Rasputin's Daughter (25 page)

The hooded man took me by the arm. “Come, we must join them!”

I was shaking more than ever, and the tears rolled freely from my eyes. “Please, no! I can’t! I…I…”

He stopped and gently, gingerly, touched me on the shoulder. “But there’s nothing to fear!” He grabbed the top of his hood and started to pull it up. “Maria, I wouldn’t let anything happen to you!”

First his chin appeared, then that sweet mouth. I couldn’t believe it. And when I realized who it really was, when I saw him standing before me, I collapsed sobbing in his arms. It couldn’t be.

“Sasha!”

“There’s nothing to worry about! I’m here,” he said desperately, wrapping his good arm around me and holding me and kissing me on the head. “Sweet one, my Maria, I won’t let anyone hurt you!”

“But how…” I tried to talk but couldn’t. “I mean, you’re here… How…what…oh, I thought…I thought-!”

“Everything’s okay, even wonderful!” he said, with a huge grin.

“But how-”

“You mean you didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That I’d be here, that I belong here? And who I am, and-don’t you understand? Isn’t that why you’re here? Don’t you know? I would have told you-I wanted to-but I couldn’t. Secrecy is my greatest commandment.”

“Sasha, what are you saying?”

“I’m a flying angel. I travel from ark to ark, carrying news and warnings to and from other groups. That’s why I was going to your village when we first met, why I asked so many questions about your father, and that’s why I had to flee so quickly-to carry the news of the attack on your father to the other groups.”

“You mean you’re not a revolutionary?”

“Of course I am! What does revolution mean but to turn, to whirl, to twirl? And that’s what we must do, turn everything around. We must get rid of the foreigners. God and tsar, they are all that matters. Your father is remarkable, for he not only abhors wealth and possessions, he has done the impossible, he has made it to him, Tsar Batushka. Your father connects us as no other peasant ever has to the Almighty’s Own Anointed!”

“But…”

One of the celebrants shouted, “Oh, the Spirit!”

“Descend upon us!” yelled another.

They were all singing now. And all dancing, too, moving, gyrating, always circling right to left, crying to the heavens, begging for mercy, delivery, love. One person whipped another person with a rag, the local Christ whipped himself, and Madame Lokhtina, sweat streaming down her face, shouted gibberish.

“And your arm-what happened? How were you hurt?” I asked.

“There are two arks here in Petrograd, and when I was visiting the other one, we were raided by the police. I shouldn’t have come to your house-that put your family in danger-but I needed your father’s healing…I needed you.”

I hadn’t realized how abandoned I had felt, how lonely and ordinary. But now…now he was here, and I kissed him. I fell into him and kissed his lips and mouth as deep and hard as I could.

Then Sasha grabbed me by the hand and pulled me forward, saying with a big smile, “We must dance!”

Yes, I was dirty and wanted to be cleansed. I wanted to be rid of everything but this moment. So dance we did, joining the group in joy and ecstasy. We all held hands and spun and cried out. I stared into Sasha’s lovely brown eyes and saw them staring back. We turned and twisted. And as I moved and twirled I felt my worries and fears and impurities begin to lift from my shoulders. I stepped faster, spun more quickly, and, yes, I felt everything start to fly away, as if I were shedding something filthy and confusing.

Someone dropped from the group, falling into the middle on his knees and whipping himself with a wet rag. Sasha’s head fell back, and he bellowed out something in Indian or in the language of Jerusalem.

“Rente rente funtritut!” he cried at the top of his voice. “Nodir lisentran entrofit!”

I had no idea what he was saying, but I understood what he meant, what he was searching for, for he was seeking nothing more than that which all the narod wanted: freedom and love and spirituality, the sense that no man was above another, and the absolute knowledge that every man of every level had the capacity to cast away his sins and become at the very least Christlike. I wanted all that too. As I spun and cried out, as I shook and trembled, my sweat began to fly from my brow and my flaxen gown became soaked with perspiration. Someone in the middle twirled and whirled so fast that he flew to the side, falling on his knees, screaming.

“Oh, the Lord! He is close!”

“Oh, Brother! Oh, Brother!”

