Empress of the Night (31 page)

“Are you sure, madame, that you can manage?” Queenie’s breath smells of chocolate.

“Quite sure. Open the window now.”

We wear down until we cannot wear down anymore. Then we fall apart.

Alexander comes at midday. Her grandson wears a green morning jacket, her recent gift, sleeves embroidered with Russian two-headed eagles. Her handsome Monsieur Alexander, his smile a mere suggestion of merriment, so like her father’s.

“I’ve got something for you, Graman,” he mutters as he brushes his lips against her cheek. When he was little, he used to lick it, eager for the taste of her face creams. Almond was his favorite. Or was it orange blossom?

She runs her hand through her grandson’s thick hair. She loves its
reddish tint, but he demands it be called auburn.
Redheads
, he insists,
unlike me, are impulsive and unreliable
.

“What is it, dear?”

Alexander takes a sheet of paper out of his pocket, unfolds it, and places it on her desk.

“Please, Graman, read.”

Catherine has weakened her eyesight in the service of the Empire. Her spectacles are no longer enough. She needs her magnifying glass to be able to read handwriting this fine.

Alexander settles on a chair beside her. There is a whiff of snuff about him, of horses, and of wet leather. In spite of what she has heard of his new friend’s beneficial influence, he has been to Gatchina again.

To my sister, for her amusement on such an important occasion.

A Queen of Hearts.

A play in one act.

She glances at her grandson before resuming. He has spread the fingers of his left hand and pretends to examine the gold of his signet ring. His right hand is clenched into a fist.

A voice of a young woman singing offstage:

Oh tender heart
,

how cruel you are
,

how much you wish of me …

Enter a young man in a riding habit. Upon hearing the singing he declares: “They tell me that good voices only go with plain faces. That to be fair, and sing well, is the privilege of angels.”

Alexander turns his face away as she reads. Embarrassed or upset? Alexandrine has always been his favorite sister. Once, when he got it in his head to live on a deserted island, she was the only one he invited to come along with him. “You’ll have to leave Maman and Papa. And Graman.
And your dog. Will you do that?” “Yes,” Alexandrine replied instantly. “I will.”

Enter an elderly man richly dressed. The woman’s voice fades away as if in fright. The man rubs his hands and mutters: “My Drina, my beloved. I must tell her of my devotion to her.”

Catherine reads on, quickly. The play is short, an interlude more than a drama. Alexander knows her tastes well. The rich lover is spurned; young passion triumphs. In the final scene, the bride sweeps in, radiant and happy, to a chorus of well-wishers.

“Excellent,” she says and watches the faint smile grow, blossom with relief. “Would you like it staged, Alexander? For the wedding? You could do it yourself if you wish. At the Hermitage, like you used to.”

“I don’t know,” he says.

He is tempted, though. She can see it in his eyes. The anticipation of choosing the right actress, virginal and sweet-looking, her lips delivering his lines.

“How has Alexandrine been lately?” she asks.

“Anxious. Happy. Scared. Happy again. Constantine teases her. When she plays with her dog, he says she will smell like one.”

“That rascal!”

“He calls the King her intended. She says he is not. She says the King is already engaged to the Princess of Mecklenburg. ‘So why has he come?’ Constantine asks. ‘And why do you blush?’ ”

Alexander laughs as he reports on the bickerings of his siblings. “I’ve come to guard you, Graman,” he told her, when he was not yet five. Brandishing his wooden sword, he pointed at the guards by her door. “Now, please, you can send them all away! I will protect you!”

Her leg aches. Rogerson advises more blistering. To draw the humors out, bring forth what is hidden. Her skin is raw already, covered with bleeding sores. Why would another blister be of any help? But this is not a question her doctor is able to answer, so, in his usual way, he pretends to be shocked by it.

Alexander is looking at her with troubled pensiveness. A child in the
woods, not sure of his way, still looking for clues. To a nineteen-year-old, the world is full of extremes. A silent hour with his wife is enough reason for despair. His new Polish friend’s confidences might trouble him, too. Her eldest grandson, her true heir, has yet to learn that not all loves last forever and that, in the end, most friendships flee from Sovereigns.

