The Last Romanov (10 page)

Chairs sigh against the carpet underfoot. People begin to leave the room. Congratulatory words are exchanged among buyers.

Rasputin does not move from his chair. Neither does Darya.

One eye shutters down in a wink. His voice is resonant, even melodic. “For you, Darya Borisovna Spiridova. The portrait. Yours!”

“Then why did you bid against me?”

“Because I want something in return.”

She directs a puzzled look at him.

“I want an audience with the Empress.”

She is overcome by an urge to slap his oily face. How dare he! She would not have encouraged the Empress to invite him if she had met him in person. With his unkempt appearance, muddy boots, and vile stare, he is better suited to the crime-infested slums of St. Petersburg rather than the Imperial Palace. “Why would the Empress grant
you
an audience?”

His magnetic gaze leaps up to grab her. “Because the little Tsarevich needs my help.”

Darya shifts from one foot to another, her opal eye throbbing, her heart drumming in her temples. The Empress is displeased. The Emperor is livid. Tyotia Dasha of the Tsarevich has no right raising her voice in a court of law in defense of a Jew! Yet as harshly as they continue to castigate her for attending the Kishinev trial, she does not regret having followed the Ancient One into the mist of dawn, followed her to court to witness mankind at its worst and best.

A young Jewish boy was on trial, a boy accused of murdering a Christian, although the identity of the murderer as someone else had been established beyond a doubt. The anti-Semitic newspapers
Bessarabetz
,
Ceem
, and
Svet
had insinuated that the Christian boy had been murdered so his blood could be used to prepare matzos, the flat bread Jews eat on Passover. The next day, a priest had led a frenzied mob into Kishinev. One hundred twenty Jews were killed, five hundred were wounded, and seven hundred houses were looted and destroyed. For three days, neither the police nor the military intervened.

Despite proof of the Jewish boy's innocence, not one God-fearing Christian had raised his voice in the court of law to protest the inflicted injustice until, proud and unblinking, an eloquent, defiant man whom Darya will not forget stood up to confront the judge.

“I am a Jew!” he said, as if that was enough of an introduction. “My people are like you and you.” His accusing forefinger pointed at the judges, attorneys, and at every person in the courtroom. “We are fathers, mothers, workers, and artists. We love our country. Look at me! Do I have horns? A tail? Why would I use blood in my bread if you don't? You pay for my art, display it in your homes. Then go about murdering my people.”

At that instant, the Ancient One spun around to confront Darya, her manicured fingernails hovering like small daggers, her fire-spewing eyes boring into Darya's conscience, prodding deep and stirring her sense of duty so that, disregarding the dire consequences, she stood up in that anti-Semitic atmosphere to defend the brave Jew.

She squared her shoulders, fastened the golden button at the neck of her pearl-studded, emerald-colored velvet cape, two ruby hairpins in her black curls raging with menace. The Ancient One was beside her, in front of her, around her, smiling, encouraging, prompting. Darya's voice rang about, silencing the courtroom. “I am Darya Borisovna, your honor, Tyotia Dasha of the Tsarevich. I speak for the Imperial Family who stand for the truth. They will not be pleased to discover that an innocent boy is on trial in place of the real murderer who, as you all know, has been incarcerated and is in custody as we speak!”

The next day, with much fanfare, the papers reported every detail of what had transpired in the courtroom. Word of mouth spread around the city like the black plague, snaking its way into the palace.

Pen poised in midair, the Empress directs her gaze toward Darya at the door. The Empress's eyes are as cold as blades. She drops the pen and it rolls to rest in a groove on her desk, piled high with paper. A prolific letter writer, she carries her writing pads with her and forgets them in every corner.

Darya tries to speak, to offer an apology, but the Empress's eyes hold her in their paralyzing grip, and she lingers at the door, hand over mouth as if to stop herself from instigating further impropriety.

“I am disappointed!” the Empress says. “You represent the Imperial Family, Darya Borisovna, and such unacceptable conduct has a negative impact on us. The Tsar is angry and there is a limit to how far I will defend you. To take sides with a Jew and make a spectacle of yourself in a court of law is inexcusable. Leave this devious clan to their own resources. They do not need your help.”

