The Last Romanov (18 page)

Then all eyes swerve toward the commotion at the western portal. I, too, turn to look.

The love of my life, my seven-year-old grandson, Joash, olive-skinned, shining tight curls, and date-brown innocent eyes, stands at the threshold.

I open my arms wide. “My grandson!” I cry out.

The high priest's voice echoes against stone walls: “Athalia, you have sinned! You burned the house of God. You murdered our Israelite princes. History will brand you as a daughter of Jezebel. Vilify you as the ‘Other.' But your attempt to destroy the royal lineage failed. Joash was rescued from your wicked intents and raised in hiding.”

The snub-nosed wife of the high priest steps out of the shadows and wraps an arm around my grandson's shoulders, the relief in his eyes more damning than the high priest's pronouncement.

Lieutenants and runners step forward and raise their weapons. A battalion of soldiers takes its place around the sanctuary. My grandson ascends the steps to the altar, a practiced precision that heralds the rightful crowning of our king, at last. He sits in a chair carved from a solid piece of yellow cedar, the latticed high back decorated with the menorah and with the crowning wreath and insignia.

The high priest opens the doors to the cabinet by the eastern portal and retrieves two objects. “Witness a miracle. The spear and quivers of King David were spared from the fire!”

But he does not hand the spear and quivers to my grandson, nor does he lower the crown upon the child's head. Instead the high priest raises his voice in the temple and appoints himself regent.

“Take this most evil of all women out to the columns!” He orders. “Let her not die in YHWH's temple. Whoever attempts to save her, kill by the sword!”

I am dragged to the horses' entryway. My opal ornaments are wrenched away. They bind me to a post that carries the long-ago stench of smoke and ash.

And as it had occurred on the night of the big fire six years before, plump drops of rain fall upon my head and a rainbow appears on the backdrop of the starry sky.

I shut my eyes and recite the Shema Israel, pray with my last breath to be forgiven.

The tip of an arrow pierces my left eye.

My soul rides on the wing of brilliant flames on a journey to another place.

***

Grigori Rasputin circles the bed on which Darya and the ambergris lounge like lovers. He is quiet, expectant, moving like an aroused beast. It is time to awaken Darya from her trance. The aroma of mint and fresh cucumbers, roasted lamb and goose, scent of pheasant in fresh cream and mushrooms sizzling in butter waft in from the window. The imperial kitchens are busy preparing tonight's dinner.

Rasputin pulls out a soiled kerchief from his coat pocket and wipes his face. He was right, after all. This woman harbors more secrets than he imagined. When he first saw her in the auction house six years back, intent on acquiring
The
Cure
, her regal demeanor, opal eye, and biblical appearance alerted him to her exoticism. But he did not expect her journey to go so far back in time, back more than eight hundred years before the year of our Lord, back to Judah to reveal the magic of opal and ambergris.

He comes closer to stand over Darya, willing his breath to normalize and his heaving chest to settle. In her sleep and smelling of fresh leaves, she appears approachable. He digs one hand into his coat pocket and pulls out a folding knife. Flipping the sharp blade open, he passes it between his thumb and forefinger, rubs it against his lips, examines it under the light of the chandelier, where it flashes invitingly.

He leans forward, reaches out, and thrusts the knife into the ambergris, where it slides with unexpected ease. He twists the blade this way and that, his teeth clenched, his biceps bulging as he struggles to cut off a piece. But invisible jaws have grabbed the blade from inside, the bone handle sticking out like an insult. He falls on top of the handle, manipulating it with all his might, turning and pulling, sweat dripping off his face. A sharp metallic click is heard. He is sent stumbling back, the broken handle left in his hand.

Darya's eyes spring open. At the sight of Rasputin at her side, she jumps up into a sitting position. “Áhãh! What have I done? I murdered the princes! I burned the temple! I set the holy book on fire!”

Rasputin drops the knife handle in his pocket, cracks his bulging knuckles, pushes back the sweat-drenched hair plastered to his forehead. He coughs to recover his voice. “Darya Borisovna! Be vigilant. Know that the rest of your life will not be easy. You will experience many years of unprecedented chaos. Such tragedies, you might wish to die. You will live to be older than one hundred. Then, and only then, will a number of paths be revealed to you. Beware! Keep your eyes open. Choose the right path. Or you will be condemned to come back again and again until you…”

Darya jumps down from the bed, grabs Rasputin by the collar, shakes him violently. “Hear me, Grigori, hear me well! This is my last life. I am a different woman now. Aware of my sins. I will right the wrongs I committed in my other life.

