Natasha's Dream (7 page)

‘Run off?’ said the waiter.

‘After a family quarrel.’

‘Ah, so? A girl, no doubt,’ said the waiter sagely.

‘Is it always girls who run off?’ enquired the man.

‘Nearly always. They take quarrels more to heart, and always imagine that in Berlin they’ll find fame, fortune and romance.’ The waiter shook his head. ‘I ask you, mein Herr, fame and fortune in these days? And romance? It’s as much as most runaways can do to stay alive.’

‘I hope the girl we’re looking for is in no trouble. This is her photograph.’ The man produced a sepia-tinted photograph that had been taken out of a frame. It depicted a pretty young girl, big-eyed and softly smiling.

‘So young?’ said the waiter. He took a long look at the photograph. He glanced at the man with a scar, and at his pale-eyed, silent companion. He liked very much the girl in the photograph. He was not too sure he liked either of these men. ‘So young?’ he said again, handing the photograph back.

‘Oh, it was taken a few years ago. She’s a little older now.’ The scarred face was smiling. The eyes were not. ‘Do you think you might have seen her around? Her eyes are dark blue, a very dark blue, her hair black.’

‘Are you her father?’ asked the waiter.

‘No, a relative, an older cousin. We are both her cousins. Do you know her, or have you seen her?’

The waiter thought he had seen her often. She was always coming into the café, asking for work in the evenings.

‘I can’t recall seeing her, mein Herr, and I certainly don’t know her.’ The waiter resumed polishing a table. ‘Ask that boy over there.’ It was a way of getting rid of them, pointing them in the direction of a boy with a club foot, who was pulling a wooden box mounted on four small wheels. ‘He might help you.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said the swarthy man, and he and his companion approached the boy, who was looking for customers, for ladies with parcels, or for gentlemen who would like a shoe-shine. ‘Young man?’

‘Mein Herr?’ The boy had lively eyes and a cheerful smile. He was fourteen and made light of his infirmity.

‘We’re looking for a cousin of ours, a girl.’

‘Yes, mein Herr,’ said the boy, looking up into grey eyes that were remindful of chill winter.

‘This is a photograph of her, when she was a little younger. Do you think you might have seen her around?’

The boy, gazing at the photograph, shook his head. ‘No, mein Herr.’

The man, dressed in a belted coat and felt hat, shrugged and moved on, taking his companion with him. He had only recently arrived in Berlin after years of following fruitless trails in Latvia and Poland. There had, however, been one fruitful pointer that led him into Germany, and inevitably to Berlin, which housed the largest gathering of Russian émigrés in Europe.

He had, this morning, begun a tour of the cafés and restaurants of Berlin.

The house in which Madame Zinaida Tolstoy resided was splendid. The door was opened by a servant. Mr Gibson, Natasha beside him, announced his name and the fact that he had an appointment. The servant requested him to wait a moment. It was some little while before an austere-looking gentleman appeared. Natasha immediately paled.

‘May I help you?’ said the gentleman in English. ‘I am a friend of Madame Tolstoy’s.’

‘I am Philip Gibson, and this young lady is my colleague.’

The gentleman glanced at the whey-faced, thin young woman with blue eyes as dark as her new navy-blue coat and hat. Natasha, although still peaky from privation, wore her new clothes with such grace and distinction that she bore little resemblance to the wretched creature of two days ago. A fine and delicate use of cosmetics added magically to the improvement of her looks. The gentleman, slim and faultlessly dressed, and approaching middle age, let his glance linger. The slightest frown creased his smooth forehead.

‘Delighted,’ he said, the word at odds with his expression. He did not offer his name. ‘I regret, Mr Gibson, that Madame Tolstoy has been called away. I am asked to convey her apologies at not being able to receive you. However, if you’d allow me a moment to get my hat and coat, I shall be happy to walk with you and to speak for Madame Tolstoy in respect of the matter you mentioned to her.’

‘I’m willing to wait until she gets back,’ said Mr Gibson, who did not seem put out by
having been kept on the doorstep.

‘I am in her confidence,’ said the gentleman, looking polite but aloof. ‘Please excuse me while I make myself ready.’ He disappeared.

Mr Gibson, still on the doorstep, gave Natasha a smile. ‘You know that gentleman?’ he asked.

‘Well, perhaps I have seen him sometimes,’ said Natasha indeterminately.

‘I felt he knew you.’

‘He is not going to let you see Madame Tolstoy,’ she said in a little whispered rush, ‘she has been packed off somewhere.’

‘You know him to be capable of commanding her?’

