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.”
A course of Dviena starlet, fish in champagne sauce, is brought in. Rasputin dislodges a bone from the soft flesh and deposits it on top of the woven imperial monogram on the starched linen. He wipes his beard clean and tosses the napkin on his plate. He rises to his feet. Lifts his goblet of Madeira. “Your Imperial Majesties. Ladies and gentlemen. I propose a toast.”
The Tsarina clutches the arms of her chair to lift herself to her feet. The Emperor taps on her hand, and she settles back into her chair. Guests shuffle in their seats, baffled by the break of protocol. When has Rasputin become so influential that the important role of proposing a toast has been assigned to him instead of the Tsar?
Rasputin swivels the Madeira in the goblet, passes the rim under his nose, takes a sip. He cups his goblet in both hands, turns to his right, and extends it toward Darya. His voice echoes in the hall. “Let us drink to the sorceress.”
Darya’s womb contracts, releasing a trickle of warm blood between her legs. She registers the palpable sense of surprise, the disapproval of the Imperial Couple, the joy of Maria and Anastasia at the unfolding drama, and the concerned touch on her arm of Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich. They are unaware that she has been thwarting Rasputin’s insistent prodding to uncover the secret of her opal eye, wanting to understand the source of her healing abilities, wanting to know why she smells scents others don’t.
“And to tight bonds,” Rasputin continues.
“To your death,” Darya mumbles under her breath.
“Tonight,” he shouts, “let us drink to life.”
Darya collects herself and slowly rises. She lifts her wine goblet. “I am not deserving of your kind toast, Father Grigori. It is our Tsarevich you should honor.”
The room is silent. The Emperor looks at Darya. He lets the difficult moment pass. “Well said, Darya Borisovna. The toast is yours!”
Her heart pounding in her throat, she cuddles her goblet. “To the heir apparent and Tsarevich, Grand Duke Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov, our future Emperor, health and long life.”
The crowd is on its feet and cheers of “Health and long lif
e!” echo in the hall.
The Emperor offers his arm to the Empress, leading her to the adjoining hall, where tables are set with compotes, iced cherries, jellies, ice creams, chocolates, and sponge cakes from the imperial confectionery. Assorted liqueurs are served, and the Tsar partakes of his favorite 1875 brandy from Montleau and Hesse.
Rasputin is never far from the Tsarevich, one fist resting on his own chest as if holding the child’s heart there. The Empress is content. The monk is present. All is well.
The Emperor indicates the end of the luncheon with a nod. It is customary for him to take his leave before his guests, but as previously arranged, the Tsar remains seated as the guests, flush with sugar and alcohol, are led out.
The servants transport the remaining food to the kitchen, where a crowd, among them the highest aristocracy, has gathered to purchase it. The money will go to the kitchen staff.
The waiters are dismissed. The clink of dishes ceases. The grand duchesses congregate around Rasputin, their magician of joy, the only one able to carve a smile on their mother’s face, the man whose fairy tales paint their lives with delight and excitement.
The Tsarevich climbs into Darya’s lap, and she wraps her possessive arms around him as if he might lessen the pain of her recent loss.
“Tell us a story,” Tatiana begs Rasputin. “A story about yourself.”
“Yes, Father Grigori,” Darya echoes. “Tell us who you are.”
“Me? Ah! Not much to say. Except…” He glares at her. Taps on his heart. “Heavy with untold secrets.”
Having made his point, having reminded Darya of the power he continues to hold over her, he addresses the Imperial Family: “This story is about someone more interesting than me. So come closer. Listen. In a faraway kingdom, in a certain land and a certain time lived a queen.”
Darya is ambushed by a momentary glimpse of an ancient time, another life in which she is queen. She is decked in opal ornaments as she wends her way between palm trees toward a place of prayer. She strains to hold on to the images, stop them from escaping. But they slip away, disappearing into the mist of her mind. She glances up to find herself held hostage by Rasputin’s eyes, and she is assailed by a longing to spill out her innermost secrets to this man who reeks of vodka and donkey shit.
He frightens her, this man who seems to hold her future in his hands. Does he also know about her pregnancy, her miscarriage? He winks at her, breaking the spell.
“This queen lived in a land where flower pods froze in their kernels and lungs, unable to bear the cold, popped and collapsed like fat soap bubbles. But this queen was different from everyone. Her blood was hot. Blood boiled in her veins. When the weather plunged far below freezing, our queen did not suffer from the cold, the burning of ice to the touch, the awful ache in the lungs. And this is why she was the only one in that land who could achieve anything she put her heart to, any dream, any wish. Nothing was out of her reach!
“One day, her glorious skin the hue of diamonds, her fingers and toes radiating warmth, she went out naked and stood on the tallest mountain of ice to call out to the Lord.
“And the Lord, witnessing a woman of such valor, a woman who dared raise her voice in confrontation, stepped down from His throne to hear her plea.
“She turned her eyes to heaven and shouted: ‘I accepted this terrible land as mine. I have lived here for many years and managed to maintain my youth and beauty. Because of that, I lured millions to Your land. You owe me a grand favor, my Lord, You do.’
“The Lord removed his top hat and bowed slightly from the waist, his baritone bouncing about the firmaments. ‘Name your wish, my lady!’
“‘To bear a son, my Lord. But not any son. Not like other people who freeze in your ruthless world. That I do not want. I want a beautiful boy with golden hair and lucid eyes. And I want him to carry my blood.’
