Empress of the Night (40 page)

She has merely unfolded the towels and spread them on the bedroom carpet, but even this seems too much for her growing bulk. “She buys these marzipan pigs,” Vishka grumbles. “Puts them on her nightstand like decorations. Then, every time she wakes up, she eats one.”

The Admiral is already waiting in the antechamber with a bowl of his seawater.

“Get some rest,” Catherine tells Queenie, “and send him in.”

Admiral Lambro-Cazzioni walks in, asks her how she slept, places the bowl on the towels Queenie has spread, and begins pouring seawater over her sore legs. Cupful after cupful.

Her feet look terrible. Her toenails are thick and yellowed; the skin is livid and covered with festering lesions. In spite of the Admiral’s promises, the seawater baths have not stopped the bleeding.

Even though the cold water brings some relief, it lasts only a moment. As soon as the flow stops, the pain returns.

The Admiral knows the imperial habits by now. He doesn’t try to linger longer than necessary or draw her into a conversation. He hasn’t yet asked for any favors, either. Perhaps this is why she still lets him attend to her, even though she is losing faith in his cure.

The Admiral’s unruly hair resembles a bird’s nest. His forehead is riddled with wrinkles; his temples sport fans of crow’s-feet. Yet there is something joyful about the old man. And he does try so hard to make her feel better.

“A Turkish pasha says to his doctor: ‘It hurts me when I press my foot. And when I press my arm. And when I press my ribs. Tell me what is wrong with me.’ So the doctor examines the pasha for a long time and finally says: ‘Your Highness has broken your royal finger!’ ”

As soon as Catherine bursts out laughing, the Admiral scoops up his porcelain basin and leaves. Queenie is already motioning for the maids to take the towels away.

The wooden pandora sent from the Imperial Wardrobe for her inspection this morning is modeling a loose satin gown, embroidered with golden oak leaves and acorns along the trim. The green cloth and red facings are the Preobrazhensky colors, mirroring her dashing uniform from the days of the coup.

The actual uniform hasn’t fit her for a long time, but Vishka assures her that it is well preserved, laid in a cedar chest, sprinkled with pepper. Awaiting some glorious placement, no doubt.

At Kunstkamera, perhaps? Beside Peter the Great’s stuffed horse?

The pandora doll’s polished wooden face has no eyes, no lips, and no ears. There is something disturbing about it, some stubborn memory of regret.

“Will this do?” Queenie asks, having reported that the imperial seamstresses
are in the frenzy of preparations. “The Grand Duchess will have the most sumptuous wardrobe.”

The word should be
trousseau
, but Queenie, whose eyes glitter with joy at the very mention of Alexandrine, will not tempt fate.

“It’ll do very well,” Catherine decides.

Platon’s little monkey is shivering in his arms. A cheeky fellow, fond of grabbing the wigs of courtiers and throwing them on the floor. Or pinching the hands that try to pet it. Vishka swears that the little beast is fond of defecating on the floor and then smearing its fingers in the filth.

Outside of her Tauride window, frogs croak. She should order Zotov to take her to the park in her rolling chair. Some fresh air might do her good.

Le Noiraud sets the monkey on one of the armchairs and ties its leash. The beast settles down immediately, resigned, and curls up for a sleep.

“Look,” he says, and extracts a piece of vellum paper from his breast pocket.

A certain Colonel Uspensky came to him this very morning, asking for admittance. “An elderly officer I didn’t recognize,” Le Noiraud says as she unfolds what turns out to be a petition. “Not a courtier. Not someone who has sat in the antechamber waiting for a chance. Someone whose account should be trusted.” In his voice, she can hear his tension. This story is not innocuous. It is aimed at someone.

Catherine puts on her spectacles and begins to read. Colonel Uspensky certainly doesn’t know how to present his case. He goes on too long about his past achievements. He was with Prince Potemkin at the storming of Ismail. He fought in both Turkish wars.
I have lived through the enemy’s capture. I have made my peace with death, though my sacrifice was not accepted
.

Only by the middle of the next page does it become clear that Uspensky is writing on his son’s behalf. A son who had no opportunity to serve his Motherland. A son who was foolish or unlucky enough to be drafted into a Gatchina unit.

