Nocturne(119)

As I watched a group of dancers make choreographed turns across the room from me, Aldo approached. He wore a black mask that bore a long nose. I hated those, but his tuxedo was far more elegant than the one he typically wore for shows.

“Good evening, Savannah,” he said, taking my gloved hand and bending over it, brushing it with his lips.

“Good evening, Al.” I couldn’t help but smile.

“You will dance with me,” he stated. I think he intended it as a question or an invitation, but his garbled English came out as an imperative.

I thought about it for just a moment and then said, “I’d be delighted.” Although I didn’t particularly want to make a fool of myself in front of the most advanced dancers in the world, I wasn’t a bad dancer. And not a single one of them was a world class musician. So I took Aldo’s hand and allowed him to lead me out to the floor.

I tried to ignore the undercurrents as we began to dance. Sergei Danshov, the ballet director, held court at one end of the hallway, surrounded by many of the younger and more aggressive dancers and cast members in a raucous circle.

At the opposite end of the room, Nikolai Timoshenko stood with his own smaller and slightly older group. Last year, when the previous director retired, probably due to the stress of all the politics and vicious infighting, Nikolai had been a candidate for ballet director. He lost out to Sergei after a struggle that I sometimes thought wasn’t over.

In between the two camps, the rest of us watched and enjoyed the spectacle of the evening. Of course, I’d spent much of my life around musicians, the symphony and opera. But the Bolshoi operated like no other outfit, and put on balls like nothing I’d ever seen. In the dead of the Russian winter, this was a night filled with exuberance.

Aldo spun me around in a circle as we danced, and I felt lightheaded from too much vodka and champagne. After my third twirl, I stopped in place at the sight of a man who had his back to me. Even among the sea of black tuxedos, I would recognize him anywhere.

Aldo stumbled and said, “Are you thriving?”

“Excuse me?”

He smiled and said, “Um ... are you well?”

Aldo had been studying his vocabulary, apparently. “I’m thriving,” I replied. “Excuse me.”

There was no question it was him. He didn’t see me yet, so I slowed my pace as I crossed the floor. And watched him.

He wore a simple tuxedo, and his shoulders were pulled back and tense. His head was moving fractionally back and forth, as if he were scanning the crowd. Gregory’s hair had grown enough to reveal a slight wave that I didn’t know existed. He bore a relaxed look I’d never seen before.

As I stood in what felt like the center of the room, but was far off to one side, he turned around. He was twenty feet from me, but from the emotion that passed between us, he might as well have been touching me. Unlike most of the men at the ball, he wore no mask. His eyes, startling blue in this light, arrested me.

And I froze.

Impervious to the ballerinas, their dates, and people who thought they ought to be ballerinas circling around me in vodka-sponsored jubilance, I fought to hang on to some sense of composure.

Gregory took a deep breath, his shoulders rising, then lifted his chin slightly and walked directly toward me. I was in a trance, afraid that if I looked away even for an instant he would disappear.

“Savannah.” He reached out a confident hand and ran the tips of his fingers along the jewels of my mask.

I nodded and then shook my head. Yes. No. Contradictory actions mirroring my emotions. “What … how … why?”

Slowly, his other hand came to the other side of my mask and with painful deliberation he lifted it until it rested on top of my head. He slid his hands down the sides of my face, stopping when he reached my jaw where he held them there. Held me there.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have shows this week?” I continued, as his eyes fell on my lips.

“There are no more shows for me. I resigned, Savannah.”

Of course. I knew that, but it still didn’t explain what he was doing here, holding my face. Or tracing my bottom lip with his thumb.

Snapping back to reality for a moment, I was again aware of the party surrounding us. I reached up to my face and grabbed his hand and led him out the nearest door, which spilled us out onto a narrow balcony. I barely noticed the icy wind that blew along the outside wall of the building. “You left? What the hell do you mean you left?”

“It was time for me to make some changes in my life.”

I stopped my unattractive pacing and held out my hands. “And the cello?”

“I have another cello ... one that isn’t so priceless that it becomes more valuable than the people in my life. I sold the Montagnana—”

“Auctioned it,” I cut him off, “and gave the money to the conservatory. For the new program you’re funding. I read the article in the Globe. You can’t leave the BSO, Gregory.”

He shrugged. “I’ve already left.”

“It makes no sense.” I was breathing faster, sending small white clouds of frozen breath into the space around us. A chill ran through me and I wrapped my arms around my body.

“It makes perfect sense, Savannah.” He shrugged off his tuxedo coat and wrapped it around my shoulders, leaving his hands on my upper arms. “I can play the cello anywhere.”