The Last Romanov (13 page)

One hundred fifty guards stand at attention as the imperial motorcade roars through the sweeping driveway and comes to a stop in front of the Alexander Palace.

Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin steps down from the first car in the motorcade. He stomps each boot on the stone path underfoot as if to rid himself of the dust of his long journey. Shading his eyes with one hand, he observes his surroundings, the velvet expanse of turquoise sky, the chatter of birds of paradise among rustling leaves, a rose petal floating on the breeze.

On the landing at the top of the stairs leading to the palace, Darya observes Rasputin march toward her, boots clicking underfoot. His stench of bitter almonds grows stronger with his advance, the same odor he emitted in the auction house fourteen months back.

Birds of paradise raise a racket, taking flight from the surrounding branches. The sun takes refuge behind a dark cloud. A shrill wind makes its way from the east, swallowing the pleasant breeze.

Darya waves a hand as if to banish his odor, banish any misfortune it might portend. She takes two involuntary steps up the stairs to get away from him, then quickly retraces her way back to welcome the little heir's last hope. It would not be wise to turn Rasputin away, even if she wishes to, even if his every approaching step feels like a blow. “Please, God,” she prays under her breath, “let the monk, this self-proclaimed priest, heal my Tsarevich.”

He ignores her extended hand, aims his bullet eyes at her, his odor nauseating, his smoke-infused beard too close, his brazen tongue flicking across wet lips. “A pleasure seeing you again. Strange! Very strange. A Jew in court.”

“What do you mean?” she blurts out.

“You were born Christian. Yes. But I see a past. A Jew! You are of other times.”

His stare ignites images that flash across the canvas of her life and strike her eye like lightning. She flinches. Her hand springs up to her eye. What are these images? Pomegranate stains everywhere. Menstrual blood? Israelites dragging her by the hair. She is afraid to enter a temple, or a church, perhaps. She is preparing for some kind of punishment. Why does she pray in Hebrew?

Rasputin lowers her hand from her opal eye. “Much mystery in your eye. Your Jewel.”

She pulls her hand away. Suddenly she wants nothing more than to keep this man as far as possible from the heir, from the court, from herself. “Father Grigori, Her Majesty is not quite well and will not be seeing you after all. She will summon you back as soon as her health permits.”

He reaches out, bunching her hair in his fist. His gaze wraps about her like a vise. “This is not true, is it! Think of Russia, of our people. Help me cure the heir.”

Defiant, struggling to contain her rage, Darya reclaims her hair. Strands remain coiled around the grimy fingers he rubs under his nose. “Where is Bensheimer's painting? You promised to bring
The
Cure
if I arranged an audience with the Empress.”

“An art dealer bought it months ago. But why am I here? To save the baby or to discuss the silly painting?”

“So you broke your promise to me, Grigori Rasputin. But you better save the Tsarevich, or you'll never set foot here again!”

“Take me to him!”

He follows her into the grand foyer, handling an antique porcelain bowl on a side table, molesting the urns of malachite and jasper, his boots soiling the silk rugs, the ebony and rosewood parquet floors, the marble stairs as they ascend toward the Mauve Room. He lingers behind the door, fingers raking his matted beard. His gaze is boring into her opal eye, deep down to read her thoughts. She thinks he is polluting her. How wrong she is.

At the sight of Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin, relief softens the lines on the Empress's forehead, transforming her into the gracefully regal woman she once was. These days she is always in white, various shades and weaves of white—linen, damask, taffeta, satin, mohair, and silk cashmere—pure and innocent, gift-wrapped like a sacrificial lamb.

She is seated next to a lemonwood Becker piano, on her right an antique planter with a burst of lilacs next to a wood-framed glass screen. Shelves are crowded with photographs of relatives and friends, glass and porcelain ornaments, and jeweled Fabergé eggs.

The Tsarevich, bundled in a silk-lined coverlet crocheted by the Tsarina and three of her older daughters, is propped up on embroidered pillows on his mother's chaise lounge. He is small, pale, and listless.

