ she said now. ‘It may not work out, but I think I will go back and see. It’s such a pretty place – the red wooden houses, and the water . . .’

  ‘So you see, it is you who must be a great dancer, ’arriette,’ said Marie-Claude, ‘so that we can bring our children to see you and tell them that with this divine prima ballerina assoluta we once shared a horrible room full of cockroaches in the city of Manaus.’ She sighed, seeing Harriet’s face. ‘But of course it is this man you want for always – and no wonder,’ she said, motioning to a froth of pale green muslin on the chair: the dress she had bought at Verney’s insistence when shopping for Harriet.

  ‘Perhaps this earl’s grand-daughter to whom he goes in England no longer loves him?’ suggested Kirstin. ‘Perhaps she has met someone else?’

  ‘And then when he has recovered from his broken heart, he can put you into a villa in some suitable district with your own carriage. In Paris it would be somewhere near the Bois . . . or in St Cloud, perhaps, but in London I don’t know . . .’

  ‘St John’s Wood, I think,’ said Harriet, recalling the novels she had dipped into while doing her homework in the public library. ‘Somewhere near the Regent’s Park Canal. A Gothic villa with a wisteria in the garden.’ Her eyes grew bright at the thought that she might after all have a future as a kept woman, awaiting Rom’s visits twice a week in a violet tea-gown. No, that was greedy. Once a week. Once a fortnight, because the trains were dreadful from Stavely and the roads even worse. It was ridiculous of course. Isobel would not have met someone else – no one who had ever loved Rom could possibly stop – and a man married to a woman as beautiful as Isobel would scarcely trouble to travel to London to visit his mistress in St John’s Wood. Moreover, Rom, once he married, would be faithful, Harriet was sure of that. But the daydream had done her good and trying to work out how many days she would see him if he came every other week for, say, five years . . . wondering if that was what the pomegranate seeds had meant. . . she fell asleep.

  In the morning there was an unexpected development. Grisha and some of the Russian girls, going down before breakfast to meet the Bernadetto as she docked, returned to say that Olga had not been aboard, nor had the crew any idea of her whereabouts.

  ‘It is extremely strange,’ said Grisha, returning to the Metropole dining-room where the rest of the company sat at breakfast. He turned to Harriet. ‘Monsieur Verney sent some men to fetch her from the Gregory, I think?’

  ??
?Yes, he did,’ said Harriet, and beamed at the ballet master because he had pronounced Rom’s name. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  Grisha shrugged. ‘I suppose she has decided to wait for us in Belem,’ he said, and instructed Tatiana to pack Olga’s things and see that they were put on board.

  The rest of the day passed in a bustle of last-minute shopping, packing, promises and plans. Harriet bought farewell presents for her friends: a deceptively demure nightgown for Marie-Claude and a blouse for Kirstin. She also bought a record of ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ for the Indians and found for Rom, in a dusty shop full of maps and oleographs, a book with pictures of the tapestry of ‘The Lady and the Unicorn’ – a wonderful stroke of luck, for above the golden-haired virgin and her obedient beast were embroidered the words: Mon seul désir – and these were the words which Rom had whispered to her two nights ago as she lay in his arms.

  By the time she returned with her purchases, the preparations for Simonova’s removal were already under way. Two orderlies were coming from the hospital to lift her on to the stretcher and carry her to the ambulance; a nurse had just arrived and was sterilising her instruments in the kitchens prior to giving the ballerina the pain-killing injection which would enable her to endure the unavoidable jolting as they drove to the quay.

  Under these circumstances Harriet would not have attempted to seek out Dubrov, to whom she had not yet said goodbye, but as she made her way across the hall she was waylaid by the harassed stage manager. ‘If you’re going past his door, could you give this to the boss? It’s just arrived at the theatre, sent on by the London office, and looks as though it might be important,’ he said, handing Harriet a letter with a Russian stamp and a massive and elaborate seal.

  Dubrov was not in his own room, but Harriet’s quiet knock brought him at once to Simonova’s door.

