Empress of the Night (18 page)

The long half-dark of dawn, the hours raked by anguish are the worst.

She is a creature of habit and loyalty. Dissolution of love is a loss, and Catherine doesn’t like to lose. She makes herself recall Grigory Orlov’s dispatches from plague-ravaged Moscow, where fear turned men into beasts. His strategy was simple, his orders straightforward. Burn whole sections of filthy, rotting shacks to the ground. Fumigate houses with vinegar. Quarantine anyone wishing to leave the city for any reason. Prevent even the smallest gathering.
The rule of law
, he wrote.
Absolute obedience. For their own good
.

Wasn’t she proud of him then?

Isn’t she proud of him now, when he is at the Danube, negotiating peace with the vanquished Turks?

“Unfaithful, crass,” Panin counts off on his white, pudgy fingers. Grigory Orlov’s faults have been multiple and recurrent. With Orlov, it’s feast or famine, she hears. High stakes, quick temper or easy tears. “Surely, Your Majesty, there are limits to womanly endurance. Or, for that matter, gratitude.” At court, her body’s cravings are open secrets. Harbingers of seismic shifts. Her minister and right hand wishes his Empress to imagine the possibilities.

Lieutenant Potemkin is
not
one of them.

“Your Majesty has many more suitable admirers,” Panin says, with the indulgent smile of one receiving too many confessions. “Alexander Vasilchikov is modest, has impeccable manners,” Panin tempts. A respite, a reward in her busy life. Doesn’t she deserve that?

Catherine is not a mere woman. She is Russia’s Empress.

Lieutenant Potemkin is such a show-off. He relishes drama and grand gestures. He is greedy, insatiable. Plagued by moods that swing from ecstasy to despair.

She is tired of drama. She has an empire to run.

“Your Majesty deserves comfort and peace,” Panin cajoles. “The excellent young man I have in mind …”

The excellent young man Panin has in mind has beautiful black eyes. Alexander Vasilchikov tells amusing stories of a tamed squirrel that used to come to his boyhood room and beg for nuts. Or an orphan fox pup that grew up in his father’s kennels and learned to bark like dogs. Vasilchikov never frowns; his voice hides no thunder. His hands are warm and
dry; his lips soft like silk. He receives her many gifts with a sweet smile of gratitude.

Surely this is all she needs. A respite for the lover’s hour, caresses that fade away, leave her free for what is of true essence.

From the Danube, dispatches arrive daily. Grigory Orlov grows impatient with the negotiations. The Turks are haughty. They refuse to admit defeat. In the next note, another tone slithers like a serpent across the grass.
Just don’t forget, Katinka, that Panin has never liked us Orlovs. That he has always thought himself a cut above us all, you included …

Catherine reads these words twice, trying to pin down what irks her so much in them. That Grigory is constantly teaching her? Telling her what to think? Or that he is equaling the Orlovs and the Anhalt-Zerbsts? “He dares to presume”—her mother’s vigilant voice echoes in her thoughts.

Who is this Vasilchikov they tell me about?
Grigory Orlov writes in his dispatches.
What kind of folly is Panin feeding you now? Damn the blasted Turks. I’m on my way
.

She crumples his letters and tosses them into the fireplace.

You were the first to tire of me
, she writes back.
I wanted us to grow old together. It is you who have betrayed me, but when I turn away, you want me back. Am I your chattel? Your possession?

Panin has been right all along. She has been too patient. Too forgiving and for far too long. She is Empress. Busy with matters of state. Her time, her well-being, is vital. For her subjects. For Russia’s future. She needs to be soothed, not taught lessons. Loved, not lectured.

Summoned, Panin saunters into the room, barely able to hide his glee. His wig is perfumed with bergamot. There is a glint of gold in his mouth where a tooth has been strengthened with gold leaf. He, too, should be taught his place. Once and for all.

But she needs him now.

Grigory is on his way, and she, the Empress of Russia, is not going to demean herself by trying to reason with a raging bull.

“Advise me,” she orders Panin.

Panin obliges after a respectful bow. He has thought out the details already. Count Orlov, who has conquered the Moscow plague, cannot dispute the wisdom of quarantine. There have been reports of bubonic
plague in the south. Not too many, but enough to stop anyone coming from there for forty days.

