The Last Romanov (27 page)

“Not more than I'll miss you,” he replies.

She shrugs her shoulders and steps back to let him in.

He sets down a toolbox and his painting supplies by the door. Opens the box and pulls out all types of locks, chains, and bolts. He hammers them the length of the door, testing each carefully, even if he is aware that more than locks and bolts would be required to keep out the madness in the streets.

Having finished his job, he silently follows her up the stairs to the upper hallway with its magnificent stucco and walls that once boasted the most prominent paintings of the time, follows her into the oval-shaped theater with its Corinthian columns, where the Imperial Family once held lavish theatrical productions and the walls still echo with music, laughter, and applause.

She settles into a chair and draws her knees up to her chest. “Paint me, Avram! Capture my grief.”

“Pose for me the way you used to, my Opal-Eyed Jewess,” he says, as if they were still lovers in Tsarskoe Selo and he was the most accomplished artist of the salon.

“It's different,” she murmurs. “Nothing is the same.”

He wastes no time setting up his easel, mixing the colors, and measuring the canvas. He gazes at her with agonizing intensity. Picks up his brush and embarks on the task of painting her portrait with the passion of a dying man whose days are numbered.

Day after day, he steps out of his bedroom to spend hours in the intimacy of the easel and more hours standing at a distance, examining his paintings of her set amid crumbling synagogues, corpses with bloody skull caps, and hungry-mouthed, skeletal children. He rips one canvas after another and then starts over again, as if to bring order to some chaos in his head. A shadow of his previous self, he can only create with tremendous discipline and with the help of the hallucinatory berries she feeds him.

When she seems lost in the past, unable to eat or drink, he pries her mouth open and drops a berry in, feeds her a spoonful or two of honey-sweetened yogurt, soft-boiled rice, marinated mushrooms, or a slice of smoked salmon he buys from the young grocer who keeps his shop open late into the night. Day after day, he feeds her like a child until her twisting stomach begins to settle and her eyes show a semblance of life.

He cleans his brushes, adjusts a canvas, and waits as he has the last weeks, hoping she will meet his eyes as she used to, lean back on the sofa perhaps, or curl on the carpet in a fetal position, maybe hug her legs to her belly and rest her chin on her knees. Something, anything, to show she is present, even if she does not care.

“It's impossible to work like this,” he complains at last, after shredding another unsatisfactory portrait. “One day, you'll trust me again, perhaps even love me. For now, try to look at me, if you can. You're still wearing my ring, after all.”

She considers telling him that she continues to carry the weight of his ring as penance for having expelled her child, their child, as if it were a tumor that did not belong. But it would take too much effort to explain, so she throws her shoulders up, curls further into herself, and, dry-eyed and listless, averts her face from him.

Another week goes by, a month, a decade perhaps, and life outside continues as if the world is the same and it matters what laws are being passed and by whom. What matters is the hope that one day someone will bring her news about the fate of the Tsarevich.

It is Sunday afternoon and black clouds are suspended in the hazy distance, heavy rains splash like marbles against the windowpanes in the upstairs salon. Inside, the air smells of stale incense from the burnt ambergris Darya smeared on Avram's painful tooth from a recent habit of grinding his teeth.

He is absorbed in mixing a pallet of highlighting colors, a bit of pearly vanilla, pale citron, and a dash of transparent rouge. He selects a small brush from the cup that holds brushes of all sizes, strokes her portrait with a few touches, centers it on the easel, then steps back, narrowing his eyes for one last look. The calm of having completed a piece of art is a thing of the past, a time when he planned his days around the rewarding tilt of her head, parting of her lush lips, the smile in her mesmerizing eyes. Now, there is only anguish and the inexplicable necessity to inspire or be inspired by her, the need to make a difference.

He removes her portrait from the easel and leans it against the gold-framed mirror on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Her eyes in the painting observe the world from every angle, sometimes puzzled, at other times sad, but always in perpetual admiration of the painter. He has not painted her as she is today, covered and huddling on the sofa, but as he remembers her in better times, gloriously naked, deeply in love, and devoid of all inhibitions.

“Do you like it?” he asks her.

“Very much,” she replies.

He cuddles her face between his large hands and gazes at her for longer than she can bear. “Forgive me, my love. I have to leave. Go fight the Bolsheviks, or I won't be able to live with myself. They are slaying my people, every one of them.”