“The Lord shifted on His throne, threw one long leg over the other, and dropped His top hat on the crown of His balding head. ‘Are you certain, my lady? Is this truly your wish? Think long and hard before you reply. Know that once your wish is granted, it may not be changed.’
“‘Yes, my Lord, I want this more than anything in the world,’ the hot-blooded queen replied.
“And the deal was closed in heaven.”
“Did the Lord give her a son with hot blood?” Grand Duchess Tatiana asks.
“A fair, blue-eyed boy who rode honey-gold ponies in the snow and teased ice cubes from dark caves. Hot-blooded like his mother.”
Darya squeezes the Tsarevich against her breasts, unable to clear her mind of emerging images—hot-blooded woman, perhaps a queen, a son or a prince—images that instantly evaporate like steam. What remains present and real is the blood of her loss trickling between her thighs. Did she lose a son, she wonders, or a daughter with eyes like her own?
Rasputin lifts a forefinger. “But this boy was different. Whereas his mother’s blood was of equal temperature all over her body, her son’s simmered and bubbled under his kneecaps, elbows, joints, causing excruciating pain that made him cry.”
Darya glances at the Imperial Couple. The bags under the Tsar’s eyes have turned a bluish hue, and his brow is knit in disapproval. The Tsarina rests her hand on his arm. He pats her hand absentmindedly.
“Poor boy,” Grand Duchess Maria exclaims. “What happened to him?”
“All the Siberian ices and all the prayers of the land failed to cure the queen’s son until a man of God came from a nearby town. He carried a pouch filled with gems as pure and smooth as ivory and as scented as myrrh. Not ordinary gems. Not at all. A blessing was tucked in the heart of each gem, which he tossed into a vast pool of ice water. The blessings multiplied and multiplied, expanding into colorful, translucent orbs of all sizes that kept on swelling and emptying the pool of all water until the pool became a giant container of sparkling spheres of blessings in which the boy was instructed to bathe. And from that instant on, day by day, his blood temperature began to adjust until it normalized as befits a proper prince.”
“Bravo!” the Empress claps. “I love happy endings.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
— 1907 —
White night bathes peach palaces, turquoise cupolas, green steeples, gilded churches, and elaborate colonnades in dreamy pastel lights. Boulevards, avenues, streets, and alleys have been swept and watered and decorated with imperial eagles and with the city’s coat of arms. Hundreds of flags flutter in a mild breeze that has chased away the winter gloom, ruffling the surface of the city’s canals and raising the faint scent of sweat and anticipation. The calm waters of the Neva mirror the festivities above. It is the month of July and the Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov’s third birthday. Darkness will not fall on St. Petersburg, the city of his birth.
Theater Square throbs with excitement. Cheering spectators crowd the flower-strewn platforms, balconies, windows, rooftops, and sidewalks leading to the illuminated Mariinsky Theater. The stone façade arches and columns of the theater are lit from behind. Its windows are dressed in blue velvet drapes and frame glittering chandeliers.
The Imperial Family and its entourage are expected at any moment.
It is the opening night of The Red Aurochs, Igor Vasiliev’s ballet.
In two short years, the imperial salon has refined the artistic taste of Russians and increased their knowledge, the people say. The belief is no longer rampant that the only art the family promotes is ballet, simply because a large number of the dancers happen to be mistresses of one or another grand duke. The Tsar has demanded that the ballet season open a month early in order to celebrate his son’s birthday. It is rumored that the artists themselves will attend the ballet.
Such a talented group, these artists! Isn’t she a wonder, that Rosa Koristanova, her sculpture in the Russian Museum a miracle to behold? What about Avram Bensheimer’s nude portraits? Magical! Enchanting! So imaginative! Might the model be the Tyotia Dasha? No! The Imperial Couple would not allow it. Yet the res
emblance is uncanny, wouldn’t you say? And Igor Vasiliev’s The Red Aurochs, strange to choose the word red in the title, not wise at all in these times. Surely he meant no harm.
An artillery salute of thirty-one guns from the Peter and Paul Fortress echoes around the city.
The imperial carriage passes through the crowded streets.
People cross themselves reverently. They greet the imperial arrival with the pealing of bells and thundering applause. A platoon of decorated officers stands at attention by the entrance to the Mariinsky Theater, which the Imperial Couple support with an annual subsidy of two million gold rubles.
The imperial carriage, all crystal, gilt carvings, and gold-wheeled, is ushered in by eight magnificent white horses led by grooms in blue velvet uniforms and white plumed helmets. The approaching horses, strong, muscular, and proud, paw the cobblestones with synchronized clicks as if digging for some hidden treasure to offer the cheering crowds.
Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich is at the head of the procession, escorted by Life Guard Cossacks and an officer of the Life Guard Cuirassier Regiment, followed by pages of His Majesty. The applause intensifies. Second in line to the throne, the handsome grand duke is the Emperor’s right hand, always present, always supportive. He is dear to the people, who follow his romantic escapades with much interest, cheering him on as vigorously as his family attempts to deter him from his inappropriate amorous liaisons.
The Tsar and Tsarina are dressed in full regalia. The Tsarina’s hair is pulled back in an elaborate chignon; her suite of pearls and emeralds glitter on her earlobes and lace collar. The Tsar has donned his favorite uniform, a dark navy, double-breasted, gold-buttoned coat, the collar trimmed with gold stitching, and medals of honor prominently displayed.
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