The Last Romanov (15 page)

A course of Dviena starlet, fish in champagne sauce, is brought in. Rasputin dislodges a bone from the soft flesh and deposits it on top of the woven imperial monogram on the starched linen. He wipes his beard clean and tosses the napkin on his plate. He rises to his feet. Lifts his goblet of Madeira. “Your Imperial Majesties. Ladies and gentlemen. I propose a toast.”

The Tsarina clutches the arms of her chair to lift herself to her feet. The Emperor taps on her hand, and she settles back into her chair. Guests shuffle in their seats, baffled by the break of protocol. When has Rasputin become so influential that the important role of proposing a toast has been assigned to him instead of the Tsar?

Rasputin swivels the Madeira in the goblet, passes the rim under his nose, takes a sip. He cups his goblet in both hands, turns to his right, and extends it toward Darya. His voice echoes in the hall. “Let us drink to the sorceress.”

Darya's womb contracts, releasing a trickle of warm blood between her legs. She registers the palpable sense of surprise, the disapproval of the Imperial Couple, the joy of Maria and Anastasia at the unfolding drama, and the concerned touch on her arm of Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich. They are unaware that she has been thwarting Rasputin's insistent prodding to uncover the secret of her opal eye, wanting to understand the source of her healing abilities, wanting to know why she smells scents others don't.

“And to tight bonds,” Rasputin continues.

“To your death,” Darya mumbles under her breath.

“Tonight,” he shouts, “let us drink to life.”

Darya collects herself and slowly rises. She lifts her wine goblet. “I am not deserving of your kind toast, Father Grigori. It is our Tsarevich you should honor.”

The room is silent. The Emperor looks at Darya. He lets the difficult moment pass. “Well said, Darya Borisovna. The toast is
yours
!”

Her heart pounding in her throat, she cuddles her goblet. “To the heir apparent and Tsarevich, Grand Duke Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov, our future Emperor, health and long life.”

The crowd is on its feet and cheers of “Health and long life!” echo in the hall.

The Emperor offers his arm to the Empress, leading her to the adjoining hall, where tables are set with compotes, iced cherries, jellies, ice creams, chocolates, and sponge cakes from the imperial confectionery. Assorted liqueurs are served, and the Tsar partakes of his favorite 1875 brandy from Montleau and Hesse.

Rasputin is never far from the Tsarevich, one fist resting on his own chest as if holding the child's heart there. The Empress is content. The monk is present. All is well.

The Emperor indicates the end of the luncheon with a nod. It is customary for him to take his leave before his guests, but as previously arranged, the Tsar remains seated as the guests, flush with sugar and alcohol, are led out.

The servants transport the remaining food to the kitchen, where a crowd, among them the highest aristocracy, has gathered to purchase it. The money will go to the kitchen staff.

The waiters are dismissed. The clink of dishes ceases. The grand duchesses congregate around Rasputin, their magician of joy, the only one able to carve a smile on their mother's face, the man whose fairy tales paint their lives with delight and excitement.

The Tsarevich climbs into Darya's lap, and she wraps her possessive arms around him as if he might lessen the pain of her recent loss.

“Tell us a story,” Tatiana begs Rasputin. “A story about yourself.”

“Yes, Father Grigori,” Darya echoes. “Tell us who you are.”

“Me? Ah! Not much to say. Except…” He glares at her. Taps on his heart. “Heavy with untold secrets.”

Having made his point, having reminded Darya of the power he continues to hold over her, he addresses the Imperial Family: “This story is about someone more interesting than me. So come closer. Listen. In a faraway kingdom, in a certain land and a certain time lived a queen.”

Darya is ambushed by a momentary glimpse of an ancient time, another life in which
she
is queen. She is decked in opal ornaments as she wends her way between palm trees toward a place of prayer. She strains to hold on to the images, stop them from escaping. But they slip away, disappearing into the mist of her mind. She glances up to find herself held hostage by Rasputin's eyes, and she is assailed by a longing to spill out her innermost secrets to this man who reeks of vodka and donkey shit.

He frightens her, this man who seems to hold her future in his hands. Does he also know about her pregnancy, her miscarriage? He winks at her, breaking the spell.

“This queen lived in a land where flower pods froze in their kernels and lungs, unable to bear the cold, popped and collapsed like fat soap bubbles. But this queen was different from everyone. Her blood was hot. Blood boiled in her veins. When the weather plunged far below freezing, our queen did not suffer from the cold, the burning of ice to the touch, the awful ache in the lungs. And this is why she was the only one in that land who could achieve anything she put her heart to, any dream, any wish. Nothing was out of her reach!

