by Ariel Lawhon
THREE YEARS EARLIER
Paris, France
August 1955
Ingrid Bergman is nothing like Anna thought she would be. Lovely, yes. Thin enough to make Anna cringe with envy. Glamorous. Statuesque. Exotic in that cool, disinterested Swedish way. All of these things, of course. But what strikes Anna most is simply how kind the woman is. They sit in her dressing room, on the set of her Twentieth Century-Fox film, Anastasia, drinking tea and eating thin, frosted cookies that taste like pure sugar. Anna isn’t going to complain, however. She still isn’t sure this is actually happening; to criticize the food might spoil the illusion.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation. I didn’t think you would,” Bergman says.
“I didn’t think it was real.”
The Actress laughs—Anna has to give her this moniker. To admit that she is sitting in a room with one of the world’s most beloved actresses is too much to wrap her mind around. “What convinced you, then? Apparently not the stationery.”
“No. I get letters all the time. That’s easy enough to fake. It was the offer of an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris. I decided to call your bluff.”
The Actress’s smile is wide, nearly blinding. “I assure you, this is no bluff.”
“So I see.” If Anna had actually believed this was real she would have worn something nicer. It’s probably a good thing that she assumed it was just another cruel joke—right up until the limousine pulled to a stop at her hotel—because she came as herself, and it immediately disarmed the Actress. “What I don’t understand is why you wanted me to come in the first place.”
The Actress thinks for a moment, trying to figure out how to answer. When she speaks, there’s a slight accent to her voice, mellow now that she’s no longer trying to sound American; the Swedish is coming through.
“People think this is an easy job. They assume you just pop in front of a camera and look pretty, that you dance or laugh or cry on command. But what most people don’t realize is that you have to find the character first.” She reaches out and braves a single pat of Anna’s hand. “This is the first time in my career that my character can actually, literally be found, you see. You’re all over the weekly papers. You have been for years. They call you the ‘Empress of Unterlengenhardt’ and the ‘Hermit of the Black Forest.’ ”
“I am a milch cow for the journalists,” Anna says.
The Actress sounds like carbonated joy when she laughs. “You are funny.”
“Most people don’t think so. Most people call me a liar and a fraud.”
“Would you like to know what they call me?” Again that bewitching smile. “Adultress. Whore. The ‘star who fell from heaven.’ I was denounced on the floor of the American Senate as being a ‘powerful influence for evil.’ If I had the choice I would prefer to be called a liar any day. I am an actress after all. That’s what I do for a living. I lie all day long in front of the camera and no one cares a whit. The difference, I suppose, is that I get paid for it while you get punished.”
“Do you think I’m lying?” Anna asks. The Actress’s answer to this question will determine whether she stays for the remainder of this meeting.
“I don’t care.”
Anna blinks at her a few times. She expected a hard answer on either side. Anything but ambivalence.
“I realize that sounds harsh. And I apologize. But the issue of lying is irrelevant. What I want to know can’t be verified by anyone but you.”
“And what exactly do you want to know?”
“What drove you off the Bendler Bridge.”
Anna sets her teacup down carefully on the saucer, then places it on the small table beside her. The dressing room is spacious and bright. Soft pink walls and floor-to-ceiling windows covered in gauzy curtains. There are costumes and shoes scattered about. An entire apothecary’s selection of perfumes and makeup. Lamps covered with scarves to mute the light. Bottles and boxes and powders of all sorts. It is the lair of a star, and there is Ingrid Bergman herself, wearing gray slacks and a white cashmere sweater. Her feet are bare, and there’s not a stitch of makeup on her face. Her hair is pulled back and tied with a ribbon at the nape of her neck. She looks serene and comfortable in her own skin. And the only thing she wants to know is why Anna tried to kill herself. The irony of this is impossible to escape. One of the worst moments of Anna’s life has become one of the most interesting things about her.
Anna can’t explain what makes her tell the truth. The word simply comes unbidden from her. “Despair.”
The Actress is neither triumphant nor pitying. She simply nods as though she expected as much. “I know what that feels like. To be disgraced. To be hated and driven to extremes. But I don’t know what drove you to feel those things. And I can’t make this film until I do.” She smiles briefly. “As you know, this is my return to the American screen. This is my chance at redemption, at finding my way back to who I used to be. And I realize that I have to use you to accomplish it. There are only slivers of resemblance between this fiction and your life. But it begins with you, in Berlin, on that bridge. You are the seed of inspiration. My character shares your name. That’s why I invited you here. I need your help.”
Anna can feel herself leaning forward, hypnotized by that smooth voice, eager to comply. No wonder this woman holds the world in the palm of her hand. Still, she isn’t ready to acquiesce just yet. “I fear you are wrong in assuming that I know anything about your movie. What news I receive in the Black Forest is rarely accurate or on time.”
