The Last Romanov (8 page)

A drop of blood blossoms in his navel, bubbling like a tiny underground well.

The six-week-old Tsarevich is bleeding.

The Empress presses her lips to her son's chest, slides a trembling finger across the blood worming down his belly. Moon-pale and slightly out of breath, her eyes seek the icons crowding her room to rest on the image of Our Lady of Tsarskoe Selo. Falling to her knees in front of her favorite saint, her lips move in silent prayer. She rests her wet cheeks on the lady's image, begging forgiveness. She had prayed too hard for a son, begged for an heir to the throne, forced God into submission, and He punished her by giving her a sick Tsarevich.

Darya changes the blood-soaked gauze on the infant's abdomen, adds dry ones, and secures them with bandages. She folds the blanket around him and kisses his dimpled cheeks. Her bones feel brittle as icicles from the hissing fire in the hearth. Although it is not yet cold outside, doctors have ordered the fires to keep the baby warm.

The Empress goes back to her son and bundles him in her arms as if to tuck him back into her womb. It is here, in the Lilac Boudoir, that she comes to escape official protocol and royal intrigue, to pass quiet time with her children, and to share evening tea with her husband. Her sanctuary is decorated in the Victorian style, the lemonwood furniture painted off-white, the enamel imitating ivory. The furniture is upholstered with fabric that matches the silk wall covering, a raised floral motif with a reflective weave. The fabric was selected to match a lily the Tsar once gave her.

Two tall windows, framed with curtains of Charles Berger's French mauve silk, decorated with ribbons and tassels, allow ample light during the day. It is rumored that the value of the silk fabrics and ornate trims used in the Lilac Room is far greater than the value of any of the imperial Fabergé Easter eggs.

In order to afford the family some privacy, the only entrance to the room is through heavily draped, flower-carved doors that lead to the Pallisander Room or to other bedrooms.

New styles come and go, but this room remains as it was on the Imperial Couple's wedding night, despite tremendous disapproval of the press for selecting a British design for a bedroom the Tsar shares with the Tsarina.

Those were happier times. Her son is diagnosed with hemophilia now, an incurable disease. An inherited blood-clotting deficiency transmitted by women, the doctor tells her, a capricious disease that rarely afflicts women. Among five thousand males, one is afflicted with the bleeding disease, and God chose
her
son. No one is able to predict how often the bleeding will occur or how long it will last before the blood coagulates.

Patience is suggested.

A mother has the right to be impatient. “Heal him, Darya Borisovna! Heal my son! Stop this terrible bleeding!”

“I tried, Your Majesty, with herbs, with the power of my eyes, my touch. You were there, saw how hard I tried. It is cruel that I can cure others, but not my own son.” Darya sucks her breath in. She cringes in her own skin, afraid she insulted the Empress. It is not normal, she is certain, to love another woman's son so deeply. The answer, she has come to believe, is somewhere in her dreams, underneath layers of smoke concealing the Ancient One, whose appearances have become more frequent, to chide, hassle, goad, or even praise, not only at nighttime, but often in daylight. She directs a searching look at the Empress. “I hope I did not insult Your Majesty.”

“Not at all, dear, you have been good to Alyosha. But why would your healing power fail you now? Perhaps I put too much faith in that.”

Darya casts her eyes down. She has disappointed Her Majesty, proved herself unworthy of her trust. She waits, silent, sensing the Tsarina's disapproval, wanting to vanish and fade away. Then it occurs to her, a thought that had been simmering in the back of her mind. “I've been hearing about a wandering starets, Your Majesty, a certain Father Grigori. Perhaps he could help Alyosha. I hear that the Virgin selected him as God's mouthpiece to travel to Mount Athos and pray to the Black Virgin of Kazan in the convent of Afron.”

At the mention of the Virgin of Kazan, her Russian saint, wonder spills from the Empress's mournful eyes. “The convent of Afron? But it is so secluded and hard to reach.”

“Yes, despite that he made the pilgrimage back and forth by foot. May I summon Grigori Rasputin to the palace?”

“To heal Alyosha?” the Empress asks in a soft voice.

“Yes, God willing,” Darya replies, relieving the Empress of the sleeping Tsarevich, placing him on the chaise lounge, and tucking a blanket around him. “And perhaps Father Grigori might help me to channel my own powers, so I may help the Tsarevich too.”

“This monk, this father Grigori, will he keep quiet about our precious one? Orders have gone out to doctors to keep the matter to themselves. No one must suspect anything wrong with the heir to the throne. No one! What do you think, Dasha? Can we trust Father Grigori?”