The monk does not kiss the Tsarina's hand as required by royal etiquette but kneels in front of her, gazing into her eyes as if her son's future is reflected there. He rises, bends, and she allows him two consecutive kisses on her forehead.

“I received your summons in Siberia. I came right away.”

“Thank you. It must be kept private.”

“Always, Matushka. Always, Little Mother!”

Suddenly, he jumps up and shouts like a possessed creature, startling both women. “Out! Everyone! Out!”

The Empress gestures for Darya to leave the room.

He raises a calloused forefinger. “Not her, Matushka. You. Your son needs me, not you. You make him nervous. Make him bleed. Go, have a cup of tea. Read a book to your daughters. They need you too.”

The Empress gathers her skirts and crosses her boudoir, her heels clicking on the parquet. Hand on the door handle, she turns toward her son and takes a hard look at him. She crosses herself and steps out, shutting the door behind her.

Rasputin's stare swivels past Darya, who is standing next to the Tsarevich, holding his limp hand in hers, past the portrait of Our Lady of Tsarskoe Selo, and comes to rest on the portrait of the Tsarevich in the arms of the Madonna. Brows knit, he tugs at his beard. The shadow of his darkening face is a flat stain on his coat, stiff with sweat and dotted with oily stains. A series of low rumbles emanate from deep in his chest as if a string of inner quakes are shaking him. His right hand darts out, a long reach, as if the Lord Himself is about to tear the painting out of its ornate frame.

An expression of stifled fury on his face, he shouts, “White Thighs fucking Paulina!”

“What?” Darya interjects. “Who is White Thighs Paulina?”

“Paulina. You don't know her? Of course you don't. Neither would the Empress.”

He leans forward to read the signature. He gasps. Straightens up. “Avram Bensheimer! He painted
The
Cure
, didn't he? The portrait you wanted.”

“Yes, Father Grigori. Bensheimer is the same artist. Why is this important?”

“This is no Madonna. Not at all! This is White Thighs Paulina. A fucking whore!”

Darya grabs her necklace, squeezes the jeweled egg. Pearls and diamonds dig into her palm.

The palace is quiet; not a sound comes from behind the shut door. She walks across the large room toward the window. The bright light hurts her eyes. The wind is gathering force, branches swaying like so many desperate arms.

What has Avram done? This is the end of him. Why did he do it? Now neither God nor His saints will keep Rasputin from revealing the truth to their Imperial Majesties.

Rasputin is at her side, his cutting stare aimed at her, as if to crush her with his powerful eyes. “You like this Bensheimer.”

Her own gaze is steady, challenging. “Yes! I do. He is a brilliant artist.”

He faces her, eye to eye, asserting his authority. He holds up a warning finger. “Yes, but his name makes you blush, makes you sweat.” The anger on his face transforms into a conspiratorial grin. “We will be good to each other,” he exclaims as if closing a deal. “I won't tell the Empress about Avram's appalling offense if you allow me entry into the mysteries of your opal eye.”

Her spine stiffens, straight as the Tsar's cane. From now on she will fear this man, be vulnerable, exposed, a step below him.

She is unaware that a conspiracy is shaping in his mind. Unaware that his powerful stare will find a way to bore through her opal eye to steal a glance at much coveted secrets. Unaware that in six years she will eventually bow to this despised man's persistent manipulations and will reveal herself to him.

The Tsarevich opens his eyes and whimpers.

Rasputin pulls a chair close to the child, leans forward, flips back the coverlet, and lifts the small hand. His intense seerlike gaze examines Alexei's pale face.

“Precious son, listen to Father Grigori. Listen well. I will tell you a special story. A jewel you must treasure and keep to yourself.

“Once on a white planet of snow lived a little boy named Alexei. But no. No! That was not the name the Lord intended for him. Alexei? Never. This boy was meant to choose his own name and his own destiny. He did not want to be crowned Emperor. He did not want to be a prisoner of that snow planet. What he really wanted was to be crowned archangel of all the firmaments.

