The Last Romanov (16 page)

The Tsar leads his seven-year-old son into Portrait Hall, with its smell of paint and ink and a cloud of stone dust that has settled onto everything. Since its inception six years before, the salon's fame has spread all around the country, becoming the talk of St. Petersburg, Ekaterinburg, and Moscow, the artists celebrated throughout the country, and the Tsarina admired for promoting the arts. Today, her sciatica having forced her into bed rest, the Tsar is shouldering her responsibility.

Darya follows a step behind. She winces, pressing her hand to her stomach. It has been a painful day, one of those days that pounce on her without warning. For five years now, since she lost Avram's child, her womb has been twisting and churning every now and then, refusing to settle, a constant reminder of her loss. Their love, hers and Avram's, has come far in the last six years, deepened and expanded, a wiser relationship. They no longer meet in the park. Count Trebla put an end to that. His blood poisoned with syphilis, his mind gone, he wandered around the park one dusk, grabbing anyone who happened to cross his path, holding the alarmed person hostage, rambling on and on about Darya and Avram, how they meet in the imperial banya, fuck in it, soil it.

Trebla was sent to the infirmary where, hands and feet bound, he was injected with malaria to induce a high fever to cure his syphilis. The treatment assaulted his nerves, rendering him numb from the waist down. The household officer in charge of the kennels released Count Trebla of his duty as veterinarian, but he was not banished from the court. His wife's miniatures have become too valuable, especially to the Tsarevich who can't wait to open the lacquered box he receives twice a year to discover yet another miracle to add to his collection.

Since the day her husband became housebound, Tamara is becoming more reclusive, dwindling in her skin. Her miniatures too are shrinking in size, so much so that details of some are invisible to everyone save the artist herself.

Now, she stands up with the other artists, abandoning her tiny tools—inspection loupe, mallet, file, hammer, tweezers, blade shears—rearranging her face and bowing low.

Hands clasped behind, the Emperor ambles from one station to another, lingering to take a better look at works in progress, nodding his head with approval, surprise, or a gesture of indifference. His temples are grayer, as if overnight. The dark circles under his eyes have turned soft with surrender, his broad chest a reminder of the numerous times he is forced to carry his incapacitated six-year-old son in his arms.

Darya is attentive, her gaze pouncing ahead of the Tsar, checking every station before he comes to it. Following the country's far-left tendencies, the political atmosphere of the salon has been shifting. Years of turmoil have emboldened certain artists, so that ballets and caricatures, once carefully designed to disguise antimonarchist messages, seem to be changing shape. The artists are shedding their masks and allowing themselves some liberties. Something must be done before they become too radical.

But the Empress is in denial; she does not want to see this change. What she chooses to see and relay to the Emperor is the extraordinary work that continues to be born in Portrait Hall: paintings, sculptures, miniatures, ballets, and caricatures.

In Germany, Igor's ballet about the Tsar and the kaiser won him both a knighthood and the honorary title of Ritter. The aristocracy, taken by Belkin's morbid paintings, is ready to pay exorbitant prices for his work. Dimitri Markowitz's caricatures express the impotence of the first and second Dumas and fetch high prices in the black market. His most popular caricature,
The
Duma
of
Public
Anger
, as the first meeting of the Duma came to be known, depicts moderate socialists, social democrats, and social revolutionaries hanging one another with their own cravats while the Tsar and Tsarina sunbathe on their yacht. In a show of blatant defiance, the caricature was purchased by none other than the minister of finance himself.

Darya brought this matter to the Emperor's attention. He raised his cane and pointed it at her as if to say she was too naïve to understand. “I admire Markowitz's caricature,” the Emperor announced. “It depicts members of the Duma exactly as they are. A bunch of worthless idiots!”

Now, despite Darya's earlier warnings to the artists that the Tsar was on his way, she is not certain how the afternoon will unfold. Rosa scrambles down from her scaffolding and stands at the foot in case the Tsar has questions. She opens her mouth to greet the Tsar, but the marble dust in her lungs has taken a toll, and she doubles over coughing. The Tsar quickly guides his son out of harm's way and toward Igor's station.

Igor buttons his shirt and stands back with lowered head.

