Rasputin's Daughter (11 page)

He looked awful, as if he’d just aged twenty years, and for a brief moment I felt a pang of worry. His hair fell every which way like a field of wheat after a summer storm, his face was pallid, and his eyes were red. He was dressed terribly too, wearing a dirty pair of baggy pants and an unbelted tunic of coarse cotton.

“I had another dream…another vision…”

“Please, Father Grigori,” coaxed Dunya. “Just tea and a little food. Then you’ll feel better, I promise.”

They led Papa along, Dunya on one side and Varya on the other. Back home there was a bent old man who lived in a falling-down hut, and we taunted him mercilessly, calling him a starii xhren-an old piece of horseradish. Right here and now, that was my father. Had he fallen into a pool of remorse? Had he begged God’s forgiveness for the way he’d treated that woman? I could only hope so.

I stood motionless behind my chair as Dunya poured some tea concentrate from the small pot atop the shiny samovar, to which she added hot water from the spigot. As if it were nothing but cool water from a stream back home, he downed the glass in one gulp. Dunya then poured him another, which he likewise drank to the bottom. And another. Papa sometimes drank as many as fifty glasses of tea in a day, but never like this, as eagerly as a sunburned man just in from the desert. Finally, with his fourth glass in hand, he sat down. Only then did the three of us take our seats.

“What is it, Papa? What did you see?” begged Varya, her smooth young brow wrinkled with concern.

“Blood. I have seen the entire River Neva running with blood.”

Her eyes suddenly beading with tears, Varya pressed, “Whose blood, Papa?”

“The blood of the grand dukes.”

“Oh,” Varya said, not without a bit of relief.

Dunya spoke up softly. “Please, Father Grigori, you mustn’t say such things. Talk like that will only scare the girls, it will only-”

“I’m not scared,” I interjected defiantly.

“Let us pray!” intoned Papa, reaching out.

Beneath the heavy bronze chandelier, with Papa at one end of the table and Dunya at the other, we clasped hands and bowed our heads.

“Dear Heavenly Father, I beseech you to come to the aid of us, your miserablest children who seek Thine forgiveness. We will sin no more. I pray unto you, Thou, to grant us salvation, to drive away our enemies, both those within our borders and beyond. O God, O Wondrous Lord, how can one fail to believe?! The street is crooked, but ahead layest only one destination, and we struggle there on foot. We believe heartily, Thine Lord, and woe unto those who does not! The waves of calumny can only be stilled by good deeds, but it is true, there is far more sickness on land than in your great sea. So in you, Thee, O Lord, O God, help us rejoice, so that in your miracles of forgiveness we find everlasting peace. Ahmeen.”

“Ahmeen,” chimed Dunya and Varya in chorus.

When I failed to speak, Dunya glared at me, and I reluctantly muttered, “Ahmeen.”

As a child I never understood my father’s prayers. Nor did I this evening. What was different about tonight, however, was that I no longer felt awed by my father’s words or his supposed wisdom. I only felt something…something sad, even pathetic.

Papa took a piece of bread in his hand, put a single large pickle on it, and stuffed it into his mouth. It was gone in two bites.

“Wine!” Papa commanded.

“Yes, Father Grigori,” replied Dunya, pushing back her chair and getting up from the table.

Disappearing into the kitchen, Dunya quickly returned, not with a mere glass of wine but with a full bottle. As she poured Papa a glass, however, I could tell it was not with pleasure. Of course Dunya understood that Papa’s physical pain was as great as his mental anguish, but I knew it hurt her terribly to see Papa drink as many as twelve bottles of Madeira in a night, as he had done a number of times in the last month alone. How, I thought for the first time, could my father consume so much and still stand? Indeed, how could he claim to be so blessed and have so many gifts and yet be blind to his gross mistakes, which even I could now see so clearly?

Papa grabbed another piece of bread and piled it with salted herring, an entire stuffed egg, and a ring of onion, all of which he gobbled down like a wild animal. Next, still with his bare hand, he reached into the bowl of jellied fish heads, pulled out a whole cod head, and swallowed it.

