Rasputin's Daughter (12 page)

Papa poured the last of the Madeira into his glass, took a large drink, and said, “I eat only fish not as part of a diet to prove my faith. No, my sweet children, my thoughts are more sincere than that. Fish is part of a path, a path illuminated by the Apostles, who showed us that by eating fish their bodies were never darkened. People who eat meat have dark bodies, you see, but the Apostles didn’t, not at all. Instead, they found light, they found the Divine way.”

“How did they find that?” asked Varya.

“How? I’ll tell you how! The Apostles ate so much fish, morning, noon, and night, that light started coming from their bodies. Beams of light. At first no one could see it, but then it began to grow until this sweet light glowed around their heads. Yes, they had halos right above their very own heads. And this light, which came from fish, showed them the way, the Divine path.”

Never before tonight had I questioned my father. Never before this evening had I doubted him. But staring at this man with the beastly hair on his head and that thicket on his cheeks, this crude man with bits of food hanging from his mouth and from his filthy, greasy fingers, how could I not? How could he have mistreated that woman, and how could he now drink so much? How could he dress so terribly, and how could he not care for money and the things we, his family, needed? And these words he spoke: Where did they come from? What did they mean? I stared at my father, wondered how many women he’d groped in his study-hundreds?-and understood for the first time why so many people hated him. Was he nothing more than an insane peasant from the distant forests, as his enemies claimed?

“But Papa,” I challenged, “you eat so much fish, why isn’t there a halo over your head too? You claim to be a man of God, so why should the Apostles have halos and not you?”

My father dropped his spoon into his bowl, chipping an edge of the cheap china, and turned and glared at me with those deep icy-blue eyes. But the eyes were not steady; they searched my body, my face, my thoughts. My heart started pounding. Everyone claimed to be frightened of my father’s penetrating eyes, of his hands that never seemed to stop moving. But before me I saw not the man whose name was on the lips of every person in the country, not Father Grigori or Rasputin or Grishka. No, I saw my very own father, and I refused to be intimidated. After all, who was he, this man who insisted that everyone speak the truth? Nothing but a fraud? A charlatan? So I glared back at him, my eyes not as deep as his, or as blue, but every bit as radiant, I was sure. In response, this deep, guttural sound emerged from my father’s throat, an angry sound like a tiger ready to pounce.

Not intimidated, I couldn’t stop myself from pressing the point, as I asked, “So why can’t I see your halo?”

Her own voice trembling, our dear Dunya muttered, “But, child, it’s right there.”

Not taking my eyes off my father, I demanded, “Right where?”

“Why, there above his head. Can’t you see the faint glow?”

I couldn’t, so I turned to Dunya and in her face saw nothing but confidence, nothing but total belief. She saw something, of course she did, but what? Glancing at my sister, I found her staring right at me, and I spied in her young face nothing but fear and disbelief. No, total shock, that was it. How did I dare question our larger-than-life father? And yet as I gazed at him, I saw nothing. I stared and checked, even squinted, but above that crazy mass of hair was…a void.

I was not going to lie, particularly not today when I’d witnessed what had gone on in my father’s study. Full of certainty, my head moved, shaking slowly from side to side. Who was I if I did not practice what Papa had taught me all these years? Who was I if I did not espouse the heavenly beliefs he had instilled in my heart? Better yet, who was he?

It was still there, that blank space above Papa’s head, and I stared at the invisible place, and said, “I don’t see a thing.”

All of a sudden, like an eagle grabbing its prey from a river, Papa jabbed his fingers into his bowl of soup and scooped up not one, not two, but three large pieces of milky cod. He threw his catch into his bearded mouth and down his gullet, consuming it all in nearly one swallow.

As spidery traces of creamy soup swirled on his hairy chin, my father shouted to Dunya, “The lights!”

Her eyes aflame with conviction, Dunya threw back her chair, nearly tipping it over. As quickly as she could muster, she hurried to the wall, where with a slap of her hand she pushed the light button. In one single snap, the heavy bronze chandelier went dark. At first the room was black and then slowly, every so faintly, red-in the “beautiful” corner of the room an oil lamp burned before an icon of the Virgin Mary.

