The Last Romanov (11 page)

Darya reaches out to knock on the paint-peeled door, steals her hand back, stuffs it in the pocket of her hooded cape, and draws the cape around her as if to disappear inside its dark folds. Avram Bensheimer's apartment is on the third floor of a narrow yellow-brick building, a part of Tsarskoe Selo she has never seen. On her way here, the imperial horse-drawn carriage, out-of-place in these narrow streets, trotted past a few art studios, a butchery, a synagogue, a bakery, an elementary school, and closely huddled shops, houses, and galleries, as if no other space is left in all of Russia to accommodate these people.

The imperial carriage is at her disposal for the day, presumably for her bimonthly shopping ventures to back-alley stores and out-of-the-way antique shops to look for new fabrics—taffeta, grosgrain, velvets of all colors, silk brocades in various weaves—to embellish her dresses, feathers and scarlet flowers for her hats, and once every now and then, a special find for the Empress, such as a pearl-splashed ribbon the imperial seamstress weaves as a skirt waist or a bejeweled feather to adorn a hat.

She is not in this primarily Jewish section of town to purchase ribbons and laces and feathers, but to confront Avram Bensheimer. An unprecedented honor was conferred upon the artist, and in return, he offended their Majesties. The Emperor is expecting an explanation.

She knocks on the door once then harder twice. At first there is no sound from inside, then the squeak of wood. Footsteps. She takes a deep breath, locks her fingers behind her, steps farther away from the door. A cockroach scurries past, stops disoriented, and takes shelter under a dust ball.

The door creaks open on its rusted hinges, and a tall man appears in the dim light of the bare lamp overhead. A palette of dry paint—sands and russets and indigos—clings to his shoulder-grazing blond hair. His green-flecked eyes rest on Darya with a start of recognition. “Darya Borisovna!” he utters in an Austrian accent. “Tyotia Dasha of the Romanov!”

Darya is stunned into momentary silence. Has she knocked on the wrong door? That he recognizes her is not surprising. Her opal eye is her undisputable calling card, an immediate introduction. But the man appraising her with the attentiveness of an artist is the same man she saw defending the Jewish boy in court that day. “Avram Bensheimer?” She asks. “The painter?”

“Avram the painter,” he replies, a smile lighting his sad eyes. “And you are the brave Darya Borisovna who defended me in the court of law. Here you are, when I need you again.”

“Of course you need me, Mr. Bensheimer, but I don't think I can do much for you. What you have done is unforgivable. You offended the Imperial Couple. In fact, you wouldn't have been invited to the Artists' Salon if it were not for
The
Cure
, which the Empress happens to admire.” She appraises him, struggling to separate the twenty-four-year-old Jewish artist, who would dare keep the Tsar and Tsarina waiting, from the heroic man who stood up in court. “You did not come, Mr. Bensheimer. You were invited. You were expected.”

He flicks his hair off his forehead and points at a fresh scar. “I needed medical help.” He opens the door wide and gestures for her to enter.

She follows him into a small, tidy room, the walls covered with studies for his paintings—human anatomy, arms, legs, fingers, different shapes of eyes, some tearful, others curious or shocked, all types of wounds, bleeding, scabbed, healed, always a mark left behind. Despite the surrounding images, the room is pleasing to Darya. A pearly sun filters in through the sheer curtains, a faint sound of rustling leaves, the laughter of children playing in the street below. She points to his forehead. “What happened?”

“I was attacked,” he replies, as if it was a minor accident. Nimble as a panther, he ambles across the room, grabs two of the four wooden chairs around a round table, and brings one to her. “Please rest. It's a long ride from the palace.”

“Why were you attacked, Mr. Bensheimer?”

“Because I am Jewish.”

“I don't understand.”

He can tell that her sheltered life insulates her from the surrounding horrors. She has no access to
Bessarabetz
or
Svet
, the anti-Jewish newspapers, is unaware of the message Theodore Roosevelt sent Nicholas II to stop his cruel oppression of the Jews, the violent riots, mob attacks, killings, and destruction of their homes. She is unaware of the recent and most serious pogrom against the Jews.

“There was another massacre, this one worse than the other. I tried to save a neighbor, a child, from a police officer. We got into a fight. I was stabbed; it's a deep cut. I apologize.”