“The other day I greatly offended a woman because I ate with my hands and didn’t use a napkin. She even gasped out loud when I wiped my mouth with my beard like this.” Papa chuckled as he pulled up the bristly ends of his beard and cleaned his mouth. “Tell me, girls, does it bother either of you?”

Varya, who was eating a salted pickle dipped in sour cream, grinned and shook her head.

I, on the other hand, blurted out, “Of course it does. It’s awful and…and embarrassing. Why haven’t you ever learned how to eat like a normal civilized person?”

“Maria!” gasped Dunya, horrified. “You mustn’t speak to your father like that!”

Papa only laughed. By court standards, let alone the etiquette of good society, his manners were atrocious, no better than a dog’s. He knew it, exulted in it, and flaunted it, particularly in the presence of the proper titled folk of Petrograd. Any number of times I had watched him wipe his filthy hands on the fine silk dresses, fur coats, or ties of his guests. Any number of times I had watched him order a princess to lick his filthy fingers clean. After a while his devotees understood and even begged for such treatment. Yes, they pleaded for Papa to do such rude things to them. Like washing the feet of Christ, it was all about meekness, submission, and mortification of the flesh.

“No, no, it’s quite all right,” Papa insisted. “My little Marochka speaks the truth of her heart, as she must. As must every Rasputin. And indeed as must every person. And it’s true: I never learned how to eat with the weapons of the court, those forks and knives!”

This, actually, was why Papa always came home from the palace of the Tsar ravenous. After zakuski he could never manage anything but soup. All the rest he could barely take a stab at, literally.

“But do you know why I have never learned, Marochka, my sweet one? Do you know why it’s important to eat with your hands?”

Of course I did. He’d told us not once or twice but a million times. And yet I said nothing.

Finally my little sister blurted it out. “I know! Because Xhristos and the Apostles did.”

“Absolutely correct, Varichka. It’s a rule of the Apostles to use your hands, and that’s why I never cut bread but break it, just as they did. And also why I eat fish and never meat.”

“I’ve never seen you eat a single piece of meat, Papa. Not ever,” said Varya.

“That’s right-never! Meat blackens one’s soul, whereas fish brings clarity and light. I learned this when I was a boy-even before my vision of the Virgin of Kazan. It started one summer night when one of my grandfather’s best horses injured himself and fell lame. This beautiful horse could do nothing but hobble, so I took hold of his bad leg. I clung to the leg, but my grandfather kept telling me it was hopeless, there was nothing to do, and he went to get a gun to shoot the poor thing.”

“No!” gasped Varya.

“Oh, yes. But I took hold of that bad leg and held it in my strong young hands. And do you know what I did, girls? I threw back my head and closed my eyes and I prayed with all my being! I prayed to Xhristos for healing, for compassion, for blessing. And I took the pain from the horse’s bad leg and sucked it into my body and out the top of my head…and then I said to the horse, ‘There is no pain-walk!’ And by the time my grandfather returned with his gun, the horse was just fine, even trotting around a little. Yes, my grandfather’s favorite horse lived for ten more years, never limping again.”

“It’s true,” said Dunya, her voice just above a whisper as she chewed on a piece of bread. “Six people witnessed the healing, and they still talk of it today!”

Yes, I thought as I sat there in silence. People in our village still talked of my father’s first healing, but…but…

“Mind you, I am not Xhristos. I can heal no one, I only do His work. It was the Lord God who healed that beautiful creature, and I only served as His vehicle. But right then and there I understood that all beasts are our brothers,” Papa continued, “and I’ve never eaten meat again, not once. And every day since, my powers have grown. Such is the rule of the Apostles and the powers of fish.”

“Is that why you don’t eat pastries or sweets?” asked Varya.

“Scum! Nothing but scum! I never eat sweet things and you shouldn’t either, little girl! In fact, Dunya, we must not allow it anymore! We must tell all those who come to leave their tortes and their sweet pies at the door! We mustn’t let such foul things as sweets into this house ever again!”

“As you wish, Father Grigori.”

I watched in disgust as my father swiped one of his greasy hands through his coarse beard, leaving bits of food here and there. He poured himself another full glass of wine, which he drank down in one enormous swig.

“Dunya, fetch us soup while I talk to the girls.”

“Yes, Father Grigori.”

