The Imperial Wife (5 page)

They descend from the cabin, her mother solemn and ceremonial, draped on the hand of some field marshal or other. They are being welcomed, passed off to other welcomers, taken to a set of garishly lit rooms at the end of a hallway. The interior is slightly more promising, the occasional flicker of inlaid gold, expensive brocade hangings in the French style, crystal chandeliers dangling overhead, mosaics drawing patterns across the floors, mirrors stretching floor to ceiling. The wood floors are missing a few panels, but shiny with oil. Servants dressed in deep maroon bring glasses of wine on gold trays, bid her to sit. But she is agitated. Everything brims with exotic, folklike charm.

When they are left alone, mother and daughter stare at each other in a kind of disbelief.

“So here we are,” she says, if only to seal the air with sound.

But her mother is already pulling up violet powder from her portmanteau. “No rest for us tonight, Figgy. We must be prepared to impress Her Majesty.”

For Sophie, her mother is as unknowable as the severe steppes they have just traversed, always enshrouded in complaints and negative observations. The tenor of the grumblings is always the same: if she had only not agreed to the terrible match with Sophie's father who stuck her in dull provinces far from any shred of glitter or excitement. If she had only insisted on Frederick's intervention at the crucial moment before the nuptials, she might be a player on the world stage herself. Now she has worked her own family connections to the very bone in order to subsist on Sophie's future success. Sophie is not allowed to forget that she is in debt to her mother's sacrifices, that elusive promise of happiness.

Her mother crosses the room, a cool thumb fanning the surface of Sophie's cheek. “We should tidy up. We may be introduced to the grand duke any minute now.”

Just as her coarse braid is loosened, the doors swing open. The boy who will be Sophie's husband ambles in, all bony legs and elbows.

“I had to see you. I could wait no longer.” He is speaking German quickly, frantically, with an odd thick accent, marching from one end of the room to the other while her mother's lapidary hands work to reattach the headdress to her hair. His flushed face is illuminated, then wiped clean by evening's shadow. He exudes a confined energy, a horse sprung free from the stables. What should her response be? Sophie glances at her mother for guidance, but her mother is standing mutely by the chair, the hair around her forehead ascending like flames. They are waiting for something else to happen.

A brief examination proves her future husband to be barely taller than he was four years ago. On his person, there are few signs of maturation or masculinity. His skin is the lifeless color of parchment, a face punctuated by the faintest of chins. Sunshine seems to have eluded him. She wonders if some token of affection would be appropriate, if she should at least be smiling or curtsying or speaking German to him. Her mother has already recounted to her the fate of this boy, grandson of Peter the Great but happily raised in Kiel, plucked by the empress as her heir and reluctantly bundled off to Russia.

“You cannot imagine how glad I am to have a playmate at last, a fellow German speaker, a friend,” he blurts. One of his cheeks is tinged yellow, as if almost healed from a recent bruise.

“I am very glad to be here.” She curtsies, just in case. The German language seems to put him at ease. Back in Zerbst, one thing Sophie never lacked was tact, an instinct for the tone of an occasion. When her parents entertained her mother's influential relatives, she was always invited for the musical portions of the evening, the guests commenting on how far beyond her years she appeared, how witty and wise for such a wee thing.

A man enters their apartments; he is announced as M. Lestocq, the empress's surgeon. His wig is a surge of voluminous curls cascading past his shoulders. A brownish residue of his most recent meal dots his bottom lip. He bows but not too deeply. Her Majesty, the Empress Elizaveta Petrovna Romanova, is ready to receive them.

Sophie performs a quick, nervous survey of her wardrobe. She is wearing a dress of pale pink silk. The dress is not nearly as elaborate as her mother's, she notices, even provincial in its simplicity. She smooths the fabric at her waist and finds at her throat faint beads of sweat.

“Am I not poorly outfitted?” she hisses to her mother. But there is no time to improve her jewelry, to assess the state of her coiffure. As they leave the chambers, she looks behind her at the boy who will be her husband, who is receding, framed by the door, slumped and alone. Should she have said a proper farewell? She feels a trace of his need and the nascent shreds of affection, a sign to her that she must be experiencing the blossoming of romantic love.

