Natasha's Dream (10 page)

‘Yes?’ said Count Orlov to the man in the grey coat and hat.

‘She’s still using that house.’

‘Good. It’s imperative we know where she is. But how the devil did she come to meet the Englishman? Even a short-sighted man suffering a surfeit of wine would hardly have picked her off the streets as a gesture to her beauty. Up to now, what was she but a peasant-like vagrant of skin and bone?’

The man in the grey coat shrugged. ‘One has suspicions,’ he said.

‘What suspicions?’

‘That he was the man on the bridge.’

Count Orlov frowned. ‘The man who interfered?’ he said sharply.

‘I’m almost certain he was. That would account for their present relationship.’

‘For her new clothes and her preening airs?’ The count’s expression was one of complete disdain. ‘One can’t call him a man of discrimination.’

‘Nor can one call her entirely unattractive, not now.’

The count’s fine lips tightened. ‘Has she exchanged her secrets for new clothes? Or has she parted with her virginity? Could any man desire an unwashed bag of bones? Yet I don’t think she has given him her story. She said not, when I asked her. Nor did he ask questions relevant to it. So, what is the bond between them, and is it the kind of bond that will eventually induce her to confide in him? He’s here, I think, to disinter every bone and fit them all together.’

‘Shall we discourage him?’ asked the man in the grey coat.

‘One could think about that,’ said the count. ‘A brawl, perhaps? The gentleman unconscious? Vodka or whisky poured into him – or over him? The arrival of the police and an unofficial request to the British Embassy to take him off their hands?’

‘The British Embassy would refuse.’

‘Not if it could be made known to them
that he was conducting enquiries on behalf of a principal too important to name. One can reasonably assume that his embassy would make enquiries of their own, and that he’d be recalled at once.’

‘I’ll circulate a few details. We need to have some eyes working for us.’

‘And without wasting time,’ said Count Orlov.

The Imperial Eagle was a Russian-owned restaurant on the crowded and busy Leipziger-strasse. It featured a Russian floor show.

The atmosphere was of old Imperial Russia. The place, noisy and smoky, was cavern-like with its low ceiling, its dark walls and its red lanterns. The waiters, in their loose white shirts, black trousers and hairy moustaches, were as wild-looking as Cossacks. Some were Cossacks: Cossacks who had remained faithful to Tsarism, and who felt there was no such thing as all men being equal. For a start, there were few men equal to Cossacks.

The music of balalaikas was either haunting or infectious, either nostalgic or rousing. The Cossack dancers stamped to it, and circled with booted feet kicking. The diners stamped too, and beat the tables with their fists or their
glasses. Glassware in the hands of Russians wining and dining was always at a premium.

Natasha, wearing one of her new dresses, its spotless white giving her a feeling of being clean and shriven, sat with Mr Gibson at a table in a recess. Her face was animated, and there was a glow in her eyes, the reflected glow of the red table lantern. She was flushed and in sweet exaltation. She was dining out, and with an escort who, in his dinner jacket, seemed to her to be the most distinguished man there. Her white teeth glimmered between her parted lips. Her long black hair, brushed and brushed, combed and combed, was without pins. It framed her face and, in soft dancing waves, kissed her shoulders.

The restaurant was crowded, every table taken, and almost every table burdened with food, wine and finger bowls. Chairs and diners were crammed around several tables. Mr Gibson supposed most of the patrons were Russian. Some were quite young, some more mature, some middle-aged and some elderly. Most were in full-blooded enjoyment of the atmosphere. The men were boisterous, their laughter huge. The women were striking, many of them extrovert, their gowns brilliant splashes
of colour against the darkness of walls adorned at intervals with the sombre red lanterns. Driven from Mother Russia by the Red Terror, the Bolshevik campaign designed to scourge the country of aristocrats, reactionaries and counter-revolutionaries, the exiled men and women were nearest to their homeland at night, when they could meet each other in restaurants like this one. And the restaurants provided them with what they needed – the food, the music, the songs, the dances and the spirit of Imperial Russia. They could sing every rousing song and every haunting one. They could drown their Russian melancholy in wine or vodka or champagne, they could exchange every hoary story that had first been heard in old St Petersburg, and they could roar with laughter one moment and shed extravagant Russian tears the next.

