The Ice Swan by J’nell Ciesielski

If she kept her eyes focused on the empty space above the audience’s head, Svetlana might ease herself of the abject humiliation. Around the dance floor she spun. And chasséd. And balloned. A ballet of degradation. One she had been performing for nearly three weeks. What started as a single dance to repay that blighted count quickly turned into another night’s dance for an unpaid champagne tab. The next night, a caviar tab. On and on they went until Svetlana was dizzy from the amount Mama owed. Sheremetev, ever the businessman, offered a dance for a bill, and so she danced nearly every night in hopes of clearing their debt.

The music ended and Svetlana swept behind the curtain to the crowd’s thunderous applause. Her cheeks burned, even more so as she walked the gauntlet of waiters lounging in the corridor. Cigarette smoke filled the tiny space as coarse laughter and suggestive gestures followed her into the dressing room. It had been erected in her honor after one week. Sheremetev had hopes of his own.

Mama lounged on a velvet settee in a gown of fresh silk and fringe, giving an outstanding performance of not looking in debt. “Did they enjoy your performance?”

“They’re too sotted to notice otherwise. I could have slumped in a chair and they would have cheered.” Svetlana sat at the vanity illuminated by those fancy new bulbs a Mr. Edison had created. She preferred the soft glow of candles. They were never harsh enough to point out the dark circles under her eyes.

“But you didn’t. You danced. Never something I really approved of, that was more for your father. He loved to watch you.”

“I’m glad he’s not here to see me. He’d be ashamed of what we’ve come to.”

Mama had the grace to look momentarily curtailed. Watching her in the mirror’s reflection, Svetlana spotted a platter and crystal cut glass. She spun around on the low stool.

“What is that?”

“This?” Mama pointed to the platter and shrugged. “A bite to eat. I get famished waiting for you back here after you banned me from sitting out front. The waiters are thoughtful to bring it for me.”

No doubt they were, adding to the expense of yet another bill. Another dance. “I am trying to pay off our debt. How can I make any progress to that end when you continue to partake?”

“This isn’t only for me. I’ve informed the waiters that what isn’t consumed is to be boxed up so I may take it back for Marina. Those priests give us so little sustenance it’s no wonder her clothes are hanging off her.” Sighing, Mama swung her buckle-shoed feet off the settee. “If you find this dancing as distasteful as you make it sound, then sell a bracelet or two and pay the balance off. Be done with it.”

“We only brought so many jewels with us from Russia. Several of which we’ve already sold for money, and the money, too, is dwindling. We must conserve our resources for food and shelter until Papa and Nikolai come.” The war would be over someday. It had to be, and they would know what to do. She wouldn’t have to shoulder the burden alone any longer.

“Then I see no recourse but for you to keep dancing until this distasteful business is behind us.”

All of Svetlana’s patience kept in relentless check, all acceptance of her mother’s selfishly unalterable behaviors boiled over. “You are unbelievable! Will you never accept responsibility for our predicament? If you had shown restraint in your vices, I would not be forced to sell my dancing like some painted bawd on a stage for drunken voyeurs as payment of your debt.”

Mama reared back as if the words had slapped her. “How dare you take that tone with me? I am your mother and a princess from one of the highest houses in all of Russia. How do you expect me to live as less than I am? I know no other way to live.”

Svetlana saw her mother truly then. Not as a selfish creature but a creature of circumstance. Unquestionable privilege had molded her for nearly five decades to place her own desires first, with every need being met before she asked. It was a life Svetlana was well acquainted with, yet a revolution had forced her to alter her outlook. Perhaps it was the advantage of youth where the grasp of changeability was more mobile. Advancing years tightened its grip on the unchanging past.

Knock. Knock.

Svetlana averted her glare from her mother and took a fortifying breath. “Enter.”

The door opened and Sheremetev pushed in belly first. “What are these raised voices?”

Mama was off the settee in a flash and gripping Svetlana’s shoulders. “We were merely talking costumes and how I think this one could use gemstones to make it come alive.”

Svetlana neatly shrugged her off with the appearance of adjusting the shoulder flounces of her dress. “I think gemstones would be hypocritical as this is traditional peasant garb.”

“How fortunate I should come by at this time for I have just the thing.” Sheremetev snapped his fingers, creating more of a thick meaty sound than a crisp snap. “Leonid!”

Leonid bustled into the dressing room holding a black box. He placed it on the vanity counter in front of Svetlana. “For you, Angel.”

With apprehension, Svetlana untied the white ribbon and lifted the lid. Nestled within tissue paper was a ballerina costume of white gossamer tulle, feathers, and pearls.

