Empress of the Night (28 page)

She makes another effort to speak—useless, like all the others. She thinks of the winter market. Carcasses of pigs, cows, sheep, oxen standing on stiff, frozen legs. Constantine’s eyelashes flutter when he looks down at her, but then he averts his eyes as if her humiliation is an embarrassment he doesn’t want to witness.

“Your Highness.” The chaplain’s voice is reedy. “It is time. May we begin?”

The wind is moaning in the chimney. Constantine nods and stands up. Zotov hands him a glass of water, which he empties in one gulp. He is still frowning, and she feels a rush of pity for her younger grandson. Pity for a child lashed by desires, torn apart by passions he cannot control.

Her head aches. Someone is fumbling with the fireplace, flinging logs into the hearth. Sparks are flying up the chimney; cinders are leaping out of the grate. For a moment the room is brighter, but then it darkens again.

Constantine has loosened the collar of his jacket. His cheeks are flushed.
He must have drunk vodka
, she thinks,
not water
.

I am the living bread … If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever
.

The liquid that seeps out of her mouth is very bitter. Breathing is so slow.

The chaplain crosses himself.

O Physician and Helper of them that are suffering, O Redeemer and Savior of them that are in affliction … have mercy on her who has grievously sinned, and deliver her, O Christ, from her iniquities, that she may glorify Thy divine power
.

Constantine is chewing something nervously. There is a nick on his chin, a line of dry blood. “They are on their way,” he says. “All of them. Papa. Maman. My sisters.”

He does not mention Alexander.

For a moment Catherine is terrified that something terrible has happened. What if the French assassin chose him for his target? What if Alexander is lying somewhere, his skull cracked open, blood seeping into the soil? Unable to take on what he has promised.

She holds a memory of Constantine, thrashing like the Devil. Trampling the flowers. Her beautiful tulips the gardeners tended with such care. Red and white petals bruised, broken, and Constantine standing amid the debris, tearing the green stems with his teeth. Screaming. “Look at me! Look at
me
!”

A child jealous of the flowers.

She doesn’t want to look at him now. Through the gathering darkness she can make out some long, wavy smudges right above him. Is it a trick of the shadows? The wavy lines multiply and thicken. When they finally straighten, they are like bars of an enormous cage.

3:05
P
.
M
.

The line of her life is not broken yet.

A woman of sixty-seven can have an attack of apoplexy and recover. It may leave scars, but she will learn to live with them. If she cannot walk, she will be wheeled. If she cannot speak, she will write.

I still have time
, Catherine thinks.
I’ll hear thunder; I’ll see lightning
.

Hail may flatten the tulips in the garden, but a rainbow will still appear
.

Pain will go away, or I’ll live with it
.

Through the veil of her eyelashes she sees the mirror again, pressed against her lips. In it a wrinkled face, lips twisted in a rigid grimace, slowly disappears behind a moist, foggy film.

This is my breath
, she thinks.
I’m alive
.

3:40
P
.
M
.

Le Noiraud hunches his shoulders, lets out his breath. Gingerly, as if she were a porcelain doll, he touches her arm, the one that lies on top of the blanket with which Zotov has covered her. The skin on his knuckles is reddish, frozen once in a winter long gone, unable to return to the pale waxy whiteness that is his pride.

Tears flow down her lover’s rouged cheeks. He wipes them with the back of his hand. Then he wipes it on the lapel of his jacket. Ivory white, now stained with rouge.

I gave you this jacket
.

Her nostrils discern the smell of burnt paper. Tin flecks of ash have stuck to his hair, his sideburns.

What have you burnt? Your accounts, ledgers, lists of the gifts I’ve given you? My words? My orders?

There is a stir at the door, a shuffle; an angry voice insists on something.

Le Noiraud’s hands are trembling. His eyes dart to the door and back to her.

Fear doesn’t become him.

“You are not dying, Katinka,” he mutters. “They are all wrong.”