The Actress is genuinely surprised at this. “Oh,” she says. “Forgive me. I often assume the entire world knows my business before I do. The story revolves around a clever young woman who has lost her memory. It is a melodrama inspired by a play written by Marcelle Maurette.” Here she stops and blushes. “Mademoiselle Maurette was horribly embarrassed to learn, only after her play was published, that you were still alive. She assures me that she would have consulted you otherwise.”
“A convenient platitude now that she has made her fortune,” Anna says. “But it does explain the current legal situation the producers of your film are facing, I suppose. Twentieth Century-Fox is having to pay for her omission.”
If the Actress is bothered by this jab she doesn’t let on. The legalities are not hers to worry about. Instead she chooses to offer Anna specifics about the film, much the way she would if giving an interview. “The story begins with a young woman on the Bendler Bridge in Berlin, ready to take her own life. She is rescued and later persuaded by three power-hungry Russian émigrés to impersonate Grand Duchess Anastasia for the purposes of swindling the dowager empress, the late tsar’s mother. As you know, I play Anna. But you may not have heard that Yul Brynner is playing her lover, and Helen Hayes is playing the dowager empress. The cast is impressive. So is the script. And I am delighted to be a part. Principal photography is taking place in Paris, Copenhagen, and London.” It is here that Ingrid Bergman looks like a small girl, delighted by her surroundings. “I cannot wait to film at the Eiffel Tower and the Tivoli Gardens. You can’t imagine how lovely they are.”
But she can imagine. Anna went to see the Eiffel Tower at sunset last night and stayed until the sky looked like black ink littered with silver confetti.
Anna pulls a large envelope from her purse and slides out a single sheet of paper. It is filled with legal jargon and disclaimers. “I have yet to be convinced why I should sign this waiver your studio sent.”
“You have read it then?”
“Many times,” Anna says.
“And you have objections?”
“I object to being bought.”
“Most people do. But I’m told that signing will earn you thirty thousand U.S. dollars. That’s a great deal of money.”
Anna looks pointedly at the Actress, a woman known for her lavish lifestyle. “Is it?”
Ingrid Bergman
gives a hearty, genuine laugh. “They warned me you were sharp. And no, I suppose it’s not a great deal of money to someone like me—”
“But someone like me should be grateful?”
“No. That’s not what I was going to say at all.”
“Then what?”
“Simply that I care not a whit about money, regardless of the amount.”
“Spoken like a true film star.”
“Meaning a lie?”
Anna studies the dressing room and notes the trappings of Ingrid Bergman’s wealth. “Meaning well acted but totally disingenuous.”
The Actress shrugs. It’s a simple gesture, as though she’s shaking off the insult, and that one small movement makes Anna feel a flicker of shame.
“Believe what you want,” the Actress says, “but I have learned the old adage well. Money cannot buy happiness.”
“Perhaps not. But it makes a nice down payment.”
Another hearty laugh and the Actress gazes at Anna with genuine fondness. “How much is enough, then, if not the amount offered?”
“It doesn’t matter. My lawyers will take the lion’s share regardless. You can’t imagine the legal fees I’ve accrued through the years.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I despise pity,” Anna says.
“As do I. And I wouldn’t insult you with it.”
Anna believes her. And it is only for this reason that she takes a pen from the dressing table and scrawls her name on the line at the bottom of the waiver. She hands it to the Actress matter-of-factly. “Please do not portray me as a fool. I am tired of being the punch line.”
When the Actress takes Anna’s hand this time it is with great tenderness. “You have my promise. But please, I need to know your story. Tell me. I must know why you were in Berlin that night, on that bridge. I need to know what you felt.”
So Anna tells her. The story is long, and heart-wrenching, and there is silence in the dressing room afterward. She leaves Ingrid Bergman curled up in her chair like a stunned child, her eyes red, her perfect porcelain cheeks wet with tears, and a signed waiver in her hands.
· 6 ·
Anastasia
HOUSE ARREST
1917
Alexander Palace, Tsarskoe Selo, Russia
April 9
As soon as we enter the sitting garden Alexey sees the indecent figures scrawled on the garden wall. The walled enclosure filled with willow trees, stone benches, and a large, clear reflecting pool is my favorite spot on the palace grounds. And now the guards have ruined it.
They are so full of disdain for my family that they have taken to studying us, watching for the things that give us pleasure and then systematically ruining them. I must have smiled on one of our previous visits. Or made a passing comment about its beauty. A sigh would have been enough, really, to betray my feelings. The guards are several paces behind, no doubt waiting for us to discover the graffiti, positioning themselves to witness our horror.