“One dawn, eighteen silver-lashed, filigree-winged angels fluttered their lacy feathers, swooping down to congregate around the little boy's palace of ice. Their honeyed voices rose to the seventh heaven heralding the good Lord. They prayed for the sun to shine upon the palace for forty days and forty nights and to melt the cocoon of ice. They pleaded with the Lord to have mercy on the little boy and thaw his bones that had become as brittle as his icy home. They flew around the palace, chanting hymns, praising the Lord and all His saints, their gossamer wings sheltering the boy from the ravages of hail, snow, and frost. On the dawn of the eighteenth day, the boy's blood began to warm up, his joints became supple, and his once dry eyes sparkled with the joy of experiencing warmth for the first time in his life. He smiled, laughed aloud, ran outside to thank the kind angels. But perched on a chariot of clouds, they were on their way to fulfill another promise.

“Overjoyed at the sight of young shoots, colorful blooms, and emerald leaves that had replaced the barren land and the carpet of frigid snow, the boy knelt to inhale the sweet perfume of possibilities. He raised both hands to heaven and shouted, ‘My name is Life!'

“And this is who you are, Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov. You are life.”

A hint of color appears on the heir's cheeks and soft breathing replaces his anemic moans. The lilacs in the antique planter vibrate, their fragrance inebriating. The scent of rosemary and mint floats through the windows. And for the first time since her parents' death, warm currents flow through Darya, thawing her own bones.

Rasputin rises to his feet, bends over the Tsarevich, his long coat concealing the child from her sight. An instant of silence passes, then another, and the monk's body begins to shake, weak spasms that grow stronger. His fingernails dig into his palms, drawing blood. His breath is loud and gurgling with phlegm. His long hair drips with sweat and another sound is rising from his throat, as if something is blocking his windpipe.

Darya lets out a cry of alarm. She puts her arms around Rasputin's sweat-drenched coat, pulling him with all her might, struggling to drag him away from the child. She helps him to a chair, knocking a vase over in the process. He slumps in the chair, eyes rolled back into his head, shaken by a series of powerful shudders. She picks up a pitcher of water from the nightstand and upends the contents on his head. A groan, a sharp intake of breath, and he staggers to his feet, disoriented, but only momentarily. Fishing out a soiled kerchief from his sleeve, he wipes his sweat-drenched face.

Darya steps back, rubs her eyes with her knuckles. She wants to grab the Tsarevich from the chaise lounge and flee somewhere away from this madman and his strange ways. Except that the child is no longer pale, no longer in pain.

Without any warning, and as though nothing out of the ordinary has just occurred, Rasputin bunches and lifts her skirt in one hand, grabbing her between the legs with his other hand, holding tight.

Disgusted and cursing under her breath, she slaps him away.

He waves his fingers under his nose. “A great, great pity,” he declares in a fury of righteousness. “You are not a virgin!”

Strolling with Avram in back of the park, Darya stumbles across a sweet-smelling plant. She absentmindedly examines it in the gray light of dawn and crushes the leaves in her fist.

A thin moon drifts behind a metallic cloud. Dew-mottled leaves sway in the breeze. The palace is quiet. Two months have passed since Rasputin healed the Tsarevich, and the Imperial Family is vacationing on the imperial yacht,
Standart
, while Darya has remained here. The change of the Cossacks of the guard is taking place, but Darya, with her healing herbs and miraculous potions, has ingratiated herself with them, so they know to turn a blind eye to the lovers as they stroll behind ancient trees and trellises.

She grabs Avram's arm, digs her nails in. She is furious. With the Tsarevich recuperating from his last bout of bleeding and the Empress needing constant attention, she could not meet Avram for two months and her pent-up anger spills out in her voice. “Why did you do it, Avram? Why did you choose a whore to model as the Madonna?”