“I do not know, Your Majesty.”

The Empress walks to the window and gazes out as if to seek a miracle beyond. The sky is an expanse of pure blue, not a cloud in the horizon, no hint of a breeze to disrupt peace, and in the garden below, the hedges trimmed to perfection, the dormant rose bushes await springtime to bloom. The imperial Cossacks are at their stations, guarding the massive gates on the far right.

Inside, butlers, servants, waiters, cooks, physicians, wardrobe ladies, and poultry keepers are at their posts, making sure the palace is running smoothly.

Yet in her head and heart, everything is in turmoil as she grapples to make sense of the unfairness of it all. Why? Why is her only son suffering? She turns to the imperial basket of jeweled lilies of the valley on her writing desk. One of Fabergé's most skillful creations, a burst of gold, silver, pearls, rose diamonds, and nephrite flowers presented to her in 1896 at the Nijny Novgorad. She caresses the enamel leaves, brings her face close to the diamond flowers as if to inhale their scent. She will be patient, not because the doctors suggest, but because she trusts in the healing power of faith and prayer. God and His saints are on her side, after all.

“No more talk of Father Grigori, Darya! The Tsarevich is our future Emperor. We will put our trust in the Lord. He will heal my son.”

The perfect disk of the sun hangs high in a cloudless sky. Scent of lilac and watered lawns permeates the Alexander Palace Park at Tsarskoe Selo, the Tsar's village, an oasis of eight hundred acres situated fifteen miles south of St. Petersburg. Followed by imperial Cossacks on horseback and surrounded by ancient fir trees, Darya and the Empress stroll in the park.

Pale-faced and sad-eyed, Darya counts the pebbles underfoot. The Belovezh Forest is only a short two-hour ride on the imperial train that brought her here, yet without Boris and Sabrina, it feels distant to her heart.

The Empress, who as the young Alix of Hesse and the granddaughter of Queen Victoria was nearly always in mourning for someone in her extended family, has demanded that Darya follow the Victorian custom of mourning—black for the first six months and white, gray, or mauve for the second six months—except for the Tsarevich's baptism, when festive ceremonial garments were required.

Now, engulfed in gloomy grays, a sheer mousseline shawl, appliquéd dress, and high-heeled satin boots, Darya's heart is breaking. The period of mourning is about to end, and she will be expected to collect herself, thank the Imperial Family for their kindness, and return home. This must be why the Empress has summoned her. To wish her well and send her on her way. She will miss the pleasure of running into the nursery every morning, being the first to ruffle Alyosha's silk-soft hair, the first to squeeze his sleep-warm body in her arms, to change and powder and ready him for his mother. He is hardly able to talk, but when his plump tongue hits the roof of his mouth, she hears him calling her, “Da, da, da.”

“You are fond of Alyosha,” the Empress says. “Your dear mother had a way with children too. She is terribly missed. We were born on the same day, you know, and tried to celebrate together, just the two of us, whenever possible. Despite our differences, or perhaps because of them, we so enjoyed each other's company. I used to be fond of your Belovezh Estate. But it's different now. You must not go back, not for some time, my dear. It will be difficult.”

Darya is surprised. As difficult as it will be, her only choice is to return to the Belovezh Forest. Where else is there to go?

The women stroll along Fir Avenue, toward the Dragon Bridge leading to an open meadow. The Empress drapes her arm around Darya's shoulder. “I want you to know that your mother's spirit is always with you.”

As if confirming the Empress's words, a flock of winged birds of paradise alight on a branch overhead, a sighting of extravagant plumage, rare anywhere in the world, let alone in Europe and North Asia. More than a century ago, on the occasion of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the reign of the Enlightened Despot, Catherine II, eight birds were sent here from the rain forests of Papua New Guinea. A most adept breed in the art of seduction, they have multiplied, and now all types inhabit the Alexander Palace. Their extraordinary acrobatic feats and elaborate courting rituals have earned the park the dubious title of “Imperial Aviary of Whores.”

The Empress strokes Darya's cheek. “Our souls fly to heaven when we die. Having gone through the process of purification, we return to earth as birds of paradise. That red one, there, must have come from your Belovezh home. It must be your dear mother's soul.”

In the scorched earth hue of the bird's plumage, Darya sees Sabrina's red hair. In its birdsong, the echo of her laughter that reverberated against ancient tree bark and sent the leaves dancing. If only she had a way of conversing with the bird, confiding how she misses her mother who had the heart of a warrior and the laughter of an enchantress. How she longs for her father's wisdom. But more than anything, she wants to know why Sabrina and Boris had lost their hunting instincts that evening and had failed to heed the ominous silence of the forest.

