Meanwhile as a thank you and twenty-second birthday present, Abby took Marcus to Covent Garden, where the Cossak-Russe, the most dazzling ballet company in the world, were dancing Le Corsair. Tickets had sold out months ago and more touts were hanging round the opera house than pigeons. But the principal soloist, the great Alexei Nemerovsky, known in the Press as ‘The Treat from Moscow’ was both an old friend of Boris’s and a long-time collector of Abby’s records and had sent her two tickets.

It was heaven to escape from the RSO and all its problems for an evening, thought Abby, as she and Marcus wandered hand in hand through the packed foyer. Marcus had retrieved her orange satin trouser suit from the waste-paper basket and persuaded her to wear it. She was gratified how many people recognized her and nudged their companions, but she noticed the eyes of both sexes then swivelled to Marcus and stayed there in admiration.

He was wearing a dark suit that had been made for him two years ago by Rupert’s tailor and a lilac-and-white striped shirt and a purple tie, which Flora had given him for his birthday. Success in the Rachmaninov had given him new confidence, he seemed to walk taller. He is a beauty, thought Abby proudly. They had made love constantly since that first night, and although Marcus still hadn’t got it up, he had given her a lot of pleasure, and was about to graduate (B.Clit) in the geography of female sexual anatomy.

‘It’ll happen,’ Abby kept telling him, ‘you mustn’t have a hang-up.’

‘More of a hang down,’ grumbled Marcus.

At least they could laugh about it and after a couple of glasses of champagne in the bar, they sat very close together in the dark warmth of the theatre, opening their scarlet programmes, watching the lit-up bald head and waving arms of the conductor, aware that the vast audience could hardly wait for the overture to be over so they could catch a first glimse of their god.

Nemerovsky was also known as the third ‘N’, because with Nijinsky and Nureyev he made up the triumvirate of greatest male dancers of all time. His leonine dark head, with the sliding black eyes, the cheek-bones at forty-five degrees and the huge pouting mouth, glared haughtily out from poster and programme.

Back swept the dark red velvet curtains, like labia minor, thought Marcus in his new knowledge. In delight the audience clapped the brilliant set, in which a heaving sailing ship filled with long-legged, wild-haired pirates was wrecked on a rocky shore. The tallest of the pirates, who was wearing a floppy white shirt, black knickerbockers and a red scarf round his forehead, was clearly hurt and was carried ashore by two of his comrades as the ship broke up in a mass of spray and crashing waves.

‘That’s Nemerovsky,’ whispered Abby, as the pirates took refuge behind a rock and a lot of scantily dressed maidens swarmed on and jumped about.

I’m not sure I like ballet, thought Marcus.

Then Nemerovsky recovered from his concussion and suddenly erupted on to the centre of the stage as glitteringly dominant and beautiful as Orion in the winter sky.

Nemerovsky’s leaps were legendary — gasp followed collective gasp as the Corsair seemed to fly through the air, to whirl like a dervish to rise and fizzle like a fire cracker, yet his stillness seemed to freeze audience and orchestra as long as he wanted — so that any spontaneous applause, that could have interrupted the action, also froze on people’s hands.

And watching him, Marcus was lost, totally shipwrecked. He even felt himself groan with despair as the cold, poisoned steel of Cupid’s arrow plunged deep into his heart, routing out any hope of heterosexuality. He realized he was only in love with Abby emotionally and had never really desired a human being before. He looked at Nemerovsky, remembering that Browning poem Flora was always quoting.


‘As one who awakes.

The past was a sleep

And his life began.’

Abby was in raptures, half in wonder for the conductor, who must be having a coronary controlling the orchestra in the face of such unpredictability, half-identifying with Nemerovsky’s star quality. She had once held audiences captive, had been the only one on stage they had looked at. She must, must go back to the violin.

‘He’s got a butt almost as beautiful as Viking’s,’ she whispered to Marcus.

Boris, who was still wrestling with King Lear, only made the last act. It seemed sacrilegious to leave a seat empty for so long.

Afterwards Abby, Marcus and Boris went on to dinner at the Ivy, where they were later joined by Alexei and Evgenia, his stunningly pretty, principal ballerina. The whole restaurant rose and cheered them as they came in, and it was immediately champagne on the dacha.

