VanCleef & Arpels on the summer night. Nonna Ananieva
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу VanCleef & Arpels on the summer night - Nonna Ananieva страница 6
Название: VanCleef & Arpels on the summer night
Автор: Nonna Ananieva
Жанр: Повести
isbn: 978-5-00071-026-5
isbn:
– I would send him flowers. He introduced himself quite spectacularly, – suggested Sergey.
– Some exotic flowers, decorated with a bow, – I agreed. – And a teddy bear as well.
I hadn’t noticed that the lights had gone out. Agon resumed.
– It’s a very powerful performance, Sonia, – Sergey whispered in my ear. – Feel the rhythm. – And he gently kissed me on my cheek. – In America I dreamed of watching it with you. – And he kissed me one more time.
Suzanne Farrell staged Agon in Moscow in 1999. I had seen her film – about her and her relationship with the master. She had been his last love and his Muse. That means that she had been the last Muse, whom he had loved and for whom he had created, and to whom he had devoted his ballets. She had been a very beautiful woman and a ballet-dancer. I remembered that my grandmother had always said: “Women become beauties, they are not born like that”. The film had been produced after his death, but real passion could be felt in it, as well as attachment to him, pride for his selectness. Although she had tried to escape from him by marrying another man and working with Béjart, she had come back. Here in Moscow she described Agon as “a jump from the rock into the water”, intended for those wanting to make that leap and acquire self-confidence. She wanted to do everything in the proper way, and to remain marvelous.
– Do you know that Balanchine also wrote the ballet called Jewels? And I think he actually staged it with Arpels in New York? – We were leaving the theatre. Sergey was holding me by the arm. Then he put my arm into his, which was more convenient. Slight wooden twinges from his perfume reached my senses.
– Yes… It’s rather far away… Are you by any chance suggesting a trip to Saint Petersburg? – I recalled that this ballet was also being performed in the Mariinsky Theatre.
– There are so many propositions I would love to make to you, Sofia Pavlovna, the divine. What a wonderful evening we have spent together! I am overwhelmed with both my own delight and other people’s, – with applause, with your deep eyes, with our reminiscences. Let’s go to ‘Pushkin’ for supper!
– And here is our transport! – I exclaimed. Karandash[2], Sergey’s driver, drove up to us in his silver limousine.
– Doesn’t he have a name? – I had asked before the performance. – Should I call him as Karandash? It sounds like some kind of nickname…
– Well, you can call him ‘Pencil’, if you want to use the translation of that nickname.
– And what is written in his passport? – I insisted.
– How on earth should I know… – Sergey shrugged his shoulders.
– He might be called Briefcase rather than Pencil. You should check – I pressed on.
– I trust people, Sofia, my dear, I trust them. There are plenty of decent, disciplined people around.
– You are right. Good, kind people do surround us. – I insisted no more.
The restaurant was full of people, but they found a table on the second floor in the Library for us.
– I am so hungry. And it’s your fault, – Sergey reproached me.
A tall, handsome waiter in a long white apron brought the menu.
– You are welcome, Madam, – he addressed me in an old-fashioned way.
– A while ago you served venison meat with baked pear. That’s what I want, – said Sergey to the waiter, not looking at the menu. – Do you want to try it too? – he addressed me.
– Thank you, but I don’t eat meat. I want a double portion of strawberries with a touch of cream. And a cup of green tea to go with it. – Recently, I have developed a taste for strawberries. Before that, I ate only apples.
– Do you remember Pekarsky? – inquired Sergey.
I grew suspicious. Ilya had been with us in Africa. To be more precise, he had been there at the same time, working as an assistant to the consul. He was a few years older than us, and in his spare time he had often escaped from the ‘old folks’ to join us. I had liked him. Quiet jokes that he would murmur as though to himself, tinned food and other edible goods from the consulate shop, the French and sometimes even American magazines which he brought us, a privately owned automobile, a well-groomed appearance and a readiness to help the lazy students… these were the merits that made Ilya so welcome. Living abroad at that time it was easy to see a potential informant in nearly everyone, but Ilya had managed to gain our confidence. In fact, we – the four girls and the three guys from different universities – had never even trusted each other much. This was the usual state of affairs. I knew who sneaked, and I suspected everyone else. And what of it – should we have stopped living? It was Ilya who reminded us of Papanov’s words from the Russian movie Byelorussian Terminal: “The commander of our regiment once said, ‘each wrinkle on your blanket is a loophole for the agents of Imperialism’”. As far as I remembered, Ilya had become friends with Sergey. But I didn’t know what had happened afterwards. I lost touch with both of them.
– Does Ilya Petrovich want to meet up with me as well? Let’s ask him to join us in Petersburg.
– I always suspected the pair of you. I remember that during the May Day meeting he accompanied you and Makarova from the glade to the cottage of the Attaché of Culture, whose wife had gone to Moscow to give birth. There was some composer hanging around as his guest.
– Oh yes… You cannot hide a grand piano in the bushes… – I drawled.
– Well, he was always hanging around you dressed in white Lacoste trousers that I could only dream of, chirping: “Sardine, you won’t regret it! Think, piano music for four hands! We’ll drink cold champagne! Leave this miserable shashlik alone! Off we go! Follow me!”
– These memories really haven’t faded for you, have they? It’s great!
– On your way there you smashed the ambassadorial BMW, knocked down some fellah on his old banger and damaged the fence on your way into the residence. Krishkin had a narrow escape that time. The rumors reached his wife.
– Well, wasn’t a problem for us…. Krishkin always envied Pekarsky. As far as I remember, when they sat down with that composer to play Beatles music for four hands, Makarova asked them to play “Hey Jude”, – Krishkin blushed, he was standing there, obviously hating it in spite of the cognac he had already drunk.
– And what else happened? – Sergey seemed nervous.
They brought us the strawberries and the venison with baked pear.
– Bon appetit, Filimonich, – I said.
– And what comes next? – asked Sergey again.
– You and I quarreled with you then, as you probably remember, because of the lecture notes. You spilled tomato juice on my workbook and claimed that the half of the notes were missing. And you yourself СКАЧАТЬ
Karandash (Карандаш) – a Russian word which means “pencil”.