“I apologize,” Darya replies, the words burning her mouth. “It was foolish of me. I shall not embarrass you again.”

“So unlike you, my dear. What made you go to court?”

“Curiosity,” Darya blurts out a half-truth, keeping the rest to herself. The Empress is a staunch believer in dreams and their influence on daily life, but she will not understand the power the Ancient One exerts on Darya, how she had lured her out of bed and into the courtroom.

“Curiosity belongs to the young and carefree. You, Darya, although young, carry a heavy responsibility on your shoulders. Show more reserve next time. And never, ever again mention our name when it has to do with any Jew.”

The Empress, fighting her fury, goes to her chaise lounge to fetch her embroidery. “Sit. I want to discuss an important matter with you.” Her lips curl and she looks down at her embroidery as if the important matter is concealed inside.

“Some details about Alyosha's condition have leaked out. People are starting to talk, saying the heir to the throne might be sick. This is unacceptable. We have to stop the rumors. Or our enemies will get it in their heads to take advantage of the situation. Terrible power struggles might ensue. It could endanger the monarchy.

“Dr. Botkin tells me that future bleeding episodes are inevitable. Alyosha will have to rest and be under medical supervision. We will have to keep him out of the public eye. I had long discussions with the Tsar, dear, trying to find a way to divert attention from Alyosha's absences. In the end, the Tsar left the decision to me. I've suffered long sleepless nights; even the sleeping pills don't help.” She raises her embroidery, folds it, unfolds it again, passes her palm over it, rolls one corner, then pats it back into shape. “As you know, at times of difficulty, the court tends to neglect artists and their art. So in order to present our court as a haven of peace and stability, we have decided to establish an Artists' Salon in the palace. What do you think, dear?”

Darya ponders the consequences of establishing a salon when the political landscape is becoming exceedingly volatile, violence everywhere, workers complaining about the rising prices of essential goods and the decline of wages, peasants unhappy about their wretched conditions and the unfair punishments landlords inflict on them, unrest even among the once faithful imperial Cossacks. It has been suggested that the most efficient method of ending the rising turmoil is for the Tsar to relinquish a degree of power and for the country to be converted from an absolute autocracy to a semiconstitutional monarchy that would promise a reformed political order, basic civil rights for all, especially for the disgruntled peasants, and even go so far as to legalize union activities, political strikes, and freedom of the press. The Empress considers the suggestion blasphemous. She refuses to hear of the Tsar surrendering his rightful place as supreme ruler.

Now, she intends to open the doors to her home to an artistic community teeming with dissidents. “I am not certain, Your Majesty. Our political situation is unstable. Some members of the artistic community are vocal insurgents who might further disrupt our fragile situation.”

“Oh, my dear, don't be a pessimist. Concentrate on the outpouring of love toward us rather than on a small, inconsequential minority whose only care is to incite disruptions that can be easily crushed.”

The Empress readjusts her position. Pain radiates across her back, her sciatica wreaking havoc on the frail muscles of her heart. She inadvertently sticks her needle into the eye of the embroidered icon on the tapestry. Flinching, she retrieves and reaffixes the needle in the bordering sky, then folds the embroidery in her lap, careful not to crinkle the face of the icon.

Darya hurries to adjust a mound of pillows behind her. “Your Majesty, embroidering all day is not helping your back.”

“Idle hands, dear, are the devil's workshop. That's why I support artists who engage their hands as well as their minds. Anyway, dear, a salon requires advance preparation, time, and attendance. I am not up to assuming another responsibility. I cannot think of anyone better suited than you to take charge of the details. You were surrounded by art. You know art better than anyone I trust. I am certain that, under your tutelage, bold artistic breakthroughs will emerge that will give people something to talk about. You have my permission to select the artists. Send out invitations. The salon will be held four times a year. Choose the wording of the invitation to reflect our appreciation of art and the importance of raising the artistic consciousness of our people. Be sure to invite friends and supporters. There are many, I assure you. Compile a list of names for my review. Make sure the painter of
The
Cure
, what was his name?”

“Avram Bensheimer, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, yes, Bensheimer. Pity he is Jewish.
The
Cure
is such a masterpiece. It remains my favorite, you know. Who ended up acquiring it in auction?”