“Bow your heads, my children, and pray! Pray, I tell you!” roared my father in the blood-red darkness. “Pray as if your lives were about to end!”

As if he were smashing a mouse with his bare fist, my father’s paw came whooshing downward, trapping my hand beneath his. I tried to pull away but could not. On the other side, Dunya came clambering back to the table, her hand feeling all about for mine, finally finding my fingers and clinging to them.

“O God! O Lord!” shouted Papa. “Woe unto us that have waxed faith into pride! Magnificent is the brilliance of Thoust power! But woe unto the Devil! Woe unto Satan, who tries through his darkness to trap us all! Only for the light of God do we find Thine path!”

I found myself starting to shake, horribly so. Not just my hands, not just my shoulders, but every limb, every muscle. I bit my lip but could not control it, could not stem the deep sob that erupted from within me and exploded into the blackness of our dining room. Never until that moment had I feared my father. Never until this day had I seen in him anything but kindness and love. And yet all I knew right then was terror, so I bowed my head, squeezed my eyes tight, and buried my soul in humble prayer, pleading for forgiveness. By transgressing the word of my very own father I had sinned, had I not? But no more. No, I was ready to repent, and deep inside my being I begged, even chanted: Lord, O Lord, take pity upon my miserable soul and gather me unto Thy feet!

Out of nowhere Varya’s small voice bloomed like a tiny flower as she gasped, “Maria, look! Look!”

I was so afraid that at first I dared not. When I finally opened my eyes, I saw nothing but a reddish fog of darkness. I gazed across the table, searched the spot where my sister was sitting, but could barely see her. I turned to the right and could only discern the vague outline of Dunya, whose hand I was clasping so hard. When I slowly focused on my left, however, everything was different and-yes-even miraculous. Immediately I was aware of something, some kind of glowing light, which gently filled that end of the room and even my soul. And when I slowly raised my eyes, I saw it and started weeping quietly. A wave of awe and glory surged through my body, for there, right above Papa’s head, hovering just above his messy thatch of hair, glowed something that seemed quite like an arc of light.

When we finally finished eating our fish, I volunteered to do the dishes.

Awash with remorse and twisted in confusion, I lingered at the sink over each glass, each plate. For good or ill, I had to recognize what I had always known, that Papa did have a kind of power. But did that mean I should support him, no matter what?

I had just finished washing and drying everything right down to the last spoon when the doorbell rang a second time that day. At first I couldn’t imagine who it could be. Then it struck me: Olga Petrovna had returned. Had that poor woman come back, perhaps on her hands and knees, pathetically determined to service my father in any way possible, just in exchange for one of his notes? Oh, God, I thought, bolting out of the kitchen. I had to protect her from the very thing she so desperately sought: my father’s so-called help.

Determined to reach the front door before Dunya, I raced from the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the salon. But there was no sign of our housekeeper, let alone my father or sister. Had Dunya retreated to her room upstairs and Papa gone back to bed? Was Varya reading in our room? I didn’t know, didn’t care. Simply relieved that no one else was around, I made a beeline for Papa’s study, knowing exactly what I needed and where to find it.

Like most of our countrymen, Papa could barely read, let alone write. For that reason he would write out his notes ahead of time, sign them in his bearish scrawl, and keep a stack of them ready to hand out to petitioners who pleased him. Wasting no time, I went directly to his desk and snatched one from the pile:

Dear Friend,

I beseech you to have pity on this poor, suffering creature and do as requested. My blessings upon you.

Father Grigori †

These few lines were, I knew, more than enough to open any door and almost enough to accomplish any task in all of Russia. This, I thought as I quickly started out of the room, would do her fine. This would be more than enough to keep Olga Petrovna’s husband in Petrograd.

Determined to get to the front door before Dunya, I raced down the hall and through the salon. When I reached the front hall and the foyer, however, I still saw no sign of our housekeeper or anyone else. Though I should have been worried, and though I should have called out to see who was actually ringing, neither occurred to me. Both ashamed of my father and worried about what he would demand of Olga Petrovna, I clutched the note in one hand and with the other threw open the door-to find not a small woman in a cape standing there, but a man in an enormous fur coat.

