The House of Special Purpose (15 page)

‘Why are you saying this to me?’ she asked, her voice betraying how close she was to tears.

‘Because you’ve always felt it and it has overshadowed our lives. And you are wrong, Zoya, can’t you see that? You could not be more wrong to feel this way. Remember, I’ve seen how you’ve reacted every time. When Leo died—’

‘Years ago, Georgy!’

‘When we lost friends in the Blitz.’

‘Everyone lost friends then, didn’t they?’ she shouted. ‘You think I held myself responsible?’

‘And every time you miscarried. I saw it then.’

‘Georgy … please,’ she said, her voice straining. I wasn’t trying to hurt her, you understand, but it came from my heart. It needed to be said.

‘And now Arina,’ I continued. ‘Now you think that her death is because of—’

‘Stop it!’ she shouted, rushing towards me, her hands twisted into fists that beat against my chest. ‘Can’t you stop it for even a moment? Why do you think I need to be reminded of these things? Leo, the babies, our friends, our daughter … yes, they’re all gone, every one of them. What good does it do to talk of them?’

I sat down and ran my hand across my face in desperation. I loved my wife very much, but there had always been an unspoken thread of torment that had run through our lives. Her pain, her memories, were so much a part of her that she had very little room for anyone else’s; even mine.

‘There are things in life that it is impossible to ignore,’ she said after a few silent minutes, huddled in an armchair beside me, her arms wrapped around her body defensively, her face as white as the snow at Livadia. ‘There are coincidences … too many of them to justify our calling them that. I am a talisman for unhappiness, Georgy. That is what I am. I have brought nothing but misery throughout my life for the people who loved me. Nothing but pain. It’s my fault that so many of them are dead, I know this is true. Perhaps I should have died too when I was a child. Perhaps?’ she added, laughing bitterly and shaking her head. ‘What am I saying? Of course I should have. It was my destiny.’

‘But that’s madness,’ I said, sitting up and trying to take her hand in mine, but she pulled away from me, as if my very touch would set her aflame. ‘And what about me, Zoya? You’ve brought none of those things into my life.’

‘Death, no. But suffering? Misery? Anguish? You don’t think I’ve inflicted any of these things on you?’

‘Of course I don’t,’ I said, desperate to reassure her. ‘Look at us, Zoya. We’ve been married for more than fifty years. We’ve been happy.
I
’ve been happy.’ I stared at her, pleading with her to allow my words to soften her distress. ‘Haven’t you?’ I asked, almost afraid to hear her answer and watch our lives tumble apart around us.

She sighed, but finally nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You know I have. But this thing that has happened – to Arina, I mean – it’s too much for me. It’s one too many tragedies. I can’t allow any more in my life. No more, Georgy.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I’m sixty-nine years old,’ she said with a half-smile. ‘And I’ve had enough. I don’t … Georgy, I don’t enjoy my life any more. I never have, if I am honest. I don’t want it. I don’t want any more of it. Can you understand that?’

She stood up and looked at me with such determination on her face that it scared me.

‘Zoya,’ I said, ‘what are you talking about? You can’t speak like this, it’s—’

‘Oh, I don’t mean what you think,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not this time, I promise you. I just mean that when the end comes, and it will come soon, I won’t be sorry about it. Enough is enough, Georgy, can’t you see that? Don’t you ever feel the same way? Just look at this life that I have lived, that we have lived together. Think about it. How have we even survived this long?’ She shook her head and exhaled a long sigh, as if the answer was very simple and obvious. ‘I want it to end, Georgy,’ she told me. ‘That’s all. I just want it to end.’

The Prince of Mogilev

F
OR WEEKS
after I arrived in St Petersburg, I found my thoughts drifting back to Kashin, to the family I had left behind and the friend whose death weighed heavy on my conscience. At nights, lying on my thin bunk, Kolek’s face appeared before me, his eyes bulging from his head, his throat bruised and scarred from the ropes. I imagined his terror as the guards led him towards the trees where the noose had been hung; for all his bravado, I could not imagine that he went to his death with anything other than fear in his heart and regret for the decades not lived. I prayed that he did not blame me too much; regardless, it could scarcely compare with how much I blamed myself.