Boris and Alexei fell on each other’s necks. When, demanded Alexei, was Boris going to write a ballet for him? Marcus was in a complete daze which went unnoticed as the other four gabbled away in Russian. Alexei seemed far more taken with Abby than Evgenia. Occasionally his black eyes slid speculatively over Marcus, and when Marcus couldn’t eat a thing, Alexei calmly forked up his potatoes announcing he was starving.

‘I cannot eat before dancing, I am much too exciting.’

He reminded Marcus terrifyingly of Rupert. He had the same cool arrogance, the same predatory ability to pick off anything he chose. He was now having a terrrific Russian row with Evgenia, because she’d ordered him a Dover sole, rather than Tournedos Rossini, and when Boris tried to defuse things, turned on him as well. Then Alexei emptied a glass of red wine over Boris, Boris emptied one over Alexei and they both smashed their glasses against the wall. The management were just moving in to break the whole thing up when they saw the two dripping men were laughing uproariously and left them to it.

Then as instantly they stopped laughing, because Boris asked Alexei about Russia.

‘There is no money,’ Alexei’s voice was deeper than the Corsair’s ocean, a thrilling, husky, basso profundo, ‘we are crippled by bureaucracy, the Mafia and chaos. There is no hope internally, eet must come from outside. I am OK, I come and go as I please, because I am beeg star. Everyone else is starving. Democracy does not feed people. So I owe eet to geeve my country spiritual uplift. You must come back, Boris, at least make visit.’

Boris, mopping his eyes with his table napkin, was so moved he drained both his own and Evgenia’s glass.

‘As Chekhov say,’ he sighed, ‘Freedom is destiny we may never reach, but we must squeeze slavery out of ourselves drop by drop,’ which reminded him his glass was empty, so he waved at the waiter to bring more bottles.

Trying to include Marcus, Abby told the others that he’d just played the Rachmaninov and Howie was trying to wangle him a date with the Royal Scottish National Orchestra playing Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto.

‘My father was friend of Prokofiev,’ said Alexei, his glittering eyes trailing round the table.

‘Just then a beeg grey wolf did come out of the forest,’ he said softly, and threw back his head and laughed showing off long flaring nostrils and the stubble darkening his beautiful strong neck, which had left make-up on the collar of his white shirt.

Oh Christ, thought Marcus, what the hell’s going to become of me? He felt dizzy with longing. Misinterpreting his distress, Evgenia said sympathetically that it was very difficult to make it as a pianist.

‘Marcus is very shy, too,’ Abby told her in Russian.

‘Is he?’ drawled Alexei in English, raising a jet-black eyebrow and staring at Marcus until he went scarlet.

‘Then he must make record in Prague. Until you have record you are nuzzing. To managers, engagers, musical directors, record is all.’

‘Serena at Megagram liked you a lot, Marcus,’ said Boris encouragingly. ‘She vill pick up production cost of record. I vill conduct for free, you will only need a few grand to pay the orchestra.’

‘Great, I’ll help out,’ said Abby eagerly.

Sensing Marcus would like to get off the subject, Evgenia asked Abby about her orchestra. In no time Abby was telling her about the RSO’s financial plight and Rannaldini’s latest act of vandalism, programming an Opera Gala on the same day as their centenary celebrations.

‘Rannaldini is very bad man,’ said Alexei. ‘He conduct in Moscow. Never again, eet was so fast, Swan Lake become Swan Rapids.’

Abby took a deep breath.

‘Oh Alexei, you’re not possibly free on Sunday 7 May to dance at our gala — only for ten minutes or so? It would honestly save us from going belly-up.’

In order to maintain his glitzy lifestyle, Alexei had been known to dance on a pin if the money was good enough but suddenly he agreed to appear at the gala for next to nothing. He and Evgenia would be in Paris at the time. As the gala was on a Sunday they could just nip over for the evening.

‘I would like that,’ smiled Evgenia, ‘I love Vest Country.’

‘You always need vest in Eengland,’ mocked Alexei.

A manic Abby hugged them both.

‘Oh thank you. That’ll zap Rannaldini and Harefield at Cotchester. People’ll fly in from all over the world to watch you two. What would you like to dance?’

‘Prokofiev,’ said Alexei, shooting a mocking glance at Marcus. ‘Romeo and Juliet. Stony leemits cannot keep love out.’

The waiters, trying not to yawn, were laying tables for the morrow. As they were leaving, Boris gave Alexei a score of Rachel’s Requiem, which had just been published.