Sheremetev moved closer, eyes glowing as he gazed at the delicate piece. “I had it created based on Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. You will be my Odette. Perfect. Innocent. And beautiful above all others.”

Svetlana’s stomach roiled at the thought of being that man’s anything. She gently pushed the box to the edge of the vanity. “Once more, you are too generous. I cannot accept this gift and am sorry for the effort you went to since I will not be dancing for much longer.”

The glow in his eyes flickered like a shadow crossing the moon. “As you say. At least will you not try it on?” Sheremetev’s gaze slid to Mama, then back to her. “While we are waiting, Leonid, go to my office and fetch my accounts ledger.”

Leonid hesitated, knowing as well as Svetlana it was a threat to force her to do his bidding. Powerful men loved nothing more than dangling their power for all to see. Svetlana was no fool. While every fiber of her being protested, she obediently slipped behind the privacy screen and wriggled into the costume. It fit like a glove. She stepped out to a collective gasp.

Sheremetev beamed like a proud owner. “Prekrasnaya.”

“Da, beautiful, Angel,” said Leonid.

Tears filled Mama’s eyes as she clasped her hands together. “You remind me of the night you first stepped out into society. Dripping in white and pearls for innocence. It was the night you captured Sergey’s heart for good.”

“Angel, are betrothed you?” Leonid’s anxious face reflected in the mirror.

“No. Sergey is a dear friend.” Svetlana smoothed a feather as memories tumbled one over another. Sergey’s face wreathed in fire. The train station. The Reds dragging him back. “He was taken by the Bolsheviks as we escaped Petrograd. He promised to meet us here in Paris.”

“And so he will,” Mama said as she dabbed at a stray tear.

“Leonid, take Princess Ana to my table for a glass of sherry. On the house. It will comfort your spirits.” Before a protest could be offered, Sheremetev ushered Leonid and Mama from the room, then offered his arm to Svetlana. “Come with me.”

“I should change.”

“The costume maker informed me you’ll need to walk in it to ensure all the stitches and boning are correct. I do not understand her meaning, but I assume it is all important to the comfort of its wearer.” He adjusted his dinner jacket. The cheque book flashed from where it rested in his inner pocket. It taunted her with power, manipulating her into obedience. She hated it.

He guided her down the hall. This time the waiters cast their eyes down in respectful deference. On the other side of the curtain, a woman sang a sad love song. A catalyst, she’d learned, for the ordering of more vodka. There was only one thing Russians loved more than sadness and that was vodka to drown said sorrows in.

“The band is playing Tchaikovsky next. In honor of you.”

“I have danced already this evening.”

“Please, one more. The costume is already on.” He motioned for her to turn around. When she did so, he slipped a mask over her eyes and tied the ribbons behind her head, then gently pushed her in front of the mirror hung for performers to check their appearance before taking the stage.

Svetlana’s fingers curled into her feathered skirt as anger poured molten through her veins. It was a delicate mask made of stiffened Venetian black lace. Black diamonds studded the winged tips.

“They will come from all over Paris to see the Russian swan dance on my stage.” His face hovered in the mirror over her shoulder. “You will dazzle them.”

“I danced on the stages of Petersburg, not before drunken ex-aristocrats.”

“Think of it as staying in practice. For when I introduce you to Sergei Diaghilev and his Ballets Russes, the epitome of Russian culture here in Paris.”

A gasp sprang to her lips. The impresario Diaghilev was known for his groundbreaking artistry and collaboration with masters in choreography, composition, and dance. To dance for the Ballets Russes was to achieve the highest honor for a Russian artist outside of their homeland. Perhaps if she were to gain the approval of Diaghilev she could earn a wage to repay the debt owed Sheremetev and no longer rely on their dwindling jewels for basic survival.

“If I dance tonight, you will introduce me to Diaghilev tomorrow.”

“I see this delights you. Proper introductions will be made at the earliest convenience.” The corners of Sheremetev’s mouth turned up, dimples in the dough. He turned to leave. “I’ll inform the band you’re on next.”

The stage spotlight bled through the curtain, washing Svetlana in muted red as she waited. No more being coerced into dancing for others. After tonight she would secure a respectable way to settle their account at the White Bear and be done with the horrid place for good. One more dance. That was all.

A woman sat on a stool a few feet away, neatly tucked between a stack of chairs and crates of wine. Cigarette smoke curled from her lip. Her slouched posture and brightly rouged cheeks looked familiar.