Darya directs an angry look at him. The sheets spread around his work area, renditions of dancers in different moves, are so poorly disguised that any attentive observer would recognize the underlying truth: a series of vignettes based on the 1904 Russo-Japan War that ended in an embarrassing defeat for Russia.

“Quite impressive,” the monarch says. “Is this the norm? To test the ballet movements on paper first? And the rhythms and emotions, how do they come to life on stage?”

“Every artist has a different style, Your Majesty,” Igor replies. “My preference is to test the entire dance on paper before transferring it to the stage. And as to Your Majesty's second question, the rhythms and emotions are added at different stages of practice.”

In truth, these renderings were created for the sole benefit of the Empress, to be pulled out of Igor's briefcase and displayed whenever the Tsarina visits. Otherwise, Igor's choreography—concept, space, visualization, and so much more—is strictly born and shaped in his head. So today, having been forewarned of the Tsar's visit, he had dismissed the dancer who impersonates the Japanese Emperor Meiji and spread out the renderings, albeit with a few minor adjustments to reflect a measure of progress.

The Tsar nods, taps on one of the drawings. “Well done! We will eagerly follow your success.”

Eyes downcast, Igor Vasiliev stands at attention, his respectful stance contradicting his utter contempt for the Romanovs. The salon has altered the public's perception of the Imperial Family's indifference to the arts. Despite that, Igor bristles, this is only the Tsar's third visit in six years, and even now his expression of boredom is quite insulting.

The photographer Joseph wants nothing more than to raise his camera, now that the Emperor is here in person, and capture the gray hairs in his beard, the strong jawline, the uneven teeth that he is known to neglect, the slightly large ears that speak of his intelligence, the dreamy blue-gray eyes, but most of all the shape of his head, a valuable supplement to his ongoing project. Despite years of grueling research, the photographer has yet to prove that head shape does not evidence madness, as claimed by some therapists, who themselves lack a single sensible cell in their brains. At the Tsar's perplexed expression at the scatter of photographs on the table, Joseph attempts to explain his project, name the many asylums he visited, the numerous madmen and women he photographed, the comparison he continues to make between the shape of their heads and those of supposedly sane people. But the Emperor has lost interest and moves on to Belkin's station.

The Tsar is confronted by a morbid painting—a coffin studded with copper nails and heavy bolts, as if to contain a dangerous living beast, rather than the bearded, long-haired corpse that rests inside. Nearby, lightning from an arid sky strikes a gaping grave from which emerges the painter's skeletal hand, holding up a decree.

Darya steps closer. “Perhaps Your Majesty might want to skip this station. The Tsarevich is too young to be introduced to such morbid painting.”

Darya recognizes the corpse in the painting as Rasputin's. When his name first appeared in the press some months ago, opposing his influence on the Romanovs, the Tsar's primary reaction was to punish those who spoke out against the Imperial Couple for supporting a humble peasant who was known for his involvement with all types of questionable women he led into his bedroom, which he considered “the Holy of Holies.” Their Majesties continued to lavish him with elegant garments and expensive gifts, welcoming him into their palace, allowing him to spend time with the grand duchesses, even late at night after they had changed. The governess to the grand duchesses had suggested Rasputin be barred from entering the girls' quarters. The enraged Empress discharged the governess. But lately, due to tremendous pressure, the reluctant Tsar has temporarily banished Rasputin from the court. And the decree held up in the painting is none other than the Tsar's decree, influenced by Rasputin, that appointed the controversial Vladimir Karlovich Sabler as minister for church affairs.

The Tsar slaps his cane against his leather boot. “Yes, let us move on, son. Mr. Bensheimer's work seems less gloomy.”

The Emperor lingers in front of the portrait Avram is painting of Darya, her face filling the entire canvas.

A marvel of creation, the Emperor muses, admirable how the artist has rendered his model's every eccentricity, the emotional depth of her eyes in which her unquenchable curiosity blazes. Despite his talent and his portraits, which could have been valuable additions to the imperial collection, Bensheimer is a Jew, alas, and as such, a stain on his court. Yet his wife will not hear of dismissing him. That, she believes, is nothing short of tempting bad luck. She has become dependent on the portrait of the Tsarevich in the arms of the Madonna. She holds it dear, a talisman on which their son's health depends.

