The Last Romanov (19 page)

“You must, Loves. One big gulp and it's all done. Pinch your nose and drink.”

He raises his face to her, and she squeezes his nostrils with thumb and forefinger, bringing the cup to his mouth and keeping it there until he empties it. “There. Bravo, my boy. Relax now, try to rest.” Her voice fills the large room, promising health, an evening of sweet ices and dark chocolates, soothing words that weave a hammock in which he peacefully sways.

“I like it,” he says. “Some more, please.”

“Maybe later, Loves.” She observes him closely, checking for the usual signs of anxiety, fear, restlessness that such accidents trigger. Each of these incidents makes him appear older, wiser, more subdued. She covers his face with small kisses. “You're growing up, Loves, so fast I can't keep up with you.”

“Some more of that,” he mumbles, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Don't sleep, Loves. Keep your eyes open. I can't tell how you're feeling if you fall asleep. Stand up, Alyosha, try.” She lifts him to his feet, holds him tight under the arms until he is stable. “Come, my boy, come bow your head and pray with me.” She presses both hands to his temples, turning her vision inward, mustering the strength to will his blood vessels to contract, his blood to thicken and coagulate. “You will grow up to live a long healthy life. You will become our Tsar one day and rule until you are a hundred years old.”

“I will become the best Tsar in the world. I will give them a lot of money. And I will never be sick.”

“And here is a kiss to keep you doubly safe.”

She strokes his forehead, touches her lips to the tip of his nose, tucks both hands under his arms and raises him to a sitting position, straightens his suit, adjusts his tie, and combs his hair. “Come now, Loves. You have a dinner to attend. Shall I carry you?”

He passes both hands over his hair and tugs at his collar, habits he inherited from his father. Slipping into the role of the Tsarevich of all the Russias, he snaps his fingers, gesturing to the smiling Darya to follow him out the door.

He crosses the stretch of red carpet, past large porcelain stoves and orchid and lilac planters, across the marble and mother-of-pearl floors, toward his parents.

He is preceded by footmen swinging aromatic pots of incense.

Thunder of applause and proclamations of “God save the Tsarevich” reverberate in the salon.

The Empress, clad in silver cloth and old lace studded with diamonds, a tiara of pearls and sapphires on her head, rises to her feet. The Emperor, regal in his court uniform, weighted with medals and gold braids, joins the Empress in welcoming their son.

The one-hundred-piece orchestra bursts into the national anthem.

The Emperor pats his son on the head. “You didn't come to the ceremony this afternoon, Alexei Nikolaevich, my sovereign heir. I sent our squire to look for you.”

“I fell asleep in Darya's apartments, Papa.”

The orchestra launches into a waltz. Reaching out to his wife and son, the Tsar leads them to the dance floor and into his arms.

The Grand Salon is filled with ministers, diplomats, and honored foreign dignitaries who have come from near and far to celebrate the inauguration of the summer palace. For the first time in history, artists of the salon, men and women born to no titles but who achieved fame by their own energy and genius, will share dinner with their Imperial Majesties.

Laughter of the grand duchesses can be heard across the room. They are gathered around the Creator of Miniatures. She is displaying her latest miniature: the Livadia Palace etched on a walrus tooth.

Count Freedericksz, the Minister of the Court, who has the delicate task of resolving disputes between the Tsar and members of his immediate family, joins the girls to discover the source of their delight. Olga, mesmerized by the exquisite detail, is examining the miniature. Tatiana reaches out for the walrus tooth and holds it up to the gold chain around her neck. “A necklace?” Anastasia giggles. “It might bite off your finger.” Maria lets out a bored grunt and wanders in search of her parents.

“Fascinating,” Count Freedericksz exclaims, tugging at his broad mustache. He digs into his pocket and flips out a thick wad of rubles. “May I entice the artist to part with her priceless treasure?”

Tamara turns red. She extends a trembling hand to reclaim her treasure, stuffing it into her pocket. “I apologize, Your Excellency, but this is for our Tsarevich.”

“The apology is all mine, madame,” Count Freedericksz replies. “May he enjoy it in good health.” He clicks his boots, turns his attention to the sixteen-year-old Olga, and invites her to the dance floor.

Darya walks around, keeping an eye on the artists, proud of their achievements, wary of their volatile tempers. “Don't stand and chatter like chipmunks,” she chides Belkin and Dimitri, who are in the midst of a heated debate. “Mingle and converse with others.”

