by John Boyne
‘Why, would you have come quicker if you had?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Or not come at all, perhaps? Which would it have been, Georgy Daniilovich? Not the latter, surely. I won’t believe that for a moment.’
‘It’s a surprise, that’s all,’ I said truthfully, for as uncomfortable as I felt around him, and as much as he repulsed me, it was impossible not to be simultaneously fascinated by him, for his was a consistently intoxicating presence. Whenever I saw him, I found myself in a state of near paralysis. In this, I was not alone. Everyone hated him, but no one could keep their eyes off him.
‘You came and that is all that matters,’ he said now, ushering me through the door. ‘Come inside, it’s cold outside and we can’t have you becoming sick, can we? I want to introduce you to my friends.’
‘But what am I doing here?’ I asked, following him as he walked along a dark corridor towards the rear of the house, where a room entirely illuminated by red candles could be glimpsed in the background. ‘Why did you invite me?’
‘Because I enjoy the company of interesting people, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he roared, seemingly enchanted by the sound of his own voice. ‘And I consider you a very interesting person.’
‘I don’t know why,’ I said.
‘Don’t you? You should.’ He stopped for a moment and turned to smile at me, revealing two rows of yellow teeth. ‘I like anyone who has something to hide, and you, my young delight, are filled with secrets, are you not?’
I stared into those deep-blue eyes of his and swallowed nervously.
‘I have no secrets,’ I said. ‘None at all.’
‘Of course you do. Only a dullard has no secrets and I don’t think you’re one of those, are you? And anyway, we are all hiding something. Every one of us. Our betters, our equals. Those who have not had our advantages. No one likes to reveal their true selves; we would fall upon each other if we did. But you are a little different from most, I agree with you on that. For you seem utterly incapable of hiding your secrets. I can’t believe that I’m the only one who has noticed. But please, this is not why I brought you here,’ he added, turning back and continuing along. ‘Such talk can wait. Come and meet my friends. I think you will enjoy each other.’
I told myself that I should turn and leave, but he had disappeared into the red-candled room by now and there was no force on earth that could have stopped me from following him inside. I knew not what I might encounter when I stepped through the door. A small gang of fellow starets, perhaps. Or the Tsaritsa. It was impossible to guess. And as much as I tried to imagine it, the sight that greeted me when I entered was strange, unexpected and immediately intoxicating.
The room was filled with low sofas, each upholstered in deep shades of scarlet and purple, and dominated by expensive rugs and tapestries that looked as if they might have been delivered from the bazaars of Delhi. Spread across the room, lying on the sofas and chaises longues, were perhaps a dozen people, each one dressed more provocatively than the last. A woman whom I knew to be a countess and a former intimate of the Empress, who had earned her displeasure after a troubled visit to Livadia when she had dared to kick the Tsaritsa’s malevolent terrier, Eira. A prince of the royal blood. The daughter of one of St Petersburg’s most notorious sodomites. Four or five younger people, perhaps my own age, perhaps a little older, whom I had never seen before. Some prostitutes. A young boy of quite extraordinary beauty whose face was smeared with rouge and lipstick. Most of them were in a state of undress, their shirts open, bare feet on display, some clothed in nothing but their undergarments. One of the prostitutes, visible through the mist which clouded the room and took hold of my senses, causing me to feel immediately drowsy and anxious for more, was seated on the sofa with a boy’s head in her lap; he was completely naked and his tongue lapped at her body like a cat at a saucer of milk. I stared at the tableau before me, my eyes wide in a mixture of revulsion and desire, the one urging me to run, the other pressing me to stay.
‘Friends,’ roared Father Gregory, spreading his arms wide and silencing the room immediately. ‘My most dear friends, familiars and intimates, may I introduce a delicious young man whose acquaintance I have been lucky enough to make. Georgy Daniilovich Jachmenev, late of the village of Kashin, a miserable shithole in the centre of our blessed country. He displayed great loyalty to his royal family, if not, it is fair to say, to his oldest friend. He has been in St Petersburg for some time now, but has never, I think, learned to enjoy himself. I mean to change that tonight.’