Avram stands silent by the easel. His portrait speaks for itself. The sensuality in his model's features is undeniable, the plump mouth, the flushed cheeks, the dreamy gaze. His eyes rest on Darya, studying her with the tentative gaze of a lover. There is concern in her veiled expression.

The Tsar turns his back to Bensheimer. “Come, son, let us visit our favorite artist. See what gifts she may have in store for us today. What tiny secrets they might conceal.”

“How are you doing, Tamara Sheremetev?” he asks the Creator of Miniatures. “What are you working on today?”

She is blushing, her hand covering something. Despite having been in the service of the court for years, she has never become used to such attention. Her voice is gentle. “Perhaps you might raise your hand, Your Majesty.”

He holds both palms up, and the Creator of Miniatures places a magnifying glass in one, and the pit of a peach on the other. Holding the glass over the pit, he brings his face close. The sharp intake of his breath can be heard around the hall.

Carved into the pit of the peach is Alexander Palace with all two hundred rooms. The music rooms, classrooms, playrooms, the tunnel leading from the palace to the kitchen building, the Empress's Lilac Room, the Emperor's study, Portrait Hall, the receiving room, and the private movie theater of the Tsarevich. And as if that were not enough to fit into the pit of a peach, the park with its flowers and fauna and the private island where the bridge can be hauled for privacy are all delineated with painful precision. The Tsar is riveted. What tools could be so precise, what hands so supple, what eyes so sharp, what patience so endless? It would take him days to identify every nook and corner of his palace so accurately represented here.

“You could hold your entire court in the palm of your hand, Your Majesty,” the Creator of Miniatures murmurs.

“Masterful!” The Emperor exclaims. “Impressive!”

“And for you, Your Majesty, a little car just like your father's.”

She drops a small replica of the Tsar's Delaunay-Belleville Landau into the Tsarevich's cupped hands.

The child lets out a cry of joy. He rises on his feet to plant a kiss on her cheek. He holds up the miniature toy, carved out of a chunk of precious ruby, a million shades of reds, scintillating under the light of the chandelier. He twirls the steering wheel with one finger, all four small wheels rotating on gold hinges, the tiny spokes and studs, flicks the movable roof to reveal his parents in the back, their chauffeur in the driver's seat, every detail in place, including the Tsar's carefully trimmed beard and the Tsarina's pearl earrings, all in different shades of red, carved out of the gem's heart. The Tsarevich laughs out loud, kissing Tamara again. “Thank you, Tamara, thank you very much.”

The Emperor clasps his son's hand as they walk toward the exit.

On his palm, the Emperor carries a treasure his wife will appreciate more than the Fabergé egg of green enamel and opalescent oyster he gave her this year for their anniversary.

The Tsarevich, in his cupped hands, carries a precious toy he will cherish for years to come, until the turn of history will force him to part with it.

Darya picks up a pebble and tosses it into the depths of the Black Sea, which is not black at all but blue as heaven. She loves the Crimea with its native pine and sequoia, vineyards that supply the sweetest muscat and headiest champagne, trailing vines of rose and lavender, orchards of peaches and cherries and almonds, and a range of hills that keep the cold northern winds at bay and its handsome populace of Tartars content.

The Imperial Family and their entourage are here for the inauguration of the new Livadia Palace. To Darya's great delight, she succeeded in convincing the Imperial Couple to bring the Tsarevich along, and under her tutelage and care, he has never looked healthier. The Empress seems stronger and happier too. And Avram, invited along with the other artists, is basking in the success of his latest collection of portraits, the primitive-looking nudes of his sole model: her!

The only cloud in the canvas of her clear sky is Grigori Rasputin, whose encroaching shadow slithers underfoot, flat and ominous, as she strolls along the fringe of the sea. Having been invited back to court by the Empress, Rasputin is in good humor. The Tsarevich, during a recent trip with his family, fell against the bathtub and bruised himself. The bleeding was terrible. The Empress did not leave her son's bedside for ten days. Doctors admitted defeat. An announcement was drafted declaring the death of the heir. The desperate Empress sent Rasputin a telegram.

“God has seen your tears,” he wired back. “Do not grieve. The Little One will not die.” Within hours the bleeding had subsided. He had, once again, saved the life of the Tsarevich, and neither the most powerful of ministers, nor governess to the grand duchesses, or a single member of the Imperial Family dared to criticize him.