“One day, her glorious skin the hue of diamonds, her fingers and toes radiating warmth, she went out naked and stood on the tallest mountain of ice to call out to the Lord.

“And the Lord, witnessing a woman of such valor, a woman who dared raise her voice in confrontation, stepped down from His throne to hear her plea.

“She turned her eyes to heaven and shouted: ‘I accepted this terrible land as mine. I have lived here for many years and managed to maintain my youth and beauty. Because of that, I lured millions to Your land. You owe me a grand favor, my Lord, You do.'

“The Lord removed his top hat and bowed slightly from the waist, his baritone bouncing about the firmaments. ‘Name your wish, my lady!'

“‘To bear a son, my Lord. But not any son. Not like other people who freeze in your ruthless world. That I do not want. I want a beautiful boy with golden hair and lucid eyes. And I want him to carry my blood.'

“The Lord shifted on His throne, threw one long leg over the other, and dropped His top hat on the crown of His balding head. ‘Are you certain, my lady? Is this truly your wish? Think long and hard before you reply. Know that once your wish is granted, it may not be changed.'

“‘Yes, my Lord, I want this more than anything in the world,' the hot-blooded queen replied.

“And the deal was closed in heaven.”

“Did the Lord give her a son with hot blood?” Grand Duchess Tatiana asks.

“A fair, blue-eyed boy who rode honey-gold ponies in the snow and teased ice cubes from dark caves. Hot-blooded like his mother.”

Darya squeezes the Tsarevich against her breasts, unable to clear her mind of emerging images—hot-blooded woman, perhaps a queen, a son or a prince—images that instantly evaporate like steam. What remains present and real is the blood of her loss trickling between her thighs. Did she lose a son, she wonders, or a daughter with eyes like her own?

Rasputin lifts a forefinger. “But this boy was different. Whereas his mother's blood was of equal temperature all over her body, her son's simmered and bubbled under his kneecaps, elbows, joints, causing excruciating pain that made him cry.”

Darya glances at the Imperial Couple. The bags under the Tsar's eyes have turned a bluish hue, and his brow is knit in disapproval. The Tsarina rests her hand on his arm. He pats her hand absentmindedly.

“Poor boy,” Grand Duchess Maria exclaims. “What happened to him?”

“All the Siberian ices and all the prayers of the land failed to cure the queen's son until a man of God came from a nearby town. He carried a pouch filled with gems as pure and smooth as ivory and as scented as myrrh. Not ordinary gems. Not at all. A blessing was tucked in the heart of each gem, which he tossed into a vast pool of ice water. The blessings multiplied and multiplied, expanding into colorful, translucent orbs of all sizes that kept on swelling and emptying the pool of all water until the pool became a giant container of sparkling spheres of blessings in which the boy was instructed to bathe. And from that instant on, day by day, his blood temperature began to adjust until it normalized as befits a proper prince.”

“Bravo!” the Empress claps. “I love happy endings.”

White night bathes peach palaces, turquoise cupolas, green steeples, gilded churches, and elaborate colonnades in dreamy pastel lights. Boulevards, avenues, streets, and alleys have been swept and watered and decorated with imperial eagles and with the city's coat of arms. Hundreds of flags flutter in a mild breeze that has chased away the winter gloom, ruffling the surface of the city's canals and raising the faint scent of sweat and anticipation. The calm waters of the Neva mirror the festivities above. It is the month of July and the Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov's third birthday. Darkness will not fall on St. Petersburg, the city of his birth.

Theater Square throbs with excitement. Cheering spectators crowd the flower-strewn platforms, balconies, windows, rooftops, and sidewalks leading to the illuminated Mariinsky Theater. The stone façade arches and columns of the theater are lit from behind. Its windows are dressed in blue velvet drapes and frame glittering chandeliers.

The Imperial Family and its entourage are expected at any moment.

It is the opening night of
The
Red
Aurochs
, Igor Vasiliev's ballet.

In two short years, the imperial salon has refined the artistic taste of Russians and increased their knowledge, the people say. The belief is no longer rampant that the only art the family promotes is ballet, simply because a large number of the dancers happen to be mistresses of one or another grand duke. The Tsar has demanded that the ballet season open a month early in order to celebrate his son's birthday. It is rumored that the artists themselves will attend the ballet.