His guests stared at me with a mixture of boredom and disinterest, continuing to drink from their wine glasses and take deep breaths from the bubbling glass pipes that passed between them, their conversation starting up again now in a low, whispered murmur. They had a dead look in their eyes, every one of them. Except Father Gregory. He was fiercely alive.
‘Georgy, aren’t you glad that I invited you?’ he asked me quietly, placing an arm around my shoulder and pulling me towards him as he stared across at the woman and the boy, watching them as they began to move and groan in rhythm with each other. ‘It’s so much better here than at that dreary old palace, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘What do you want with me?’ I asked, turning to look at him. ‘Why did you ask me here?’
‘But my dear, it was you who wanted to come,’ he said, laughing in my face as if I was a fool or a halfwit. ‘I didn’t take your hand and lead you through the streets, did I?’
‘I didn’t know who sent the card,’ I replied quickly. ‘Had I known—’
‘You knew perfectly well, but you didn’t care,’ he said, smiling at me. ‘It’s foolish to lie to oneself. Lie to others, by all means, but not to yourself. Anyway, come, my young friend, don’t be angry with me. We don’t allow temper here, only harmony. Have a glass of wine. Relax. Let yourself be entertained. You might like it here, Georgy Daniilovich, if you allow yourself to forget who you think you are and be who you truly want to be. Or should I call you Pasha? Would you prefer it if I did?’
I opened my eyes wide. No one had called me that name in years, and even then it had only been my father. ‘How did you hear that name?’ I asked. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I hear many things,’ he cried, raising his voice suddenly but causing none of his guests to stir in surprise or fright; his tone trembled with righteousness and dread as he spoke. ‘I hear the voices of the peasants in the field, crying out for justice and equality. I hear the sound of Matushka, crying at night over her diseased son. I hear it all, Pasha,’ he cried, his voice piteous now and craven, his face crumpled in pain as he leaned closer to me. ‘I hear the sound of her breath as she turns and sees the vehicle, ready to run her down, to take her life. I hear the cries of the sinners in hell, begging for release. I hear the laughter of the saved as they turn their faces away from us in Paradise. I hear the stomp of the soldiers’ boots as they enter the room, the rifles in their hands, prepared to shoot, prepared to kill, prepared to martyr—’ He stopped there and buried his face in his hands. ‘And I hear you, Georgy Daniilovich Jachmenev,’ he said, taking his hands away from his face and pressing them to either side of my own, his fingers warm and soft against my cold cheeks. ‘I hear the things that you say, the things you try so desperately not to hear.’
‘What things?’ I asked, my voice emerging almost too quietly to be heard. ‘What do I say? What do you hear?’
‘Oh, my dear boy,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You say, What has happened? Who was shooting?’
‘Here, drink some of this,’ said a voice to my right, interrupting us, and I turned to see the prince standing there, a glass of dark-red wine in his hand. I could think of no good reason to refuse it and brought it to my mouth immediately, swallowing it down in one mouthful.
‘Very good,’ said Father Gregory, smiling at me and stroking my cheek in a fashion which made me want to lay it closer against his hand and sleep. ‘Very good, Pasha. Now sit down, won’t you? Let me introduce you to my friends. I think there wi
ll be some here who can give you pleasure.’ He reached across to a shelf as he said this, took another pipe and held it over a flame; his hand did not seem to notice or care about the pain of the burn. ‘You will partake of this too, Georgy,’ he said, handing it to me. ‘It will relax you. Trust me,’ he whispered. ‘You do trust me, Pasha, don’t you? You trust your friend Gregory?’