Darya detects something floating on the waves, bobbing up and down like a giant cork. Her hand shading her eyes against the sun, she squints to bring the shape into focus. An animal, she thinks, continuing to plow ahead. Warm sand sifts through her bare toes, but her gaze is riveted on the sea creature riding the waves, hissing and foaming like the Empress's Chantilly lace skirts.

Darya slows down, moves to the water's edge. The sea has vomited a silvery elliptical object onto the shore, an object the size of the Tsar's traveling valise. It glistens under the sun, as if imbued with a life of its own. Fossilized squid beaks and shells poke out of its hide that resembles brittle pumice stone, or some spongy material with the voluptuous scent of leather and tobacco and sea, a seductive perfume that curls up to embrace her like a womb.

Cherish
it,
the Ancient One says.
Its
journey
has
been
long
and
hard. It has crossed seas and oceans, has been cured for decades in salty waters and under hot suns to reach you. Valuable ambergris, Darya Borisovna. It is yours!

Oblivious to the lapping waves and the warm sand, Darya falls to her knees. Rasputin's hunched-over body is so close, her skirt will inherit his donkey odor. She presses her forehead to the buttery surface, an impulsive act of a desert traveler thirsting for water.

She is thrust to another place, a queen teaching her disciples how to burn ambergris as incense to purify the air and to heal evil thoughts, how to flavor wine to enjoy long life, rub on wounds to stem bleeding, lace with hashish to alleviate pain, brew in tea to add sexual vigor, or consume in fertility rites to make the barren fertile.

“Ambergris is a powerful conduit.” She hears Rasputin above her, relieved, for once, to find him close, as if they are partners on an imminent journey.

She rubs her temples. “I was in a strange place.”

He gazes down at her, eyes warm, encouraging, saying she is safe with him.

“I don't know where I went. I was someone else, I think.”

“Come with me. Will you? We'll go there together.”

“The ambergris is mine,” Darya echoes the Ancient One. “I won't leave it behind.” Slowly, cautiously, she reaches out a trembling hand and breaks off a small piece.

And six years after the night she lost her child, she unlocks her necklace and replenishes its bejeweled egg.

Rasputin checks the chunk of ambergris this way and that, raises it slightly from all sides. It is heavy, but he is a strong man. He slides his arms under and lifts it as if he were carrying a woman in his arms. He follows Darya toward the Livadia Palace with its Florentine tower and 116 rooms, past the arched portico of dazzling Carrara marble, the Italian patio with its limestone columns and enclosing balconies, where the Tsarina has her afternoon tea, past inner chambers decorated in stucco and wood carving, and into Darya's apartments, all the way to her bedroom, where he deposits the ambergris on her bed.

Then, without considering the oddity of what she's doing, she takes a deep breath and stretches out next to the ambergris, inhaling its scent of musk and sweet earth and mossy forests. She is safe, safer than she has felt in a long time, her womb at peace as if she is forgiven, at last, by herself, by Avram and his dead son, even by the aurochs.

The drone of bees can be heard outside, the click of shears, the low voices of gardeners arguing. Sweet scents of ripe cherries and peaches drift in from fruit-heavy arbors.

Rasputin's voice wends its way to settle in Darya's head, weigh on her eyelids, and produce a subliminal sleep that transports her to caramel-colored sands and unblemished skies, where the sun and stars shine in symphonic harmony. The air is laced with the aroma of molasses and dates, and palm fronds sway in the breeze.

Rasputin stares at Darya with a freedom she would not have allowed when awake. He gazes at the delicate contours of her face, the vein pulsing at her temples, mouth parted as if to accept his kiss, and this man, who has never known fear, is terrified of the woman with the power to make him weak with desire. He approaches the bed and reaches out a cold hand to fondle her breasts. Steals his hand back, regards her with curiosity, and then comes down to take her in his mouth.

She lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.

He springs back as if she has been transformed into a deity who might strike him dead on the spot. He pulls a chair behind him. Shuffles backward, farther away from the bed on which she lies—this mysterious woman who will live to see the world twist and turn out of shape, live to hear the toll of millions of death bells, witness brother turn against brother and seas and oceans overflow with tears.

He wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Darya Borisovna Spiridova, who are you?”

She replies in a voice he does not recognize: “I am Athalia the traitor.”