At the mention of Gatchina, Catherine’s impatience evaporates.

My son doesn’t know I’m writing this, but I can no longer stay silent
.
He is all I have. His honor is my honor
.

The son, Captain Dmitri Vladimirovich Uspensky, has been imprisoned and stripped of his rank. Called a disgrace to his family and a traitor to his command. The father’s questions on the nature of this transgression have remained unanswered.

Refused permission to see my son’s commander, I traveled to the Gatchina Village. I was stopped at the gate and demanded to declare my business. Having been warned by well-wishers, I disguised myself as a merchant and was able to present various tools for smithing
.

As I was let in, the hour of my arrival was recorded. I was told to leave Gatchina before dusk and denied permission to visit any houses or accept any hospitality
.

I sold my wares quickly, but my questions if anyone heard about my son’s crime were met with averted eyes and silence. I left in despair, but by the Lord’s grace, a few
versts
outside the village I saw a young lad on foot. Since he looked tired and thirsty, I offered him a ride in my carriage. Having accepted my offer, he confirmed that he was indeed a resident of Gatchina permitted to spend two nights away on his business. I invited him to partake of refreshments at a roadside tavern, where he soon became talkative. After some coaxing, he told me that the Gatchina soldiers are punished for every deviation from the rules, which change often and without notice. The lad swore that the Grand Duke himself observes his troops from the palace balcony with a spying glass, and nothing escapes his attention
.

I have learned that my son, Your Most Esteemed Highness, has been beaten and deprived of his rank, because his pigtail was half an inch too long
.

Le Noiraud is watching her. There is hope in his eyes and also a sly shadow of satisfaction. He lacks the skills to hide what he has sense enough not to say. Her son, Paul, never a shining genius of this court, is a petty and vindictive tyrant.

She has always believed that a court is the best test of character. Rich soil where men can grow and flourish. Or whither and rot.

“You’ve done well to bring this to me,” she tells him.

Dinner is served the way she likes it. Plain food. Boiled beef. Fish soup. Cucumbers with honey. And in the center of the table, the dish she always requests: potatoes. Today they are served in two ways: boiled, mashed, topped with melted butter; and fried with lard into crisp squares.

Potato plants are much better than grains at staving off hunger. Easier to cultivate, more nutritious, resistant to many of the diseases grains succumb to. This is not her opinion but a simple truth, scientifically backed. And yet in spite of her efforts, Russians are not convinced.

The mandrake family, they used to tell her. The plants of the dark, of poison. Now they no longer call potatoes poisonous, or Devil’s food. But they still ask how food dug out from dirt could be superior to grains that ripen under the sun? And why were potatoes not mentioned in the Bible? Peasants still spit when they look at the misshapen bulbous roots. Why not keep them for the hogs and other beasts? they ask.

She has a plot of potatoes in all her kitchen gardens. She insists the bulbs must be served at all court functions, to set an example. But it is not the rich and powerful who need potatoes, but the poor. Why does it have to be so hard to bring progress? Why are human minds such stubborn creatures of habit? And why do those who least can afford it resist the most?

At this small family dinner, Alexander sits at her right. Elizabeth is beside him, attentive in a wifely fashion. Then Constantine with Anna, who is particularly quiet today. Apparently she is now sorry she had to leave the Marble Palace. “So soon?” she asked when the footmen came to pack her things.

On her left is Le Noiraud, pecking at his food like a bird. A few morsels of beef. A spoonful of mashed potatoes. Queenie is convinced he is worried about his digestion. He has been eating sprigs of mint and parsley, chewing rhubarb, and drinking sienna tea.

Alexandrine has come with Madame Lievens. The chief governess of
the imperial princesses is not looking her best today. Summer heat makes her pant. Sweat has made a ragged trail on her rouged cheek.

The talk at the table is of the Swedish guests. Their tact and consideration. Madame Lievens declares them most generous in their admiration. The King in particular praises everything he sees.

“When are you going to Gatchina again, Alexander?” Catherine asks her grandson.

“Tomorrow,” Alexander replies. He throws her a cautious look, probing the possibility of her displeasure. It is hard to hide her feelings from Alexander. But she manages to make her next words sound casual.