She does not ask him about his loyalty to her. She does not tell him that his compromised genius had filled her empty hours. She does not tell him that she thinks he wants to leave because he is restless and, like her, knows that love cannot be nurtured in these surrounding ruins.

He tucks a curl behind her ear. “Whatever happens, my queen, don't ever forget this Jew.” He raises her hand and presses his lips to the beating artery on her wrist, steps away and salutes like a Cossack of the imperial guards. “Lock the door behind me,” he says before disappearing into the heavy fog.

And that is my story,” Darya tells Grand Duchess Sophia Sheremetev.

In the tall windows a gray dusk has replaced the bright Crimean sunshine. The end of the day brings with it an unexpected chill that seeps into Darya's old bones. She wraps her arms around herself and waits. Her tongue is heavy with the load of the past, memories levitating around her like the grand duchess's cigarette smoke. Now that she has kept her end of the bargain, she expects to be escorted to the Tsarevich right away, or she will simply open her mouth and let loose the impatience mounting in her.

The grand duchess blows out a perfect ring of smoke, grinds her cigarette in the ashtray.

“Thank you, Darya Borisovna. I know it's difficult to recall such tragedies, but now that I know about the magical properties of ambergris, I understand why you think the Tsarevich might have survived.”

Darya tucks her purse under her arm and stands up. “It is not that I
think
, but that I
know
he survived. And I will see him now!”

***

Darya waits for her eyes to adjust to the dim light in the Sheremetev mahogany-paneled library. Her heart is hammering in her chest. She fears it will give up on her after 104 years, give up at a most inconvenient time. Her glance skims across the room, the volumes of encyclopedias on shelves, ancient looking, gold-embossed spines, a gurgling samovar in a corner, a set of gilded clocks on a pair of cabinets. She takes a moment to calm herself, to inhale the scent of leather-bound books that transport her back to the Emperor's study, where the Tsarevich crouched under his father's writing desk and played with Tamara Sheremetev's miniatures.

A chair scrapes against the parquet floor and someone rises from behind the desk. She blinks, unable to trust her eyes, unable to accept this devastating turn of fate. She was certain she would come face to face with the Tsarevich himself, but this tall, lean man in a wrinkled linen suit and a blue cravat loose around his collar is far too young to be the man her entire life revolved around.

He reaches out a hand and introduces himself in a firm voice. “Pavel Nikolaevich Romanov, Madame.”

She pushes his offered hand away with her cane. “You must not introduce yourself as a Romanov, young man.”

“But I am. And you, Madame, although not a Romanov by blood, have certainly earned that title. I know all about you and your past. You were close to the Romanovs, part of their lives, and this interests me.”

“Have you nothing better to do than to stalk an old woman?” Darya controls her urge to blow a puff of ash into the impudent man's face. “If you
are
a Romanov, why didn't you come to me before, since my search for the Tsarevich is no secret? Tell me the truth or I'll spit out a curse that will turn your face the color of shame.”

“I had to keep a low profile,” he says, backing away from her. “Because it was impossible to trace my paternal ancestry. But now that the Tsar's remains have been exhumed and my DNA matches his, the results leave no doubt about my ancestry. So here I am.”

“And why is such important news kept a secret?”

“You know better than anyone, Madame, that the government has no interest in publicizing the existence of a Romanov heir.”

A sparrow flies into the library, lost and disoriented. It circles around the room, swoops past them, flaps its wings against the windowpane. Pavel shoos the frightened bird out the window.

“Come back here, young man,” Darya commands. “You have a lot to explain!”

He stands under the chandelier, an amber glow pooling at his feet. He thrusts his right hand into his breast pocket, holds it there for a moment, then pulls out a tan leather wallet embossed with the Romanov insignia. The tip of his forefinger strokes a small silver padlock, flips it around to check for signs of damage. Having been assured that the lock is in good shape, he takes his time to pat his pockets and tug at his sleeves, as if he is about to perform some act of magic. At last, he flips out a zippered pouch from his other pocket, which holds a small key he uses to unlock the padlock. Inside the wallet is a light blue sheet, folded into a perfect square. He unfolds it with great care and hands it to her.

“Here you are, Madame. The DNA results!”