Gatchina would do. It is a comfortable estate, easy to guard.

She scans Panin’s face for the slightest hint of irony. Eunuch-like, she thinks him, swollen with what she would like to believe is indifference but must be pride. Guard Grigory Orlov?

But Panin’s gray eyes are serious, his plans rational and precise.

Twenty, forty men, if needed. Muskets at the ready. Ears deaf to threats and pleas. Pockets immune to bribes. Her order is all Panin requires.

Yes
.

Time is on her side. Time will calm Grigory Orlov.

For now she must do whatever it takes to avoid words hurled in haste and pain. Words both of them will later regret.

“Is everything good?” Vasilchikov, her timid lover, asks. In his eyes there is unease. How do you tell a man that his caresses are too soft, his kisses too shallow?

In the shimmering glow of the Tsarskoye Selo afternoon, everything irks her. The
banya
is too hot. The rooms too cold, in spite of a blazing fire. Time stalls, drags, only to rush forward with frightening abandon. Images stick to her like tar. That moment almost twelve years ago, when, on the heady day of the coup, a young Horse Guard rushed to her side to give her his sword knot. Weren’t they already riding together, side by side, then?

She remembers the silky sheen of Grisha Potemkin’s hair, the flashes of sauciness in his eyes. Gestures, fast and bold. Thoughts that make her nipples grow tender against her stays.
He intrigues me, but I’m not besotted
. The unattainable tempts him. Potemkin wants to conquer, and what he conquers he will despise. She has known such a man already. She doesn’t wish such a man again.

The listless man who for the last few months has been allowed to enter her bedroom, who trails after her like a stray dog, repeats his question: “Is everything good? Am I pleasing you?”

These are not wise questions. They invite nothing but lies. They warn of weeping fits, sulky displays of distress. She feels a tug of guilt.

The Empress turns an hourglass upside down, watches the sand slide through the narrowing tunnel.

“You must excuse me now,” she mutters. “I’m tired. I wish to be alone.”

She throws herself into work.

One can be too successful, too bright, too visionary. In European games, power is thrown on the apothecary’s scales. If they do not balance, trouble ensues. Russian victories have made the Prussians uneasy and the Austrians frantic. The coded dispatches sent from court to court demand curtailing Russian gluttony.

How much would she give up for not fueling Turkish wrath?

She is tempted to give up nothing. For months, she pores over maps, adds and subtracts the numbers. How much does a war cost? How much does it bring in return? These are not crass calculations. Prussia and Austria want chunks of Poland.
The Empress of Russia can help herself to her share, too. A lion’s share
, Frederick of Prussia tempts.
Far greater than what we get
.

It’s a hard bargain. Isn’t Poland hers already? Isn’t Stanislav doing what she instructs him to?

How much shall she pay for peace? She cannot wage two wars, can she?

Giving up chunks of Poland? Is it worth it? What if she stalls? Refuses?

The Empire is like an old quilt in need of constant tending. As new patches are added, old ones thin and tear.

In the Urals, a Yaik Cossack is gathering disgruntled mine workers and runaway serfs. They have just attacked yet another estate. Robbed the cellars, stole the gold and silver and ran away. At the foundling hospitals, the mortality rate is 99 percent. Doctors give her long lectures on the balance of humors and declare the medical art helpless against the immoral habits of the poor. Paul, her son, has reached the age of majority and hints that Maria Theresa is teaching
her
son and heir how to rule.

The throne is a lonely place.

From Gatchina, Grigory Orlov is sending emissaries. Brothers, cousins,
even his old servants, whose toothless mouths blend pleas and spit. Grigory wants to see her, his beloved
matushka
, the only joy of his life, one last time. Only one. How can she deny it to him after all that has joined them? How can she be so cruel?

In her inner rooms, the timid lover’s voice quivers. Vasilchikov’s body gives off a whiff of stale cheese. He hasn’t seen her for three full days. She has not replied to his latest question. She walked away while he was still speaking.

The memory of his touch grows faint and fleeting. The lover’s hour is for caresses not accusations.

My mistake, my fault
, she thinks of him.
Made of desperation
.

Should she not have listened to Panin? Should she have sent for
him
, instead?