The memory that comes is of an afternoon in Tsarskoye Selo, right after the lover’s hour. The Gallery is bathed in dappled sunlight. The black iron chairs are set in a circle; the hot fragrant tea is sweetened with Astrakhan honey, the same the cook has poured on cucumber slices. Platon is sitting beside her, resplendent in his silver-trimmed ensemble, a hint of black stubble on his chin.

Mulling over the memories of her pleasure?

Paul and Maria Fyodorovna have just joined them. On their scrubbed faces she can read the resolution to be agreeable, not to give the slightest offense. Paul declares the most recent renovations a vast improvement. “Less glitter, more elegance,” he says approvingly, seeing Elizabeth’s gilding gone, replaced by discreet Wedgwood braids. So much for the loyalty of a snatched child. The living Empress trumps the dead one.

Her daughter-in-law dutifully admires the statues in the Gallery. Demosthenes and Cicero, so thoughtful and beautifully serene, she exclaims. “No wonder the boys love playing here so much. I just hope they don’t cause any damage.”

The princes of the realm are not truant boys. They are never unsupervised. Ever since they were born, she, their grandmother, made sure of that. No matter how hard it is for her daughter-in-law to accept it, important lessons are best learned through play.

She won’t say it, though. No need to spoil a pleasant afternoon.

The conversation moves on to a painting she has just bought. A bunch of tulips arranged in a crystal vase, their white petals streaked with yellow and pink. One of the petals has fallen off already onto the lace-trimmed tablecloth. A dewdrop glitters on it. A
vanitas
painting, the dealer called it, portraying the transience of life. In the background, on the same tablecloth, one can discern the shapes of an hourglass and a crumbled piece of bread.

Le Noiraud shifts in his chair. There is a twinkle in his eyes, a promise of mischief to liven up what he considers a boring moment. From his
chest pocket he extracts Holberg’s
Moral Thoughts
. He has taken to opening the book seemingly at random, though Catherine knows he has marked the passages with pieces of ribbon, for different occasions. Red for a warning on some human frailty. Yellow for a clever and cynical twist. Green for a hopeful turn of thought.

You are happy if you imagine yourself happy
, he reads aloud.

“Is that what you do?” she asks, smacking him playfully with her fan. “Just imagine yourself happy?”

Philosophy and wit may not be Le Noiraud’s strong suits, but he will manage. He will extricate himself with his usual charm. Some flowery declaration will make her laugh.

She can already see a twinkle in her lover’s eye.

But this is not what happens next, on that dappled afternoon, with the busts of ancient sages looking at them with their marble eyes.

Paul, her pug-nosed son, is flapping his arms, a big marsh bird gathering his strength. “I fully agree with Platon Alexandrovich!” he declares.

Le Noiraud leans back in his chair. His long legs stretch forward, his hands fold behind his neck. “Have I said something stupid?” he asks.

Is this what Le Noiraud remembers now? Is this what is sending shots of terror down his spine?

4:05
P
.
M
.

The screen has been moved closer. It now stretches at the foot of the bed, blocking the curious glances of those who pass by. Someone has thought of her comfort.
Alexander
, she thinks. He must have ordered the screen. Her gratitude is so profound that it chokes her. In small gestures like this lies true greatness.

Her valiant knight, her warrior, her heir.

From behind the screen comes Count Bezborodko’s wheedling voice; the Vice-Chancellor is placating someone. “Your Highness,” she hears, “my profound and unwavering devotion.”

Alexander—for it surely must be her grandson’s figure looming in the misty blur—is wearing Preobrazhensky greens with red facings. The uniform she herself wore on the day of the coup.

Alexander, her true child, her prince, looks stricken.

I’m afraid
, his face says.

Fear has to be conquered, Alexander, locked deep inside. Away from the face
.

Fear melts the will
.

4:08
P
.
M
.

“Is the Empress in much pain, doctor?” Alexander asks. He is no longer sitting beside her. This is why his voice comes to her muted.