Her gaze skims the sheet, the heading, the signature at the bottom that confirms the document's authenticity. She takes a moment to reflect upon this information and a few more to shift her focus. The abacus of her mind begins to click, calculating, adding and subtracting years of the Tsarevich's life, possible dates of marriage, births of sons, daughters, and grandchildren.

She suddenly opens her arms and locks Pavel in her embrace. She was right all these years. The ambergris did shield Alexei Nikolaevich from the bullets! He did survive to find himself a wife and sire a son who fathered this fine young man. “Dear, dear boy, you must be Alexei's grandson and great-grandson of Nicholas II. A great honor, indeed. Now that I look closely, I see the resemblance, yes, I certainly do. You have your great-grandfather's eyes and your grandfather's smile. Do you know that I was more than your grandfather's Tyotia Dasha; I was also his friend and teacher. I cared for him as I would my own son. I was seventeen when your grandfather was born. He would be eighty-seven now. Still young when you know how to take care of yourself, and that I taught him well, yes, I did. I taught him to believe in hope and miracles. Hope is the elixir of youth, you know. Come closer, Pavel. Tell me who Alyosha married. Where is he now? What has he been doing all this time?”

She allows herself to be led to a sofa, to be offered a glass of hot tea, to be pampered again by a Romanov. Planting the Tsar's cane in front of her, she rests her chin on the double-eagled handle, embracing Pavel in her affectionate gaze.

His own gaze is intense, unwavering, as if nothing outside this room matters, as if the nucleus of his life centers in this old woman who carries eternal youth in her golden eyes. He leans toward her, the satin-upholstered chair creaking under him. “Surely you heard about the sacred relics, Madame. It was in the news. A box of relics that holds dug-up bits and pieces of a fire: bloodied earth, a few bullets, pieces of bone, and a small bottle of congealed fat. The box traveled from Siberia to Europe, from one grand duke to another, but none wanted to be associated with its bad luck. In the end, the Russian Orthodox Church abroad accepted the box for safekeeping. Recent tests have confirmed that the box holds remnants of Alexei Nikolaevich after his body was burned. The Tsarevich perished in Ekaterinburg with the family.”

“I was there. He did
not
die!” she cries out, fumbling in her purse, searching for the piece of ambergris, for anything to temper the violent memories.

“Madame!” Pavel calls out from somewhere far away. “Are you all right?”

“No, I am
not
!” She fishes out a handkerchief with the Empress's initials and wipes her face. “And don't go on as if I don't know about the relics. I also listen to the news and know that the Tsarevich's remains weren't found among them. What I want to know is who
you
are?”

He leaves his seat and begins pacing the room. “The truth, Madame, is that I am not the descendant of any of the children Nicholas II sired with Alexandra Feodorovna of Hesse. I am the outcome of a moment of Tsar Nicholas II's loneliness and fear. My grandmother, Jasmine, became pregnant with a girl the night the Tsar lost the battle of Galicia. I am that girl's son.”

***

At the front in Mogilev, the Tsar summons his generals. Looking each one in the eye, he demands the unvarnished truth. And they give it to him: his campaign is crippled by flawed communication. Despite the most brutal of winters Russia has ever experienced, his men are being sent unequipped to the front to fight the devastating cold and are defenseless in the face of the superior German army. Germany has shifted its focus to the eastern front, driving Russian soldiers out of Galicia as well as Russian Poland. Casualties are staggering. He is losing the battle to the hated Germans.

The generals salute their commander in chief, snap their boots, and wish him a good evening before abandoning him to his thoughts. Night is falling on the barracks at the end of a series of dreadful defeats. The biting winter cold has settled on the compound; not a soul is detected wandering outside. Neither the thump of boots on snow, nor the howl of wolves, nor the sigh of branches can be heard. But the communal tent, where meals are served and strategies are conceived, is lit with oil lamps and humid with the breath of hundreds of aroused men.

Jasmine the Persian Dancer has been dispatched to the front to entertain the soldiers and lift their morale. She sways and whirls like a welcome apparition that breathes life into cold hearts and hope into wilted souls. She dances from one man to the other, touches her red lips to a forehead, a cheek, the crown of a head, purrs a compliment in an ear, the back of a neck. She is warm and splendid and reining in her impatience. She wants to leave. She has other plans.