He, Potemkin, is at the Turkish front. There is nothing they say about him that she doesn’t know already. Nature has made Grisha a Russian peasant, and he won’t ever change. He fears bad omens. Trails after charlatans and tricksters. Chews on raw turnips. He’s moody. Indolent. Slovenly. Vain.

So why does he make friends faster than kvass breeds flies?

Her desk is piled high. Letters, proposals, petitions, drafts of treaties she needs to analyze and amend. Reports on the dyeing of silk, the feasibility of building a china manufactory, summaries of books she has no time to read. Five secretaries work around the clock and yet the tidal wave of papers does not diminish. “Still think you are better than me, Catherine?” the late Empress’s voice mocks. “That you can do it all alone?”

Lieutenant Potemkin appears at court unannounced. He throws himself at her feet, like the thespian he has always been. Her ladies-in-waiting scamper away, lean against the walls, blend into tapestries on which nymphs escape their pursuers, hunters aim arrows at giant stags.

A lean, pale face. A black patch over his left eye.
A Cyclops
, she recalls Grigory Orlov’s old taunt. Blacksmiths, she has since learned, cover one eye to minimize the power of flying sparks to blind them.

The same cleft chin, full lips. No longer a boy but a man toughened
by hardships.
Attacked and outnumbered by the enemy, he was the hero of the victory
.

Still in love with her after twelve long years.

You can see my zeal. You will never regret your choice. I am Your Imperial Majesty’s subject and slave
.

Let it be
, she thinks.
I won’t fight it anymore
. In her mind, for some time now, she has been making amends to the timid lover. An estate, a generous pension, a few trinkets from her latest Parisian shipment. How long will it take to move Vasilchikov’s things out? A day? Then another day for Grisha to move in. She already has her first gift to him: a promotion.

The simplicity of these arrangements tickles like an ostrich feather.

“Stand up, Lieutenant-General Potemkin,” she orders. “Your Empress is extremely grateful for all you have done for Russia. You are very, very dear to her heart.”

He rises with awkwardness, which amuses her greatly, and gives her a pained look. “Why is my Sovereign dismissing me?” he asks.

“Dismissing you?” Has she not just given him a sign? Could it be that she has not been clear enough? But deep inside her, she knows that he has read her thoughts and found them wanting.

His good eye doesn’t let go of her.

He shakes his auburn hair. He abhors coyness. He doesn’t care about promotions, but now that his Empress has just given him one, he is going back to the south to earn the honor. He thanks God Almighty that the peace treaty with the Ottoman Porte has not yet been signed. That there are still skirmishes on the border.

Her shoe grinds against the carpet. There will be a hole there, afterward, matching the size of her heel.

Grisha Potemkin does not flinch against her anger. His last words to her before he leaves are: “Step on me, obliterate me, or take note of my love.”

You won’t think of him
, Catherine orders herself.
It is that simple
.

Not easy, perhaps, but it can be done. There is her son’s wedding to plan and arrange. Guests to receive. To dazzle with how much she has achieved already.

If this is not enough of a distraction, in the Urals, the Yaik Cossack declares himself Peter III. “With the help of a faithful servant I’ve escaped my wife’s murderous hands,” he announces, clearly with someone’s expert help. “I’ve come back to free my people from this sinful German usurper. I’ve come to put my son on the throne that is rightfully his.”

The Cossack’s name is Emelyan Pugachev. Pugachev doesn’t resemble Peter. He is short, fat, and illiterate. He speaks only Russian. But those who wish to believe can accept even wilder tales. The mob the traitor commands is no longer robbing wine cellars and stealing silverware. Pugachev’s trail is that of slashed throats and spilled guts. It is moving east.

She knows them well. False Tsars. Usurpers commanding hordes of peasants. Filthy, bloodthirsty men who listen to their loins and their insatiable greed. Who want to bathe in blood and semen. Who sire nothing but terror and death.

How little it takes. Call yourself Peter. Or Elizabeth’s daughter. Convince a few fools and a few cutthroats first. Promise them rewards beyond their earthly ambitions. Make them think all is possible. Boundaries will fall. Barriers will be dismantled. Justice will shine on the smallest of them all.

Command through hope and fear. Coax and threaten. Offer dreams that dazzle with easy possibilities. Watch the human wave gather more riffraff, feed on disappointments, thwarted ambitions.