Rasputin's Revenge (14 page)

The spot was empty except for a chair and a shovel, and Alexis wiped off the former and bade me sit, while grabbing the latter, removing his coat, and shoveling the snow off onto the roof. He evidently relished the physical exercise, taking after his father, famous for loving to chop his own firewood.

When he’d finished, a light film of sweat covered his face, but he was beaming happily. The sun had come out, and while we were still far from warm, the walls blocked a good portion of the wind, and it was quite comfortable. Alexis, like a good boy remembering a lesson, put his coat back on and looked up gratefully at the sun.

“This is very fine,” I said. “Did you and Monsieur Gaillard come up here often?”

He shook his head. “Never. No one has ever been up here but me.”

“But …”

“I don’t know,” he said simply. “You took a chance with me this morning. I’m doing the same with you. Things aren’t as much fun when there’s no one to share them with. And besides,” he added, “we can talk freely here. Pierre was always worried about being overheard. I think that’s why he never said anything interesting.”

“Aren’t you being a little harsh on him?”

The boy sighed. “Maybe I am, I don’t know. He’s a nice man, and he has taught me French.”

“Rather well.”

“Yes, all right. But I’m at an age now where my regimen is ruining my life.” He held up a hand. “No, I’m not being melodramatic. I know I’m a bleeder—I may die. I’ll take it further. I will die. But so will you. And these efforts of my mother to make my life, um, insulated—well, the effect is that I don’t feel like I’ve got much of a life. How would you like to have a Derevenko hovering behind you at all times in case you fall down?”

“You are, after all, the future Czar. It makes sense to protect you.”

“My sisters are protected, and yet they’re allowed to live. No one seems to believe it, but I’m getting to the point that I know what will hurt me.”

“But what about that episode the other day?” I asked. “With the runaway horse?”

The boy shrugged. “I’d ridden that horse a hundred times, a thousand. It’s never happened before.”

“Still, it’s fortunate Rasputin happened along, or …”

“Rasputin! Are you already in his power?”

The question stunned me—not only its virulence but its sentiment. I thought the boy worshiped the starets.

“No, I’m not. But it did seem that he calmed the animal, and I thought you cried out his name when you saw him.”

The boy thought a moment; then a light of understanding came to his eyes. “I never saw Rasputin until the horse stopped. All my attention was focused on Grishka.” Then he laughed charmingly. “Grishka the horse,” he said. “The horse’s name is Grishka. I was calling its name.”

Was anything as it appeared here in St. Petersburg?

“Then you aren’t close to the starets?”

It was obviously a difficult question. “He doesn’t belong where he is.”

“Which is where?”

“Advising my mother, trying to influence my father. I’m sure it’s he who convinces my mother I need to be so protected. It’s to his advantage.”
Frustrated, he slapped at his leg. “I don’t need that kind of protection anymore. If I die, I die, but I will die having lived.”

“
Dum vivo vivebo
,” I said, smiling.

“What’s that?”

I stood up. “It’s Latin. ‘While I am alive, I will live.’ It’s been my motto since I was about your age.”

“What is it again?”

I told him, and he repeated it a few times, setting it to memory. He asked seriously, “Can I take it as my own?”

Inordinately flattered, I looked in his eyes for any trace of irony, but there was none. “
Bien sûr
,” I said. “Of course.”

He went to the chair and stood upon it, facing out over the city. “You see down there?” he said. “This view is why I come up here. I can be alone anywhere—I mean away from Rudi and the girls—but here I can see my people.”

He pointed down to the street. “See there? That line. What are they doing there?”

“Waiting for bread, I believe,” I said.

The answer seemed to verify something he’d been thinking. “So it’s come to that.”

“The city isn’t in very good shape,” I said. “Supplies are very low.”

“I’ve seen the demonstrations from here, too. Of course no one tells me what they’re really about, but I’ve figured it out. Are we losing the War, Monsieur Giraud? Is my father all right?”

Again I was struck by the personal identification the boy had between his father and the state, but before I could respond, he continued.