At midnight, to the roar of drunken laughter and thunderous applause, she sails out, her expression that of utter sorrow, as if all she ever cared for is in this very tent and she regrets having to bid the tired soldiers good-bye.

Nearly naked, save for layers of sheer veils she gathers around her, she moves ahead with the agility of a panther, impervious to the cold jabbing into her skin and bone and turning her marrow into ice. Fate has handed her a dealing hand. Neither war nor the winter chill will snatch it away from her.

She is silent, her eyes stinging, unable to feel her bare toes, which she places one in front of the other, careful not to stumble over frozen branches, pebbles, and rocks as she sneaks past dozing guards and slips into the Tsar's bedroom.

She tiptoes closer to stand over him. She loves this man. Loves him dearly. Her every aching cell tells her that he, too, has never stopped loving her. She drops her veils at her feet, where they gather like plump rose petals.

The next morning the Tsar has a foggy recollection of the previous night's vodka-infused events when an exotic woman swayed into his room, her breasts trumpeting her entrance. Energetic, gregarious, and boisterous, she stepped out of her diaphanous costume to reveal the muscular legs of a horsewoman, unhooked her corset, the bones leaving red marks on the creamy flesh he licked as she opened wide her receptive thighs.

***

Darya presses her handkerchief to the unbearable pain in her opal eye, afraid it would suffer another fracture. She shifts in her seat, tugs at the worn edges of her skirt. This cannot be what her two lives amount to: a past of loss and devastation, a present repeating the same. A Romanov bastard claiming the throne. Decades of search cannot end here. “Jasmine was a good woman, Pavel Nikolaevich, but that didn't stop her from taking many Romanov lovers. And you, young man, could be the offspring of any of them.” She glares at him to stop his objection, waves away the DNA document he has pulled out of his pocket again as proof. She knows he is telling the truth, knows he is the Emperor's descendant. The imperial handwriting, scribbled on a ripped off sheet she had found in the moldy folds of the valise, is proof enough. This one night with Jasmine is the torment that was tearing the Tsar apart, the secret he had hoped to take to his grave, now exhumed to sully the Romanov name.

She goes to the tall windows to draw air into her lungs, into her aching brain. She comes back, her determination towering over Pavel. “I hate to shatter your dream, young man, especially since I believe in the importance of dreams. But the truth is that our Slavic law forbids succession out of wedlock. Not only are you the product of an unequal union, but you are a bastard. So you better forget about becoming our Tsar and do something else with your life.”

Pavel flips his hair off his forehead, his gray eyes blazing with conviction. “I promised my grandmother to do everything in my power to reveal my ancestry once the political tide turned, and I'm doing it now. Times have changed, Madame. Our laws of succession have changed.” He replenishes Darya's stale tea from the samovar, stirs in two lumps of sugar. He stops himself from holding her hand, the hand that reminds him of Jasmine's fragile fingers at the end of her life, the skin thin as rice paper, the branching veins pulsating beneath his touch. “I wonder what my grandmother wants me to do now.”

“To be honest, Pavel Nikolaevich, and respect the Romanov legacy. That's what Jasmine would have wanted you to do. So do the honest thing, Pavel! Do you understand?”

“Even if it's hurtful?”

“Yes, young man. Living an honest life never hurts, but a lie does.”

The samovar becomes louder in the corner. Pavel lowers the knob and brings her another cup of tea.

She pushes his hand away. “I don't want tea, Pavel Nikolaevich. Sit down and tell me what you're hiding.”

Pavel takes a moment to rub his temples. His face has acquired a pinched look of pain. He lifts the cup of tea Darya refused and takes an absentminded sip. “Soon after the revolution, my grandmother, God bless her soul, made it her business to follow every rumor about the fate of the Imperial Family. She, too, believed that Alexei survived that night. Since she was aware that you were searching the big cities, she concentrated on peasant towns, traveling from village to village, often by foot. The reality of her relationship with the Tsar changed shape in the telling and retelling of it in her mind, acquiring the attributes of a fable until she came to believe that she herself was of royal descent. She would press my finger to a blue vein on her inner arm, tell me that royal blood seeks the same artery, assuring me that even if she didn't find Alexei, he would find her. Well, she
did
find him.”

“What are you saying, Pavel? Are you saying Jasmine found the Tsarevich?”