And when I was not thinking of Kolek, it was my family who dominated my thoughts, particularly my sister Asya, who would have given anything to be living where I was now. Indeed, it was Asya who I was thinking of late one afternoon when I first encountered the great Reading Room of the Winter Palace. The doors were open and I turned, intending to leave, but an instinct made me change my mind and I stepped inside, where I found myself alone in the serenity of a library for the first time in my life.

Three walls were filled from floor to ceiling with books and a ladder was attached to each on a rail so that the browser could push himself across the floor. In the centre stood a heavy oak table, on which were placed two large volumes – open, to a series of maps. Great leather armchairs were situated at different points in the room and I imagined myself sitting there for an afternoon, lost in reading. I had never read a book in my entire life, of course, but they called to me, a whisper from the constant
bindings, and I reached for one after the other, scanning the title pages, reading opening paragraphs as well as I could, placing my discarded volumes on the table behind me without a thought.

So lost was I in my examination that I failed to hear the door open behind me, and only as the heavy boots marched across the floor did I blink back into the moment and realize that I was not alone. I turned, throwing the book that I was holding in the air in surprise. It fell to the floor, crashing open at my feet, the noise echoing around the walls, while I dropped to my knees and bowed my head in the presence of the anointed one.

‘Your Majesty,’ I said, not daring to look up. ‘Your Majesty, I must offer my sincere apologies. I was lost, you see, and—’

‘Stand up, Georgy Daniilovich,’ said the Tsar, and I stood slowly. Not long before, I had been grieving for my family; now I was in dread that I would be sent back to them. ‘Look at me.’

I lifted my head slowly and our eyes met. I could feel my cheeks begin to redden but he looked neither angry nor displeased.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ he asked me.

‘I lost my way,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t intended coming in here, but when I saw them—’

‘The books?’

‘Yes, sir. I was interested, that’s all. I wanted to see what they contained.’

He breathed heavily for a moment, as if deciding how best to deal with this situation, before sighing and stepping away from me, walking behind the oak table and looking down at the volumes of maps, turning their pages and not looking at me as he spoke.

‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a reader,’ he said quietly.

‘I’m not, sir,’ I explained. ‘That is, I never have been.’

‘But you
can
read?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Who taught you, your father?’

I shook my head. ‘No, sir. My father would not have known how. It was my sister, Asya. She had some books she bought
from a stall. She taught me my letters – most of them anyway.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘And who taught her?’

I thought about it, but was forced to admit that I did not know. Perhaps in her desire to escape our home village she had simply educated herself in order that she could, for the length of a story’s few pages, escape to brighter worlds.

‘But you liked it?’ asked the Tsar. ‘I mean to say, something drew you in here.’

I looked around the room and thought for a moment, before offering an honest answer. ‘There’s something … interesting, yes, sir,’ I said. ‘My sister would tell me stories. I enjoyed hearing them. I thought I might find some here that would recall her to me.’

‘I expect you’re starting to miss your family,’ said the Tsar, stepping back now towards the window, so that the soft light shining through illuminated him on all sides. ‘I know that I miss my own when I am away from them for any length of time.’

‘I haven’t had any time to think of them, sir,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been trying to work as hard as I might. With Count Charnetsky, I mean. And the rest of my time I am honoured to spend with the Tsarevich.’

He smiled when I mentioned his son and nodded his head. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘And you are getting along well, the two of you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied. ‘Very well.’

‘He seems to like you. I’ve asked him about you.’

‘I’m gratified to hear it, sir.’

He nodded and looked away, his attention drawn back to the maps for a moment, and he marched towards them, stroking his beard as he looked down. ‘These drawings,’ he muttered. ‘It’s all in these drawings, do you realize that, Georgy? The land. The borders. The ports. How to win. If only I could see it. But I can’t
see
it,’ he hissed, more to himself than to me. I decided that I should leave him to his studies so I stepped back, never turning my back on him, as I made for the door.