There were a few who sat silent and maudlin, their melancholy incurable as they remembered the glittering and exciting world they had enjoyed. It was a world they had taken for granted and carelessly thrown away. It was all gone, all vanished, and it had vanished because they had allowed the Duma to force abdication on the Tsar, and because when that abdication
was announced they had spent five minutes talking about it and then continued with their perpetual parties and excesses. It had never occurred to them, any more than it had to King Louis and Marie Antoinette of France, that the tumbrils would come for them.

The food at the Imperial Eagle was renowned for the size and variety of its different courses. Big Russian stomachs fought the unyielding pressure of table edges. It was a place only the moneyed exiles could afford. The moneyed exiles were those who had managed to bring their fortunes with them, or their jewels, or had wisely deposited their wealth in foreign banks before the revolutionaries blew Russia apart.

A nostalgic rendering of ‘Polyushko-Polya’ (Cossack Patrol) having finished, Mr Gibson said, ‘Is all this real, Natasha, or artificial?’

‘If you mean is it the way some Russians behave, yes, it is very real,’ said Natasha, who was partaking enjoyably but modestly of wine, and healthily of food. ‘But, of course, while the people only celebrated on special days, such as name days—’

‘Name days being what we call birthdays?’

‘Yes.’ Natasha regarded what was left of a
fiery kind of goulash. It had come to the table in its earthenware cooking pot. She toyed with the ladle. ‘No, I can eat no more. I am blown out.’

‘It’s only the fourth course,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Enough, enough,’ sighed Natasha.

‘Well, I can’t put away any more myself. Do Russians always dine like this?’

‘People like these hardly let a day pass without sitting down to a banquet and a circus,’ said Natasha.

‘Circus? With performing elephants?’ Mr Gibson’s enquiry was solemn.

‘No, no,’ said Natasha, ‘with music, singing and dancing. Because of the way they lived, they never took the war seriously. Our soldiers were always short of guns and ammunition. When they came home wounded they would tell us so. But the officers were never short of vodka and champagne. It was no wonder they lost the war, and revolution as well. Look at them. They haven’t changed. Every night they must still have parties. If they formed another White Army and marched on Moscow, they would consider it more important to dine well than to win victories.’

‘Is there anyone here you know, Natasha,
anyone it would be interesting for me to talk to?’

Curling smoke spirals from long Russian cigarettes drifted upwards to join the blue haze that hung below the ceiling. Through the haze, Natasha saw faces, faces that seemed to float. There were always faces. One got to know them and to attach names to them. Outside clubs, restaurants and theatres, Russian émigrés gathered every night. Penniless and hungry, they would watch the arrival of the Russian elite – the rich and the aristocratic. They would push forward, empty hands extended, and beg to be remembered as people who had once served the privileged in their palaces and on their estates, and had remained loyal to the Tsar. Sometimes they would be remembered. Sometimes money would be given, and with a smile, but also with a shake of the head, as if the donor felt his generosity might be a mistake. The penniless Russians knew the faces of most of the rich émigrés, and their names, and who was likely to be kind.

‘There are many thousands of Russians in Berlin,’ said Natasha, speaking her thoughts. ‘Most are poor. The poor seek alms from the rich, and know them by sight. I have worked
in restaurants like this one, and seen the same people regularly patronize them. But I cannot see anyone here who could answer questions about the Grand Duchess Anastasia.’

‘A pity,’ said Mr Gibson, regarding her thoughtfully. Her looks seemed to be improving almost by the hour. Her facial bones did not seem so sharp, and the rings around her eyes were scarcely noticeable. Her make-up was delicate but effective. Her white dress was charming. It was not a gown, and few of the women here would have considered it suitable evening wear, but it gave her an elegance, and its soft, silky shimmer was delicately feminine. The wretched creature who had come into his life out of a cold, damp night was suddenly an attractive young lady, and would be more so when all her hollows filled out.

‘I am looking and watching, Mr Gibson, sir,’ said Natasha, ‘and if I do see anyone who would interest you, I shall tell you.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, that poor sick lady.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘But why not?’ said Natasha in reproach. ‘If she should be the Grand Duchess, think how dreadful she must feel about being rejected. Oh, you will have to be very careful. I should
dislike it intensely if, because of your curiosity and your questions, someone cut your tongue off.’