“I cannot tell, Your Highness,” Rogerson answers. He opens his hands like a child showing he has washed them well.

“Can we still hope?”

“There is always hope, Your Highness, for there is no end to God’s mercy,” the doctor says.

Why is Rogerson not looking at her? Why is he talking as if she were no longer here? As if life was a secret from which she has been excluded?
Durak
, she thinks.
A fool
. To him she is already a vessel filled with bile, blood, humors, secretions. Of rot, of excrement, of sour vomit.

This, too, has happened before.

That night when she gave birth. A womb, not a woman.

The past is threatening to snag her again, suck her into its darkness. Beside her, on the side table, there is a small mirror in a silver frame, one of the few things from Zerbst she managed to keep. It was a present from her beloved governess, Babette. Babette, who had cried so bitterly that winter when the news came of the approaching journey. “To Berlin” was all she was allowed to tell her. Russia was still a secret, her fate there unknown. “But you cannot come with me. I’ll write to you, I promise. Tell you everything I see and hear.”

The look in Babette’s eyes is what she recalls. The hurt, the pain, the disappointment all rolled into one.

“I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

All lies.

All necessary.

Is this how friendships break? With one look? Or in silence?

Queenie is dipping a cloth in a basin and wiping her lips.

The cloth is not wrung properly; drops of water roll down her neck, onto her shoulder, and sink into the mattress. The sensation is not unpleasant.

Poor dear Queenie. Fidgeting. Unable to be still, her gaze bewildered.

How have our lives become so tangled?

She remembers Queenie’s arrival at court, the days long gone when she was still merely Anna Stepanovna Protasova, the Orlovs’ ugly cousin, an old maid of thirty-four. There has been some awkwardness of introductions, some misgivings about having the Orlovs’ spy about her person, but they have all melted in time.

Queenie’s fingers plump the pillows, adjust the folds of the blanket. Strong, warm fingers of a loving soul. Delicate. Soothing.

Touching her.

Somewhere, far away, a dog howls in pain, filling her with sorrow so heavy her chest feels crushed. As if there were no boundary between her body and that pain.

4:10
P
.
M
.

A lanky man with a pug nose approaches the foot of her bed.

He is my son. His name is Paul. I don’t like him
.

Her son has installed himself in a small room off the Imperial Bedroom, where she used to keep her most beloved books. The room has no other door, and everyone who goes in or out has to pass by her bed. The servants hurry with furniture: the writing table, the armchairs, the daybed.

Pages in bright red livery hover by the door, ready to run errands and carry messages. Their gazes slide away from her bed. Have they abandoned her already? Or are they still placing bets on the shape the future might take?

Paul, his face stiff like a mask, turns to his wife, who is sobbing loudly. “The Empress of Russia is dying! May God Almighty guide us in our time of trouble!”

4:15
P
.
M
.

A rustle of a skirt, a flash of white lace. A hand places blossoms on her pillow. A cloud of white blooms.

“Can you hear me, Graman? It’s me, Alexandrine. Please, Graman, look at me.”

A fresh and simple smell, sweet almond mixed with rose petals.

The child bends and kisses her hand, which is not at all required. Then she places another kiss, this time on her cheek. A delicate, warm caress, a brush of a butterfly wing.

Her granddaughter is wearing an unbecoming gown of stiff brown taffeta. Her hair is pulled away from her face, tied in the back.

There is a memory in which Alexandrine, still a baby, stumbles away from her nurse’s arms straight into the Tsarskoye Selo pond, trips, and falls. By the time the nurse lifts her up, the child’s face has become livid, spattered with mud. The stem of a water lily clings to her granddaughter’s cheek. For a terrifying moment, she thinks the girl is dead. But then, Alexandrine gasps and begins to scream.

Her granddaughter is alive. Merely frightened by what she cannot, yet, comprehend.

4:20
P
.
M
.

“
I won’t let you go, Katinka
.

Wake up! Remember what happened before the fall!

Think!
”