Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(69)
Poppy was right, Dimitri thought as he escorted her into Carnegie Hall. There was a grandeur to the concert hall reminiscent of those in Europe. The exterior had a striking Italian Renaissance-style fa?ade of terracotta brick, while the inside was a feast of color. He wore his finest evening attire, complete with white tie and a black cutaway jacket. He proudly wore his red Buryat sash instead of a cummerbund.
“That’s the mayor of New York,” Poppy whispered as he escorted her up the stairs to a private box on the second tier of the auditorium. “He hosted Maxim Tachenko at his home last week. It was scandalous, because everyone thinks the mayor’s wife is infatuated with Tachenko.”
She continued chattering about the exalted guests she spotted as they entered the Blackstone private box overlooking the auditorium. They had it to themselves because Oscar had stayed late at the bank and Natalia had sent a message that she could not come. Poppy arranged herself close to the banister to have a perfect view of the crowd below.
“This box is the best place to see and be seen anywhere in the city,” she assured him as she scanned the audience below, where diamonds gleamed among the silk and satin. On the opposite side of the auditorium, a pair of matrons gawked at them while exchanging confidences behind their fans. Others on the main floor craned their necks to look up at them.
“Your celebrity precedes you, Count Sokolov,” Poppy said loudly enough for spectators in the nearby box to hear his title. “Oh look, there’s Senator Lansing.” She nodded to another private box.
Dimitri recognized the senator and tipped a nod of greeting. Senator Lansing returned it with an approving smile.
The lights in the auditorium dimmed, and the curtain rose to reveal the finest symphony orchestra in the nation. The conductor walked onto the stage to polite applause. A smattering of chatter and shifting in seats continued until the conductor’s tap of his baton settled the crowd.
And then Maxim Tachenko strode onto the stage, and the audience erupted with unabashed fervor. He wore a formal black frock coat and tails, but his mane of golden-blond hair was ridiculously long, brushed back from a face handsome enough to make the angels envious. The violinist crossed the stage with the confidence of a matador, eyeing the crowd with his bow and violin dangling from his hands like weapons ready to be called into action. It took several attempts by the conductor to settle the audience back into respectful silence.
Mr. Tachenko took center stage, settling the violin beneath his chin and holding the bow suspended an inch above the strings. The conductor raised his arms, and for a single moment, silence reigned. Then the conductor’s arm sliced downward, and the soaring majesty of a Berlioz symphony filled the hall.
Dimitri let himself be swept into the torment of Symphonie fantastique as it moved through the stages of grim, majestic, and joyous passages. He wished Natalia was here. She would love this. No phonograph could ever carry such resonance.
Beside him, Poppy whipped out her opera glasses to spy on the audience, occasionally elbowing him to point out notable individuals. Some of her acquaintances didn’t wait for intermission to begin slipping into their box, begging an introduction. Poppy was in her element, sprinkling his title in every sentence while keeping a protective hand on his arm. He didn’t mind. The adulation was flattering, but throughout it all he kept an eye on the program, for “Waves of the Amur” was the last song before intermission.
As a selection of Paganini favorites came to an end, it was time for the song. To Dimitri’s surprise, the violinist introduced the selection with a political statement, his heavily accented voice ringing with conviction as he spoke.
“My friends, the Amur River travels through some of the most harshly beautiful lands in the world. It marks the dividing line between Russia and China and has long been a source of pride for us. Along its banks live the Tatar, the Mongol, the Buryat, and the Cossack. Tonight, I play a song of homage to our great river. The music embodies the Slavic soul, filled with majesty but with sorrow as well. I dedicate this song to Count Dimitri Sokolov, whose presence tonight honors us all.”
Dimitri caught his breath as the violinist raised his bow, pointing it directly to his box. He hadn’t expected this. Every eye in the auditorium swiveled to look at him, and he stood.
The crowd rose to their feet as well. The standing ovation was thunderous, and a wellspring of emotion threatened to swamp him. Was this real? Two months ago, he was a starving nomad stumbling through the forest and bartering for a mouthful of food. Now he was the toast of New York City. That season of hunger and fear seemed a distant memory as he basked in the gilded limelight, the applause, the glamor.
But there was danger to this glamor. Was he Icarus, flying too close to the sun? How much higher could he climb before the inevitable collapse arrived? He felt like an imposter as he bowed in gratitude to the adulation coming from the audience below.
The applause calmed, and Dimitri sat once again, holding his breath as the violinist positioned his bow to play “Waves of the Amur.” The song was laden with familiar Slavic moodiness, and longing for his homeland swelled inside Dimitri, painful in its intensity. The music had a hypnotic effect, summoning memories of Russia even as he remained trapped in this gilded cage. It would be impossible ever to be truly happy until he returned home, the site of his greatest joy and sorrow.
The sense of incongruity continued at intermission as Poppy guided him toward a private club room behind the mezzanine. Rich hardwood paneling lined the walls, the chandelier dripped with crystals, and waiters circulated with libations.