Encore by Monique Raphel High

recognizing him, she closed her eyes again. Somebody fanned her. Then a female voice burst in excitedly: “Quick, get up, Natalia! The Tzarina is coming!”
    The next few minutes seemed like a collage of haphazard images to Natalia. The door swung on its hinges, and she saw the cold, clear features of the empress. Natalia sank down in a profound curtsy and did not rise until a thick hand tilted her chin upward. She gazed with consternation into the large face of Grand-Duke Vladimir. “So,” he remarked, as though he had been on speaking terms with her for many years, “the little flower wilts before we can see it.”
    â€œI am sorry, Your Excellency,” Natalia stammered.
    â€œPah! Sorrow is for the dead.” His jovial laugh surrounded her as a warm blanket.
    â€œYou were lovely, Natalia Dmitrievna,” the Tzarina said. “I wished to present you with this trinket in memory of today.” She handed the girl a small box decorated with her portrait in painted enamel. Natalia’s fingers shook as she received it, and she curtsied again, unable to utter a syllable. Then the door opened, other people entered, and the Tzarina and her husband’s uncle departed with Varvara Ivanovna. Natalia wished desperately to be alone, and in the tumult of voices in the room she slipped onto the floor, mingling with the legs of her well-wishers. She leaned her head against the post of the cot, and allowed the conversations to float above her. Nobody seemed to notice her there, and she felt better.
    Slowly the room began to empty, the din to recede. The door opened once more, and Natalia, her feet tucked unceremoniously beneath her tutu, saw the blond man whom she had encountered months before in the darkened corridor of the Mariinsky. “Count Boris,” she intoned with amazement. It was not a greeting but rather an exclamation of surprise. The people in the room turned to him with interest, some executing curtsies. She did not move, her entire body as heavy as stone.
    He bowed, his mocking smile for her alone. “I see you know my name,” he said.
    â€œI couldn’t help but know it.” The implication, impolite in the extreme, made him wince. She cleared her throat. “I should not have said that.”
    â€œNo, indeed. But you did, so why retract it? My own reputation is much tarnished these days, I’m afraid. Yours, however, is on the rise. My friend Svetlov finds you quite marvelous, Natalia Dmitrievna.”
    â€œMonsieur Svetlov has my profound gratitude.” She was still stunned and knew that her conversation, directed as it was from her position on the floor, contained an element of absurdity.
    â€œYour Aspitchia was a most intelligent young woman,” Boris commented. “But I prefer your funny little Sugar Plum Fairy. In that ballet you were quite remarkable. Perhaps, when you finish with this nunnery, you will accept an invitation to have supper with me. I should like to toast you properly with the best champagne.”
    â€œYou are most generous, Count Boris. But I am not to graduate for a long time.” She could not help smiling at the idea of drinking wine with this elegant man suggestive of scandal. She said impulsively: “Your rosebuds have brought me good luck. Thank you.”
    â€œAnd did you press them in your Bible?”
    â€œI don’t read the Bible,” she replied with some asperity. “But yes, I pressed them. I am not a sentimental fool—but I am a dancer, and they were a memento of my first serious performance. Even Satan’s wife would have found something to save from such an occasion!”
    In her confusion she had become angry, and he burst out laughing. “That is very good! Satan’s wife. I shall have to remember that one and tell it to my friends. But here, I have brought you something this time, too, although as a nun you won’t have much use for it, I’m afraid. But it was made