“You haven’t finished yet, Graman,” he says, pointing at the page in her hands, reading the final lines aloud:

May the chaste desire that enchants her breast
,

Enlarge itself from day to day
,

That she may bear many fruits of love!

“It’s beautiful, Alexander,” she says, though she knows the play is a mere pretext for her grandson’s presence. His searching glance is a hint, a plea.

“I’m told that the Swedish King is a serious young man with a good heart,” she remarks, keeping her voice cheerful and carefree.

Alexandrine will do well as the Queen of Sweden. There are many advantages to this union. An important northern ally secured. The threat of future wars averted. Russia and Sweden united. But no need to dwell on what Alexander knows already. For he also knows the first disappointments of marriage. The waning of desire, the impatience with too many expectations. His wife’s hot, bitter tears.

He is still looking at her with the silent plea in his eyes. Her silly boy won’t ask the question he has come to ask.

“Alexandrine doesn’t have to marry Gustav Adolf, if he doesn’t please her.” She answers the unasked question herself. “She knows. We’ve had a little talk already, your sister and I, and I told her that.”

Alexander’s eyes brighten.

“Really, Graman?” he asks, unable to hide his delight, like the child he still is. “You mean it?”

“I mean it.”

“It’s all fine, then.”

“It’s all fine.”

This is what Alexander wishes to hear, for he plants a firm kiss on her
cheek and stands up. For a moment he leans on her, as though forgetting how big he is.

“Remember how you wanted to guard my room, Alexander?” she asks.

“I wonder what happened to that sword,” he says, chuckling. “I really liked it.”

“Constantine broke it. He was jealous.”

There is a memory of a child rigid with fury. Of a scream that carried through the palace corridors. Catherine chases the memory away.

“Yes, I remember now,” Alexander says, shaking his head.

And then he is gone.

Each spurt of the Empire’s growth brings a cascade of escalating problems. Expanding borders doesn’t just mean ordering new maps. Old laws that come with acquired lands have to be integrated with Russia’s code or abolished, new administrative units approved, new taxes established.

This is all in a day’s work: Decide if all Poles who call themselves nobles are worthy of their rank? What about those who own half a village or a few cows, and have no written proofs of their noble status? What about the Jews, who, under the Polish rule, have kept their own laws and customs? Now that they are Russian subjects, should they be allowed to settle anywhere in the Empire? Or be kept in the areas where people are accustomed to their presence?

At the newly drawn eastern border, the Prussians are proposing swaps. They might be ready to concede Warsaw for gains in the north.

“You are not listening to me.” Le Noiraud looks at her with reproach.

The winter garden where they sit is a few steps down the corridor from the Imperial Study. In August, the garden lacks the charm it exudes as an escape from the frozen world during the winter months. Still, a small stream bubbles happily and meanders past laurel and myrtle trees, past the shrubbery, where wild hens nest. There are monkeys here, too, and rabbits, white guinea pigs, some free, some on leashes.

Birds fly free in her paradise, pecking at the seeds scattered for them among the flowers. Only big birds are tethered. An eagle, a stork, and a
crane. Now, in the summer, she allows them to be taken outside, into the open space covered by a fine mesh so they cannot fly away.

“What are you thinking about?” Le Noiraud asks, a little petulantly.

“Our Swedish guests.”

Gustav Adolf and his uncle have ventured outside the Swedish mission, alone, dressed in the plain attire of merchants. In Bezborodko’s latest report, the Regent called St. Petersburg a bad imitation of European capitals. “Have you noticed,” he told the King, “how travelers who should write about the beauty of Russian palaces always end up listing the numbers of their corridors, rooms, and staircases? As if they have been contracted to clean them!” The young King, bless him, had replied that he didn’t like forming his opinions based on other people’s impressions. That he wished to learn more of the Russian ways.

This is more or less what she tells her lover, although, of course, without mentioning Bezborodko. Not that it is of any help.

It’s not hard to chart the routes Le Noiraud’s thoughts traverse. To follow the convoluted route of jealousy and unease that makes him ask: “Is it Bezborodko again? Is he telling you lies about me?” His fingers are tugging on the embroidered hem of his waistcoat, loosening the gold thread. He curls his shoulders as if to shield himself. A subtle gesture, but the one she always notes.