“Your presence will bring your parents a great pleasure,” she says. “It will take your mother’s mind off the baby. I hear that she distresses herself over nothing.”

Nicholas, the newest Romanov arrival, is big and healthy. The wet nurses laugh that he sucks their milk like a giant leech. His face is plain but wholesome, like his mother’s. And his disposition is so sunny! There is no unnecessary crying, no fuss when none is required.

“After dinner, Alexander,” she tells her grandson, “I want you to come with me to my study. There is something I need your advice on.”

Alexander takes a quick sip of water before he nods.

The rest of the dinner proceeds with usual hilarity. Alexandrine is teased about the handsome Swedish King. Anna frets about a delayed shipment of bonnets. Elizabeth takes Alexandrine’s hand and the two promise to go off to the garden as soon as their presence is not required. Catherine need not have worried about these tête-à-têtes. They talk of such trivial matters, her two princesses. They fret over invisible blemishes on their skin. The difficulty of contredanse. The need to rest before evening entertainments. Their conversations can last for hours like that.

Is this why Alexander is tired of his wife? He has been brought up on conversations that satiate curiosity, bring satisfaction. Elizabeth, like Anna, adores stories of star-crossed lovers, fiery confessions of passion and longing. Alexander’s wife makes excellent progress in Russian, she is smart, but there is little passion in anything she attempts, and even less purpose. As if, in the end, it were all the same, a conversation with a scholar or empty gossip with her sisters-in-law.

Elizabeth won’t keep Alexander’s attention for very long if she continues
like this, the Empress thinks. She will have to drink pain and disappointment. Unless children come and give her days meaning.

Alexander follows her to the study, casting his eyes about as if he expected someone to be there.

She arranges her lips into the most motherly of smiles. “I’ve received this only yesterday,” she tells him, handing her grandson Colonel Uspensky’s letter.

Alexander reads carefully, lips pursed. The letter is accompanied with a report confirming Uspensky’s reputation and the validity of his request. Young Uspensky has indeed been given a beating and imprisoned for the length of his pigtail.

Her grandson’s jaw is squared; his hands tremble slightly.

“Please, Alexander,” Catherine asks softly. “Perhaps you could use your influence at Gatchina to help a man who deserves help. If I make a request, it will be misconstrued as interference. Will you do it for me?”

Alexander nods and she watches him leave, the letter folded quickly and slipped into his breast pocket.

“Do you think our little Olga ever comes back to watch us?” Alexandrine asked her once.

Saint Olga, Olga Prekrasna, Olga the Beautiful. Saint Olga of ancient Russ who avenged her husband’s death, who set fire to the houses of her enemies by sending them doves with burning scraps of paper tied to their feet.

“No, Alexandrine,” Catherine replied. “The dead don’t come back.”

What does Alexandrine remember? A room filled with candles, a small coffin set on brocade and velvet. The air heavy with the scent of mint, chamomile, and the sweet, heady
ladan
, the herbs of the dead. A child’s head topped with a ribboned cap on a pink satin cushion trimmed with lace. Her lips almost white and paper thin. “Too good for this world,” someone mutters.

Olga Pavlovna, Alexandrine’s little sister, is dead. The baby had such wide shoulders when she was born, it took two full days for her to come
out of her mother’s womb. “Another girl for me to marry off,” Catherine had thought then.

For weeks before Olga died, the girl could not stop eating. As soon as one meal was finished, she would scream for another. Hard-boiled eggs, thick slices of buttered bread, pieces of smoked herring. Sorrel soup, beets, roasted potatoes, greasy
lardons
.

“More,” she screamed, insatiable in her hunger, as soon as a plate was taken away from her. “More,” she screamed when her nurses protested that she had had enough.

They tried to distract her with stories of sacred birds. Sirin, kangan alkonost, fabulous birds of paradise, wise birds with women’s faces that could calm the sea and enchant those who heard their song.

But Olga shut her ears. Then the fever came. Sweaty, persistent. Glassy eyes, crimson cheeks. Head thrashing on the pillow, cries of pain. Day after day, hours of racking pain. So cruel that death came as a release.

Grieving, too, is insatiable, Catherine thinks. Like woodworms, it burrows greedily through what seems solid to the careless eye. It leaves corridors of pain in its path. It weakens a structure.