Such a talented group, these artists! Isn't she a wonder, that Rosa Koristanova, her sculpture in the Russian Museum a miracle to behold? What about Avram Bensheimer's nude portraits? Magical! Enchanting! So imaginative! Might the model be the Tyotia Dasha? No! The Imperial Couple would not allow it. Yet the resemblance is uncanny, wouldn't you say? And Igor Vasiliev's
The
Red
Aurochs
, strange to choose the word
red
in the title, not wise at all in these times. Surely he meant no harm.

An artillery salute of thirty-one guns from the Peter and Paul Fortress echoes around the city.

The imperial carriage passes through the crowded streets.

People cross themselves reverently. They greet the imperial arrival with the pealing of bells and thundering applause. A platoon of decorated officers stands at attention by the entrance to the Mariinsky Theater, which the Imperial Couple support with an annual subsidy of two million gold rubles.

The imperial carriage, all crystal, gilt carvings, and gold-wheeled, is ushered in by eight magnificent white horses led by grooms in blue velvet uniforms and white plumed helmets. The approaching horses, strong, muscular, and proud, paw the cobblestones with synchronized clicks as if digging for some hidden treasure to offer the cheering crowds.

Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich is at the head of the procession, escorted by Life Guard Cossacks and an officer of the Life Guard Cuirassier Regiment, followed by pages of His Majesty. The applause intensifies. Second in line to the throne, the handsome grand duke is the Emperor's right hand, always present, always supportive. He is dear to the people, who follow his romantic escapades with much interest, cheering him on as vigorously as his family attempts to deter him from his inappropriate amorous liaisons.

The Tsar and Tsarina are dressed in full regalia. The Tsarina's hair is pulled back in an elaborate chignon; her suite of pearls and emeralds glitter on her earlobes and lace collar. The Tsar has donned his favorite uniform, a dark navy, double-breasted, gold-buttoned coat, the collar trimmed with gold stitching, and medals of honor prominently displayed.

The sky comes to life, crackling with its own praises. Northern lights perform a symphony of colors, burnt umber and pale green, which cast an added sheen on the city.

The Imperial Couple wave, smile, reach out for each other's free hands on the blue velvet seat. Their son is in good health. The salon has achieved its purpose. The arts are flourishing. The peasant population has been rendered powerless. The alliance between the peasants and the working class is frayed. Isolated uprisings have been quashed by the loyal army. According to his advisors, the many revolutionary factions—the Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, the Party of Socialist Revolutionaries, and the violent Maximalists that sprouted like wild weeds all over the country—are in disarray.

The Tsar gazes into the sepia evening. His lips curl into a contented smile. He is looking forward to a few hours of music and ballet. “Nice evening,” he tells his wife.

“Lovely,” she replies, squeezing his hand.

Darya is in the second carriage, holding the Tsarevich in her lap. She is wearing a taffeta gown of deep scarlet, scattered with diamond stars, her hair cascading down her shoulders. A hairpin of pink diamonds from her grandparents' Corinin mines harness a curl behind her right ear. She presses her cheek against Alexei's, whispers in his ear to remember this, his third birthday, when all the inhabitants of the city have spilled out into the streets to wish him well. She, too, will remember this night, her attending her first ballet with Avram, who has become far dearer to her than she imagined possible. He is in the Mariinsky auditorium now, having arrived earlier with the other artists, ministers, generals, and royal guests.

Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia are in the third carriage, waving enthusiastically at the crowds that shower their path with snowfalls of rose petals.

Cries of “OTMA! OTMA!” (the first initials of the grand duchesses' names) rise and swell into a single unified roar of adoration. As certainly as Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich is the future of Russia, the grand duchesses are her heart and soul.

The Imperial Family, Darya, and Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich are led through a separate entrance and up private stairs to the Tsar's apartment-sized box to the left of the stage. Two cherubs are perched on gilded arches above the imperial box as if to protect the precious Imperial Family in an auditorium already crowded with uniformed and plainclothes security guards.

The Emperor and his brother take their seats on both sides of the Empress. Darya settles Anastasia and the Tsarevich on her right, Olga, Tatiana, and Maria on her left. “Are you all comfortable, my angels,” she asks them each. She kisses the tip of Anastasia's nose. “Try not to sleep, darling.”

“I won't let her,” Maria replies, pinching her small sister's arm.

“I'll tell Papa,” Anastasia cries.