‘I’d dislike it even more myself,’ said Mr Gibson, and waved away a waiter who wished to know if further courses were desired.

From out of the blue haze, eyes peered. Female eyes, heavy-lidded, lingered on Mr Gibson. Male eyes, either bold or speculative, dwelt on Natasha.

‘It is not something to joke about,’ she said. ‘Berlin is not a place of jokes. Oh, you can hear people laughing in clubs and restaurants, but not because of jokes, no. Because Berlin once had everything, and now it only has clowns with painted noses. I have been thinking it was a mistake to tell Count Orlov you were more well informed than he was. He did not like that.’

‘One can’t please everybody—’

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of violins and balalaikas coming to life again. The music was an invitation to customers to dance the mazurka. At once, Russians were on their feet, men and women whirling into motion. The mazurka was Polish in origin, but part of Poland had belonged to Russia for over a century, until the end of the Great War,
and Russians had adopted the dance as their own.

The restaurant burst with revelry. A pale young man, slender and handsome, emerged from a throng of dancers and came flying towards Natasha. Laughing, he reached for her, took her by the hand, pulled her irresistibly to her feet and galloped into the mazurka with her. Mr Gibson sat and watched. Natasha, flushed and excited, her thin body alive with movement, danced and whirled with the laughing young man.

A woman, whose hair was as raven-black as Natasha’s, and whose crimson gown and sultry looks put Mr Gibson in mind of an operatic Carmen, glided towards him. Her gown shimmered around her full-bosomed figure, and her teeth gleamed in a smile of brilliance. She extended a jewelled hand.

‘Come, my friend,’ she said in Russian.

‘Could you try English?’ asked Mr Gibson, coming gallantly to his feet.

‘English? English?’ Bold brown eyes swam with delight. In English, she purred, ‘Not Russian, not German, not Polish – but English? Then come, friend of the Tsar, ally of Imperial Russia, come to the dance.’

Mr Gibson smiled and bowed. He was seized by hands ardent for acquisition, and the brilliant smile poured radiance over him.

Natasha, heated and exhilarated, stared at the sight of Mr Gibson in what looked like an abandoned social engagement with Princess Irena Sergova Malininsky, notorious for her promiscuity. She was wickedly rich. It was said she had brought enough diamonds out of Russia to stud all four walls of her boudoir and leave no room for a single ikon. Her husband, Prince Malininsky, had unfortunately been left behind to be buried alive by the Bolsheviks. Natasha stopped dancing, appalled that her kind and resourceful friend and patron had allowed himself to be ensnared by a woman bold enough to devour him. On the other hand, Mr Gibson perhaps had designs of his own. Princess Malininsky was a monarchist of very independent views, and it would not take Mr Gibson long to find out if she had her own ideas about the woman in the clinic. All the same, Natasha disliked the possessive way she was dancing with him and smiling at him. Her moment of worried introspection was brought to a sudden end as the young man pulled her into the dance again. But she had lost a little of
her zest, and kept turning her head to see what the princess was up to with Mr Gibson.

It perturbed her, the extent of her feelings. Her feelings were, of course, all related to the necessity of helping Mr Gibson remain a gentleman respected in England. Yes, of course. It was no more than that. His wife and family would not like to see him in the clutches of Princess Malininsky. He never mentioned his wife, or whether he had children. His wife would be terribly unhappy and jealous to see him now. Oh, perhaps she would be even more jealous if she knew he was sharing his apartment with a young woman.

‘Smile, smile, you are enchanting when you smile,’ laughed the young man, and whirled her about.

The music went on and on, the crowded restaurant smoky, the haze patterned by moving colours. The violins throbbed, and Russians who had lost everything but their jewels or their bank deposits, danced the mazurka with the reckless bravado of the defiant and the intoxicated. The cavern-like restaurant took on the atmosphere of a haunt of the laughing and the damned. But it came to an end eventually, when even the strongest Russian began to wilt.
Princess Malininsky detained Mr Gibson, who had endured and survived the mad, prolonged mazurka relationship.