“The monk, Your Majesty, Grigori Rasputin,” Darya replies without further elaboration.

“Father Grigori!” The Empress exclaims, gesturing for Darya to massage her back. “How in the Lord's name did he outbid us?”

“He is a wealthy man, Your Majesty. People travel from all parts of the country to seek his healing powers. They reward him with great sums of money.”

“I have my doubts, dear. He must have received the money from one of our enemies. Yes, I am quite certain. Even if he happens to have the means, a wandering monk would not have the aesthetic inclination to purchase a portrait such as this. At any rate, make sure the artist, this Jew, Bensheimer, is invited to our salon.”

The most prominent artists of the land, four men and two women, rise to their feet. They have left behind unfinished canvases, paint, brushes, tripods, cameras, clay, and blocks of stone that beg for attention, taken precious time away to prepare for the occasion, yet the smell of paint, chemicals, and clay still clings to them as they impatiently await the Imperial Couple's arrival.

They are soon rewarded, not by the appearance of their Imperial Majesties, but by the vision of Darya, who lingers at the threshold, her sable-lashed eyes aimed at them as if at a herd of exquisite prey.

Clothed in purple crepe with a corseted waist and a bead-studded drape that trails behind, she sashays past them with an arrogant swish of her hips.

Her dainty feet sheathed in a pair of satin pumps, she loves the crash of beads behind her, loves the effect of her eyes upon them, the shock of her feral hair that frames the perfect oval of her face. Contrary to the artists, she is in her element, at home in court and surrounded by opulence.

The Portrait Hall has been emptied of its Jacobs sofas and armchairs covered in blue silk, magnificent consoles, gilded pianos, and lapis and carnelian tables. Life-sized paintings of Alexander I, Nicholas I on horseback, Alexander II, his children, and Catherine the Great are protected with dust cloths.

Seven stations have been assembled for the artists to work in their respective mediums. A giant scaffold is erected in the center of the hall. All other necessary tools and materials—worktables, sculpting tools, easels, paints, brushes, and a Gramophone—are in place.

A beardless Cossack of the guards stands at attention, Kodak camera in hand. He has strict orders from her Imperial Majesty to record every detail. Since the recent introduction of the box roll-film camera, replacing clunky cameras that held twenty-foot rolls of paper, the grand duchesses have been enamored with photography, and the click of cameras echoes constantly around the palace.

The sculptress Rosa Koristanova is dressed in a starched white blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons. A rash is developing on her bosom, a testament to her aversion to anything remotely feminine. A petite woman, she stores unfathomable energy in her compact form. She is comfortable on the scaffolding, knows how to conquer it like an agile monkey, tackles massive blocks with the strength and dexterity of a wrestler, fashions sculptures of men in Herculean poses with such controversial titles as
Noble
Savages
and
the
Apocalypse
,
Feminine
Mystic
and
the
Male
Controversy
, and
Murderous
Gods
and
Their
Victims
. She suffers from sculptor's asphyxia. Marble dust is stifling her lungs, yet she refuses to wear a mask. Worthy art, she believes, comes to life by engaging all five senses. The scent of her stones, the smell of dust and blood and history, determine the final shape of her sculptures.

Next to her is the choreographer Igor Vasiliev with his head bowed low. He keeps his hands at his sides. His patent tuxedo slippers tap to the dance shaping in his head, a waltz that might or might not have to do with the complicated relationship between the Tsar and his German cousin, the kaiser.

Dimitri Markowitz is known for his promonarchy caricatures, images of a kind Tsar leading his people to unimaginable wealth—mines brimming with gold, wells spewing jewels, oceans vomiting all types of benevolent decrees—but in reality, he holds the Tsar responsible for the miseries of the people. Dimitri, however, makes every effort to conceal his true ideologies. He does not believe in becoming a martyr in the name of art.

Belkin Fyodor is among the invitees. Darya admires his landscapes that evoke a certain sense of familiarity, perhaps a sense of her having been there: flat stretches of sandy deserts, palm trees swaying in harsh winds, rippling sand dunes ablaze at sunset, camel caravans snaking around flapping tents.

