The Last Romanov (21 page)

Darya plucks a few seeds out of the pouch, tests them between two fingers, raises them to her nose, inhales their pungent, spicy scent, tosses the seeds back in the pouch she drops in her pocket.

She is unaware that in less than two years, she will send a prayer of thanks to Rasputin for having had the foresight to send her these seeds.

Rasputin leans back in Prince Yusupov's chauffeur-driven car as it navigates through the snow-heavy streets of Petrograd.

He is wearing the embroidered blouse the Empress gave him. His boots are polished to a high sheen, and his black velvet pants are new.

He lets out a contented sigh, digs his hand into his coat pocket and fondles the icon the Empress had sent him this afternoon. Too late to save him, he muses. His death is imminent, but not at the hands of his trusted friend, Prince Felix Yusupov. And certainly not tonight, when Irina, the prince's beautiful wife, is back in town for the sole purpose of meeting him, Grigori Rasputin. And why not? The homosexual prince who struts across the boulevards at night in his wife's gowns is hardly a proper lover for the stunning Irina.

Rasputin peers out the tinted window of the car at the reflection of the moon on the snow-covered onion domes of churches and on the frozen surface of the Moika River.

His supporters warned him against going out so late at night. It is not safe. The Duma has denounced him, after all, accused him of influencing the Tsarina's political decisions in her husband's absence. Perhaps he does. He believes in the maintenance of autocracy, believes in the monarchy. Members of the Duma don't like his accurate prophesies, nor his close relationship with the Imperial Couple, which they consider a direct threat to their authority. They complained to the Tsar. Well! In return, the Tsarina, with his guidance, of course, responded by dismissing the ignorant ministers and introducing a legislature that further curtailed the power of the ones who remain in the Duma.

Now, he, Grigori Rasputin, holds audiences, gives advice regarding matters of state, and forwards problems to the appropriate ministers. He checks the plans of prospective war campaigns, suggests the right timing, and prays for the success of the Tsar. He makes the sign of the cross. This is a monster of a war. Too much bloodshed. Too many corpses to count.

He lowers the car's window. The biting chill everyone complains about has a way of banishing his petty concerns.

The yellow silhouette of Prince Yusupov's palace, like a grand ghost ship anchored by the Moika, rises up against the dark skyline.

Rasputin chuckles with glee. He cracks his thick-knuckled fingers. He is impressed. The gates, the car door, the tall, heavy doors to the palace, all swing open to accommodate him as if by invisible, welcoming hands.

He follows a cherub-faced servant through halls lined with dimly lit sculptures and antiques, down a flight of stairs, across a stone hallway, and into a cellar of low-vaulted ceilings and gray stone walls. A white bearskin rug is splayed on the granite floor. A silver samovar hums on a table covered with embroideries. Cakes are set in ornate plates, two Madeira bottles on a silver tray. A cabinet inlaid with ebony and cut mirrors multiply his jovial image. At the sight of a rock crystal and silver crucifix above the cabinet, he straightens his spine and crosses himself.

“Yankee Doodle” is playing on a Gramophone somewhere upstairs.

He remains standing, hesitant, pupils contracting, nostrils flaring to identify an unfamiliar smell.

Prince Yusupov steps out of the shadows. He is slender, beautiful in an effeminate way, his long lashes enhanced with mascara. He embraces Rasputin, kisses him on both cheeks. “Welcome, my friend. Make yourself at home. Here, please, come sit. My chef baked your favorite cakes.”

“Where is your lovely wife?” Rasputin chuckles, unable to contain his joy.

“She's upstairs at a party. She'll be down shortly,” the prince assures him with an exaggerated wink that shows off his long lashes.

“And your servants?” Rasputin asks. “None to serve us?”

“Irina gave them the evening off. Why tonight, I don't know.”

But, of course, Rasputin thinks, Irina must have taken all precautions for their meeting to be intimate and confidential. She is the Emperor's niece, after all, and word of their meeting should not leak out. He settles down in a carved wooden chair in front of the cabinet, leans back, and rubs his hands in anticipation.

“Please enjoy some cake,” the prince offers.

Rasputin reaches out for the tray of cakes, hesitates, then drops his hand back in his lap. “No, I must not spoil my appetite. Well…maybe one or two.”

