The Last Romanov (14 page)

The imperial Cossacks of the guard escort a veiled woman into the Alexander Park. Her dark hair, braided with ropes of fake pearls, quivers about her shoulders as she sashays ahead with the dexterity of a fawn, her bare thighs flashing in and out of lavender veils, her theatrical overtures casting a spell upon the men patrolling the park. Trailed by the clatter of hooves, she ascends the steps toward two Nubian guards who flank the entrance to the palace. They fling the doors open, and Jasmine the Persian Dancer is ushered in.

Servers in ceremonial livery, white tie and gloves, breeches, long socks, and nonslip-soled shoes race back and forth through the palace corridors. The aroma of spices—dill, parsley, bay leaf—rises from serving dishes of chicken and wild goat. The staff nod their greeting to Jasmine as she slips into the hall, wends her way between the malachite columns and toward the formal dining room.

Candelabras with masses of fragrant flowers crown the tables. Tsarskoe Selo crystal with the enameled Romanov coat of arms and gold menu holders, normally reserved for formal gala events, have been brought out. German salads, caviar, oysters, and aromatic mushrooms are set in silver and porcelain. Baccarat decanters brim with vodkas, permeating the air with the scents of mint, pear, and sour orange.

A luncheon is being held in honor of Grigori Rasputin.

Waiters serve the guests silently and discreetly. The privileged few, chosen to wait on the Tsar, are tall, strong, and handsome. They follow the Emperor from one Imperial Palace to another, grow old with him, their ears open to intimate gossip, handsomely rewarded by one minister or another.

Dressed in a simple army tunic with the ever-present epaulets his father conferred upon him, the Tsar does not move from table to table to partake of different courses along the way, converse with his guests, and honor them with his presence, as is customary. The protocol of serving
zakuski
in the adjoining hall has been dismissed too. The Emperor remains seated at the table of his honored guest, Rasputin. The Empress and grand duchesses are on his right. On his left, in a Georgian style mahogany highchair with claw feet, sits the eighteen-month-old Tsarevich, his face smeared with chocolate and raspberry sauce.

Grigori Rasputin reaches out to pinch the child's cheek, blows a kiss across the table toward Grand Duchess Tatiana and winks at Anastasia, who is telling a joke to Maria. He dips his fingers into the caviar dish, pinches the plump eggs between thumb and forefinger, and hand-feeds the Tsarevich, who spits it out. Digging into the creamy soup, he plucks out a meat pie and drops it into his mouth. Olga raises a surprised eyebrow. Maria and Tatiana exchange glances. The Empress averts her gaze.

Darya is at another table with Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich, the Tsar's younger brother. He clicks his goblet against Darya's and drinks to her health.

She nods. Drinks a sip of wine.

The grand duke attempts to engage her in conversation, tell her about the few exciting days he has passed in the company of his brother, tell her all about dinner with the horse guardsmen and their military review the next day, about breakfast with the officers and their wives and the dinner later with the retired officers in the officers' club, where both he and his brother drank to their heart's desire. And he tells her that he was in attendance when the Semyonovsky Regiment returned from Moscow to inform his brother that the mutiny was successfully squelched. But a lot of sad things are occurring around the country—strikes everywhere, taxes not paid, bank withdrawals not honored. Peasants are seizing land, landlords are being killed, garrisons are mutinying, trains are being overturned by striking workers. In order to avoid a massacre, the Tsar agreed to sign the October Manifesto, granting basic civil rights to his people and allowing the establishment of political parties. “But,” the grand duke tells Darya, “my brother felt sick with shame at this betrayal of the dynasty.”

Darya is not listening. She is watching Rasputin. He has been assigned her usual seat next to Alexei, and she has been banished to another table. The temperature of her opal eye is rising, spreading onto her cheeks.

Grand Duke Michael is telling her something about Alexandra Kossikovskaya, his sister's lady-in-waiting. Darya attempts to collect her emotions. She nods her understanding. If it would not have been such an effort, she would have told him how deeply she feels for him. He is in love with Alexandra Kossikovskaya, a commoner, and has asked the Tsar and the dowager mother, Maria, to allow him to marry his love. But his mother and brother will not hear of it. They have threatened to remove him from the line of succession if he marries other than royalty.

He rests his hand on her arm. “Are you well, Darya Borisovna. You are very pale.”