The photographer Joseph Petrov Eltsin is not used to lavish palaces, imperial pretensions, and honorary awards that carry no tangible benefits. His blood is thick with the many tranquilizers he consumes, causing sporadic twitches in his knees and left cheek. He feels most at home in asylums, where he captures photographs of the mentally disturbed. His black and white photographs portray the anguished soul of beasts, the torment of lovers, and the solitude of monks, proof that man is born despondent and starving for attention. Here, in the salon, surrounded by intelligent personalities, each with a differently shaped head, he decides to embark on a crucial scientific project. He will compile a collection of photographs to prove that head shape does not evidence madness, as certain contemporary physicians claim.

Tamara, the Creator of Miniatures, the court's most beloved artist, is an honorary guest. Years of bending over her work have left their imprint. At the age of twenty-two, the outline of a slight hump and the stoop of her bony shoulders are visible under her sheer blouse. Her miniatures, carved into all types of precious woods, stones, skins, and roots, are coveted around the country, but the few she finds time to craft are for the sole enjoyment of the Imperial Family.

Darya walks to each artist, nods her greetings, congratulates Rosa Koristanova on being awarded the imperial gold medal for work of special merit in sculpture, tells Igor she has attended his Ballet des Aristocrats twice and wouldn't mind seeing it again, tells Dimitri that his caricature
Our
Tsar
in
the
Opera
hangs in the Emperor's study. She shakes Belkin's hand, “I love your
Blue
Desert
painting at the Borodin Museum. I'd like to have one myself.” She teases Joseph, “As for your photographs, sir, they're too intellectual for me, but the Tsar likes them.” She kisses the cheeks of the Creator of Miniatures. “Thank you, Tamara. Alyosha is inseparable from the lovely enamel dog. Come visit him soon, will you?”

Having welcomed each artist, she takes her place behind two thronelike chairs awaiting their Imperial Majesties.

Something is amiss, Darya thinks as she takes note of the invitees. Something is not quite right. She counts once. Six. Then counts again, this time with greater attention. Panic strikes her like a slap of scalding water. Her heart misses a beat. Her hand creeps up to her Fabergé necklace.

Avram Bensheimer, the only artist the Tsarina personally invited, is absent.

The Tsar and Tsarina will be here soon. She has been in charge of establishing the salon, making sure the artists understand what is expected of them, recognize the sensitive nuances of court protocol. The blame for such brazen insolence, such unacceptable impertinence will rest on her.

She digs her fingers into her glossy hair that the pomade of honey wax and scented starch fails to tame. She is hot, perspiring. Releasing a silk tieback from the drapes, she gathers her hair back. She goes to a table spread with turnovers stuffed with meat and potatoes, tureens of borscht and pepper-pot soup, pheasants in cream sauce, fruits in wine, and ice cream. A waiter pours mint-scented vodka into a Baccarat tumbler. She swigs one shot of vodka, waits for the warming to take hold, for her heart to settle.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the imperial salon, where every day promises fresh creative fodder to embellish and use in your respective mediums.” She allows a moment of anticipation, an exchange of opinions, some lighthearted banter, a few more seconds for her breath to normalize. “Consider this your sanctuary. A home where you may hone your skills, remain faithful to the demand of your art without fear of censorship. This is my solemn promise to you.”

The artists exchange furtive glances. Is this the belief of the Imperial Couple? Are they being encouraged to free their imagination without concern of persecution? Or is this the opinion of the Tyotia Dasha?

A sudden chill scurries through Darya's veins. She is beside herself with rebuke. Did she really say this? Give permission to the artists to broadcast their every belief? Did she make the inexcusable mistake of granting them freedom of expression? What if they create art that raises questions about the monarchy? About the political situation? The artists are silent, expectant, poised to pounce upon any crumb of information Darya may toss their way. Voyeurism is part of their nature, a valuable tool in their arsenal, a way of digging deep to unearth precious details that will end up fueling their art. The Alexander Palace, its imperial inhabitants, and Darya, with her mesmerizing eyes, are intriguing sources to explore. Markowitz sketches the outline of her face in his head, her biblical-looking features, the patrician nose, the strong mouth, the tasseled tieback swinging below her earlobes. The ballet developing in Igor's mind is changing shape, the German and Russian cousins in a state of perpetual allegro, brisk, sharp, demanding. Tamara can think of nothing but her next gift to the little Tsarevich: a tiny deer like the one in the park, perhaps an aurochs, or the golden pony he's so fond of. Rosa wants to edge closer to Joseph, inhale his scent, sense his emotions, tattoo him in her mind. She wants to recreate him in stone.