There was only one response to this. I was hypnotized by it all. I could feel hands reaching out from the sofa behind me, stroking my body. The prostitute. The boy. Inviting me to join them in their play. Across the room, the countess was watching me and caressing her breasts, which she revealed to me without embarrassment. Before her, the prince had sunk to his knees. The other young men and women whispered to each other, and smoked, and drank, and looked at me, and looked away, and I felt my body drift as if it was an unnecessary encumbrance as I allowed myself to fall, to become one with the room, to unite with their merry party, and when my voice came, it did not sound like mine at all, but like the sigh of another, a person I did not know, speaking from a distant land.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Yes, I trust you.’
As 1916 drew to a close, St Petersburg felt like a volcano preparing to explode, but the palace and its inhabitants remained blissfully unaware of the unrest which circulated through the streets and we all continued with our regular routines and customs as if nothing was wrong. In early December, the Tsar returned from Stavka for a few weeks and an atmosphere of joy and even frivolity lingered over the Imperial Family, until, that is, the afternoon when the Tsar finally discovered that his beloved daughter was engaged in an illicit relationship with one of his most trusted Leib Guards. And then it seemed as if the war had moved from the German borders, the Russian borders, the Baltic borders, the Turkish borders, and concentrated its fury entirely on the second floor of the Winter Palace.
Neither Anastasia nor I ever discovered for sure who betrayed this long-held secret to the Tsar. The rumour went about that some mischief-maker had written an anonymous note and left it on the desk in Nicholas’s study. Another was that the Tsaritsa had learned of it from one of the gossiping maids, who had seen evidence of it herself. Yet a third, entirely untrue, involved speculation that Alexei had observed a clandestine kiss and told his father about it, although the boy would never have done such a thing. I knew him well enough for that.
The first I knew of the discovery came late one evening when I was leaving the Tsarevich’s room and could hear a storm brewing further along the corridor, where his father’s study was located. On any other occasion I might have stopped to try to overhear the reason for the commotion, but I was tired and hungry and continued on my way, only to be grabbed by the arm, entirely by surprise, and dragged into a reception room, where the door was quickly closed and locked. I spun around, startled, to face my kidnapper.
‘Anastasia,’ I said, delighted to see her, convinced in my arrogance that she had been overcome by her desire for me and had waited until she knew that I would be passing. ‘You have an adventurous side tonight.’
‘Stop it, Georgy,’ she replied quickly, releasing me from her grasp. ‘Haven’t you heard what’s happened?’
‘Happened?’ I asked. ‘Happened to whom?’
‘Marie,’ she said. ‘Marie and Sergei Stasyovich.’
I blinked and thought about it. I was tired that evening, my mind was not working as quickly as it might have, and I failed to understand immediately what she meant.
‘Marie, my sister,’ she explained quickly, seeing the lack of comprehension on my face. ‘And Sergei Stasyovich Polyakov.’
‘Sergei?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘Well, what about him? I haven’t seen him this evening, if that’s what you mean. Wasn’t he to be part of your father’s retinue this afternoon when he attended the Peter and Paul Cathedral?’
‘Listen to me, Georgy,’ said Anastasia, snapping at me in my stupidity. ‘Father has found out about them.’
‘About Marie and Sergei Stasyovich?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What Marie and Sergei Stasyovich? There is no Marie and Sergei Stasyovich, is there?’ I heard the sentence even as it came out of my mouth and the explanation became suddenly clear. ‘No!’ I cried, my mouth opening wide and my eyes opening even wider in surprise. ‘You don’t mean—’
‘It’s been going on for months now,’ she said.
‘But I can’t believe it,’ I replied, shaking my head in astonishment. ‘Your sister is an Imperial Grand Duchess, a daughter of the royal blood. And Sergei Stasyovich … well, he’s a pleasant enough fellow and good-looking, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing, but she would hardly fall for …’ I hesitated and chose not to complete that sentence. Anastasia raised an eyebrow at me and, despite the concern on her face, could not help but smile a little. ‘Of course it’s possible,’ I ventured then. ‘What was I thinking of?’
‘Someone told Father,’ she replied. ‘And he’s furious. Simply furious, Georgy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so upset.’