“I will stand by Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov, protect him as if he were my own son. I will fight with my last breath for his right to occupy the throne. I will fight for the survival of the monarchy. This I vow on the grave of my beloved parents.”

They make their way gingerly across the bristling pine clover toward the Byzantine-style Church of the Exaltation of the Cross, where the religious ceremony preceding the formal gala to inaugurate the Livadia Palace will take place soon, awarding the architect, Nicholas Krasnov, the title of Academician in Architecture.

Imperial Cossacks on horseback patrol the perimeter of the park. Wearing scarlet tunics, boots and sabers shining in the moonlight, they raise fur caps to salute Darya and the Tsarevich.

Gardeners arrange water lilies in moonlit ponds, scoop out a stray leaf, a breeze-blown bud, collect objects one or another guest has misplaced—a silk fan, a half-empty goblet of wine, a jeweled hair pin, a shawl fluttering in the breeze.

Alexei stops in front of the imperial garage, nods at the chauffeurs, removes the Kodak camera slung across his shoulder. He snaps photographs of his father's cars, washed and polished to a high sheen—Delaunay-Belleville Triple-Phaeton, three Delaunay-Bellevilles, a limousine, two landaus, and a Mercedes Landau. Numerous other cars are housed in other palaces, the expenses of which the minister in charge of the imperial budget has been complaining about. But when it comes to his collection of cars, his pride and joy, the Tsar will not hear of curtailing expenses.

Imitating his father, the Tsarevich clasps his hands behind his back as he walks to each imperial chauffeur, reaches up to adjust a khaki coat that doesn't need adjusting, pats the coat of arms stamped on a uniform, and brushes a peaked cap that has been removed in his presence. He directs the men to pose around the cars. Pleased with his choreography, he takes a few more photographs. “Thank you,” he says, snapping his hand up in a military salute. “Good-bye now.”

A warm breeze ruffles his hair, like spun gold in the moonlight. Seagulls wheel overhead. The heady scent of ripe fruit wafts from the east. Notes of the orchestra tuning their instruments can be heard from the palace. Windows frame glimmering chandeliers and shadows of waiters completing last-minute tasks.

Perhaps later tonight, Darya muses, after the festivities, she might invite Avram to her quarters. Their relationship has had its share of twists and turns before settling into the grooves of her life. His compromises, she knows, have been far greater than hers. What man, after all, would remain loyal to a woman whose primary allegiance is to a sickly little boy? Only now does she understand the reason behind her fierce devotion to Alexei. Will Avram understand? Yes, she tells herself, he will. She will tell him what happened yesterday, tell him about Athalia, about her loss and sin and her attempt at redemption. Such knowledge will support his ultimate belief that she has always been two different women: the young, fierce Darya he loves, and the ancient soul he has come to admire.

The Tsarevich squeezes Darya's hand. “I'm going with father for a ride tomorrow, all the way from Yalta to Sevastopol.”

“The Crimean highroad is great fun, Loves.”

“I'll bring back many, many photographs for you.”

“Bring me photographs of Chufut Kale on your way, a cave town perched on one of the Crimean plateaus. I've studied its ancient history, all the way back to the eighth century when the Khazar Kaganate adopted Judaism. It's called the Fortress of Jews.”

“What's Jews, Darya?”

“Not what, Loves, but who. Jews are like us, except they believe in Moses instead of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

“They're different then.”

“I don't know, maybe, but not really; they seem to be a God-fearing people like you and me, except that we are Christian.” Not completely true for one Israelite zealot who committed the most heinous of crimes in her past life. Some knowledge is better left buried, she sighs, longing for yesterday's innocence.

“Why do you call Chufut Kale fortress of Jews, Darya?”

“Because many Jews lived there once.”

“Where are they now?”

She wraps one arm around his shoulders. “I'll tell you when you are older and the world is calmer. There's time, Loves, a lot of time to learn about hatred.” Her glance falls on the amulet on the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. She holds him back, cups his elbow in her hand. “Come, let me straight your amulet. There, that's better.”

“Come along, Darya. I'll not miss the fun.”