He devours two cakes. Drinks two glasses of Madeira. He asks for another. The tune of “Yankee Doodle” turns louder upstairs. He coughs, his unhinged eyes acquiring a ghostly pallor. He is having a hard time breathing. “You should avoid the cellar, Felix. This humidity is not healthy. Some tea to clear my head, yes? Thank you. Please sing for me, will you?”

The prince fetches his guitar that leans against a wall. He likes to flaunt his beautiful voice, but not tonight. He wants this to be over. He hugs his guitar to his chest, his fingers strumming feverishly, his feminine voice filling the cellar. He sings song after song, one melody after another.

Rasputin's eyes feel disjointed in their sockets, his head becomes as heavy as lead, his breathing shallow. Perhaps he had too much Madeira, he thinks. He pours himself another cup of tea, drinks the hot liquid as if he is immune to heat. He drinks another cup. He is feeling better. He smiles, snaps his fingers, taps his feet, sways to the strumming of Yusupov's songs.

The prince's vocal cords are raw, his fingers ache. He glances at the monk. “Another glass of Madeira?”

“Tea perhaps. Don't stop, Felix. I love your songs.”

Felix puts his guitar down. “Excuse me for a minute, I will be right back.” He leaves the cellar and climbs the stairs two at a time to find his cronies. They have abandoned their idea of simulating a party and now huddle upstairs on the landing.

“What's happening downstairs? Why are you singing?”

“He is still alive!” the prince whispers urgently. “What shall we do?”

Lazovert, who already fainted twice from fear, slumps down again.

“We better drop the plan and go home,” Grand Duke Dmitry suggests.

Purishkevich, the most senior and most levelheaded of the group, reminds them that they cannot afford to leave the half-dead Rasputin here.

“But you don't understand. He is not even half dead,” Yusupov utters, rubbing his hands in desperation.

“Did he eat the cakes…drink the Madeira?”

“Yes, yes, many,” Felix replies urgently.

“But it doesn't make sense. They have enough cyanide to fell a stable of horses.”

“He is immune to poison. Something else must be done. Hurry, think, think…”

The men exchange glances, curse under their breath.

The prince adjusts his cravat, squares his shoulders. “Very well then, I will finish the job.”

“Where did you go, Felix?” Rasputin complains as soon as Yusupov returns to the cellar. “Pour me some more wine.” He has put Irina out of his mind and has other plans for the night. “What do you say we visit the gypsies?”

Felix positions himself in front of Rasputin. Hands behind his back, he observes Rasputin's face to see what it registers. Fright? Confusion? But all he sees is a drunk. No! Not even that, the man is just slightly out of sorts. He is nodding to signal for more wine.

“Look up at the crucifix on top of the cabinet, Grigori.”

Rasputin leans forward, rests his chin on his hairy hands. “I like the cabinet better,” he proclaims. He checks himself in the mirror, rearranges a wisp of gray hair, pushes it back, raises an eyebrow as if questioning his image. Something shatters upstairs. The thumping of footsteps on stone. Silence!

“Grigori Yefimovich, you better look at the crucifix and say a prayer.”

Rasputin's eyes dart up to the crucifix then back to Yusupov.

The prince is aiming a Browning revolver at the monk.

Two shots echo around the cellar.

Rasputin lets out a savage scream. His entire body bounces out of the chair like a loosened coil. An instant of hesitation, as if wondering which direction to take, where to go from here. He topples backward onto the white bearskin rug.

Yusupov stares at the smoking revolver in his trembling hand. He stands over the prostrate body at his feet. Rasputin's eyes are open, his sizzling gaze aimed at his murderer. What type of a person, the prince wonders, could be immune to such large amounts of alcohol and poison? For a frightful moment there, he thought he might be immune to bullets too.

The prince's cronies burst into the cellar.

“He is dead!” Yusupov shouts, “Dead, at last!”

He tosses his revolver onto the table. It crashes against the bottle of Madeira and shatters it into small pieces that scatter. He succeeded, at last, succeeded in eliminating the mad monk intent on destroying Russia and her three-hundred-year-old monarchy.

He kneels down, checks Rasputin's corpse that seems to be made of iron and steel. How else could it have endured so much cyanide? Yusupov bends closer to the corpse. Plucks out a shard of crystal embedded in the right cheek. A drop of blood bubbles out of the wound. Yusupov's lips part in a self-congratulatory smile. He turns to his conspirators. “Look, the mad monk is made of flesh and blood, after all. All right, think now, what shall we do? We have to get rid of him before the police come. Go upstairs and bring something to wrap the body.”