Not answering the question, Natasha went on, ‘It’s because she is one of the people who knew the Grand Duchess Anastasia well, and because she wept tears when she recognized her. She is an irritation to Markov.’

‘Who is Markov?’

‘The leader of the Russian monarchists here.’ Natasha was keeping to a nervous whisper. ‘He was very interested in the lady at first, but is now impatient with people who cry over her.’

Mr Gibson murmured, ‘And our frigid gentleman is perhaps Markov’s friend as much as Madame Tolstoy’s?’

‘Oh, yes. He is—’ Natasha broke off as the gentleman reappeared. He was wearing a black coat and homburg, and carrying a cane. He came out, the servant closed the door on him, and he began a languid walk, taking Mr Gibson and Natasha along with him. Natasha placed herself on the other side of Mr Gibson.

The neighbourhood was select, an area for the well-to-do, the streets and pavements clean. Here and there, servants walked their employers’ dogs.

‘Now, sir,’ said the gentleman, ‘is it questions you’ve come to ask?’

‘May I know who you are?’ said Mr Gibson.

‘You are unaware of my identity?’ The gentleman seemed mildly surprised. He cast another glance at Natasha, who did her best to efface herself. ‘I am Count Orlov.’

The name meant nothing to Mr Gibson. It was not among the names in his notes. He said, ‘I apologize for not being able to give you the reason for my interest in the lady claiming to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia, but I assure you my credentials are impeccable and I hope you’ll indulge me.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Count Orlov, sauntering casually. ‘Madame Tolstoy advised me you had
come from England. I’m sure you represent a principal whom she and I would hold in as much respect as you do. You may ask your questions.’

‘I’ve no wish to offend anyone,’ said Mr Gibson, a tall and stalwart figure in his fur-collared coat and fur hat, ‘but it’s Madame Tolstoy’s answers I’m interested in.’

‘You may rely on the fact that my answers will be the same as hers,’ said Count Orlov.

‘Madame Tolstoy has spent a great deal of time in the lady’s company, I believe,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Lady?’ The count raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, you mean the person suffering from hallucinations.’

‘Hallucinations?’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Is that your conclusion or Madame Tolstoy’s?’

‘A general opinion, with which Madame Tolstoy concurs,’ said Count Orlov stiffly.

‘May I congratulate you on your command of English?’ said Mr Gibson blandly.

‘I am a graduate, Mr Gibson, of Edinburgh University.’

‘Did Madame Tolstoy concur with that opinion before she identified the claimant as the Grand Duchess Anastasia, or after?’ asked Mr Gibson, and Natasha bit her lip at the satirical note.

‘Is that a question, sir, or an absurdity?’ asked Count Orlov.

‘The information I have includes a reference to a time when Madame Tolstoy said she recognized the claimant,’ said Mr Gibson.

Count Orlov allowed his aloof smile to appear. ‘She recognized her as a sick person suffering mental disorders,’ he said.

‘After acknowledging her as Anastasia or before?’ Mr Gibson was persistent.

‘Oh, there was a moment, a moment of pity,’ said the count. ‘Madame Tolstoy is a kind and sympathetic lady, and one can’t deny this so-called claimant seems to have suffered some kind of unpleasant experience. In that moment of pity, Madame Tolstoy allowed her heart to rule her head.’

‘Strangely,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘other people seem to have been afflicted with similar tender-hearted moments. Is that correct, Count?’

‘I can’t speak for others, only for Madame Tolstoy, a close friend of mine.’

‘Are you sure Madame Tolstoy’s moment was only of mere pity?’ Mr Gibson was asking all his questions in an even and unhurried way. He had his notes and he also had an interesting piece of information Natasha had blurted out
over breakfast. ‘I understand Madame Tolstoy was so affected that she requested the Tsar’s sisters to come at once from Denmark and do what they could for the suffering Grand Duchess.’ He felt Natasha quiver at his use of her information.

Count Orlov’s stiff brows drew together. ‘That is incorrect, sir, quite incorrect,’ he said.

‘Madame Tolstoy did not communicate with the Tsar’s sisters?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Count Orlov, thereby establishing himself as a man of specious inexactitude, for Madame Tolstoy had indeed begged the Tsar’s sisters to come to Berlin. ‘And the person in question, sir, is not the Grand Duchess.’

‘You’ve seen her yourself?’ asked Mr Gibson.

‘I’ve not considered it necessary.’