He is surprised. Nothing can be concealed from this woman. Not even the identity of a prostitute who no one would recognize in this aristocratic part of town. “I chose her because she had the right face and the beautiful serenity of the Madonna. And I didn't think the Empress would recognize her.”

“Rasputin did. And he knows you are the painter. He'll use it against you if he needs to.”

“I put you in a difficult position again, haven't I?”

“Yes, you have, but I asked you to find a way for the Tsarina to forgive you and you did.” She has no right to her anger when such difficulties must be expected in a relationship like theirs. Every star in the firmament has to be aligned for their love to flourish, two people from vastly different cultures and backgrounds, whose every encounter is a miracle. In the last year, their love has evolved and matured, layered like an iridescent pearl, and she will not allow this incident to tarnish it.

The birds of paradise are wild around them, their trilling cascading down the trees as they peck at bread crumbs Darya sprinkles behind. This is the time and landscape she likes most, when her dreams are left behind and dawn promises fresh possibilities. She searches around for the red-feathered bird of paradise, and as if in reply to her silent summons, there it is, strutting on one of the lower branches, her throat swelling with birdsong. Darya laughs out loud, but Avram is not amused. He has stopped to read the elaborate inscriptions on the tombstones at his feet:

Here
lies
Zemir, and the saddened Graces should throw flowers on her grave. Like Tom, her ancestor, like Lady, her mother, she was constant in her affections, swift of foot…The Gods, witnesses of her tenderness, ought to have rewarded her for her fidelity with immortality, so that she might for ever remain near her mistress.

“It's a mausoleum for dogs,” Darya says. “Catherine the Great built it.”

“Shame on the Romanovs! They care for their dogs more than their people.”

“What a terrible thing to say, Avram!”

He directs his unforgiving gaze at her. “Listen, my Opal-Eyed Queen, you are not the only one who is cold. Everyone is these days, especially the Jews. Fight for us, Darya. You have the Tsarina's ear. Do something!”

“I don't know what to tell her. She thinks every revolutionary is a Jew.”

“And here you are. With a Jew. What are we to do, Darya? Why do you tolerate the Romanovs? Can't you tell they are propelling Russia toward disaster?”

“Enough, Avram! Don't talk this way. Our political system is still the best in the world.”

“Autocracy? Nonsense! It didn't work at the time of Peter the Great. And it's not working today. See what a relatively tame march to St. Petersburg turned into. Bloody Sunday! Our country will never be the same. Everyone is bitter.”

“The Tsar was beside himself, Avram. It was a sad day for all of us. The order to fire on innocent civilians came from the anxious troops, not from the Tsar.” She rises on her toes and tilts her face up to Avram. “No more politics, not today.” And then, knowing full well that the truth is otherwise, she adds, “Our relationship has nothing to do with the Romanovs.”

She sidesteps the graves, Avram guiding her by the arm. “Avram, do you detect an odor of decaying flesh around here?”

He brings his face close to the tombstone and pretends to sniff like a dog. He digs his hands into her hair, smiles at her with a lopsided smile. “Yes, I do. I smell the stench of corruption. I smell Rasputin. I smell treason. Durnovo, Gerasomov…” He traces the inscription on the tombs. “Leave them, Darya, come with me. Leave while your innocence is intact.”

She wraps her hand around his wrist to count the bounce of his pulse. Rubs her cheek to the coarse weave of his coat. She loves this man, desiring him in her every cell, yet she hears herself hurt him in ways she does not intend. “My fate is sealed here, Avram. I've been assigned a responsibility I don't quite understand. It's as if the survival of the monarchy depends on me.”

Avram raises her chin with one finger. “Survival. Fate. Sealed. You're too young to think like this.”