Rosa Koristanova is missed, Darya thinks. She became an important member of the salon, policing the artists, demanding order, creating sculptures that were acquired by the most reputable museums. But nothing could save the sculptress from her raging emotions and infatuations that catapulted her into the depths of madness.

She fell in love with every block of stone she worked on, every sculpture she created, but most of all with Joseph and his photographs.

One afternoon, after Joseph told her to mind her own business, she left the Portrait Hall, found her way into the palace kitchens and was about to plunge her head into a pot of bubbling oil. The chef grabbed her from the back. It took two men to restrain and transport her to the infirmary. After extensive medical tests, Dr. Botkin diagnosed her with cyclical madness, a chronic, severe, and debilitating brain disease that rendered her dangerous. No choice was left but to institutionalize her.

Now, Joseph is telling Avram about his visit to the Livadian asylum, where he had photographed Rosa. Evidence enough, at last, to prove that the shape of a head has nothing to do with madness. “The woman is mad. Mad as a rabid dog! Yet the shape of her head is like mine and yours. Are you listening, Bensheimer?”

Catching sight of Darya, he says, “Yes, my friend, your point is well taken. Well, I will be off for now. See you later.” He wends his way toward her, steering her away from the crowd. “You look especially beautiful tonight. Why did you miss the ceremony?”

“Alexei had a small accident. I'm terribly worried.”

“Not again! What happened this time?”

“He fell. I've a lot to tell you, Avram. Pray to God for Alexei's health.”

“I always do, my Opal-Eyed Jewess.”

She touches him lightly on the arm and then quickly tucks her hands under her beaded wrap. The name he gave her has taken a different meaning tonight. Tonight, the syllables tumble like sweet bonbons in his mouth and melt like syrup on his tongue. Accept the title, the Ancient One had advised six years back. She does now.

“I'll wait for you at dawn, behind the chapel,” he says, wondering whether a day will come when they won't have to meet like thieves under the gray blanket of dawn.

“I want to, Avram, I really do.”

“I'll walk you down to the beach. Make love to you on the sand. Bathe you in the sea.”

“I'll come then,” she sighs, glancing at Alexei.

Russian nobility in gold braid and scarlet sashes and jewel-studded medals on their chests follow the Imperial Family through the Reception Room and onto the verandas, where dinner is served on center tables and a legion of white-gloved servants runs around on soft-soled patent shoes.

Lilies and violets burst out of giant Chinese vases set about balustrades. The perfect disc of a moon casts a burnished halo on the marble façade of the White Palace. The spectacular outline of the grand mountains looms over the Black Sea in the horizon.

The Emperor leads his wife and son to the head table, and then visits one table then another to keep the conversation lively. He returns to his radiant wife and animated son. “Alexei Nikolaevich, are you well? Your cheeks are flushed, son.”

“It's hot, Papa. May I take off my jacket?”

The Emperor helps his son remove his jacket and hangs it behind his chair. “What a beautiful evening,” he says, squeezing his son's arm.

The Tsarevich winces, jerking his arm away.

The Emperor discreetly removes his son's cufflinks, rolls his sleeve up, and raises his arm for inspection. He stares at the swollen elbow, the taut, darkening skin. “What happened?” he asks, the terror in his voice alerting the Empress.

The boy moves his arm up and down, twirls his wrist. “Look, Papa, no pain. Please, don't send me to bed.”

At the sight of her son's inflamed elbow, the Empress's hand springs to her chest. Her lips are smiling, her face a mask of horror as she exchanges glances with her husband. Where is Darya? How could she have allowed this to happen? Neglected to notify them?

Darya is standing alone, not far from the imperial table, on guard, following Alexei's every move. In answer to the Empress's summoning forefinger, she makes her way to the imperial table.

The Empress points to her son's elbow.

Darya no longer hears the orchestra, the click of crystal flutes, Rasputin's flirtatious boastings at another table, or the high-pitched hyena laughter of the minister of agriculture.

“A moment to explain, Your Majesty. We were on our way to the chapel when Alexei fell. I should have let you know, but I didn't want to alarm you. I was hopeful I'd found a cure in a chunk of ambergris I found yesterday. I tried it on myself first. It cured a weeklong stomach affliction. I applied it on one of the gardeners as an antidote to snake venom. I've been studying…reading about ambergris, and I think, hope, it might modify the chemistry of the Tsarevich's blood. Please, Your Majesties, be patient.”