Darya pulls Anastasia's favorite doll out of the bag she has filled with all types of diversions for the children. “Here, Anastasia, little Lariska wants to see the ballet too.”

The conductor raises his baton. An enchanting symphony, consonant and deeply introspective, curls up from the orchestra pit to fill the U-shaped auditorium.

The blue stage curtains of velvet and silk and lace rise.

The collective intake of breath can be heard in the auditorium.

The Mariinsky stage is awash in red.

A single aurochs is caged in the limelight.

The ballerino is disguised from head to toe in a shade deeper than the shade of ruby.

Four ballerinas, white and airy and purer than St. Petersburg summer clouds, fence the aurochs, circling and nuzzling, caressing, stroking, flirting with the graceful pliés of their arms, balancing on flat toes, closing on the prey, swirling in an adagio, slow, enfolding, tempting, then twirling into an allegro, light, soothing, curling, as weightless and graceful as the swans inhabiting the artificial lake in the Alexander Park.

Grand Duchess Tatiana whispers in Darya's ear that the aurochs seems to be swimming in a pool of blood. Darya nods her agreement. It is a chilling scene. But for now, she is basking in the aura of Avram's attention, who, occupying a seat in the mezzanine right below the royal box, glances up every few moments to find her lorgnettes aimed at him rather than at the stage. He is especially handsome tonight in coattails and brushed back hair with no trace of the stubborn paint that has a way of clinging to him.

She lowers her lorgnettes, rests her elbows on the balcony banister, and leans slightly forward. Their eyes meet. His eyes say, “I want you.” Her eyes reply, “Me too.” “Later tonight,” his eyes say. “Yes,” hers reply. Not a word is spoken.

The magical notes of flutes and clarinets swirl and rise and bounce like so many embraces, now melancholy, now with unprecedented rhythmic vitality. The audience is on their feet. “Bravo! Bravo!”

Alexei has left his seat and is on his toes, half his small body leaning over the banister. Darya grabs the back of his tuxedo jacket, lifts him up, and drops him in her lap.

“Alyosha!” she whispers, her heart hammering in her ears. “You were about to fall!”

Anastasia, finding her brother's seat vacant, shifts closer to Darya, rests her curly head of light brown hair on Darya's shoulder, and dozes off. Olga glances at her parents. Finding them engrossed in the ballet, she slips her hand in Darya's. Maria and Tatiana, having lost interest in the ballet, are whispering to each other, wondering whether their parents will invite the prima ballerina to have dinner with them. Their grandmother is the grand patron of the theater, after all, her bust exhibited in the formal entryway.

Avram is in a playful mood, now he taps on his wrist, where Darya loves to count his pulse. Now his arms are outstretched as if inviting her to fall into them.

Grand Duke Michael reaches out to touch Darya's shoulder. “Bensheimer seems more interested in you than the ballet.”

Darya's cheeks burn. She raises her eyebrows as if she is not certain what the grand duke is referring to. She shifts back into her chair, clutching Alexei to her chest.

Michael winks at her. His tone is cheerful. “Shall we invite Bensheimer to the imperial box?”

“If it pleases Your Majesty,” she replies with a mischievous wink.

The conductor flips his baton and the 150-piece orchestra bursts into a fortississimo of such magnitude, the Tsarevich digs his little hand into Darya's arm. The trombones, tubas, and horns blare. The trumpets and cymbals blast. The bass drums and tambourines boom. An aggressive war cry transforms the auditorium into a mighty acoustic instrument.

The aurochs is provoked into action! Its powerful right leg is pointing like a weapon at one of the dancers. He is jumping, brisk, lively, leg beating the air as if slicing everything into small pieces. And then an arabesque, then another and another, furious jumps and turns and kicks performed in the midst of a pool of red light.

The white ballerinas seem to fuse into a four-legged arabesque, their unity such that it is hard to tell one from another. But then, with sudden violence, they break apart, a savage battement of kicking that is soon transformed into en arrière, a backward tiptoeing as they sail farther and farther away from the audience, white specters fading into the fringes of darkness.

The strings raise soothing moans. The violins, violas, and violoncellos plead and implore, attempting to lure the dancers back.

But as the curtain falls and the applauding audience rises to its feet, it is the red aurochs who remains solid in the center of the stage.

Nine years from now, Darya will trace her thoughts back, identifying this moment as the instant a tiny seed of suspicion planted itself in back of her mind, a slow-growing seed that will bloom into a malodorous plant she will be forced to acknowledge.