‘I see,’ said Mr Gibson, and pondered. A damp autumn leaf fell from an almost bare pavement tree, and he watched its progress to the ground. A dog, passing by on a lead, strained to investigate the tip of Count Orlov’s cane. The animal’s owner hauled it off. A messenger boy, riding a bike, pedalled in slow fashion as he examined house numbers. Everything seemed as innocuous and humdrum as the damp, grey
day, November being a month when the spirit of European enterprise is at its limpest and events of excitement rarely happen. Natasha bit her lip again as she heard Mr Gibson say, ‘I must point out that one of Anastasia’s aunts, Grand Duchess Olga, did not share your opinion. She thought it very necessary to see this woman. Was Madame Tolstoy’s request responsible for that?’

Count Orlov’s aloofness became frigid. ‘I’ve already told you, sir, that Madame Tolstoy did not address any such request.’

‘That’s extraordinary,’ murmured Mr Gibson.

‘Extraordinary?’ said the count, regarding the vista of residential Berlin as if the city had sprung somewhat haphazardly from the lower reaches of Russia. ‘Extraordinary?’ he repeated.

‘Well, if you’ll forgive me,’ said Mr Gibson pleasantly, ‘here you are, on the spot and a close friend of Madame Tolstoy’s, yet you seem less well informed than I am. I have it noted that Anastasia’s Aunt Olga did travel from Denmark after hearing from Madame Tolstoy, and in haste.’

‘Perhaps, sir,’ said the count, ‘you have the advantage of being in receipt of confidential
information denied to me. Information given to you by your principal in England, I imagine.’

Mr Gibson did not take that bait. ‘I don’t think I mentioned a principal, Count.’

‘I hope you’re not from some damned English newspaper.’

‘Indeed I’m not.’ Mr Gibson maintained an even front. ‘I stand apart from those capers, I assure you. My interest and my references are of a bona fide kind, I give you my word. Well, speaking again of Anastasia’s Aunt Olga, at least it’s true she did visit the claimant, and more than once.’

‘It’s also true she’s no longer interested in her,’ said Count Orlov, and looked directly at Natasha, on the other side of Mr Gibson. He spoke to her in Russian.

Natasha, unhappy, whispered, ‘
Niet, niet
.’

‘Excuse me?’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Lies, rumours and gossip, sir, circulated in a way to cast doubt on the simple truth,’ said the count sharply. ‘The simple truth is that this woman in the Mommsen Clinic is not the Grand Duchess Anastasia. Madame Tolstoy would tell you so. The Swiss tutor, Pierre Gilliard, would tell you so. Grand Duchess Olga, the aunt, would tell you so. A hundred others would
tell you so. And I tell you so.’ The count made his own declaration icily. ‘This consensus of opinion and belief cannot be questioned.’

‘All the same,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘I’d still like to talk to Madame Tolstoy.’

‘Madame Tolstoy is unavailable. She has become tired of the matter.’

‘I’m new to it myself,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Can you tell me, Count, why several very estimable people, after expressing themselves in favour of the claimant, have issued retractions? This is one of the major factors prompting my visit.’

‘What you are speaking of are first impressions and second thoughts,’ said the count. ‘All first impressions should be subjected to second thoughts, the more so in a case of this kind. Whatever or whoever inspired your visit – and your questions – may I ask if you’re endeavouring to secure recognition of the claimant?’

‘No, Count, I am not,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘I’m here only to ask questions and draw conclusions from the answers. That’s fair and satisfactory, I hope?’

‘I’ve no further answers myself on behalf of Madame Tolstoy,’ said the count. ‘The woman in the clinic is an impostor who has obviously made a study of our late Tsar and his family.
That is the beginning and end of the matter.’ Seeing a taxi, he signalled with his cane. ‘You must excuse me now. I have an appointment.’ The taxi pulled up at the kerbside. ‘Goodbye, Mr Gibson.’ The count climbed in without a look or a word for Natasha.

‘Thank you for standing in for Madame Tolstoy,’ said Mr Gibson. He and Natasha watched the taxi carry the count away, and then walked on. ‘Well, young lady, what was it he said to you?’

‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Natasha.

‘Come now,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Oh, he only asked if someone had been talking to you.’ Natasha looked sorrowful. She also looked a different being. Two nights of sound sleep and several good meals had taken from her the appearance of a starveling. Her pinched, sooty-eyed look was almost completely gone, her wretchedness only a memory. Her new coat, with its deep revers, belted waist and long full skirt, had a Cossack-style appeal that entirely suited her, for she was long-legged and taller than the average young lady. Mr Gibson thought her a revitalized creature, except that she was still painfully thin. ‘You have wasted your time,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I could
have told you what Count Orlov’s answers would be. All the monarchists speak as he does. Not because they believe what they say, but because they use the voices of others.’