“Alleluia!” shouted the local Christ, completely drenched with sweat and twirling faster than ever. “I feel it! He is coming!”

I broke loose and started spinning and turning, my gown twirling wide, my hair flying. I felt every dark thought, every doubt, every sin, seeping from my being, emptying through my pores. Sweat gushed from me, washing everything impure from my body and soul. Suddenly a gigantic whoosh-a kind of spiritual beer-poured into me and lifted me up. I raised my hands and felt something divine rain down from the heavens and swim through and around me, a power greater than any I had ever felt. What was it? What godly force was overtaking us all?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sasha spinning and smiling, his face turned to the heavens. Yes, he was here, we were together, all would be well.

“Oh, Spirit Lord!” sobbed someone.

“Alleluia!”

“Rejoice, for He has come!”

And then Sasha was grabbing me with his one good hand and pulling me along. My body had stopped spinning, but my head could not.

“Oi!” I shouted, tumbling into him.

“Come, my love,” he gasped, pulling me along.

I closed my eyes, feeling like a cloud blowing through the sky-yes, a cloud, blowing right into him.

“Brothers! Sisters!” cried the local Christ. “I sense it! The Holy Spirit has come! God has poured Himself into me!”

A woman screamed. A man collapsed on the floor.

Half running, Sasha led me into the side room. We went there, into that little space, and while the rest of the congregation spun and sang and cried out, we began kissing. He pressed me against the hard brick wall, and his soft lips flew across my mouth, my ear, my neck. My body flushed with a desire I had never known or even expected, and I wanted him as I never wanted anything else. Every bit of inhibition had been spun away, and I felt nothing but love and desire, heat and want. He dove downward, burrowing his face between my breasts, rubbing, pressing, kissing, and I clasped him and pulled him as hard as I could against me. This was our future, our destiny, and together we were crossing over a bridge of passion to everything wonderful. I shoved him back, and without a moment’s hesitation I grabbed the length of my flaxen gown and pulled it up and over my head, exposing my naked self as I never had to any man. Pulling at his collar with his good hand, Sasha tore open the entire front of his gown. I clawed at the thatch of hair on his chest, groped his firm stomach, and, for the first time, caressed a man’s firm, determined desire.

And as the rest of the congregation collapsed harmlessly on the floor of the main room, Sasha and I fell into each other in joy and love and celebration.

I woke alone the next morning.

As much as I wished it otherwise, as much as I still sensed his firm body in my dreams, Sasha was not lying by my side. Rather, I was at home and in bed by myself. Opening my eyes to the bright light, I saw neither walls nor ceiling, only this: his naked body pressing into mine. Pulling up my nightdress, I gingerly ran my fingers over my naked belly. His seed was there, within me. A soft smile spread across my lips.

When he’d dropped me at the rear door late last night, Sasha had embraced me, saying, “Take care, sweet one. I’ll see you soon.”

“When? Tomorrow night?”

“Yes, I’ll try.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely,” he said, kissing me on the forehead.

Now climbing out of bed, I felt no shame for having given myself to Sasha. Just yesterday I would have been terrified that Papa might find out, but today I didn’t care, not a bit. Nevertheless, there was no need for him to find out, was there?

It hadn’t occurred to me just how late I’d slept, and I couldn’t tell from the low dark clouds in the December sky, but when I looked at a clock I saw that it was nearly one in the afternoon. Given the healing at the palace and then my late-night adventures, it wasn’t really a surprise. What did astonish me, however, was to learn that Papa had already risen and had been seeing petitioners, one after the other, since nine that morning.

Stepping out of my room was like stepping into a bazaar. No wonder, I thought. It was Saturday, and Saturdays were always Papa’s busiest. Today, December sixteenth, would be no different. Women of every age and fashion were buzzing through our apartment, some of them old and dressed in black, others young with abundant curves, some made up with Parisian rouge, and others pale and homely. Our dining room table was strewn with today’s gifts-candies and flowers, fruits and nuts-while the samovar was steaming before a near-continual line of supplicants in search of winter’s antidote, tea. The telephone seemed to ring nonstop.