“Gospodin Ministir Protopopov!” I gasped, immediately recognizing him by his thick pointed nose.

For the past few months he’d been coming to our house often, no doubt because his career had been advanced only due to Papa’s influence. When he’d been plucked from the Duma-our parliament-and named Minister of Internal Affairs, none had been more shocked, more outraged, than the famed monarchist Vladimir Purishkevich, whose hatred of my father was known across the land. But Papa thought Protopopov a good man who would prove to be a good link between the throne and the Duma, and he had insisted on the appointment to the Empress. In turn, the Empress, believing in my father’s heavenly visions, had insisted on it to the Emperor.

“Good evening, young one,” said the minister, politely removing his puffy fur hat from his greasy head. “Is your father at home?”

Glancing down the hall into our salon, I still saw no one and heard nothing. I had no idea whether or not Papa was asleep or passed out from drink, but I wanted no one else in our home tonight. What should I say?

“Papa’s asleep and asked not to be disturbed.”

“Well, then, perhaps you can tell me. I received a report that a young terrorist was in the area last night. Apparently some of the agents chased him into your courtyard.”

“What?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes, and the bastard was bleeding quite badly. One of the agents thought he disappeared into your building.”

Dear God, I thought. He couldn’t be talking about Sasha, could he? Suddenly my face was burning, and I clasped a hand over my mouth.

“This would have been quite late. You didn’t hear or see anything, did you?”

All I could manage was a terse shake of my head.

“Better yet, I trust you weren’t disturbed?”

My voice barely above a whisper, I said, “No.”

“Very well. However, please tell your father I stopped by.” Handing me an envelope, he said, “And please give him this letter. My agents intercepted it, and while we don’t know who wrote it, I have my suspicions. In any case, I believe the threat is real. Please ask him to read it very, very carefully, yes?”

“Of course, Gospodin Ministir.”

“And remind him not to be going out late at night. Things are much too dangerous for him to be traipsing about in the dark hours.”

“Of course.” Taking the envelope in hand, I realized that our security was ultimately the responsibility of this minister, and I asked, “Did you see any of the security agents downstairs? They were gone last night, and they might be gone again tonight.”

“Ah, well, I suppose I didn’t see any of them,” he replied, without any great surprise. “I’ll check on that right away. Good night, my child. I wish you a peaceful sleep.”

He bowed his head again, slipped his hat back on his slick head, and disappeared like a big bear rumbling down the steps, grunting as he went. I had no idea why Papa cared for this man, for I certainly didn’t, and neither did most of the country, from what little I’d read in the papers.

As I shut and locked the door, I started trembling. There’d been only one person bleeding in our house yesterday, of course, and that had been Sasha. But what did that mean? What had happened and what was he involved in? Terrorism? Revolutionary activities? It couldn’t be. I couldn’t have misread him so horribly, could I? And yet…he’d been hurt and on the run, obviously scared and definitely unwilling to explain what had happened.

It suddenly occurred to me why Protopopov wasn’t surprised there were no guards: He knew there weren’t. In fact, he’d probably ordered them away, because even though he needed Papa’s blessing to keep his position, he didn’t want to be seen coming here. If there were no guards, there were no written reports. And if there were no written reports, his regular visits to Rasputin would not be revealed.

Oh, Lord, was the adult world I was just entering really so dirty, let alone so conniving?

Envelope in hand, I hurried back through the salon to the window in Papa’s study. Peering down, I saw a large, fancy vehicle. It had to be the minister’s car, and of course it was, for seconds later Protopopov emerged from our building and scurried into the rear seat. As the vehicle quickly disappeared, all I had to do was wait.

And as I waited, of course, I started fiddling with the envelope. Gospodin Ministir Protopov wanted Papa to read the anonymous letter, but that would be difficult if not impossible because my father was only semiliterate. Ultimately, I knew, it would probably be me who read him the letter anyway, so within seconds I was tearing it open.