He tells her that people had poured into the streets to protest the Tsar's political views, it seemed. Then, suddenly and inexplicably, the rioters turned against the Jews. They were ferocious, breaking windows, looting shops, dragging women by their hair. Glass was strewn underfoot, stuck in people's hair, shards blinding old and young. Blood-splattered horses trampled children to death under their wild hooves. Twenty-five hundred Jews were killed.

The wooden chair groans under Darya when she sits. She is pale, fraying at the edges as if her entire being is unraveling. How is it possible that she was ignorant of such atrocities inflicted upon a people in her country? And the Imperial Couple, are they aware? If so, why do they tolerate it? “I am sorry,” she tells Avram Bensheimer. What else is there to say?

“I had no intention of putting you in a difficult position. Not after what you did for us in court. You are brave. Very brave, Opal-Eyed Jewess.”

She does not know why he calls her Opal-Eyed Jewess, whether he intends to offend or praise her. “I am not a Jew,” she tells him.

“No, of course not. But Jews can only depend on their own for help, yet here you are defending us in court. So make me happy, accept this honorary title. Or I could call you Opal-Eyed Queen, since you, too, like Queen Esther, came to our defense.”

Accept
both
titles!
The Ancient One levitates behind the sheer, billowing curtains, different today, her outline precise, solid, none of the earlier obscuring cloudiness. She is beautiful, Darya thinks, a certain soothing quality to her wise eyes, her message encouraging—
suitable
titles
, she says,
yours
to
display
like
priceless
medals
.

Avram is leaning back in the chair opposite her, observing her like a painter facing a blank canvas, an arena of endless possibilities opening up to him. “I'd like to paint your portrait,” he says with a certain sense of entitlement.

She locks her eyes on his, the gravity of the situation hitting her with renewed force. “Mr. Bensheimer, you don't seem to grasp the seriousness of affairs. You are barred from the salon. The Empress is expecting an explanation.” She gestures toward the wound on his forehead, a few drops of blood visible around the stitches. “This will not be enough. It's not life threatening. You could have come after you took care of it. Or at the least, sent a messenger to let us know you weren't coming. As for my portrait, I will not have you paint me. You paint all types of scars, and even naked bodies. I, alas, do not have a scar on my body, nor will I ever take off my clothes for you.”

“You are angry with me, Opal-Eyed Queen. It makes me sad.”

The muscles of her cheeks hurt. She does not know whether to laugh or cry. She has never seen such grief, such persistence, such warmth in a pair of eyes. He exudes a sense of anticipation that excites and scares her. “What am I supposed to do, Mr. Bensheimer?”

“Call me Avram. Please. Not many Bensheimers are left. Murdered in one pogrom or another. By their Imperial Majesties, the Romanovs!”

She flinches as if each word is a knife in her chest. “It's not true, Avram. Do not blame their Majesties. They would never tolerate such atrocities!”

He hears the hesitation in her voice, observes her tug at her necklace, lower her hand and tuck it into her velvet sleeve with the elaborate lace border. He pulls away from his pain. “I don't want to cause you trouble. Tell me how I can help and I will.”

“You can't come to the salon, and you might not be safe at home. I want to help you, I really do. I admire your portrayal of the underbelly of society, the seedier side, as well as its beauty.”

“If that's so, why won't you model for me? It is my greatest wish.”

“You don't understand, Mr. Bensheimer. You are in danger. The Tsar has ordered the Ministry of Police to investigate your affairs. This is not good. No telling where you will be tomorrow.” She reaches out a hand to bid him farewell. “I am sorry, Avram, I do not know what to do.”

He raises her hand to his lips and holds it there for a long time.

Outside, the sun is flitting away. It begins to drizzle. There's a chill in the air.

A mysterious spark comes to life in her opal eye. An idea has dawned. She snaps her fingers as if to change the course of events. “You are an artist, Avram. Go and walk in a park, disappear, and don't even think of going back home or to your studio. Go to a museum, to a friend, do something, anything that will inspire you to find a way for the Imperial Couple to forgive you. If you do, then I'll pose for you. Know that the only way to the Tsarina's heart is through her son.”