Dunya, who was simply glad to have my father walk the floors she mopped, was only too happy to get up and clear the table of zakuski. As she did so, Papa reached out and clasped my hand in his right and Varya’s hand in his left. I tried to pull free, but my father’s meaty, calloused grasp only tightened.

“Great is the peasant in the eyes of God!” declared my father, uttering his favorite phrase yet again. “I have brought you, my precious daughters, here to the capital city, but I see trouble ahead. When things erupt, when this trouble flows through the streets, you must retreat from this decadent capital. You must flee to the place we have come from-our village. There, with your mother in the bosom of your family, you will find safety.”

“Papa,” begged Varya, “I don’t understand. Where will you be? You’ll come too, won’t you?”

“My work is nearly at an end, my child. There will soon come a time when I am gone, and then so will the court be gone and all the riches that you see here in the Tsar’s city. Into this void dangerous waters will flood, drowning those who refuse to repent. And when this happens, you must repent with all your heart and flee that very moment.”

I looked at my sister and saw fear ripple across her face, but I felt nothing. Didn’t everyone see the dark waters swirling at his feet?

“Simply believe in the Divine power of love, my daughters, my beautiful girls,” he said, in his rich, deep voice. “Believe in that, and you will find safety of heart and peace of mind in Thine God, O Lord.” Papa tossed down another glass of wine. “One day you will marry. And in that marriage, you must find truth and honesty. Never forget, my children, that though there are a man and a woman in marriage, the success of that union depends on one thing-that it beats not with two hearts but with one. Do you understand, my little ones?”

Averting my eyes, I managed to say, “Yes, Papa.”

“Keep your hearts simple and your minds clear, and you will find God. Eat kasha for breakfast, for it is the caviar of the people. Bake it in the oven until it’s hot and firm, never mushy.”

As timid as a mouse, Varya ventured, “I’ll always serve it with crispy onions and mushrooms, just as you like it, Papa.”

“Yes, good! Very good!” Papa caught sight of Dunya carrying two large wide-rimmed bowls of soup. “And don’t forget that every meal must have soup! Without soup, your family and your guests will be poor both in spirit and in health!”

“Yes, Father Grigori, soup feeds the soul, does it not?” said Dunya, proudly setting down a steaming bowl in front of him.

“Absolutely. And there is nothing better for the soul than fish soup! Fish soup all the time!”

“Fish soup!” cheered Varya.

Which is exactly what it was: cod soup. Papa loved cod above all other fish, and we ate it once, if not twice, each and every day, either jellied as a zakuska, boiled as a soup, or fried as a main course. Sometimes Dunya made cod soup merely from the juices left over from jellied fish heads, adding cream and a bit of chopped root of ginger-Papa claimed this was his magical soup, the one that would guarantee a strong, long life-but tonight whole pieces of cod floated in the thick creamy mixture.

By the time Dunya brought out the other bowls, Papa was well into his dish, slurping and gobbling down whole pieces of fish. He clutched the large spoon like the peasant he was, in his fist. I remembered the first time Papa had taken me to the palace, how the Tsar and his family had sat across from Papa and me, how the finely behaved imperial children had stared at Papa as he crudely gobbled down a bowl of Villager’s Soup chock full of whitefish and salmon, shrimp and pickles. I was sure their mother, the Empress, would have banished them to a far wing of the palace for eating like that, but the four girls and the heir were not watching Papa in disgust. No, he was Father Grigori to them, the most mystical of people, a man of Siberia and of course a man of God, and they were as fascinated and transfixed by him as I was by their father, God’s Own Anointed, the Tsar Nikolai II. More important, the royal children never saw, let alone talked with, anyone but courtiers, so my father, with his loud laughter, warm kisses, and endless stories of Siberian tigers and bears, was something incredible to them. He was both surreal and yet more real than anyone they had ever before seen or experienced in their sheltered lives.

Glancing at my sister, I noted that she held the spoon just as we’d been taught and ate her soup politely-not in big slurps and gulps but slowly, quietly, properly. Yes, we had been taught well at our school for daughters of good families. How odd, I thought, for the first time. While Papa had always fiercely clung to his Siberian manners and traditions, he had arranged for them slowly to be washed from both of us, his cherished daughters.