No! She is not well. She fears she might faint. Reaching out for the salt holder, she drops a few pinches of salt under her tongue to revive herself. “Thank you, I feel fine,” she assures the grand duke.

She does not want to go to the infirmary, does not want Dr. Botkin to discover what transpired last night in her bedroom after an especially harrowing nightmare, where she was setting fire to everything and everyone she loved, to the palace, to the Tsar and Tsarina, to the Tsarevich, burning everything dear to her, leaving unimaginable devastation in her trail.

She was startled awake by a vibrating metallic clank behind her eardrums. Her hand jumped up to her Fabergé egg necklace. It was wide open. She raised it to her nose to smell its sweet scent, but there was nothing to smell. The ambergris was gone. She searched everywhere, under her pillows, bedcovers, mattress, even the bed and carpet, but failed to find the ambergris. It was then that the Ancient One appeared on the windowsill, quivering as if uncertain whether to enter or leave the room. The flowing trail of her gown swayed and teased below the windowpanes. “Give my ambergris back,” Darya commanded, certain the Ancient One had it.

A soft sigh, a breath of disappointment emanated from the specter before she flapped her wide-sleeved arms and drifted away, fading into the silvery dawn.

As she wondered how on earth the Ancient One had managed to unlock the clasp and why she would snatch away the ambergris, Darya remembered she was pregnant and softly, affectionately rubbed her rounded belly.

Thoughts of Avram prevented her from going back to sleep. When, she wondered, was the right time to reveal her pregnancy to him? He would want to marry her, take her away, care for her. Yet that was not what she wanted. But she was starting to show. How would the Imperial Court react? Some measure of leniency might be extended to Tyotia Dasha who, like many ladies-in-waiting throughout history, is of royal descent. Yet unlike those women, Darya pondered, the father of her child is not a king, a prince, or a grand duke, whose bastard might, in time, be accepted by the Imperial Court and perhaps even granted the father's surname. Neither the Imperial Couple nor any court of law would extend any leniency to her Avram, a commoner and a despised Jew. At that moment, without warning, and as if rebelling against her thoughts, her womb began to complain, squeeze, and twist to painlessly expel the embryo she successfully carried for four months and ten days.

And just like that, her child slipped out of her at dawn.

It was as if the little space in her womb was reserved for the Tsarevich, and Avram's child was an intruder. Only then did she understand why the Ancient One robbed her of her ambergris. She was being punished for desiring a child other than Alexei. Now, weak and bleeding, she wonders if she will ever have her own child.

She reaches out for her wine.

The grand duke hands her the goblet. He adjusts the medal of the Cross of St. George he wears with utmost pride, the highest military honor awarded for his command of the Caucasian Native Cavalry. He asks her a series of unnecessary questions to break the silence.

Her voice hardly audible she replies. Yes, she did attend Diaghilev's ballet. No, nothing has been purchased in auction lately. The salon is not held monthly, but every three months. Yes, she did go to see the
Three
Sisters
in the Michailovsky Theater, but she did not care for the amateur company from Moscow. She did not attend the charity performance organized by Sonia Orbeliani at the Stanislavsky Art Theater, but she is planning to visit the exhibition of costumes in the Taurida Palace.

The Emperor's personal server, an old man with failing eyesight whom the Tsar inherited from his father, attempts to pour more wine for the head table. The Tsar supports his servant's trembling arm so no mishaps will occur. The honor of waiting on Rasputin is bestowed upon this most senior of servers, and he resents the task, resents the monk's crudeness, and resents him more than anything for positioning himself in the limelight and robbing the Tsar of his rightful place. The server ignores Rasputin and showers attention on the four grand duchesses, but especially Olga and Tatiana, whom he finds exceptionally gracious.

Jasmine the Persian Dancer bunches her veils and ascends the three steps up a platform, where a santour has been set. She curtsies, her thighs peeping out of transparent layers. She aims her stare at the Tsar and Tsarina, purrs in her smoky voice that blooms into a caress. “I dedicate my composition, ‘Visions and Intimacy,' to our lovely couple.”

Tsar Nicholas suppresses a smile. Few of his people are so ignorant of court protocol to address him with such informality as this Persian dancer who immigrated to Russia from Azerbaijan. She has not aged a bit since the days he was a carefree Tsarevich, sharing a simple meal in a remote restaurant, where the hours had breezed away in her company as she explained that the seventy-two-stringed santour is the grandfather of the piano, but with a far more tender soul.