“You were there when they died,” the Empress says. “It will remain with you forever.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, it will. If I had the foresight to carry a rifle that evening, my parents would be alive now.”

“My poor Dasha, you must not blame yourself. If anything, the blame rests with me.”

Darya slows down, her knees weak, an ache in her chest. “But what do you mean, Your Majesty?”

“It was I who introduced Sabrina to Boris. I invited your mother to accompany the imperial entourage to hunt aurochs on your father's estate. That is how your mother met your father. I usually do not make plans, my dear; only God knows how they will end.”

Ahead of them, Count Trebla, the court veterinarian, emerges from behind the imperial garages, his small head swaying on his square shoulders, his left hand rocking at his side, his right tugging at the leash of a Doberman.

“Morning, Your Eminence,” Count Trebla salutes the Empress with an exaggerated bow. “On our way to the infirmary. An intestinal problem, I'm afraid.”

Darya tightens her shawl about her shoulders. Her hand creeps up to her necklace, her thumb and forefinger stroking the polished belly of a pearl. She dislikes Count Trebla, this mad husband of Tamara Sheremetev, the Creator of Miniatures. He is devoted to his job, trains the imperial dogs, dispenses medication to the sick, and keeps vigil at their side, but the endless abuse he inflicts on his wife is gnawing away at her life and her art so much that she seems to shrink into herself. Her miniatures, too, are becoming smaller and smaller—the likeness of the Tsarevich carved into a cherry pit, the imperial Children's Palace engraved onto ivory the size of a thumbnail, a wicker carriage hammered onto a sliver of gold.

In the last year, grieving their respective losses—Tamara her sense of self and Darya her beloved parents—the two women came to share their heartbreaks. To her great horror, Darya has learned that, at the end of each day, Trebla records in a ledger his wife's progress and failures, her strengths and weaknesses, and punishes or rewards her accordingly, which does not matter in the end, since both punishments and rewards result in sadistic sexual acts he brags about to anyone who will listen.

The Empress acknowledges Trebla with a nod, pats the dog on the head, and then resumes her walk into the park. Four imperial Cossacks on horseback keep guard at a respectable distance.

“Sweet one,” Count Trebla hisses behind Darya, smacking his lips.

She swings around, narrows her eyes at him, the lowly creature who would dare address her in this manner. She holds up a forefinger in warning.

He is too close behind her, whispering in her ear, his putrid breath insulting.

“Doggy is in licking mood, sweet one. Come, be nice.”

She flicks her hand as if dismissing a dog, then walks faster to catch up with the Empress.

He is at her heels, grabbing her shawl, pulling it off her shoulders. “Why? Don't you like me? But of course you do. I like you too. Come to me, will you? Yes, of course you'll come tonight to the end of this path where…”

His every word lands a bitter insult. Is he suggesting a rendezvous with her, the daughter of Boris and Sabrina who refused the hands of princes and grand dukes? She yanks her shawl away from his grip, aims two fingers at him like a pistol. “Go away!” she growls, surprised by the enormity of her rage.

He jumps back, as if hit by a bullet, his protruding eyes rolling back in anger, a furious rumble emanating from him. His mother, whose vulgar mouth never stopped cursing, was the same. He was less important to her than her elaborate hats and gigantic chignons piled on top of her head.

With a quick snap of his fingers, he frees the Doberman from the leash, which remains dangling like a noose in his hand. Two short whistles from him, and the dog, breathing hard and fast, leaps forward like an evil thought.

Darya's forearm is locked between the canine's jaws. His teeth pierce her sleeve, tearing skin, flesh, and crushing bones. She leaps back, struggling to free herself from the dog's powerful grip. She screams for help, but her voice is a painful knot in her throat. The Doberman's teeth are digging deeper. She will die like Boris and Sabrina. Not a dignified death at home in her Belovezh Forest, but a senseless death instigated by a jealous madman.

The birds of paradise burst into a racket, alerting the Empress who, unaware of what has been transpiring behind her, strolls ahead. She pauses. Glances behind. She grabs hold of a nearby bench. Her face is paler than the underfoot gravel. “Restrain the beast!” she calls out to Trebla, then gestures to the Cossacks, who lead their horses closer. Her voice is trembling with fear and indignation. “Go fetch a doctor. Now!”

Trebla aims a boot at the Doberman's underbelly. His features are distorted. A thread of saliva trickles down his chin. He lands one punch after another on the animal's head, triggering savage snarls. But Darya's arm remains locked between the dog's jaws.

