Leninsky Prospekt. Katherine Bucknell
request to remove Prodigal Son from upcoming programmes. May we suppose he clings to this old-fashioned and narrow-minded religious narrative because it reveals something of personal importance about how he feels on returning to his own fatherland?’
Nina was struck by the suggestiveness of this question, but it was offered with numbing pomposity, and the agenda she recognized behind it warned her not to respond.
There was a silence.
At last, Kirstein, with a formal little bow of his head, a large, precise finger adjusting his eyeglasses, slowly said, ‘Fascinating question. I wouldn’t care to reply for Mr Balanchine. It’s a good ballet. Overly ingenious in places; deeply moving – the vulnerability of the son at the end, his shame finally covered by the father’s cloak. The father implacable. I’ve always felt pleased Mr Balanchine agreed to revive it. At one time he didn’t believe in reviving anything, only in moving forward. The past doesn’t appear to interest him; now is what interests him, now and what is still to come. The language of ballet is a breath, a memory, and soon looks out of fashion. There’s Prokofiev’s music, of course – a Russian who did return.’
This produced another silence. Nina bit her lip, sensing that Kirstein meant them all to reflect on Prokofiev’s artistic dehydration, his death, exhausted by official disapproval, on the exact same day as Stalin’s.
Kirstein added under his breath, almost as if turning it over in his mind, ‘One would have thought music and dance less susceptible to state control than literature, but perhaps not.’
Wentz, with uncharacteristic nervousness, ventured, ‘You’re a poet, aren’t you, sir?’
‘Not an important one,’ growled Kirstein, dismissing himself, ‘but I admire poetry. If I could read Russian, I’d like to read Mandelstam, Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva, Pasternak, Derzhavin – do you recommend others?’
Nina felt moisture springing on her forehead, underneath her arms; she tried desperately to concentrate on what should come next in such a conversation. Who else belonged on this list? But none of the group seemed to find Kirstein’s remarks at all normal. Nobody answered him.
The critic gave a weird half smile, then said caustically, as if nobody had mentioned poetry at all, ‘The ballet seems to have a story, at least.’
Wentz burst out noisily, ‘Spectacular jumps, too, doesn’t it? That’s what I’ve heard.’
They all laughed with relief.
Kirstein indulged Wentz’s boyish enthusiasm. ‘Yes, in the beginning there are a few.’
The critic, sly-eyed, avoiding Nina’s gaze, remarked to Wentz under his breath, ‘Wait until you see the pas de deux with the Siren. Licensed carnality, staggering.’
Wentz winked at Nina. ‘So who’s the Siren? Is she here tonight?’ he asked and looked around optimistically.
Following his eyes, Nina caught sight of all their vivacious backs moving and trembling in the huge gilded mirror on the wall behind Wentz. For a moment, she watched their sparring, their sniffing, their strained mutual effort to please and be pleased, and then she saw that the mirror also reflected another mirror hanging on the wall immediately behind her. Their little group was endlessly repeated in smaller and smaller panes of glass as if through a crystal tunnel or a kaleidoscope. She could even see the entrance to the state dining room behind her to her left; if he looked, Wentz could probably see the entrance to the grand salon from the front hall, behind him and around the corner to his right.
It’s like a dance studio, Nina thought, perfect for watching and being watched. Two dancers loped past behind her, a man and a woman, like upright gazelles, exotic in colourful party clothes, their long hair decorative as plumes, their bodies musical, moody. They were talking excitedly, full of the brilliance of opening night. Nina studied the back of her own dress, its wide straps interlacing as a bow between her shoulder blades, emerald green in the underbrush of dark suits and drab Soviet evening wear; she opened her shoulders a little, loosened her arms, faced the critic, faced Kirstein, as they finally ceased to shake with willed pseudo-mirth.
Then she nervily started in, ‘Balanchine’s father died years ago, didn’t he? He must feel a little guilty about that. Or sad anyway.’
She felt eyes lock onto her, and went on defiantly, ‘After all, he never had a chance to say goodbye, did he? That leaves a wound that never really heals. But if he included Prodigal Son as a gesture to his fatherland – well, it’s only an act of courtesy. He doesn’t mean to apologize for anything he’s done. You can tell that simply by watching the way he walks. In his own life story, it’s the father who is ruined anyway, not the son. And it’s not as if he plans to stay here, is it? It would be sheer sentimentality to imagine otherwise.’ Her voice was clear, ringing, steady.
There was another silence before the critic remarked appraisingly, ‘You are a psychologist, Mrs Davenport.’
Nina decided to accept this as a compliment despite feeling it was not intended to be one. ‘Thank you,’ she smiled.
‘As a young dancer, at the Maryinsky, Mr Balanchine enrolled at the Conservatory of Music just across the street from the theatre. So he studied piano and composing, too,’ said Kirstein, catching each of their eyes by turn and smoothly shifting the direction of the conversation, just as if he were a conductor bringing in the first violins, then the seconds, with a new, more predictable, more soothing theme. ‘What really intrigues him is the music,’ Kirstein continued, ‘that’s what Mr Balanchine’s trying to express.’
But Wentz bounded along in yet another direction. ‘Speaking of music, I guess you all know that Stravinsky is in Russia now, too? Chairman Khrushchev will receive him later this week to congratulate him on his eightieth birthday.’
And then Wentz abruptly reached between Nina and the critic, grabbing another grey-suited American, pulling him with his companions into their circle. ‘Tom, say hello. I’ve just been telling our friends that Stravinsky is here this week, too. It’s an incredible time for our two nations. Friendly, exciting. Don’t you think?’
Nina was smiling so hard that her cheeks were starting to ache, and she nodded and smiled some more as they were all now once again introduced.
Tom Phipps had arrived not long before the Davenports to help prepare for the September visit of the US Secretary of Agriculture. He was still here, working alongside the young assistant agricultural attaché at the embassy, Rodney Carlson. Carlson was dark, floppy-haired, skinny, and wore eyeglasses with frames so black and heavy that they threw his eyes into shadow.
With Phipps and Carlson was an upright, red-haired Russian, grey at the temples, balding, Colonel Oleg Penkovsky. Penkovsky said in good enough English that he was a member of the State Committee for the Coordination of Scientific Research Work.
The greetings were formal, superficial; Nina’s eyes drifted to the mirror again, and she had the half-conscious sense that someone else’s eyes flickered away. She scanned the reflected crowd, and for a moment she couldn’t help but see herself as the centre of something, her green dress washed like a bit of seaweed or like a splinter of bright broken glass by the rolling surge of partygoers. Her little circle seemed to spread and mingle indistinguishably with the next circle as a body leaned this way or that, talking, listening, in an endless shifting chain of energy, social appetite, interconnections all around the room. Then her eyes did meet someone else’s, pale, rimless, in a fleshy blur of face. She turned around, summoning a smile out of courtesy, but still she saw only broad backs behind her.
It made her feel wobbly, hot, once again desperate to sit down. And as she swayed a little on her stiletto heels, she noticed John all the way across the room, looking straight at her from his height, like a beacon, familiar, unobscured. She couldn’t read his expression, he was too far away. Nevertheless, she felt reassured, as if he had telegraphed encouragement, concern. He’s the one who’s entitled to have an eye on me, she thought.
John pressed towards her through the shifting, roaring rooms thinking, Nina’s in the thick of