“You know, I’ve gone to Spala with my father several times since he’s taken command of the army. Every night we would take a long walk around the compound, and you know what he tells me?”

I shook my head no.

“He says that, no matter what, I should strive to learn the truth. And, he says, in our position that is the hardest thing to know because no one will tell you the truth.”

“I will,” I said, and I mean it.

He paused. “Then, if you do, you will be the most valuable ally I have ever had.”

“But, of course, you can’t trust me yet.”

His young eyes were filled with the awful truth of that knowledge. “I know.”

“Let me ask you something,” I said. “Do you know about the murders?”

He sat back down on the chair. “I know my father seems to be …” He hesitated. “Well, to answer your question, there have been three,
n’est-ce pas?”

As gently as I could, I told him about the fourth, about Minsky. The news hit him hard. I watched his innocent face contort with emotion. Then he stood up and walked to where the gentle roof sloped down to the courtyard, facing away until he had overcome the struggle.

“Uncle Boris and I rode together with Papa every day at Spala. He treated me like a man.” He took a deep breath and swallowed hard, then put his own emotion behind him. “How is my father taking it?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen him since it’s happened. I don’t believe anyone has.”

He nodded as though the answer was expected. Suddenly he looked up and said in Russian, “God, don’t let him give up!” Then, back to me in French, “At least not for that reason.”

“What reason?”

“That he feels so alone.”

That response, from a boy, impressed me. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“He is the Emperor. The nature of command is being alone. Even I know that.” He paced the edge of the enclosure. “Don’t you see what they’re doing?”

“Yes,” I said calmly. “I think I see quite clearly. Someone is trying to make your father so personally unhappy that he is no longer able to be the Czar, or, more accurately, to act as the Czar should act.”

After a minute of reflection, he looked me in the eye. “That’s exactly right,” he said. “If I could see him and talk to him, I could tell him that.”

“Why don’t you try?” I said, suppressing any guilt at the manipulative question.

“I am going to, Monsieur Giraud. I really am.”

The wind had suddenly turned cold. It came in gusts and we saw clouds beginning to gather in the North. “We should be going back down. Derevenko will be worried,” I said, smiling.

Back in his room, he stopped and extended his hand formally. “Thank you, sir. On the first day, you have taught me something important.”

“And what is that?” I asked, shaking the royal hand.

He grinned boyishly, but there was something very mature behind the expression.
“Dum vivo vivebo
. If I don’t live to become Czar, that is my fate. But while I am alive”—his eyes shone with the promise—“while I am alive, I will live.”

We managed to get back to the study without being seen, and after arranging a few props so it looked as though we’d been going over some
books and taking notes, Alyosha summoned Derevenko and the first “lesson” came to an end.

Feeling very pleased with myself, and with the boy’s intelligence and manner, I was leaving the children’s quarters when I heard a gentle sobbing from an alcove off the main hallway.

I stopped to listen. Something about the sound was oddly familiar, so I peeked into the darkened recess, not wishing to intrude but curious nevertheless.

A thin ribbon of dim light came through a narrow window. Within its beam, motes of dust hung in the still air like sequins, now catching more, now less of the weakening sun. A dozen votive candles in red holders burned before a statue of some saint.

Kneeling in profile at the side of the alcove, weeping into a handkerchief, was Elena Ripley. Torn between wanting to console her and not wanting to intrude, I stood in the entranceway and finally cleared my throat. When she looked up, I moved a step into the room.

“Who’s there?” she said in English. With the bright light behind me, I was probably no more than a silhouette.

“It’s Jules. Are you all right?”

Sighing once, bringing herself under control, she sat back in the pew. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t know.” A fresh wave of tears broke, and I came and sat next to her.

“There, there,” I said, patting her gently on the shoulder. “It’s all right. Come on now. What is it?”

She had never looked younger, more vulnerable, more beautiful. Her lips were slightly swollen, almost bruised looking, her eyes glistening with her tears, the color high in her cheeks. After dabbing ineffectually at her face, she regained control enough to whisper to me.

“It’s Tatiana.”