He picks a napkin from the table and folds it around the piece of crystal, tucking it in one of the cabinet drawers, a reminder of his courage in the face of evil. The Duma will applaud him. The ministers will reward him. And the country will exalt him for his courage.

He lingers in front of the cabinet to admire his reflection in the cut mirrors, pats his pomaded hair into place, wets two fingers with saliva, and passes them across the length of his lashes. He steps back and congratulates his image in the mirrors. “Well done, Felix. Bravo, my boy!”

Two hands seize him from behind. Grab his throat and begin to squeeze.

“You bad boy,” Rasputin whispers in his ear, his venomous eyes staring from the mirrors.

The prince jerks back. Struggles with all his might. He is not a strong man. He can't breathe. His lungs are bursting. He is going to die. Die by the hands of this madman!

He bends one foot back and kicks Rasputin in the crotch. He breaks loose with a series of coughs, sprints out of the cellar and up the stairs. “He is alive. He is getting away!”

Rasputin scrambles on all fours up the stairs behind the terrified Yusupov, who dashes into the safety of his parents' apartments. Rasputin crawls ahead, toward the front door, into the snow-covered courtyard and the gate. He pulls himself up, grabs the gate's lock. His voice tears through his throat. “Felix! Felix! I will tell everything to the Empress!”

A shot shatters across the night. Then another shot.

Purishkevich stands at one end of the courtyard, a revolver in his right hand. His left fist is stuffed in his mouth.

He has missed with both shots.

He bites hard on his hand to stop the trembling. Another three steps and Rasputin will escape. That will certainly be the end of them all.

A third bullet lodges in Rasputin's shoulder. The fourth finds his head.

Rasputin circles around himself like a dog chasing its tail. Blood spurts everywhere: on the bricks, the gate, the snow-covered courtyard. He topples backward onto the snow, a bloody hallow seeping around his prostrate body.

Purishkevich approaches the twitching body. Aims a hard kick at the temple. Grinds a boot into the face. Another hard kick between the legs, then another and another.

The hysterical Prince Yusupov runs into the scene. His face is blotched, cheeks smeared with mascara. He begins to batter the body with a club to the head, the stomach, between the legs until no sign of life is left of the man who had all but ruled Russia for the last few tumultuous years.

The men roll the body in a blue curtain and secure it with ropes. They take turns checking the knots, pulling, tightening, and fastening from all sides. They step back to observe their work. This is it, they think. Never again will the monk rise.

Torches in hand, they sneak through dark back alleys. The sky is a metal sheet overhead, the packed snow slippery underfoot. The alarming crunch of sleighs and carriage wheels can be heard in the distance. They stop every now and then to catch their breath, to curse the heavy load they carry like a rolled carpet on their shoulders.

They reach a secluded part of the Neva. Drop their load on the snow by the riverbank, stand back and gaze at one another.

Tall gas lamps cast a gloomy glow around them. At this time of the year the ice over the Neva is dense, troikas cross the river back and forth, people ice skate on the surface. How in the world will they manage to break the ice? The desperate Yusupov sticks his torch upright in the snow and falls exhausted to his knees, his vaporous breath coming out in gasps. Church bells chime in the distance. Not much time left before daybreak. One of the men stomps snow off his boots, rubs his hands, and blows out a cold plume of steam. “Let's break the ice.”

“With our bare hands?”

The prince turns his torch upside down. The flame sputters and dies as soon as it comes into contact with the ice.

Purishkevich reignites Yusupov's torch with his own, gathers the other torches, and groups them together like a small bonfire. One torch is saved in case of emergency. He kneels and carefully brings the flames to the ice, pulling away before the flames go out, repeating the process again and again, and reigniting the torches when necessary. A shallow pool of ice water appears at his feet. The men surround him, a barrier against the rising wind as he stomps his boots on top of a small area in the ice that heat might, or might not, have thinned somewhat. They gather closer, pounding with their boots, soft kid shoes, Italian leather loafers. The ice moans under their feet. A thin crack appears. They attack it with whatever strength is left. The sun is rising on the horizon. Danger comes with daylight.