The Coronation (49 page)
Authors: Boris Akunin
I noticed that despite the period of mourning the small diamond bouquet was glimmering radiantly on the tsarina’s breast.
‘Approach, Afanasii Stepanovich,’ the sovereign said in a solemn voice. ‘I wish you to be aware that the Romanovs know how to value and reward selfless service.’
I took three steps forward, inclined my head respectfully and fixed my eyes on His Majesty’s gleaming lacquered boots.
‘For the first time in the history of the tsarist house and in contravention of an ancient rule, we are elevating you to the high rank of master of the chamber and appointing you to manage the entire staff of court servants,’ the tsar declared.
I bowed even lower. Only yesterday such incredible advancement would have set my head spinning and I would have thought myself the very happiest of mortals, but now my numbed feelings did not respond at all to the joyful news.
And the outpouring of imperial grace and favour was not yet over.
‘In exchange for the contents of a certain casket, which, thanks to you, have been returned to the tsarina –’ I thought I detected a crafty note in the emperor’s voice at this point ‘– we confer on you a diamond snuffbox with our monogram and a gratuity from our personal fund of ten thousand roubles.’
I bowed again. ‘I thank you most humbly, Your Imperial Majesty.’
That completed the ceremony and I backed away behind the members of the royal family. Endlung gave me a secret wink and pulled a respectful face as if to say: such an important individual will not wish to know me now. I tried to smile at him, but I could not.
But the sovereign was already addressing the members of the Green House. ‘Poor little Mika,’ he said and knitted his brows mournfully. ‘A bright angel fiendishly done to death by heinous criminals. We grieve together with you, Uncle Georgie. But while not forgetting kindred feeling for one moment, let us also remember that we are not simple members of society but members of the imperial house, and for us the authority of the monarchy stands above all other things. I will say words now that might possibly seem monstrous to you, but nonetheless I am obliged to say them. Mika died and now he dwells in heaven. We were not able to save him. But the honour and reputation of the Romanovs has been saved. This appalling event has not become public, and that is the most important thing. I am certain, Uncle Georgie, that this thought will help you to cope with your grief as a father. Despite all the shocks and disturbances, the coronation was completed without disruption . . . Almost without disruption,’ the sovereign added and frowned, obviously recalling the trouble at Khodynsk Field. This qualification rather spoiled the impression of a little speech imbued with true majesty.
Georgii Alexandrovich weakened the effect still further when he said in a low voice: ‘We’ll see what you say about paternal feelings, Nicky, when you have children of your own . . .’
Xenia Georgievna came up to me in the corridor, put her arms round me without saying anything, rested her head on my shoulder and let her tears flow. I stood quite still, only stroking Her Highness’s hair cautiously.
Eventually the grand princess straightened up, looked up at me and asked in surprise: ‘Afanasii, why aren’t you crying? Good Lord, what has happened to your face?’
I did not understand what she meant and turned my head to glance in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall.
It was a perfectly normal face, except that it was rather stiff.
‘Did you tell him what I said?’ Xenia Georgievna whispered, sobbing. ‘Did you say that I love him?’
‘Yes,’ I replied after hesitating for a moment. I had not immediately realised what she meant.
‘And what did he say?’ Her Highness’s eyes, wet with tears, gazed at me with hope and fear. ‘Did he send me anything?’
I shook my head. ‘No, only this.’ I took the opal earrings and diamond brooch out of my pocket. ‘He said he did not want them.’
Xenia Georgievna squeezed her eyes shut for a moment but no longer. After all, Her Highness had been taught self-control since she was a child. And now there were no more tears running down her delicate cheeks.
‘Thank you, Afanasii,’ she said in a quiet voice.
Her Highness’s voice sounded as weary as if she were not nineteen but at least forty.
I went out onto the veranda. I was suddenly having difficulty breathing. Clouds had settled over Moscow earlier in the evening. There was clearly going to be a thunderstorm that night.
I had a strange feeling. Fate and monarchal favour had showered fabulous gifts on me and elevated me to a height of which I had never even dreamed, but I felt as if I had lost everything I possessed, and lost it forever. The wind rustled across the treetops in the Neskuchny Park, setting the leaves trembling, and for some reason I suddenly remembered Endlung’s suggestion that I should join the navy. I imagined the clear horizon, the foaming crests of the waves, the fresh breath of the sea breeze. Sheer nonsense, of course.
Mr Freyby came out through the glass doors. He had not had an easy time of it during the last few days either. He had been left alone without any masters. He had been held under serious suspicion, subjected to hours of interrogation, and now, together with the luggage, he would take back to England a lead coffin containing the body of Mr Carr.
However, none of these ordeals had left any mark at all on the English butler. He looked as phlegmatic and benign as ever.
He gave me an affable nod and stood beside me, leaning on the railings. He lit his pipe. This was company that suited me perfectly, since with Mr Freyby it was entirely possible to remain silent without the slightest feeling of awkwardness.
A line of carriages drew up at the entrance. Everyone would start going home now.
Their Majesties began walking down from the porch, accompanied by members of the imperial family. On the final step the sovereign stumbled and almost fell. Kirill Alexandrovich just managed to grab his nephew in time.
Beside his tall stately uncles, His Majesty looked entirely unimpressive, like a Scottish pony among a herd of thoroughbred racehorses. Of all the Romanovs, for some reason the Lord had chosen this one to lay on his feeble shoulders the heavy burden of responsibility for the fate of the monarchy.
The regal couple climbed into their carriage. The grand dukes saluted and Xenia Georgievna sank into a curtsey. Her Highness looked proud and haughty, as befits a princess.
For the sake of the imperial audience I had decked myself out in the green livery with gold braid. For the last time, as it turned out. Something was weighing down the side pocket. I absentmindedly stuck my hand in and felt a book. Ah yes, the Russian– English lexicon, a present from Mr Freyby.
I wondered what the perspicacious Englishman thought of the Russian tsar.
I leafed though the pages and put together a question: ‘Vot yu sink ebaut nyu tsar?’
Mr Freyby watched the gilded landau with footmen of the chamber on the monkey boards as it drove away. He shook his head and said: ‘The last of the Romanovs, I’m afraid.’
He also took out a dictionary – English–Russian – and muttered to himself: ‘The article is out . . . “Last” is
posledny.
Right . . . “of” is
iz
. . .’ And with unassailable confidence he declared, clearly enunciating each word: ‘
Posledny – iz – Romanov.
’
1
Emotional paralysis.
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