  ‘I came to bring this letter, Monsieur, it’s just arrived. And to say goodbye – and thank you.’

  He put up a hand to pat her cheek. ‘There’s no need to thank me. You have worked hard and could have been—’ He paused, the blue eyes suddenly sharp, took the letter and quickly broke the seal. ‘Wait!’ he threw over his shoulder at Harriet, and carried the heavy embossed paper over to the window.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ came Simonova’s fretful voice from the bed.

  Dubrov, however, was unable to answer. It was necessary for him to mop his eyes with his handkerchief several times before he could trust his voice. Then: ‘It is from St Petersburg,’ he said. ‘From the Maryinsky.’ Another sniff, another dab at his watering eyes . . . ‘From the director, the man who dismissed you.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He asks . . . he invites you . . . to dance at a gala for the Romanov Tercentenary! To dance Giselle before the Tsar!’ Dubrov abandoned the effort to check his tears, which now ran unhampered down his cheeks. ‘The honour! The incredible honour! Now, at the end of your career! We will keep it always, this letter. We will frame it in gold and hang it on the wall and when we sit in our armchairs in Cremorra—’

  ‘Armchairs? Cremorra?’ Simonova’s voice pierced like a gimlet. ‘What are you talking about? Give the letter to me!’ And to Harriet, tactfully edging her way out of the door: ‘You will remain!’

  The letter which caused Dubrov to weep, overcome by pride and the tragedy of its timing, had an entirely different effect on Simonova.

  ‘Let me see,’ she murmured in a businesslike manner. ‘March the fifteenth . . . Nine months. Ha! Only two other ballerinas are invited – that will teach Pavlova to desert her native land. Think of it – all Russia will be en fête for the Tercentenary! The Grand Duke Andrei asked for me specially – he remembered!’

  ‘Ah, dousha, the honour! The distinction of having been asked!’ Dubrov was still awash with emotion. ‘We shall never forget that you were invited . . . that you could have—’

  ‘What do you mean, could have? Why are you always so pessimistic? Just because I have wrenched my back a little – I have done it a hundred times – and I have told you already that I will not mulch! Now let me see, we will go to Paris, yes, but not to that idiot specialist – to buy clothes! There will be a reception at the Winter Palace without a doubt and several balls. Then straight on to Petersburg to work with Gerdt. No performances, just work, work, work!’

  ‘Galina, I beg of you, be reasonable.’ Dubrov was aghast at this new turn of events. ‘You are severely injured. The doctors—’

  ‘The doctors? Do you think I care about the doctors?’ This woman who had not lifted her head from the pillow since her fall had now propped herself up on her elbow and was – incredibly – sitting up! ‘Send Grisha to me at once, and the masseuse. Chort! I’m as weak as a kitten and no wonder, lying here for two weeks. After Gerdt I shall work with Cecchetti on my port de bras, and if he’s with Diaghilev he must leave him and come to me.’ She had pushed back the sheet, put her long, pale legs to the ground. ‘Ah, to see Masha Repin’s face when she hears of this!’

  ‘Your back!’ cried Dubrov in desperation, rushing forward, for she was pulling herself up on the arms of the chair, was actually standing!

  ‘We will no longer discuss my back,’ said Simonova regally. Still needing the support of the chair she showed, however, no signs of serious discomfort. ‘For heaven’s sake, stop fussing, Sasha, and take that stupid stretcher away. How the devil am I supposed to move with it lying there? Now listen, you must immediately send a cable to the Maryinsky to say we accept. And then come back here quickly, because I have had a new idea about the Mad Scene. You know where I bourrée forward and pretend to pick up the flower? Well, I think it would be better if—’ She broke off, her charcoal eyes now focused on Harriet. ‘Ha!’ she said. ‘Those shoes I gave you yesterday – there is a lot of wear in them still and they are perfectly broken in. Go and get them, please. At once!’

  It had already been dark for some time when Harriet made her way quietly up the avenue of jacaranda trees towards the house.