She taps one finger on the amulet. “You won't, not while you have your good luck charm. No one will start without Alexei Nikolaevich, sovereign heir Tsarevich, Grand Duke of Russia.”

He pulls his hand out of hers and continues his climb toward the palace church.

She trails close behind, trying not to touch him, to allow him a semblance of the independence he craves.

A sudden sound, a loud, startling boom bursts out of the sea.

He jumps back to grab her hand. She squeezes him tight against her thumping chest, waits for her heart to settle. She gazes at the horizon, far away, where the sky and sea bleed into each other and the entire Crimean night flickers on the surface of the Black Sea. “Look all the way out there, Loves, beyond that passing ship that looks like an illuminated Christmas tree. See that small gray hill? Good. Promise not to laugh, and I'll tell you something.”

“I promise,” he whispers, his cheeks trembling with the effort to keep himself from crying.

“That, Loves, is the hump of a sperm whale. And this is the sound of its complaining stomach. Sperm whales suffer from terrible tummy aches. So what you hear is the poor animal belching.”

He raises his incredulous eyes to her, and she plants a kiss on each. “I learned this from my papa on our way here when your mama was pregnant with you.”

He skips ahead, a few steps forward, hesitates, then stumbles as if not certain where to go, as if he changed his mind. A pebble rolls under the sole of his shoe, sliding, scuttling, his arms flailing as if he might fly. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. The camera flies off his shoulder.

Darya screams, her arms dart out to steady him, catch him, leaping forward to cut his fall.

He comes crashing down on his back.

She drops on her knees beside him. “Are you hurt, Loves? Talk to me! Alyosha!”

He is still, wide-open eyes staring at the sky. A white kite glides overhead. The sperm whale rumbles in the distance. A lizard slips under a rock. A gardener whistles somewhere in the park. A flock of shrieking crows alight on the Greek cross on top of the chapel.

A chill like an ominous ghost slithers up her spine. She cradles his head in her lap. “Oh, God! You are hurt, Loves. Talk to me. Please!”

He sucks his breath in, licks his dry lips, swallows. His eyes are round with fright. “Don't tell Mama, Darya, please.”

“Oh, Loves! Don't worry about that.”

He is trying to prop himself on both elbows, struggle up to a sitting position.

“Wait! Don't move. Let me check you.”

He pushes her away. Brushes clean his tuxedo jacket, pants, sleeves. “Please, Darya, I don't want to be sick. Let's go! Mama and Papa are waiting.”

“I know, Loves,” she replies, unable to keep her alarm out of her voice. “Tell me where it hurts.” She unbuttons his coat and shirt, examines him from all angles, unfastening the waist of his trousers and passing her hands across his legs.

He holds up his elbow for her inspection. “Hurts here. Not much, Darya. I'm fine.”

But she knows better. Nothing will stop the onset of bleeding now. There is no predicting how serious this episode will be. She tries to button up his jacket, but her cold, trembling fingers will not allow. “Come, Loves, we've got work to do.”

“But I will not miss the ceremony,” he protests.

“Either this, or you'll have to stay in bed for a long month, maybe more. Yes, I know, it's unfair.” She kneels, wipes a tear off his cheek with her thumb. “Come, jump on my back. I'll carry you. You shouldn't be walking. Up, now, up.”

His arms about her neck, his legs anchored around her waist, she descends the hill, her eyes combing every pebble underfoot, every gnarled root, every hidden sprinkler that might cause her to slip. She is drenched in perspiration under the weight on her back and the ache in her chest.

The whale's mournful cries reverberate in the distance, the shriek of seagulls overhead, the crashing waves below, and in her chest the thumping of her agonizing heart.

He will be fine, she repeats over and over to herself as she enters her apartments and sets him down on the sofa in her living room. “Don't move. I'll be right in the kitchen. Here, take a look at this picture book.”

She chooses the necessary ingredients from jars of all sizes in the kitchen cupboards. A jar of oil extracted from sweet almonds, pounded and steeped in warm water and wrung drop by drop through a sieve. Pouring a thimble of the almond oil into a measuring cup, she adds a spoonful of nectar of black honey, a potent salve harvested in July from the hives of black bees who feed on pollen of a rare breed of purple Siberian rose. Next, she uncorks a bottle of red wine from Livadia grapes that ancient Greek immigrants fermented in oak barrels she obtained from a wizened blacksmith, who had inherited this last existing bottle from his great-grandfather. She adds a swig of wine, a few drops of melted saffron, and a palm-full of chickpea paste, known for its binding properties. She has done this before, with different herbs, roots, and barks for other ailments. As a cure for the Empress's insomnia, or as a potion to calm Avram's nerves whenever he brings himself to part with one of his paintings.