“Hello again, Duchess. I see land on feet.” The working woman she’d met on the street. From the looks of things, work had not been kind of late.

“Tatya, was it? A surprise to see you here.”

“Not surprise when this where all Russians come for good time.”

Svetlana searched for something appropriate to say, but what did one say to a girl of her station? How does the night fare?

“I don’t believe the guests are allowed backstage. You’ll enjoy the show more from the tables.”

“I no guest.”

“You work here?”

“Da. He ready in minute.” Tatya took a drag of her cigarette and sank farther into the smoke. “You?”

Svetlana shook her head. Never did she wish to claim working here. “I’m doing a favor for Mr. Sheremetev.”

Tatya barked with laughter that stuttered into a cough. “We all favors for Mr. Sheremetev. You prettiest yet.”

One of the locked doors along the hallway opened and a jacketless man with the front of his shirt unbuttoned motioned at Tatya. The woman jumped off the stool and ground her cigarette under her heel. She sauntered by Svetlana, tweaking one of her feathers.

“Showtime, Duchess.”

*  *  *

“Is it done?” Marina asked sleepily from her pallet on the cold floor as Svetlana and Mama slipped into their makeshift quarters.

Svetlana groped for their single candle and a match. A tiny light sprang to life, producing a halo of orange that didn’t quite reach the entirety of the space. “Nearly, kotyonok.”

Marina yawned and stretched, mimicking her nickname of little kitten. “I’ll be glad when you don’t go there anymore. It’s lonely without you.”

Guilt swelled in Svetlana’s chest. There was only one way to alleviate it, but it came at the price of her pride. One look at her little sister’s pale face and she moved past her spat with Mama. Svetlana would paint herself and twirl like a bawd as many times as it took to remove her sister from this place.

“You should have seen her tonight. Dressed like a swan in pearls and feathers. I’ve never heard such rapturous applause.” Mama shimmied out of her gown and placed it in the trunk with all the others. “She has an introduction to Monsieur Diaghilev of the Ballets Russes. Think of the prestige of performing on a Parisian stage.”

Svetlana slipped her aching feet out of her shoes and rubbed the dull ache in her shin. She tried forgetting about the earlier spat for Marina’s sake, but Mama gave a valiant effort for resurrecting it.

“Your tune about my dancing is oddly different than a few hours ago.”

“Think of those attending Ballets Russes. Nobility, gentlemen and ladies. Diamonds and evening gloves. One step closer to the world in which we belong.”

“I’m sure it will be wonderful, Mama.” Marina met Svetlana’s eye. She had learned the patience of placating their mother long before Svetlana could even attempt it. “Only because Svetka’s grace will outshine them all.” She coughed and fell back on her pillow.

“That doesn’t sound good.” Svetlana knelt beside her and touched a hand to her sister’s brow. “You’re warm.”

“No, it’s cold in here. The nights are turning cooler, and this floor is like an ice block come morning.”

Taking the blanket from her own pallet and a fur-lined cloak of Sheremetev’s offering, Svetlana stuffed it under her sister. It wasn’t much, but it might muffle out some of the chill. “Try to sleep. In the morning we’ll help Mrs. Varjenksy make a large batch of hot soup.”

“You’re a terrible cook.”

“I can stir, can’t I?”

“Only when you remember to and half the potatoes are already stuck to the bottom of the pot.”

Svetlana pulled the thin blanket up to Marina’s chin, cutting off further remarks on her lack of culinary skills. “Good night.”

A few hours later, when the sun was no more than a lingering consideration on the gray horizon, Svetlana awoke to a violent shuddering. She rolled over to find Marina shaking next to her. Drenched in sweat, her entire body convulsed hard enough to rattle her teeth.

“Marina! Wake up.” Svetlana shook her sister. A shocking heat scorched through her nightdress. “Wake up.”

Marina’s eyes barely fluttered as a wheeze escaped her throat.

“Mama!” Svetlana flung the wet blanket off her sister and quickly covered her with her own dry one. “Marina is burning up. Get Mrs. Varjensky.”

Mama flew out of their quarters and was back in a matter of seconds with a groggy Mrs. Varjensky in tow. The old woman took in the situation in a glance and knelt beside Marina. She touched the girl’s forehead, throat, arms, and opened her eyelids to reveal a solid white.

Mrs. Varjensky’s face wrinkled. “Herbs no help this. Need something more.”

Panic bolted through every inch of Svetlana. The old woman was a wise healer. If she couldn’t help . . . Svetlana jumped to her feet and pulled her clothes on, her decision immediate. “I know precisely the person.”