The notes of her dulcimer take wing about the salon, enveloping and caressing every guest and momentarily erasing their daily cares. Before the echo of her melody dies and the guests have time to return to the reality of their present, she unleashes her hair and steps down the platform. Music in her fingertips, veils licking her feet, hair swaying about her hips, she whirls around like a dervish, whipping her hips into frenzy and transporting her audience away from their jaded universe and the formal setting of the palace.

The Tsar observes her with a mixture of nostalgia and fondness.

His betrothal to Alix of Hesse, the girl reared in Darmstadt and in England, devastated Jasmine, who once harbored the foolish hope of becoming his wife.

It was a sad day. His forty-nine-year-old father, Tsar Alexander III, was dying. Only then did he give his blessing to the union with Alix.

Alix was hastily consecrated to Orthodoxy. She became the truly believing Grand Duchess Alexandra Feodorovna. And he, a twenty-six-year-old Tsarevich who knew little about the business of ruling and was ill-equipped to shoulder the inherited responsibilities, became an Emperor.

A week later, his courtiers directed the Persian dancer into the palace. Strict orders were given to be discreet and under no circumstances to discuss the event. It was, by all standards of the court, a simple and private affair with a few close friends in attendance to welcome his bride to court. Jasmine's lovely music mourned the end of a great ruler, and her dance had cheered the ascension of the young Tsar. For a few fleeting hours, she succeeded in transporting him to a safe haven, even if temporarily, while his father's body was displayed in the capital and millions of mourning citizens shuffled by as high priests chanted the requiem.

Now, the Tsar observes Jasmine sway and twirl in her diaphanous veils, her breasts spilling out of her tight corset. She performed miracles that night, succeeding in lifting the spirit of his beautiful wife, the woman who came to Russia behind a coffin. This, he has been told, is how his people refer to Sunny.

The Tsar strokes his beard, pleased that his wife had agreed to lift her ban on the dancer. Did the unfortunate event happen last year, two years ago, perhaps? Time for his wife to forgive the dancer for having transgressed, as she had, that night in the Belovezh Forest. He rests a hand in the Tsarina's lap. She smiles and her complexion blooms to reflect the passionate woman she can be in private.

Energetic, gregarious, and boisterous, Jasmine slips out of her colorful veils to reveal the muscular legs of a horsewoman, folds her arms behind like broken wings, attempting to reach the snaps of her corset.

Darya holds her breath. Not again! The dancer would not dare end her presentation as she had that night at the Belovezh Estate, unhooking her corset and swinging it overhead as if to lasso her breasts. The night of her seventeenth birthday will forever haunt Darya, the night Sabrina and Boris marched straight into the jaws of aurochs, changing the course of her life.

Here she is now, her womb twisting and weeping, unable to adjust to its loss, her heart a reprimanding fist in her chest. She has no right, none at all, to keep their loss a secret from Avram. But she will. She will be kind, spare him this grief. Nothing will bring back their child now. The pain is all hers to bear.

Jasmine, having left her corset in place, curtsies to the cries of “Bravo” that reverberate around the salon. She takes her time to glance around at familiar faces: grand dukes, ministers, and princes with whom she has been intimate. Tugging and twisting at a strand of her dark, curly hair, she sends out a collective wink, enjoying the inevitable attention her every move stirs. Her eyes rest on the Tsar's sensitive hands, and the desire she folded into a tiny bud and tucked in a safe corner of her chest bursts into sudden bloom.

She sails toward the Imperial Couple, throwing herself at the Empress's feet. “My Tsarina, did my performance please you?”

The Empress is bouncing a silver kopek in her hand as if deciding whether to hand it to the dancer or to drop it back in her pocket. Her throat is very white, her eyes cold, calculating, a grim twist to her lips. She gazes at the worthless kopek for a long time, flips it around. Stares at the image of her husband on the coin as if to stamp him deeper into her heart. The air around them is damp. A buzz, a drone of surprise rises from the guest. All eyes are on the Empress. She gazes back at her guests, a decree to mind their own affairs. She reaches out a white-sleeved arm and tosses the coin at the dancer's feet. Her voice is colder than her eyes. “Amusing as always, dear. Do take your seat with the other entertainers.”