Empress of the Night (52 page)

“Don’t be so haughty, Catherine,” the old Empress warns her. “She’ll find you, too.”

Is life a gamble? Or a chess game in which movements can be foreseen, the opponent’s hand forced? Answer me!

“You’ve chosen
her
over me, Sophie.” Mother’s voice is venomous with bitterness. “For that, I’ll never forgive you.”

There is no Sophie, Mother. Rest in peace
.

Palace spies are everywhere. The stove stoker is lingering far too long with the kindling. The maid who takes away the chamber pot has fumbled with the escritoire drawer. Every book she reads has been leafed through. Mother trusts double-bottom trunks. “See, it’s still there,” she says triumphantly when the hair she has tied around her lock is untouched.

Spies linger in the service corridors, peek through cracks in the walls. Sometimes they fall asleep and she can hear them snore.

Russians do not like foreigners.

She has been warned before.

Life is a game.

In a gambling house, you keep your hands in your pockets.

If every player is cheating, how do you know whom to trust?

The woman who bends over her is wearing a blue waistcoat with a red collar. She looks feeble, and her puckered skin is ashen.

Varvara?

9:00
A.M
.

“Hurry … Tell Bezborodko to wait … No one can leave the palace without my permission.”

Paul is issuing commands. His voice is sharp but not yet fully assured.

Is her son still terrified of her? Does he fear she can still recover? Or is it Alexander he is afraid of?

Through the slit in her half-shut eyes she sees her grandson’s strapping
figure. Standing at attention by her bed. Looking straight ahead. The eyes of a Palace Guard on duty, forbidden to stir.

Her true heir.

Light shines on Alexander, bounces off his polished buttons, the gold braid of epaulets. She remembers his child face, the dimples of baby fat, the jumps of impatience.

Now is the time to straighten what needs straightening
.

The letter is folded, sealed, tied with a piece of black ribbon. She has written it herself, copied it in her own hand:
To be opened in case of my death, in the Council
.

Don’t leave, Alexander. You have to be here when the letter is opened. Your father is a coward, but don’t underestimate him
.

9:20
A.M
.

In the distant corner of the room, a child is sobbing.

Alexandrine!

If this body still obeyed her, she would have called her granddaughter to her side. Ran her hand up her sweet face. Kissed the red, moist eyes.

Never cry
.

Never show anyone where it hurts. Make them think you are strong. Walk away. Straight and proud. Like the Queen you should’ve been
.

Learn from what happened. So little can undo the best laid plans. Push you onto a path you wouldn’t have trodden. You cannot avoid all mistakes. Sometimes you have to lose. But you must always hide how much it hurts
.

Pain is a ruler’s secret
.

“Do animals know they are alive?” Alexandrine asks someone in an urgent whisper. Her sister? Her brother? “Do they know that they are going to die? Can a dog love one person and then stop? Start loving another?”

Simple questions, and yet the answers are so hard.

11:20
A.M
.

Grishenka, Prince Potemkin, her Prince of Tauride, towers over her, his face tanned from the southern sun. He slides his arms under her armpits and pulls her up from the bed. Beside him she sees a shapeless bundle. “I’m taking you with me, Katinka,” he says.

So you are not dead, Grishenka. They’ve lied to me
.

He doesn’t tell her where he is taking her, and she doesn’t ask. She is broken: It is easier to obey.

“Your name is Apis,” he says and opens her outer dress, helps her slide out of the heavy folds of fabric, the chains of gold and silver threads, the armor of embroidery. The bundle, opened, reveals a soft cambric shirt, a pair of breeches, a simple velvet jacket. The clothes smell of ashes.

“Put them on,” he says, and she obeys.

When she is dressed, he hands her a yellow eye mask, with black stripes, a rim of brown felt along the edge.

Apis
is Latin for
bee
.

The loose cloak he throws around her shoulders has a hood. It covers her head, shielding her from the afternoon light. When she stumbles, Grishenka stops and gives her his hand. “Hold on to me! I don’t want to see Apis tumble down the stairs,” he says.

11:25
A.M
.

She must have slept, for the room she lies in has changed. Someone has opened the curtains, let in the pale autumn light.

“I’ve seen her, Graman,” the child whispers.

You are trembling, Alexandrine. What has happened to you? Has anyone hurt you?

It is important that she listens to her granddaughter. It is important that she considers the child’s every word.

“Xenia came to the palace gate, Graman. She looks just like they say. Her coat is all torn and tattered. It is too big for her, so she rolls up the sleeves.

“ ‘Pray for the Empress,’ I asked her. ‘Pray for her, so that she gets well again.’

“Blessed Xenia nodded, Graman. She didn’t say anything but she nodded.

“ ‘Give me a sign,’ I begged her. ‘Let me know that all will be well.’

“And she gave me a sign, Graman!

“In the morning, I went to the garden and Bolik was there. By the gate. When he saw me, he ran toward me. ‘Bolik,’ I cried. ‘Is that really you?’ And he came up to me, trembling, wagging his tail. And I lifted him up, and he licked my face. He is so thin, Graman. I can feel his ribs. His fur is matted, caked with mud and blood. There is a gash on his head. Deep, crawling with maggots.

“But he is back.

“He survived.

“I wanted to bring him here. I wanted you to see him, Graman. But Maman didn’t let me. She said it was not right, that you were too ill. But I know you wanted him to come back.”

11:45
A.M
.