‘Perhaps we should get you some lessons,’ he said loudly before I could take my leave.

‘Lessons, sir?’

‘Improve your reading. These books are to be read, I tell all the staff that they may read as they will, providing they take care of the volumes and return them in the condition that they found them. Would you like that, Georgy?’

I couldn’t think for a moment whether I would or wouldn’t, but didn’t like to disappoint him so gave the answer that I believed he desired. ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ I said. ‘I’d like that very much.’

‘Well, I’ll see that the Count sends you to some of the classes attended by the boys in the Corps of Pages. If you are to spend so much time with Alexei, it’s only right that you should be educated. You may leave now,’ he said, dismissing me.

I turned and left the room, closing the door behind me, little knowing that a lifetime surrounded by books was initiated by that one conversation with the Tsar.

Before I exchanged a single word with the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicolaevna, I kissed her.

I had seen her on three occasions previously, once at the chestnut stand by the banks of the Neva, and again later that night as I had waited to be received by the Tsar on my first evening at the Winter Palace, when I had looked out across the banks of the river and watched as the four Grand Duchesses emerged from their pleasure boat.

The third occasion came two days after that, when I was returning from an afternoon of training with the Leib Guard. Exhausted, worried that I would never be able to compete with their levels of energy or strength and would quickly be despatched back to Kashin, I was returning to my room in the late afternoon and lost my way in the labyrinth of the palace, opening a door which I believed would lead me to my corridor, but which led instead
into a type of schoolroom that I entered and marched halfway across before lifting my tired eyes from the ground and realizing my mistake.

‘Can I help you, young man?’ said a voice from my left and I turned to see Monsieur Gilliard, the Swiss tutor to the Tsar’s daughters, standing behind his desk and staring at me with a mixture of irritation and amusement.

‘I apologize, sir,’ I said quickly, blushing a little at my foolishness. ‘I thought the door led towards my room.’

‘Well, as you can see,’ he replied, spreading his arms wide to indicate the maps and portraits which covered the walls, portraits of the famous novelists and great musicians who formed a part of the girls’ studies, ‘it does not.’

‘No, sir,’ I replied, offering him a polite bow before turning around again. As I did so I noticed the four sisters seated in two rows behind individual desks, staring at me with a mixture of curiosity and boredom. This was the first time that I had stood before them – they had barely noticed me at the chestnut stand – and I felt a little self-conscious, but also greatly privileged to be in their presence. It was quite a thing for a
moujik
like me to be in a room with the daughters of the Tsar; an indescribable honour. The eldest, Olga, looked up from her book with an expression of pity on her face.

‘He looks worn out, Monsieur Gilliard,’ she remarked. ‘He’s only been here a few days and he’s already exhausted.’

‘I am quite well, thank you, Your Highness,’ I said, bowing deeply.

‘He’s the one who was shot in the shoulder, isn’t he?’ asked her younger sister, Tatiana, a tall, elegant girl with her mother’s hair and grey eyes.

‘No, that can’t be him, I heard it was someone terribly handsome who saved Cousin Nicholas’s life,’ giggled the third sister, Marie, and I shot her a look of irritation, for I might have still been overawed by my new life at the royal palace, but I was far too
tired from jousting and fencing and sparring with Count Charnetsky’s men to allow myself to be bullied by a group of girls, regardless of their exalted status.

‘It is him,’ said a quieter voice and I turned to see the Grand Duchess Anastasia looking at me. She was almost fifteen years old then, a year or so younger than I, with bright-blue eyes and a smile that restored my vigour immediately.

‘How do
you
know that,
Shvipsik
?’ asked Marie, turning on her younger sister, who showed no sign of embarrassment or self-consciousness.

‘Because you’re right,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I heard the same thing. A handsome young man saved our cousin’s life. His name was Georgy. It must be him.’

The other girls dissolved in giggles, hooting with laughter at the brazen nature of her remark, but she and I continued to stare at each other and in a moment I saw the corners of her mouth turn up a little and a smile appear on her face and, to my amazement, I found the impertinence to offer the same compliment in return.