The aroma of citrus blossoms from the lime trees outside wafts into the salon. A bird of paradise lands on the windowsill, its puffy chest heaving lightly, a worm dangling from its yellow beak.

Darya scrubs her concerns out of her mind, attempts a smile. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don't need to tell you that the Imperial Couple are fierce advocates of the arts. I don't need to tell you that you are here because their Majesties admire your work. So do not disappoint them!”

The mahogany doors swing open, and the master of ceremonies taps his ebony staff three times on the parquet underfoot, announcing their Imperial Majesties.

The Empress is regal in a flowing silk dress adorned with lace and designed by Worth in Paris. She touches the pink pearls hugging her white throat, reaches out for her husband's arm, and as if they were alone, he smiles at her and gives her hand an encouraging squeeze.

He is wearing his most simple military gear, cinched at the waist with a leather belt, his imperial medals left behind. The salon is his wife's brainchild, and he has no intention of eclipsing her.

The artists bow to their monarchs. Remain standing as the Tsar and Tsarina make their way across the expanse of gleaming parquet toward their chairs, above which hangs a Gobelin silk tapestry, depicting the ill-fated Maria Antoinette and her children, a thoughtless gift from the French government.

The Empress gestures toward the artists to take their seats, her smile softening her grave expression. She is pleased with her decision to establish a salon. No one will ever learn about her pain, her broken heart, her endless search for a miracle to cure her son. What the artists will project to the world are the vivid scenes of imperial life, vibrant, varied, and dramatic, a close-knit family whose only care is the well-being of their people.

She addresses the artists in a blend of British- and German-accented Russian. “Welcome to our court, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you will be inspired here to achieve great honors for our country. I will personally support you in your future endeavors as it is the belief of this court that our great culture is measured by the genius of our artists. I shall follow your progress and at year's end confer an honorary award upon the artist whose work best portrays the soul of our dear country.”

An enameled easel, holding a large photograph of the heir apparent, Alexei Romanov, is brought in and set between the Imperial Couple.

The beardless Cossack of the guard runs forward to snap photographs.

The Empress gazes proudly at the image of her son. She thought long and hard about selecting Avram Bensheimer to paint her son's portrait, discussed the matter with the Tsar, who emphatically opposes the choice, and for the first time in her married life, she disregarded his advice in hope that Bensheimer will succeed in creating a masterpiece superior to
The
Cure
. She studies each artist, groups them together in her mind, then separates them again, attempting to decide which is the Jewish artist. She settles on Joseph with his beady eyes and greedy ears. “Avram Bensheimer,” she declares, “we commission you to paint a portrait of your Tsarevich.”

Joseph is shriveling under her stare, glances around, subtly shakes his head. The silence is universal. Not a single tap of an impatient foot, a single rasp from an infected lung, a click of the camera, a shriek of swans, or a whoop of courting birds outside.

Darya's heart is drumming in her temples, the Fabergé egg necklace as heavy as the gallows around her throat. She struggles to collect herself, to appear calm, unruffled. “My apologies, Your Majesties, I don't know why Bensheimer did not come.”

Rosa whispers in Igor's ear, who tugs at Joseph's sleeve, and a low murmur scurries across the salon like a rat on fire.

The Emperor's jaws are clenched. His face is splotched red with rage. He clutches the cane handle and squeezes the two-headed eagle emblem of his imperial house. He rises to his feet, offering his arm to his wife. They stand together at the head of the salon, regal in their indignation, their incriminating glares directed at Darya.

The flap of wings can be heard outside the window. A dog barks in the park. Count Trebla curses in his coarse voice.

“We will learn why!” The Emperor's eyes rest on Darya, and she wants to curl into herself and melt away. “And you, Darya Borisovna!” He stops there, handling his bottled rage, mindful of the Empress at his side, her affection for the girl. But he does not need to say more. His pronouncement echoes and agitates long after he turns on his heels and walks out with the Tsarina.