The smells are of fried sausages, sauerkraut, and beer. The servants carry platters of food past her, casting quick glances in her direction. She can see them through half-closed eyes. Pinched, teary faces.

In the small room, her son is holding court.

“God works in inscrutable ways,” Maria Fyodorovna announces with annoying solemnity to yet another visitor.

“You haven’t eaten anything, Alexander? You’ll need your strength, now!”

“We all do!”

“Sit down, Constantine. You make me nervous when you fidget like this.”

They do not lower their voices. Don’t they care that she can hear them? Perhaps—the thought is not implausible—her silent witnessing is a simmering pleasure. In lovemaking, the envy of the excluded heightens the sweetness of release.

Sometimes she hears Bezborodko’s voice, explaining something, but she might be wrong.

Someone should watch them all.

12:00
P
.
M
.

A clock chimes. Shutters rattle. November is a windy month.

Behind the screen, gray shapes move, edgy and tense, a puppet show of shadows. When she hears the shout “You have no business here!” the shapes gather speed. Something falls on the floor with a crash; glass shatters.

“Is no one minding the doors?”

“What are the guards doing?”

A coup?

The screen moves, threatens to fall, until someone’s hands catch it. A graceful wiggling body lands on the bed with a whimper.

For Pani, faithful Pani, has fooled her minders, and she is here, licking her mistress’s face with her warm, eager tongue. Cheeks, lips, eyelids. Dogs have no need for words of explanation. Pani knows, feels it through her skin. Her mistress is not where she should be. Her mistress is hurting. Licking a wound can heal it.

“Out! Get out of bed, Pani!”

Queenie is insistent, but Pani—pushed out of bed—returns on the other side and resumes her self-imposed duty.

“Out, you pest!”

Shooed again, the dog yelps and whines. Someone is ordered to hold Pani tight. To take the damned bitch away.

Why?

I must stop them from hurting Pani
, she thinks, but the hand she tries to lift has disappeared.
Guillotined off
, she thinks, and the word looms cutting and vivid, flashing red.

12:13
P
.
M
.

“Not a word so far. But Her Majesty can see us, I can tell.”

“How long has it been now?”

“Quiet! You are making too much noise.”

“The cook asks if he should send more smoked
balyk
.”

“The soup is too salty. Have they cried into it?”

“Her Majesty is still breathing.”

“I wonder who will get the silver fox pelisse. It’s so beautiful.”

“Have you heard the bells? Russia is praying.”

“His Highness has sent for the papers. It won’t be long now.”

This is your time, Alexander. Take the letter and go to the Council. Set it right. Don’t waver. Don’t be afraid
.

I’ve never bet on the wrong horse before
.

2:00
P
.
M
.

“Where are you going, Alexander?” Paul asks.

Her son has come out of the side room, a chicken bone in his hands. His jaws move. He is still chewing his dinner.

“I’ll be right back, Father.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

A servant rushes forward with a tray. The bone lands on it.

Paul snorts. He clears his throat, as if he were about to retch. How puny he looks beside Alexander. How insignificant. Harmless, if one is blind enough. If one forgets that there is no worse tyranny than the tyranny of the weak.

“At attention when I talk to you, Alexander. Do you wish to bring dishonor to our uniform?”

Heels click; the young, lithe body straightens.

“Do you wish to dishonor our Gatchina way, Alexander?”

“I do not wish it, Sire. I beg your pardon.”

“At ease.”

3:15
P
.
M
.

“
Gospody pomyluy
. May God Almighty have mercy upon us,” Vishka whispers. “Save us from all evil.” Her eyes slide to the side room, where the Empire’s fate is decided. In hissed conversations. In gasps of disbelief.

“Amen,” Queenie echoes in a choked voice, clasping her hands.

They are wise. They speak in quiet whispers. In words that could still be turned around, denied if necessary.

“Her Majesty’s private coffer …” she hears.

Her papers are being read. One by one, secrets are revealed.

You wanted to be Emperor, Paul? You wanted to destroy all I have built? Undo what I have done? Where is your stomach for betrayals?

A fist slams on something hard. Glass cracks.

“How could you,” Paul seethes. “My own wife!”

“I didn’t sign it!” Maria Fyodorovna is wailing. “She wanted me to turn against you, but I didn’t … See, it’s not signed!”

Worthless words of no consequence. It’s not Paul who matters now, but your son
.

She braces herself for what must come next. An uproar. Alexander’s voice ordering them all to stand still. Paul’s scream as her will is taken to the Council, to be opened in front of witnesses. Her last words. Her legacy.

… upon my death … being of sound mind … I bequeath … to my grandson Alexander … Tsar Alexander I …

But there is no scream. Instead, what she hears is a stifled gasp followed by hushed voices. And then Alexander’s plea: “I never wanted it, Papa. Graman forced me. You know the way she is. Please, let me burn it! Please!”

“
No!
”

She, their Empress still, has managed to conquer the limp muscles, to lift her head up.

Her scream pierces the air.

Queenie grips her hand in hers, covers it with kisses. Vishka is praising God for his infinite mercy.

The side room doors open. They all pour out.

“A miracle!”

Maria Fyodorovna is sobbing. Bezborodko is wiping his forehead, slick with sweat. Paul’s cheek is beginning to quiver.

Alexander’s eyes are wide with terror.

No!

But her scream has already turned into a choking gasp and what she wills to be words of command turn into a rattling noise. Heads shake and turn away.

Only Queenie is repeating the same words over and over again: “Her Majesty pressed my hand!”

3:50
P
.
M
.