Immediately the murders came back to mind and I thought the worst. Could they be striking now directly at the Czar’s family?

“Is she all right?”

She nodded, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

“What is it then?”

She sniffed, swallowed hard. “We’ve had a fight. We’ve never before had a fight.”

I almost had to laugh. With the War going badly and murders in the court, a tiff between two young women hardly seemed the stuff of tragedy. Still, it would be coarse to seem to take it too lightly, so I again patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sure you both will work it out. What was it about?”

“It’s the first time,” she repeated. “She’s never been that way before.”

“Calm down now. Just tell me what happened.”

She nodded and sniffed again. “I was trying to coach her Cockney. She was doing a reading of Eliza in
Pygmalion
. Do you know the play? No? It’s a Shaw, and the whole point of it is class and accent.

“And she was reading the Cockney parts with her mother’s perfect British. Her great-grandmother was Queen Victoria, you know, and she prides herself on her accent. All I did was try to explain that in this case the Queen’s English was not called for, and she was frustrated anyway because she couldn’t get the Cockney, and we started yelling at one another. I got very upset and said she couldn’t understand the point, and she said I evidently understood the lower classes all too well, and we kept going and now”—she stopped, another sob breaking from her—“and now, and now they’ll put me out on the street.”

She broke down again, leaning into me and crying. I put my arm around her, grateful that she couldn’t see my smile. “Now, now,” I said. “I’m sure they won’t put you on the street.”

“But what would I do, Jules? People are starving and rioting. I wouldn’t survive.”

“I’m sure they won’t turn you out, Elena. I’m sure.”

She straightened up again. “How can you be sure? You don’t know Tatiana. She’s really angry.”

“She’ll get over it I’m sure, if you will.”

“But I’m not even mad anymore.”

“There. You see? I’m sure she’s not either.”

“But what if she is?”

“First, ‘what if is not ever anything to worry about. And second, too many other people love you and will intercede.” Then, because the whole affair was silly to me, I tried a joke. “You could even try Rasputin. He …”

But she reacted as though she were burned, pulling away and nearly shouting, “No, never! I’ll never do that!”

I reached for her hand. “I’m teasing, Elena. Just teasing.”

“But …” she began.

“Look at the friends you have here. There’s nothing to worry about. I could even go to Alexis. Or Anastasia could help. You won’t be turned out.”

“You don’t think so?”

I smiled, squeezing her hand. “I’m sure of it. Now, come on, let’s wipe those tears from your pretty face.”

She looked at me gratefully. I took the handkerchief and carefully dried her cheeks, around her eyes. “There,” I said firmly, striving for my most avuncular tone, “much better, don’t you think?”

Somewhat embarrassed, she nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I am worried. I don’t know what I’ll do if they turn me out. I don’t know where I’d go.”

“You don’t worry. That’s all. I’m sure it’ll all be over in a day or two, and if there’s still any problem, I’ll help you. I promise.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Shush.” I touched her lips with my finger. “No more of it, all right?”

She looked into my eyes, then briefly pressed her lips against mine. “Thank you,” she said, “you’re a good man.”

I can’t pretend the kiss didn’t affect me deeply. Trying not to show it, I took her hand and lifted her to her feet. “Come,” I said, “I’m on my way back to Tsarkoye Selo. Walk with me.”

Back in the hallway, in the light, my heart returned to its even beating. We strolled easily side by side, talking about trivial things—Derevenko, her relations with the other Grand Duchesses, with Anastasia, a few words about Lupa’s deductive display the previous night. Finally I ventured a few thoughts on my formal mission. We had come to the exit to the children’s quarters, and she stopped and took my hand, looking at me steadily.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “If anyone can convince the Czar to do what is right, it is you. I’m sure of it.”

I bowed stiffly, wrestling with the effect this young woman had on me. I felt anything but a paragon of virtue and goodness. Strange as it seems, I can’t escape the feeling that somehow, unlikely as it may be, Elena is attracted to me.

It is disconcerting.

In any event, we shook hands and I left, walking under a newly overcast sky to the train station.

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