She does not know why these thoughts creep into her head, why her olfactory senses detect scents unnoticed by others, why fires that warm others send a chill up her spine. Grigori Rasputin has insinuated that he possesses the hypnotic ability to thrust her into a trance that will answer all these questions. But the notion of relinquishing control, even temporarily, to Rasputin's pale-eyed powers is not acceptable to her. Still, not only has he become a welcome guest in court but an essential member of the Imperial Family. Darya, too, encourages his visits to the palace, sends him a gift when he heals Alexei, compliments him on his ability to calm the boy, all for the sake of the Tsarevich.

She leans against Avram. She is sad today, and she doesn't know why. “Did you know that my name means sea?”

“I know. It's beautiful. The origin is Persian.”

“But it's cold water and salt and freezing all the time, and maybe that's why I'm always cold. So I don't want that name anymore. Call me anything you want, any name that will warm me up.”

“Opal-Eyed Jewess,” Avram whispers to the birds of paradise that came here from New Guinea a century ago. “Darya,” he calls out to the swans sailing across the lake. “My Opal-Eyed Queen,” he murmurs to the rose garden behind them. “I love all your names. I didn't know you don't like Darya.”

“I'm tired of being cold near fires. Tired of being different.”

“But different makes you who you are. And I love different.” He suddenly gestures to his left, motions to her to be quiet.

A shadow is ducking behind one bush then another, chuckling under his breath like a depraved, cloven-footed jester, an obsessed man unable to sleep, unable to eat, his head full of Darya. He is shaking, aroused, expecting his own moments of relief.

“Stay where you are,” Avram whispers. “I'll be back.”

Darya grabs his hand. “Don't go alone.”

But he is walking ahead, fast, catlike, fearless. He ducks behind one topiary, then another, silent, edging ahead. He is sure-footed, good at eluding detection, good at concealing himself even if there's nothing to conceal. He lives in a part of town that requires this skill, this ability to slip away, fade unnoticed, escape Jew haters. Darya catches up with him. She is certain Rasputin is following them to punish Avram.

The two circle the topiary, slowly, quietly. Avram's heart is banging against his ribs.

Count Trebla is squatting behind the topiary. His sweat-drenched features are contorted as if in pain. He is pleasuring himself.

He jumps to his feet. Pulls up his pants. Wipes his soiled hand on his coat.

Avram grabs him by the collar, glares at him with the force of contained rage, ready to shake the fear of God into the man's thick skull.

Darya touches Avram on his arm, restrains him with a small tug at his sleeve.

He releases Count Trebla, shoves him away. “Go back to the kennels where you belong. Go!”

“Who are you to order me?” Count Trebla barks, assaulting Avram with a gust of sour breath. “I know what you're doing here. I will tell.”

Darya steps forward, aims two fingers between his eyes like a pistol. It had scared him before, perhaps it will again. “Down!” She says as if ordering the Doberman who bit her that day. “Now!”

This man who titters on the brink of madness, who no longer cares for his dogs, forgets to feed them, slaps their licking tongues away; this man who has lost interest in his wife and the ledger he filled every night with frantic observations, falls to his knees at Darya's feet. He is mumbling under his breath, promising to be good, to serve her, to follow her every command.

“Go now,” she says. “Go, take care of your dogs.”

He clambers to his feet. Shakes himself like a wet puppy, bows to her, thanks her profusely, vows to remain her obedient slave.

He scrambles away, content, chuckling under his breath.

“I'm impressed,” Avram tells Darya. “You, my queen, can talk yourself out of any predicament. Pity you are on the Romanov side.”

“On your side too, Avram. We better leave now. This man is dangerous.”

“And mad.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn't make him less dangerous.”

The city outside the gates is stirring; the sun is rising, gathering force. The scent of jasmine is in the air.

Avram kisses his forefinger and touches it to her eye. “Whatever happens, my queen, do not forget this Jew.”

She turns away from him and walks past the parterres in golden boxes, across the Marble Bridge, and back toward the palace. She does not turn around to wave farewell. She does not want him to see her tears, her pain and conflict.

She does not want him to know, not yet, that she is pregnant with his child.