But she is hopeful to create a different elixir this time, something more potent, able to cure the incurable.

Ancient One, she cries out in her heart, help me! Help me make the right decision.

The Ancient One appears, a brilliant opal drop hanging from a chain around her white, throbbing throat. Never before has she been so close to Darya, so gloriously delineated, solid in her presence, her perfumed breath permeating the kitchen.
Darya
Borisovna, I have come to bid you farewell. My mission has been fulfilled. You are a better woman today. You possess the knowledge of two women, a deeper awareness. Cherish the gift so recently granted to you. It will serve you well.
She turns around, her diaphanous train crackling with opalescent hues as it sweeps the floor behind her.

“Don't go yet,” Darya cries out. “A gift? Tell me what it is!” But the Ancient One is gone, her fragrance intensifying in her wake. It takes an instant for Darya to identify the lingering aroma evoking the scent so recently introduced to her.

She runs into her bedroom, where the ambergris is lying like a lover she does not have the heart to banish from her bed. She takes shallow breaths, not wanting to be influenced by the musky, animal scent invading everything. She breaks off a trace amount from the buttery chunk that proves more brittle than yesterday when she had replenished her necklace by the sea.

Back in the kitchen, she crushes the ambergris, measures a teaspoon, adds a spoonful, and then a bit more. She does not know the right dosage, has no way of telling whether adding the ambergris to her healing potion will succeed in stemming the bleeding that must have begun somewhere inside the Tsarevich. But she is hopeful.

While Darya is busy in the kitchen, the Tsarevich leaves the sofa to explore the rooms.

Whether here, in the Livadia Palace, or any of the other palaces, Darya's apartments are a source of fascination to him. Every cupboard and closet is a fairy-tale world crammed with curious objects he likes to photograph—a hammered gold box, opal bracelets, gold chains and dangling earrings, shawls so light they flutter in the air like colorful balloons, picture books of strange places, men wearing headgear and long robes, sandaled women with kohl-rimmed eyes—but tonight his camera lies shattered somewhere on top of the hill in the park. He uncorks perfume bottles that smell of Darya, pulls a few strands of her black hair from a latticed wooden comb. He steals back into the hallway and enters the bedroom.

At the sight of something lying on the bed, he jumps back to conceal himself behind the door. He opens his eyes, peers back in. A soft light from the window casts a metallic hue over the oily carapace that resembles a giant turtle on the bed. It is still and silent as stone. Open-mouthed and clutching the doorsill, he waits for a movement, a noise. But either asleep, or dead, the creature remains motionless. He takes a few hesitant steps inside, approaches the bed, climbs up to take a closer look. The thing smells of the tobacco in his father's pipe and the leather gloves his mother orders from Paris. He looks around, searches for a sharp object. He unfastens the amulet from the lapel of his tuxedo and points the back pin into the carapace.

He probes the pin this way and that, becoming braver with each poke, pushing deeper here and there, breaking tiny pieces from a brittle section. He likes the softer areas, the squishy parts. He giggles under his breath. There! A fun spongy section. He shoves the pin deeper. He gasps, hand flying to his mouth. The amulet is slipping away. He fights to hold on to it, to snatch it back, probes his fingers in, tries to catch it. He can't lose his good luck amulet, can't let it go. Darya will be very, very angry. But the amulet has disappeared. Swallowed whole by the monster that is not dead after all.

He vaults down from the bed. Wipes his tears away with his hand as he runs back to the other room and jumps up onto the sofa.

“I made a delicious drink for you,” Darya says, extending the elixir. She checks his arm. There is no sign of a bruise forming yet. Perhaps this time is different from other times, she dares to hope, perhaps blood will not pool somewhere in his joints, under his skin, inside his internal organs.

“Drink, brave boy. Go ahead. It's not too hot, is it?”

He dips his tongue into the warm concoction. His face puckers into a grimace. “Ugh! I don't like it. No! I will
not
have it.”