“I am hungry, Mama,” the Tsarevich declares.

“How did you apply the ambergris?” the Tsar demands.

“I added it to a potion the Tsarevich drank.”

The Empress gasps, grips her chair's handles, attempts to rearrange her expression.

The Emperor's face turns the color of red brick. “You did what?”

“Ambergris is edible, Your Majesty. It was used for medicinal purposes in ancient times.”

“Ancient times! Have you lost your mind? When did he drink this thing?”

“Two hours ago.”

“Call Father Grigori to our table,” the Empress says in a low, urgent voice.

Rasputin's drunken laughter can be heard from across the terrace, where he is seated with the artists. His stained linen shirt, rough peasant coat, and soiled worker's boots have been replaced with a red silk shirt with flowers embroidered by the Empress, a pair of fine velvet trousers, and kid leather boots. Around his neck glitters a heavy gold cross, a gift from the Empress.

The party is in full swing, the orchestra playing Stravinsky's “Petrouchka,” the dance floor bustling with the swish of bejeweled ball gowns and drunken feet.

Darya's stare falls upon the lapel of the Tsarevich. “Alexei Nikolaevich, what happened to your lucky charm? I pinned it to your jacket this morning. It was there on our way to the chapel.”

“I don't know, Darya. Honest.”

Her hands turn as cold as abandoned tombs. Did it fall off during the hillside accident? But she had checked the amulet. Its lock was sturdy. No, it couldn't have fallen off. It must be a conspiracy. The scheme of one minister or another to rob the Tsarevich of the little good fortune he possesses. Michael Radzianko, the president of the Duma, must have stolen it to hurt the Empress. He despises Rasputin and his influence on her. Or perhaps it was the work of Alexander Fyorovitch Trepov, the traitor. He is doing everything he can in the Duma to curtail the Tsar's unquestionable sovereignty.

The Tsarevich digs a spoon into the bowl of caviar and devours a mouthful. He then moves to borscht, samples pepper-pot soup, and asks for pheasant in cream sauce.

The Emperor raises his knife and fork, stares at the mushroom patties, roast goose, and rissoles in cream on his plate. He pretends to take a bite, then sets his knife down.

An extra chair is brought in for Rasputin and placed next to the Tsarevich. His unhinged gaze skips around from Darya to the Tsarevich to the Imperial Couple. He slurs his words, “At your service. Who may I help? The little one?”

The Tsar gestures toward his son's elbow. “Take a look, our friend, it is bad.”

“I am here now,” Rasputin tells Alexei. “Relax. It is good. I will be gentle.”

The Tsarevich holds his arm up like a trophy. He moves his arm this way and that, touches his elbow to demonstrate that he has no pain.

Rasputin raises the arm, stares at it, passes his palm over the bruise. The fate of the three-hundred-year-old Romanov throne is in his hands. This is how history changes. How the world changes. With a story, a hypnotic gaze, a prayer. The blue eyes he directs at the Tsarevich widen, wider than usual. His lips move in silence. He runs his index finger over the fine embroidered stitches on his blouse. He can hear the swish of wine in his head. Smell the scent of caviar. Feel the weight of gold around his neck. Life is good.

In the horizon a violet dusk has replaced the specter of the setting sun, a deep purple washing across the Black Sea and turning it aflame. The heady scent of champagne and wine is in the air, the peal of laughter, the sigh of silk on the dance floor.

The Emperor raises his son's arm, shows it to the Empress, they exchange discreet glances. They lay Alexei's arm in front of them, hold hands under the table, and wait.

The swelling on their son's elbow is abating in front of their incredulous eyes. The bruised skin is becoming lighter, less inflamed, turning a normal hue.

Darya wipes her left cheek, directing her stare at her wet fingers.

Her opal eye has released a single pearly teardrop. A gift from a stubborn eye that has remained dry for eight years, refused to shed a single tear since her parents died.

The sky comes to life with colorful explosions of fireworks. Thousands of sizzling stars burst across the sky and sea. The orchestra is playing Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's “Flight of the Bumblebee.”

The Tsar seizes a bottle of champagne from a waiter and fills Darya's flute.