‘It’s just … I can’t believe that Sergei never told me,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I thought we were friends, after all. In fact, he’s about the closest friend I have here.’ As I said these words, my mind was suddenly filled with images of the last boy I had called my closest friend. The boy I had grown up with from infancy to manhood. The friend whose blood remained on my hands.
‘Well, have you told him about us?’ she asked, stepping away from me now and pacing the floor in concern.
‘No, of course not. I would never trust him with such an intimacy.’
‘Then he must feel the same way about you.’
‘I suppose so,’ I said, and despite the hypocrisy of it, I couldn’t help but feel slightly aggrieved. ‘And what about you?’ I asked. ‘Did you know that this had been going on?’
‘Of course I did, Georgy,’ she replied, as if the answer was obvious. ‘Marie and I tell each other everything.’
‘And you never told me?’
‘No, it was a secret.’
‘I didn’t think we had secrets,’ I said quietly.
‘Didn’t you?’
‘We are all hiding something,’ I muttered to myself, looking away from her for a moment. She stared at me, looking directly into my eyes, with as much intensity as the starets had on that terrible night some weeks before. The association, the memory, was like a knife being plunged through my heart and I grimaced and felt ashamed. ‘And what about us?’ I asked eventually, trying to recover my composure. ‘Does Marie know about us?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But I promise you, Georgy, she won’t tell anyone. It’s our secret.’
‘Marie and Sergei Stasyovich were your secret too. And that got out.’
‘Well I didn’t tell Father,’ she said angrily. ‘I would never do that.’
‘And what about Olga and Tatiana? Did they know about Marie and Sergei? Do they know about us?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘These were things that Marie and I spoke about at bedtime. They were nothing more than the secrets we shared with each other.’
I nodded and believed her. Despite the fact that there were hundreds of rooms in each of the Imperial Family’s palaces, the two elder sisters, Olga and Tatiana, always shared a bedroom with each other for company, as did Marie and Anastasia. It was not surprising that each pair of sisters should have their own secrets and intimacies.
‘Well, what’s happened?’ I asked, recalling the shouting that I had heard emerging from the Tsar’s study a little earlier. ‘Do you know what’s going on up there?’
‘Marie was dragged into my father’s study by Mother an hour ago. When she came back she was nearly hysterical with tears. She could hardly talk to me, Georgy, she could barely speak. She said that Sergei Stasyovich was being sent into exile to Siberia.’
‘Siberia?’ I asked, inhaling quickly. ‘But it can’t be.’
‘He is to go ton
ight,’ she said. ‘They are never to see each other again. And he is lucky, she said. He might have been executed for it, had their relationship gone deeper.’
I narrowed my eyes and stared at her and she blushed, a deep shade of scarlet. Despite the fact that we had been connected to each other for so long, nothing sexual had yet taken place between us, save the romance of our endless kisses.
‘They called in Dr Federov,’ she said quietly, her cheeks reddening even more as she mentioned his name.
‘Dr Federov?’ I asked. ‘But I’ve never seen him summoned for anything other than to protect the health of your brother. Why did they need him?’
‘He examined her,’ she replied. ‘My parents instructed him to discover whether or not … whether or not she had been violated.’
My mouth fell open in surprise; I could scarcely imagine the horror of it. Marie had only turned seventeen a few months before. To be subjected to such a humiliating examination at the hands of the aged Federov, and with her parents in the next room – I assumed that they were in the next room, anyway – was an experience so ghastly that it didn’t bear thinking of.
‘And she …?’ I began, hesitant to say the words.
‘She is innocent,’ insisted Anastasia, a ferocity appearing in her eyes now as she looked up at me again, determined to hold my gaze.
I nodded and considered this for a moment before checking my timepiece. ‘And Sergei Stasyovich,’ I asked. ‘Where is he? Has he left yet?’
‘I think so,’ she said, sounding confused. ‘I’m not sure. Georgy, you can’t go looking for him. It will go badly for you if you are seen to sympathize.’
‘But he’s my friend,’ I said, reaching for the door handle. ‘I have to.’