Le Noiraud, her handsome, brooding falcon. His face looks so serene, so patrician, with his high forehead, his Roman nose. The white skin, eyes still filled with pensive sweetness, though now fear darts across them. Most people are so ugly. Men especially. Pudgy, with oniony skin, dead crusty matter in its folds. The tufts of hair sticking out of their ears.

“Nobody is telling me lies about you,” she answers, knowing how seldom words soothe him.

Le Noiraud’s forehead creases. His hand covers hers, his fingers pressing. Jealousy tortures him. Fanciful conjectures that would’ve flattered her once.

“What is Mister More-Perfect-Than-Thou telling you about me now?” Le Noiraud insists, his voice brittle and plaintive. For years, the two men have played a subtle game of slights. A bow too cursory, a sneer observed, a wink. A swift retreat to avoid each other’s proximity. Nothing
specific either of them can be reproached with. “I hold His Highness in most sincere and profound respect,” Bezborodko answers each time she brings up the subject. For his part, Platon is still convinced her minister was behind her refusal to let him fight in the Polish campaign, no matter how many times she assured him, “Why can’t you believe that I wanted you safe, with me!”

“That he holds you in most sincere and profound respect,” she says now.

“Hypocrite!”

She sighs. She doesn’t wish to be dismissive of Le Noiraud’s fears, but other matters worry her more. Like Vishka’s remark that Constantine’s bride, Anna Fyodorovna, spends far too much time with Alexander’s wife. Perhaps Anna Fyodorovna is lonely. In a few short months, the girl has changed her religion, her country, and her family. Her mother and sisters have left for Coburg, and she might never see them again. One can understand loneliness. And the consequence of too much solitude, the insecurity that amplifies all whispers and makes it seem they are all about your own shortcomings. Though—if it persists—Alexander would have to be told that such behavior is not reflecting well on his young wife. Anna will—one day—be the Empress of Russia. She must set an example for all Grand Duchesses.

“Is everything all right, Katinka?” Le Noiraud whispers. He is covering her hand with kisses that once brought a rush of heat to her cheeks and throat, but now merely tickle. This is what he wants most of all. The elation his own power over her pleasure once brought.

Her lover is still so young. At twenty-seven, one doesn’t understand that desire withers. One hasn’t sampled the ashen taste of age.

Butterflies flutter around them. Some are as big as rose blooms. With curious patterns on their wings. They feed on pieces of sweet melon the garden servants leave on plates.

Catherine doesn’t want him hurting. All is as well as it could be. No one will replace him. No one can.

It is hard to know what tugs at her heart more. The brash playfulness of his touch? The stillness of his head on her lap, relinquished, fragile, utterly hers? Le Noiraud will do anything to hold on to the importance
her attention gives him. Beat his chest, crown himself with thorns. In his room he keeps a pistol oiled and ready. “If you order me to go, I’ll blow my brains out,” he vows.

“Remember how you showed the children your card tricks in the meadow?” she asks. “I’ve never seen Constantine so awed by anything. And he was not the only one!”

The flare of hope in his splendid black eyes tells her that she has won.

The three of them curtsy. They wring their hands. Alexandrine, who has walked in first, has bloodshot eyes and a puffy red nose. Her sisters, Yelena, who is twelve, and Maria, who is ten, trail after her.

It is Alexandrine who speaks. They were strolling in the garden. Her dog was chasing a rabbit. She called after him.
Bolik, Bolik
.

He didn’t hear her.

He didn’t turn back.

He didn’t come home that night, as the gardener said he would.

“We’ve searched everywhere,” Yelena adds with a dark note of satisfaction. This child relishes bad news, as if misfortunes prove some deeply held conviction she cannot otherwise reveal. Maria nods with grave energy; there’s a smudge of soot across her cheek.

“I’ve called and called, Graman,” Alexandrine repeats. “But Bolik hasn’t come back.”

Three pairs of eyes are fixed on her now. She is the Empress. She can put things right, send servants to search for Bolik. When they were younger her grandchildren were ready to believe that she had a flying carpet and an invisible cloak that let her go anywhere and hear everything that was said.