Steam curls up from a pot-bellied samovar in a corner of Portrait Hall. Limoges cups with the Romanov insignia stand on a gilded tray. Mead, brandy, buttermilk pancakes, pickled mushrooms, and herb-scented vodkas are set on a table spread with rose petals. Bowls of the Tsarina's favorite Crimean wild berries adorn the table. Her Imperial Majesty is expected at any moment.

A silver-threaded cloth covers an easel displayed on a platform at the head of the Portrait Hall. Avram paces back and forth in front of the easel, a nervous lion guarding his lair.

Darya walks around, stops at every station to oversee last-minute details. A leaden weight presses against her chest, and she thinks that if she survives this day, then she might survive any future hurdles fate may toss her way.

Avram's left hand creeps up to his forehead, he winces, runs his thumb over the scar. There is a new worry in his eyes, more depth, an added sadness. He knows the Empress has not forgiven him, knows that by inviting him to the salon, Darya has put herself in a precarious situation. He tugs at a loosened silver thread, pulls it off the cloth, twisting it around his fingers, rolling it into a ball. Nothing can be undone now. Whatever is meant to happen will.

Up on the scaffolding, Rosa Koristanova is preparing a massive block of agate alabaster. The Empress has paid for its transportation from Italy. The luminous, flesh-colored stone has been moistened with water, the fault lines and grain located, and the design of a triumphant Ipabog, god of the hunt, drawn with pencil on the stone. Mallet in hand and without protective gear, eye mask, dust mask, or fingerless gloves, Rosa strokes the alabaster, preoccupied with how to best shave off pieces of unwanted stone, careful not to leave bruises and sacrifice the heart.

“Who is your model, Rosa?”

The startled Rosa looks up to find Darya has climbed the ladder and is standing behind her atop the scaffolding. “Oh, my! You really shouldn't be up here with all this dust. It isn't healthy at all. Oh! You were asking me, weren't you, who my model is. Well, let me think, the truth is that this one is especially important to me…and…if I may, well, I would rather not tempt the devil by calling attention to it.”

“Of course, of course,” Darya quickly assures, certain she recognizes Joseph's profile drawn on the stone. “Many artists share your feelings. Good luck, then, and we'll talk later.” She taps Rosa on the shoulder and, to the ceaseless click of Joseph's camera, climbs down the ladder.

In another corner of the hall, Igor Vasiliev is accompanied by two dancers impersonating the Tsar and his German cousin, Kaiser Wilhelm II. One of the dancers soars above a makeshift stage as if defying gravity. He embarks on a set of bold turns before landing in a graceful plié on the back of the other dancer, a Tsar impersonator, who is on all fours. With naughty twists of the arm, the kaiser slaps the buttocks of the Tsar, who all but carries his cousin on his back.

“What's the story of your ballet?” Darya asks Igor. “Why is this dancer riding on the back of the other?”

Igor bites his lip. He turns to Darya and his smile is free of malice. “It's the story of a kind merchant who made a pact with his donkey. In the spirit of equality, the merchant will ride the donkey in the morning and will allow the donkey to ride him in the evenings.”

An expression of amusement scurries across Darya's face. “Does it work? Do they get along?”

“Time will tell,” Igor replies. “It's just the beginning.”

At that moment, the leg of one of the dancers cuts through the air like a swift arrow and inadvertently kicks the caricaturist in the shin. He jumps up and lands a punch on the dancer's nose.

Punches fly and legs flail as the horrified Darya tries to separate them, admonishing them, warning them that the Empress is expected at any moment.

The scaffolding rattles and Rosa, as if she were a Cossack of the imperial guard, jumps down, brandishing her mallet in the men's faces. “Shame! Shame on every one of your shit-stuffed heads! How dare you! Go out and piss on each other in the street. Stop acting like frustrated eunuchs.” She grabs the men by their arms and marches them toward their assigned spaces just in time for the other artists to scramble back to their stations as the grand master of ceremonies announces her Imperial Majesty.

An immediate hush takes over, all eyes turning to her.

The willowy Alexandra Feodorovna sails in like an angel dressed in a four-tiered white skirt, white lace stockings, and suede shoes. Her hair is coiled high and kept in place with silver pins. Two tear-shaped pearls the size of pigeon eggs dangle from her earlobes. She has just returned from the Feodorovsky Chapel at the end of the park, where she fell to her knees and pressed her face to the cold stones, thanking the Lord for granting her son temporary relief.

