Read Online Encore by Monique Raphel High - Free Book Online Page A

Now you must propose marriage to me.”
    Boris felt that he had entered a dream, or rather a nightmare. “Marguerite Stepanovna—” he began, but she interrupted him, putting a finger on his lips.
    â€œDon’t speak unless you love me,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed. Boris thought: Perhaps the sickness has resurfaced and she is truly becoming insane. Had his own father done this to him? What was he to do? Such a wave of revulsion swept over him that for an instant Boris thought he would vomit. Then the nausea drained away, and when he regarded Marguerite once more, she too seemed to have calmed down, returned to normal. She had stepped back a decorous distance from him, and her face was pale and reserved, if somewhat embarrassed. She said, tremulously: “It’s all right, Boris Vassilievitch. I am sorry.”
    But the incident could hardly be erased. He gave her his arm but could not help trembling with ill-concealed repugnance. They resumed their promenade, each silently locked with his own thoughts. She was, in actuality, too afraid to think. But he was pondering the question of the loan, or the donation, to the committee of friends. What would happen if no one came up with these funds? And afterward? There would be further shortages, further demands. He had absolutely no illusions: His friends liked him well enough, but among all these gifted people, his most important contribution was money. And he needed them more than they needed his money. He lived through all of them, and if he were to be excluded from their enclave—It was better not even to formulate the thought.
    And Pierre. Pierre was going to exhibit some work in Paris. His future reputation might be made at such a show. Pierre had not shown him the painting of the girl, the dancer, and Boris knew exactly why. Pierre was learning to play the game by Boris’s own rules, and this was not good; it was even dangerous.
    Children, or those endowed with the naïveté of children, should not be permitted to manipulate events to suit their own fancy, to play at being gods. Pierre had to be allowed to go to Paris—for the sake of all concerned. The Tumarkin dowry would amply cover the expenses of the exhibition, and no Kussov funds would need to be probed: His father would be relieved, Pierre would be grateful, and the Sugar Plum would reenter the realm of a simple artwork. Because it could be no other ballerina but that one, he knew.
    Before he had a chance to regret it, Boris turned very rapidly to Marguerite and said thickly: “You were right, and there is no need to apologize. This is the moment to ask for your hand in marriage. Will you permit me to take the first train to Kiev in order to speak to your father? For we must be married soon, my dear. We cannot wait.”
    â€œI had no idea your feelings were—so deep,” she stammered. And then, piteously, she burst into tears.
    Right after their wedding in Kiev, Boris took Marguerite to Moscow for a honeymoon trip. He had not wanted to take her to Paris, for Serge Diaghilev and their friend Alexander Benois were there, preparing for the exhibition. He did not want to be seen by his friends with his new wife. And to travel with her to Rome, or to the Greek islands, such spots of charm that seemed to spell romance, would have been a violation of himself and of these places. So he selected Moscow. It was interesting and not too far. He would not feel cut off from the world there, alone with her, or forced to provide for her every need. Consequently, they took the train and spent their first night together in a spacious Pullman. He settled her politely into her berth and returned to the compartment only after she had turned out the light. If she was disappointed, she did not say; he did not ask. But in Moscow he knew he would have to face this dreadful error he had made.
    He liked this city: It was typically Russian, with wide streets, mostly unpaved,