  Saying goodbye to her friends had been hard, but she was home and had been really brave living without Rom for nearly two whole days, but now needed to be brave no longer. For as she walked past the acacia with the flycatcher’s nest which Rom had shown her on that first day, crossed the bridge over the igarape, she felt not only the intense joy of the coming reunion but for the first time some confidence in the future. Rom had been so certain that he did not want her to return with the Company, and there had been no further talk of Stavely. There were probably weeks still to be with him, even months – and perhaps the journey back to England. Surely one did not say, ‘Mon seul désir’ in quite that way to a person one intended to part from soon.

  What’s more, she had saved at least two extra hours to be with him. Dubrov had insisted on getting the Company aboard early to avoid Simonova exciting herself any further and – coming off the ship after her farewells – Harriet found herself hailed by the Raimondo brothers aboard their rackety launch and offered a lift to São Gabriel. She knew the brothers, knew the speed of the Santa Domingo. It had taken her only a few minutes to scribble a note to Furo, due to meet her at the Casa Branca at eight, and despatch it by a seraphic-looking urchin. Then she had been aboard.

  She was approaching the first of the terraces. Light streamed from the downstairs windows of the house and from one window which she had not seen lit up before. Moving quietly, but hurrying now – already in her imagination stretching out her hands to Rom – she began to climb the steps.

  Something was standing by the balustrade: a small white shape half-hidden by a stone urn filled with tobacco flowers. Not one of Rom’s tame creatures . . . A little wraith? A ghost?

  Then the wraith gave a squeak of purest joy and ran down the steps into her arms.

  ‘Henry! Oh, Henry – I don’t believe it!’

  ‘It’s honestly me, though!’

  They clung to each other, as overjoyed to be together as if they had been lifelong companions instead of having met once in an English ga
rden.

  ‘I knew you would come before I went to sleep; I just knew,’ said Henry, his arms tightening around her neck. ‘I wanted to see you so much!’

  ‘And I you, Henry!’ She had been right to love him; there was nothing else to do with this child. ‘Only how did you get here? I had no idea—’ They had moved a little, so that the light of the terrace lantern was on his face. ‘Are you all right, Henry?’ she asked, startled. ‘You haven’t been ill?’

  ‘I had the measles, but I’m all right now. We came this morning and a nice man called Miguel brought us here in a little boat and I saw an alligator right close to, truly I did, and everything is absolutely marvellous, Harriet, and it’s all because of you.’

  ‘Why me, Henry?’ She drank in his soapy smell, put a hand on his ruffled hair. Soon it would come, the next bit, but she had a few moments still to relish his presence and his happiness.

  ‘Because you found him – the “secret boy” – you told him about us and that we needed him. He knew all about Stavely and it was because of you, he told me. And Harriet, he’s bought it – bought Stavely, did you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can do that,’ explained Henry. ‘You can buy places without being there. You send a cable and it goes snaking out along a tube at the bottom of the sea – and then the bank gives people money and you buy their houses. He did it just as soon as you told him about us, and it’s because of you that someone else didn’t buy it first. I told Mummy you’d find him; I told her!’

  ‘She’s here then, your mother?’ asked Harriet, noting her own idiocy. Where else would she be, the mother of such a child? The pain was beginning now – not unendurable yet . . . just mustering.

  ‘Yes! And she’s so happy! She hasn’t been cross all day – well, only when I asked Uncle Rom a lot of questions, but he said I had a refreshing mind.’ Henry paused and beamed up at her. The discovery that he had a refreshing mind had set the seal on this joyous and successful day. ‘He’s so nice, isn’t he – Uncle Rom? He’s just right for a “secret boy”, even though he’s grownup. I thought uncles might be . . . well, you know, uncles . . . but he isn’t. He showed me the manatees and some poisoned arrows he got from an Indian and the coati took a nut from my hand.’ His attention caught by something in her expression, he said anxiously, ‘You do like him too, don’t you, Harriet?’