The Russian Boy by Neil S. Plakcy

Author:Neil S. Plakcy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction & Literature
Publisher: Neil S. Plakcy
Published: 2012-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Passion and Art

Nice, January 1913

Once he moved in with Luschenko, Alexei was astonished to learn that the painter did not observe the Nativity Fast, as the Dubernin family did, in preparation for the Russian Orthodox Christmas in early January. “But we cannot have lamb for dinner!” he protested, the first night he ate with the painter in a tiny restaurant a few blocks from the studio in Vieux Nice. “At the villa we do not eat red meat, eggs, milk, oil or wine. The Patriarch tells us that fasting with humility and repentance draws us closer to God by denying the body worldly pleasure.”

Luschenko laughed. “Does this mean you will not be sucking my cock until Christmas? Because surely that is a worldly pleasure as well.”

Alexei blushed. “It’s not the same!”

“My boy, if you wish to become a true artist, you must forget these archaic teachings. The true artist suffers through his soul, not through depriving his stomach. And your Patriarch would remove you from my bed if he knew what we did there.”

Though he could not help hesitating, Alexei ate from the lamb platter the waitress delivered. Throughout the fast he ate whatever the maestro ordered for them, except on Sundays, when he and Luschenko joined the rest of the Dubernins at the villa for Sunday dinner. The cook, Tatiana, had come with the Dowager Countess from St. Petersburg, and she was skilled at creating wonderful meals that adhered to the letter of the religious law. Because fish, wine and oil were allowed on Saturdays and Sundays, she prepared gorgeous platters of rouget, a Mediterranean rockfish, roasted in oil with fresh herbs and lemons from the villa gardens.

Luschenko charmed the family with his wit and his knowledge of the Russian community, but he was careful to couch his gossip in initials or pseudonyms. It was never good to get a reputation as a man who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He counseled Alexei to do the same, especially when it came to the nature of their relationship.

“Your parents must never find out what we do together,” he said one evening when he and Alexei were out walking along the Promenade des Anglais, enjoying the decorations, even as he pronounced them gaudy. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“I don’t see why,” Alexei said. “Look at Diaghilev and Nijinsky. Everyone knows they are lovers, and no one minds. They are artists, and you’re always telling me artists live outside the bourgeois world.”

“Yes, but Diaghilev does not rely on his parents for support. And there is the difference in our ages, as well.”

“You know that is no matter to me.”

“But your parents would not approve. Your father the Count and I are almost the same age.”

“No!” Alexei said. “You must be wrong. My father is nearly fifty years old!”

“And how old do you think I am?” Luschenko stopped in front of the Hotel Negresco, and its electric lights shone on his face.

Alexei had never thought about how old the maestro was. After his

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