The way to the empress seems to take as long as the trip to Russia itself. They file down a series of long corridors, the faces of welcoming ladies and gentlemen flickering in candlelight. Sophie feels herself gulped by them, her every crevice examined. They make no pretense of hiding their curiosity, examining her figure and hair, their eyes boring into her back. She tries not to return their shadowy stares, not to compare their mode of dress to her own. A friendly face shines up at her and she pauses before its singular expression. A girl exactly her age, a silver dress that pins her narrow waist.

“Bienvenue, princesse.”
Her kind voice is the whispering of dandelions.

She stops before the girl.
“Merci, vous
êtes gentille.”
But her mother's hand presses at her back, pushing her onward.

They turn a corner and continue on this endless path of scrutiny. Then they are stopped short by the sight of an imposing woman lodged directly in their path. Sophie makes out vivid blue eyes, skin made whiter by the contrast to her hair. Her gown seems to fill the entire palace, her ample breasts smothered by jewels. Half her face is shrouded by an enormous black feather that loops over from its origin deep in her hair. All Sophie can see is this figure of a woman, too large, too majestic, too languorous to take in at once.

Her mother is kissing the woman's hand, bowing between a long string of
merci
s. A hand reaches out, and Sophie is plunged into a bodice, her face indented into that voluminous bosom. “My own blood is not dearer to me than yours,” the woman is murmuring, all perfumes and motherly embraces. She leads them inside her state bedroom, where Sophie can only make sense of gold. Gold letter opener lying on a gold-rimmed dressing table, brocade curtains threaded with gold, gold-lacquered wardrobe.

In better light, she can assess the contours of the empress's beauty, all the feminine attributes one would desire: an ideal rosy pallor, defined lips, cinched waist, snowy skin. She allows herself to be examined, but says little apart from complimenting the empress on her superlative taste in décor. It is always best to say less, to assess the situation and meld herself into her surroundings. She is ready to take her place beside this woman in gold lace, with her white teeth and thick black hair dotted with diamonds as plentiful as stars. Over her mother's chalky curls, the empress watches her with icy eyes, takes Sophie apart into pieces and puts her back together.

“A dinner has been set up for you. You will excuse me if I dine separately.”

“Of course, of course,” her mother says, tripping over Sophie's hem in her attempt at servility.

“I trust everything is suitable.”

“Suitable? We have never been so well treated in our lives. We are living like queens!”

“Are you.”

The tone is dry, and Sophie is burning with shame. Her mother comparing herself to a queen! Mortifying, her mother. She inserts something of her own about the supreme generosity of Her Majesty's welcome, which seems to please the empress.

“For both the princesses, we have established a coterie of ladies-in-waiting,” the empress announces before retiring to her rooms. The ladies from the hall come forward and Sophie is happy to see the girl who had welcomed her standing among them, a single star in silver. Her first Russian ally.

 

Tanya

PRESENT DAY

In the east midtown offices of Worthington's Auction House, the phones continue to ring.
Is this a terrible time to sell? First-time buyer here—any good deals to be had on Soviet nonconformist? I heard New York is getting out of the Russian art business, is that true?
Even the richest of clients are skittish. They trust nobody and who could blame them? The Russian economy is plummeting, everyone is lying low, paintings are going missing, and the sanctions are making life difficult.
Have you heard,
they gossip,
it's getting bad back home, the ruble is weak and getting weaker, another fake Kandinsky at the Tate, and do we know how this Ukraine nonsense is going to end? We are just going to wait this one out—our businesses are hemorrhaging.

Regan, sporting a carefully messy topknot and blood-orange lipstick, is arguing into the phone in fluent Russian.

“Look, we know the climate, but we're really excited about some rare lots this time around.” And later, “No, we can't put aside a piece just for you. An auction is open to everybody.”

The girl is almost six feet tall, with a booming voice that commands the room. She turned out to possess the right temperament for working with clients like this, clients who believe auction company policies are drawn up for everyone but them. Who are always angling for a shortcut, a loophole.
What is the first rule of working with the special wealthy Russian client?
I grilled her during the interview. Regan, unblinking:
We never ask them how they made their money.
What is the second rule?
You never know who's on the other end of the line.
Hired! Regan gestures for me to pick up the phone, pointing to the bar of skin above her lips. It's our sign for the Big Fish.