The Empress raises her voice, “Control the beast, I said, before he kills her!”

Count Trebla digs into his pocket and flips out a revolver, aims and shoots between the animal's eyes. Birds of paradise burst into a frightful chorus, scattering a shower of leaves as they take flight to higher branches. The Doberman lets out a gut-curdling howl. The animal falls to the ground, convulsing. Blood and brain splatter in all directions.

Darya seizes her forearm. She struggles to stem the bleeding, pull the ligaments together, the raw, gaping flesh. She is oblivious to the Empress ordering the Cossacks to remove Trebla from her sight, to a swarm of flies feasting on the glazed-eyed Doberman, and to the imperial doctor who rushed to her side. He pours alcohol on her wound, applies surgical blood suction, sutures her wound with silver filaments,wrapping a bandage around her arm. To the accompaniment of the gloomy nasal blasts of the red bird of paradise, who keeps vigil on one of the lower branches, a tune, an unfamiliar melody, rises to twirl and twist like an embrace around Darya, a balm that settles on her wound to adjust bones, bond sinews, and meld flesh.

The doctor mumbles something about a forgotten ointment and unwraps the bandage to apply another curative salve.

The Empress, having partially regained her breath, abandons the bench on which she has been leaning and hurries toward the alarmed doctor, who is having difficulty controlling his trembling hands. His firmly rooted belief in the world of science and medicine is being tested by the unfolding phenomenon he is witnessing. The wound has changed form in just moments. Blood has drained, veins mended, healthy flesh replacing the damaged.

“What is the prognosis?” The Empress asks the doctor.

“I sutured the wound, Your Majesty, applied antiseptics. The rest is in God's hand.”

The Empress bends closer to take a better look. “Astonishing! Have you ever seen a wound heal so fast, doctor?”

“I am at a loss, Your Majesty. I've sutured the wound with silver filaments, a relatively new material, but none of my medical pamphlets mention such a positive outcome.”

“Miracles are not in the realm of medicine, doctor. Faith is.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I understand. May I cover the wound again?” he asks, reaching for bandages in his medical case.

“I don't think it is necessary,” Darya interjects in a weak voice.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asks. “You must be in pain.”

“The pain is not bad, but I am tired.”

“No pain!” The Empress exclaims. “How is this possible?”

Darya, too, is not certain what is happening, whether she is being healed by the soothing melody that continues to echo in her head, whether the song sprung from somewhere within her soul or from the red bird of paradise that remains on her perch, head cocked, wings fanned out in dazzling shades of red. All she knows is that this healing is very different from the others, where she had cured with herbs and all types of potions. This time she is terrified of the woman she has become, a stranger she is unable to recognize.

“May I be excused, Your Majesty?” the doctor says, placing the bandage back into his case, eager to return to his medical books to discover whether any recent breakthrough might shed light on what has just occurred.

“Thank you, doctor, you may leave,” the Empress replies, her astonishment giving way to delight.

***

Darya crosses the main palace foyer with its earthy scent of Italian marble in winter, of melted candles from last night's ball, a hint of sweat and talcum powder. The clock in the alcove chimes four in the afternoon—metallic and final. In the Great Hall,
The
Triumph
of
Venus
and
The
Rape
of
Europa
look down at her from white walls. The domed ceiling above the grand staircase is a vast colorful tableau depicting Galatea, the mythological nymph loved by Polyphemus, the one-eyed son of Poseidon. Galatea reminds Darya of the Ancient One, the fluid lines of her body and her understated sensuality that contradicts her prophetic messages, her warnings, her instructions.

The Ancient One appeared again last night. Darya was a curious observer tittering on the edge of awareness, attempting to decode the message before her dream dissolved in the light of dawn. For an instant the woman's cloudy face coalesced into what was an affectionate expression of encouragement, and her eyes turned deep violet and soulful. She raised two fingers, pointed toward Darya, and something akin to a smile parted her pale lips. Then, with startling speed and precision, she turned on herself and thrust a forefinger in her left eye. Instead of being startled awake by the horrific act, Darya clung to her dream, to the pleasant warmth emanating from the assaulted eye that remained whole and expressive and full of promise. Only when the woman turned her face away as she walked into a fire emitting bone-chilling blizzards in place of warmth did Darya release the dream, certain that a gift had been imparted to her.

She will have to wait another six years, witness the humiliating defeat of Russia's Baltic Fleet by the Japanese navy, the emergence of several radical antimonarchy political parties, and the rising influence of Grigori Rasputin in her life, before she will garner enough courage and wisdom to unwrap the gift and discover its contents.