She is in good spirits, radiant, smiling. Gesturing a conspiratorial forefinger behind the door, she invites her daughters to join her. They drift in like perfumed breezes, cross the hall, and walk straight toward Darya.

At their sight, the weight pressing on Darya's chest lightens, and she is able to draw some air into her lungs. Olga and Tatiana, the Big Pair, and Maria and Anastasia, the Little Pair, as she affectionately calls them, sail into her wide-open arms. She hugs them, drawing strength from their small bodies. Olga, the oldest, is only ten. Two years separate each sister from the other in age, but their elegant composure is breathtaking.

The Empress is observing the artists, fixing them under her stare, taking note of each face she was introduced to on the first gathering three months back. She catches sight of an unfamiliar face. “Who is this man?” she asks Darya.

“Avram Bensheimer!” Darya replies, grouping the children behind her as if to shield them from the predictable eruption.

“Bensheimer!” the Empress exclaims.

The pause is so long, the silence so complete. Darya can hear the soft inhale of breath behind her, can hear a small cough. The thought occurs to her that Anastasia might be coming down with a cold. “I invited Bensheimer back, your Majesty. May I explain?”

The smile flees from the Empress's lips. Her tightly set face turns to stone. She breezes straight toward Darya. “No! You may not explain! Hand this man to the imperial Cossacks and meet me in the reading room.”

Darya goes to rest a trembling hand on top of the easel. Holds it there for a second.

The restive stamp of horses can be heard outside, a pale day moon sails behind a cloud. A breeze of white butterflies makes its way inside, circles the room, and then alights on Anastasia's left shoulder.

Darya tugs at the thread that binds the cloth at the base, pulls at a knot, and unwinds it. Grabs a corner of the cloth and, with one quick motion, flips it off the easel.

The Tsarina stands motionless in front of the easel. An artery throbs at her throat. She bites her lower lip. Her lips are dry, her eyes moist.

On the same easel that three months ago displayed her son's photograph, now stands a portrait of the Madonna and Child.

But this is not the image of the Son of God. This is her darling Alyosha. His blue-gray eyes twinkle. His full head of curls shine. His dimpled cheeks are the picture of health. He is safe in the arms of the Madonna, whose healing gaze falls on him like a benediction, her benevolent smile a balm, her caring hands resting on him like countless blessings.

The Empress lets out a sigh. Tears well in her eyes, remain suspended on her lashes. Her tentative forefinger traces the outline of the image of her son on canvas. Such artistic brilliance. Such an exceptional insight into her heart's desire. But what is the Lord's message to her, and why has He selected this Jewish man as His medium?

After an eternity that finds the artists scrambling for the optimal viewing position, the Empress lowers herself into the closest chair.

Darya gestures toward Avram, explains to the Empress that the portrait is his work as reparation for his insolence, explains that he extends his heartfelt regrets and profuse apologies and that a tragic event in his community kept him from the salon that day.

Avram is silent. There is not much fear in this man. There was not one tragic event, he thinks, but ongoing tragedies that are destroying entire communities, pogroms incited by the authorities, by the Tsarist secret police, by the military, even the mayor himself. His insides are a volcanic brew of resentment toward the Romanovs. But he will not jeopardize Darya's position in the Imperial Court. He will not lose her now that she will have to keep her promise and model for him.

The Empress rises, approaches the portrait to take another close look. She brushes her cheek with an open palm. She steps back as if in the presence of a holy image.

“Darya Borisovna, deliver the painting to my private quarters. Reward Bensheimer for his efforts!” Having conveyed her wishes, she nods to her daughters to follow her, turns on her heels, and takes her leave without as much as a single glance at the work of the other artists.

Darya waits for the echo of the Empress's steps to die, for her own heartbeat to settle.

She is unaware what a great risk Avram has taken. He presented this portrait to her Imperial Majesty, certain she would not recognize the woman who posed as the Madonna.

And he was right.

Cloistered in the Alexander Palace, the Empress failed to identify the face of the Madonna as that of White Thighs Paulina, an unknown proletariat whore.