He's the very definition of Russian oligarch: Berezovsky, Abramovich, Khodorkovsky, and finally, Medovsky. One of the originals, worth untold billions, Ukrainian-born Jew, the eternal expat in London, owner of a minor rugby team, of five properties around the world including the requisite penthouse at the Time Warner Center, a mansion in Knightsbridge, a villa in Monaco.

“Sasha! Where have you been? It's been dull without you around here.” Do I sound hearty enough? Since Carl left, they've all noticed it at work. I'm late in the mornings, I lose the thread of discussion at meetings. These days, I'm riveted by the construction outside my window, the soothing repetition of jackhammering.

“Business, always business, Tan'ka. Counting down until Monaco.”

“You're a lucky man, Sasha. I'm vacationing in New Jersey this year.”

“That is crime, we will see what we can do about that. I know this is early, but I wanted to make sure you have right phone number for auction. I will be back in London after all, so use British cell.”

This is how my clients operate: initial chitchat but then right to business. But this is Alexander Medovsky and I'm not about to lecture him on manners. It's because of Sasha's contacts that I finally started a client list to rival Christie's, a list that gave me a chance to compete with Nadia Kudrina. It's because of Sasha that I received my first bonus this year. But until he turns active, until more of his friends sign on, my job might be as fragile as my predecessor's. That woman lasted exactly sixteen months in the job, I'm on month thirty-nine. It's as though I've been working toward this very auction for almost ten years.

I repeat the digits, the London area code and the rest of it, crisply and succinctly. Medovsky is satisfied. He must be anxious for a particular lot. The catalogue not even printed yet but the art world is insular and those within it follow the careful exchange of objects.

“Sash, don't worry. I'll be on the phone personally making sure you're as informed as possible.” I try harder for maternal this time. They like that, my clients, the feminine touch, the myth of a warm, female bosom to cushion them. Physically, I fit their ideal of a “real Russian woman,” not too tall, demure, slender wrists, voluptuous. “You know how to wear that dress,” these clients tell me. If they must work with women, the aura must be pleasant, topiary.

“I know you will, Tanyechka. I have absolute faith. You've earned it.”

I consider: ask about the wife or the mistress? By now, I've met both. The former, Lena, is an intimidating powerhouse of spiky, asymmetrical hair with impressively toned biceps, the latter, a reddish-haired waif barely out of gymnasium with tiny lips and practically no eyebrows. In the end, it's always wisest to settle on the wife. “How's Lena? Did she get her boutique up and running? Anything I can afford?”

Medovsky laughs, but in a distracted way that tells me his attention has already clicked to another piece of business. “I doubt it, Tanyush. But you should see store anyway. Right smack on New Bond Street. Gorgeous things. Stop by next time you're in town.”

“Absolutely. Give her my love, will you?”

“And you to that Vandershmotter of yours.”

“Thanks,” I say brightly. “I'll pass it on.”

Alexander Medovsky may be one of the reasons I've remained head of the Russian art department rather than one of the many specialists in the womb of the nineteenth-century Impressionist and Modern Art department where I spent thirteen lovely years, floating among the reliable stability of the sun-dappled landscapes and flushed domesticity. My former boss was as placid and vibrant as the paintings, and I bobbed on the surface of his clear expectations, happily checking off one task after the next, writing endless reams of catalogue copy. (“The present lot underscores the artist's talent for depicting the atmospheric qualities of the treacherous sea and man's struggle against nature.”)

I was grateful for the job, for the surprising tenderness I felt for the pieces that appeared and disappeared from the office. At times, I could feel the artist's beating soul, could transpose myself into his (because it was almost always a “his”) century. Through his brushstrokes, through his eye on the world, I sensed his celebration or ambivalence of industrialization, a fear of nature destroyed, naïve wonder of foreign cultures, of Tahiti, or Japan. I thought I would never get any further, that my immigrant success story would end right there, as a respected, invisible member of a large team.