Daphne Kalotay - Russian Winter

It was then that I first came to know that love is not merely a source of joy or a game, but part of the ceaseless tragedy of life, both its eternal curse and the overwhelming force that gives it meaning.

Nadezhda Mandelstam

Her husband had archaic ideas about jewels; a man bought them for his wife in acknowledgment of things he could not gracefully utter.

Willa Cather

Diamond Earstuds. Each 4-prong-set with a round brilliant-cut diamond weighing approx. 1.64 and 1.61 cts., color and clarity H/VS2, 18kt white gold mounts, Russian hallmarks. $20,00022,000

T he afternoon was so cold, so relentlessly gray, few pedestrians passed the long island of trees dividing Commonwealth Avenue, and even little dogs, shunted along impatiently, wore thermal coats and offended expressions. From a third-floor window on the north side of the street, above decorative copper balconies that had long ago turned the color of pale mint, Nina Revskaya surveyed the scene. Soon the sunwhat little there was of itwould abandon its dismal effort, and all along this strip of well-kept brownstones, streetlamps would glow demurely.

Nina tried to lean closer, to better glimpse the sidewalk below, but the tightness in her neck seized again. Since her chair could not move any nearer, she bore the pain and leaned closer still. Her breath left patches of fog on the glass. She hoped to spot her visitor ahead of time, so as to better prepare herself.

Cold rose to her cheeks. Here came someone, but no, it was a woman, and too young. Her boot heels made a lonely clop-clop sound. Now the woman paused, seemed to be searching for an address. Nina lost sight of her as she approached the door of the building. Surely this couldnt be rightthough now the doorbell buzzed. Stiff-backed in her wheelchair, Nina rolled slowly away from the window. In the foyer, frowning, she pressed the intercom. Yes?

Drew Brooks, from Beller.

These American girls, going around with mens names.

Do come up. Though aware of her accent, and of the cracking in her voice, Nina was always shocked to hear it. In her mind, in her thoughts, her words were always bright and clear. She rolled forward to unlatch and open the door, and listened for the elevator. But it was mounting footsteps that grew louder, closer, until they became Drew, in a slim wool coat, her cheeks rosy from cold, a leather satchel hanging from a strap diagonally across her shoulder. She was of good height, with a posture of self-respect, and thrust out her hand, still gloved.

It has begun, Nina thought, with a slight drop of her heart; I have begun it. Knuckles wincing, she briefly grasped the outstretched hand. Please come in.

Its a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Revskaya.

Miz, as if she were a secretary. You may call me Nina.

Nina, hello. The girl gave a surprisingly confident smile, and creases fanned out from beside her eyes; Nina saw she was older than she had first thought. Her eyelashes were dark, her auburn hair tucked loosely behind her ears. Lenore, our director of fine jewelry, is very sorry that she cant be here, she was saying, removing her gloves. Both her children came down with something.

You may put here your coat.

The girl extracted herself from her coat to reveal a short skirt and a fitted high-necked sweater. Nina assessed the short skirt, the long legs, the low boots and pale tights. Impractical, showing off her legs in weather like this. And yet Nina approved. Though most people knew the phrase Suffer for beauty, few truly embraced it.

We will sit in the salon. Nina turned her wheelchair, and a current of pain shot through her kneecaps. It was always like this, the pain, sudden and indiscriminate. Please have a seat.

The girl sat down and crossed her legs in their thin tights.

Suffer for beauty . It was one of the truer maxims, which Nina had lived to the fullest, dancing on sprained toes and rheumatic hips, through pneumonia and fever. And as a young woman in Paris and then London, she had of course served time in finicky gowns and treacherous heels, and in the 1960s those hopelessly scratchy skirt suits that seemed to be made of furniture upholstery. In 1978 she had undergone what was known as a mini facelift. Really it was just a few stitches behind the earsso minor, in fact, that on the day that she was to have the stitches removed, it had occurred to her that she might as well do it herself. And she had, with a magnifying mirror and a tiny pair of pointy nail scissors.

Smoothing her skirt, the girl removed invisible lint with a light, flitting hand. Petersburg airs, Ninas grandmother used to call them, these little feminine adjustments. Now the girl reached inside her satchel to pull out a clipboard with a leather cover. Wide cheekbones, fair skin, brown eyes flecked with green. Something about her was familiar, though not in any good way. Im here to compose a basic list. Our appraisers will take it from there.

Nina gave a small nod, and the knot at the base of her neck tightened: at times this knot seemed to be the very heart of her illness. Yes, of course, she said, and the effort made the pain briefly stronger.

Opening the clipboard, the girl said, I have all sorts of things Id love to ask youthough Ill try to keep it to the business at hand. I love the ballet. I wish I could have seen you dance.

There is no need to flatter me.

The girl raised an eyebrow. I was reading about you, how they called you the Butterfly.

One of the Moscow papers was calling me that, Nina heard herself snap. I dislike it. For one thing, the image wasnt quite accurate, the way it made her seem, weak and fluttery, a rose petal blown about in the air. It is toosweet.

The girl gave a winking look that seemed to agree, and Nina felt the surprise of her coldness having been acknowledged. Ive noticed the butterfly motif in some of your jewelry, the girl said. I looked back at the list from the St. Botolphs exhibit. I thought that might make our work today simpler. Well go through the St. Botolphs listshe indicated the pages in the grip of the clipboardand you can let me know which ones youd like to auction and which ones you might be keeping, if any.

That is fine. The knot in her neck twinged. In truth she possessed something close to affection for this horrible knot, which at first had been just another unrelenting pain. But then one day, only a few months ago, Nina happened to recall the way her grandmother used to tie her winter scarf for her, back in Moscow, when she was still too young to do it herself: knotted at the back, to easily grab at if she tried to run off. The memory, which Nina had not alighted on for a good fifty years, was a balm, a salve, a gift long ago lost and returned at last. Now whenever Nina suffered the pain there, she told herself that it was the knot in her old wool scarf, and that her grandmothers hands had tied it, and then the pain, though no less severe, was at least not a bad one.

The girl was already handing her the clipboard. Nina took it with shaking hands, as the girl said, conversationally, Im actually one-quarter Russian, myself. When Nina did not respond, she added, My grandfather came from there.

Nina chose to ignore this. Her Russian life was so very distant, the person she had been then so separate from the one she had become. She set the clipboard on her lap and frowned at it.

In a more confidential tone, the girl asked, What inspired you to put them up for auction?

Nina hoped her voice would not shake. I want to direct the income where I like, during my lifetime. I am almost eighty, you know. As I have said to you, all proceeds shall go to the Boston Ballet Foundation. She kept her eyes down, focused on the clipboard, wondering if her stiffness hid her emotions. Because it all felt wrong now, a rash decision. The wrongness had to do with this girl, somehow, that she should be the one to sift through Ninas treasures. Those primly confident hands.