Making my way into the washroom for my morning toilet, I noticed right away a sense of nervousness, of desperation.

“In the Duma there’s talk of nothing but revolutsiya,” said one woman quietly, standing in the hall, eating a biscuit and sipping tea.

Her friend pressed close to her and muttered, “Just terrible… Did you hear what Maklakov, the Duma deputy, has been saying around town? He’s saying it won’t be a political revolutsiya but one of rage and revenge of the ignorant masses! He keeps shouting, ‘Beware the peasant with the ax!’”

“Bozhe moi!” gasped the first, crossing herself, biscuit in hand.

Frightened, I hurried past the two women. Once I’d washed and brushed my hair, I peered into the salon, searching for my father. And there he was, standing before a very proper lady with a feather boa and another woman in a worn cardigan, the first holding his right hand, the second kissing his left. Why, I couldn’t help but wonder, were these women-not just these two, but all of them here today-so willing, so eager, to give up control and submit to my father? Were they that needy, that scared, that desperate? On the other hand, Papa, his eyes settling on nothing and no one, seemed not to notice any of the attention. In fact, he looked frightful, his hair more disheveled than ever, his blouse wrinkled, and the sash around his waist loose and sagging. Spotting me, Papa pulled away from the two women and started across the salon. Never had I seen such dark rings beneath his eyes.

“Hello, my little bee,” Papa said softly, kissing me on the forehead. “Did you rest well?”

Averting my eyes, I nodded. Did he have any idea that I’d spied him in bed with Dunya? Better yet, did he even suspect that I’d sneaked out last night? Amazingly, the answer to both was, I knew, no.

“Papa, I’m worried.”

He shrugged and looked past me. “Faith has been lost.”

“But people are saying the worst things. People right here in our apartment are talking, and…and…”

“You think I don’t know it will soon come to an end? There are enemies everywhere-yes, even here within our home.”

His passivity shocked me. Never had I heard or seen my father so demoralized. Had he had a vision during the night, or had he simply come face-to-face with common sense? Then again, was he beyond the brink of exhaustion?

No matter my anger and disappointment in him, I knew at least that I had to warn him, so I said, “Do you remember Elena Borisovna, the one whose grandson you healed?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, she said-”

He pressed the long hard index finger of his right hand to my lips. “Shh, my sweet little bee. I hear and follow the words of God and no one else.”

“But-”

Again he kissed me on the forehead. “Go and eat a bowl of steaming hot kasha-don’t forget the crispy onions!-and then some fish. Clear your soul of worries. Eat, and then prepare to go out. You and your sister must meet your cousin Anna this afternoon.”

“But, Papa, I…”

He walked away with all the authority of a tsar who’d just muttered the imperial bit-po-semo-so be it. For a moment I was tempted to run after him and grab him by the sleeve. I wanted to hit him and yell at him, even to confess my adventures. Instead, guarding my secrets and my passion, I turned and slowly made my way through the handful of petitioners. For the first time, I sadly realized that my father and I were not only traveling separate and divergent paths but our paths were destined never to cross again.

Toward three in the afternoon, Varya and I were indeed forced into an excursion with our cousin Anna, who was newly arrived in the capital. Much to Anna’s delight, we went straight to Nevsky Prospekt, where we visited the numerous shops of Gostiny Dvor and then, crossing the street, the tall arcade of Passazh. Much to my dismay, we took dinner at the small apartment of Anna’s close friends, who had moved to the capital some five years earlier. We didn’t return home until after ten that evening, and when Dunya greeted us at the door I couldn’t even look her in the eye.

My back to her as I hung up my cloak, I asked, “Where’s Papa?”

“He has a visitor.”

“Still?” said Varya as she slipped off her boots.

“Your father has had a very busy day,” our housekeeper replied as she handed us our tapochki, for she would not allow us to go about in our stocking feet in such cold weather.

When I peered into the salon, I saw that it was empty, meaning, of course, that Papa had escorted his guest to his small room with the sofa. This in turn told me not only that my father’s visitor was surely a woman but probably a blonde-and almost certainly buxom as well.

Irritated, I demanded, “Who’s visiting Papa at this hour? What’s her name?”