“Is that…?” Alexey asks, and I follow the long, thin line of his finger to the crude phallic symbol.
Dr. Botkin clamps a protective hand over his son’s eyes. Gleb has joined us in the garden today, mostly to keep Alexey company, but also because he is his father’s shadow and cannot stay away for more than a day or two. The square line of Botkin’s jaw goes tight, teeth clenched together as he studies what Alexey has found. “Look away, children.”
But it is too late. We’ve all seen the picture of Rasputin sodomizing our mother. It is scrawled in red paint, the caricatures clearly meant to portray the two of them enjoying the vile act. I look at the ground, at the dirty toe of my slipper as it pokes out from the hem of my skirt. Shame. Embarrassment. Anger. I shake with that anger, clenching my fists, fighting the sudden urge to hit something. No, someone, the junior lieutenant they call Semyon, to be exact. He follows us on our walks, always skulking nearby. Leering and laughing. He stares at my sisters’ bosoms as they pass, and Kerensky does nothing to stop him. He has thrown so many rocks at Tatiana’s little dog, Ortimo, that the poor thing refuses to walk with us anymore.
The sight of that drawing makes me want to strike Semyon. But tsarevnas do not hit. It is a phrase Mother has repeated to me—never to my sisters; they don’t need the reminder—a thousand times. Tsarevnas do not hit. So I decide to hurl a rock instead. Semyon has thrown his fair share in the last month. Why shouldn’t it be my turn? The guards are not far away and I have wicked aim, so I bend to pick up a gray stone the size of a small egg, certain I can hit Semyon if he comes close enough. I nestle it in my palm, waiting, hoping for an opportunity.
“Not such a lovely garden anymore, is it?” Semyon, with his oily voice and the narrow gap between his front teeth. I can see him press his tongue against the gap, can see that little bulge of pink between the white. He has crept up behind us and laughs as we blush. “Would you like me to draw one of you? I’d be happy to pose with you. Or maybe you’d like a turn with the heretic as well?” His voice is drawling, scurrilous. “Perhaps you’ve already been with Rasputin? I know your mother has.”
I’ve always considered the garden to be mine, and I fear my love of the place has inspired them to ruin it. So at first I think he’s talking to me. But he’s looking over my shoulder at Olga. Tall, pretty, slender Olga. Oldest, privileged daughter. His favorite target. She shrinks from him as he reaches out a hand to stroke her face.
Dr. Botkin steps between them. Tall and broad and filled with righteous indignation. He is the imperial physician, chaperoning today’s excursion so he can keep watch over us. “How dare you? You have no right to touch her!”
“She is a prisoner,” Semyon says. “Prisoners have no rights.”
“She is a tsarevna.”
“Not anymore.”
There, he’s given me permission. Tsarevnas do not hit. But I’m not one anymore. I pull my arm back, ready to loose the stone in my hand, but Botkin grabs my wrist with his free hand—the other is still covering Gleb’s face—and drags me against his side. He disguises the movement as an act of comfort, but he is protecting me. The barest shake of his noble head makes his intent clear. No. He will not let me provoke the soldiers into further aggression.
What little hair Botkin has left is trimmed close to his head, making him look almost entirely bald, but he has a full, black goatee and bright green eyes that flash when he’s angry. I’ve always thought that he looks very Balkan. Very fierce. Semyon has the good sense to walk away from him.
Botkin turns Gleb away from the wall and releases him. The physical similarities between father and son are so startling it appears as though Botkin spit the boy directly out of his mouth. Eyes, large and a bright sort of green, that radiate extreme kindness. Full smiles that tilt a bit higher on the left side than the right. Strong, straight noses. Small ears that sit close to their heads. And dark hair that would be wavy if it were not religiously cropped.
“I apologize, Anastasia,” Gleb says with a pained expression that mirrors his father’s. “It is crass of him to treat you this way.”
“It’s what he does. Don’t apologize for him.”
Gleb is four years my junior but already two inches taller. I suspect he harbors something of a crush on me as well. “Someone must apologize. I’m happy for it to be me.”
Satisfied with our reaction, the guards wander away to inspect Semyon’s handiwork. They slap one another on the back. Point at my mother’s naked figure. They have accomplished their goal and we are no longer needed for their entertainment. But the damage is done. My sisters are shaken, Botkin is enraged, and Alexey has gone pale and quiet. Unlike the rest of us, he didn’t turn from the graffiti during Semyon’s little tirade, and his young gaze is filled with the sight. I can see a clouding in his eyes, the loss of innocence, and I squeeze the stone in my palm so tightly that the skin across my knuckles
stretches white.
“Come along, Alexey,” Botkin urges.
But he stays fixed to the path, staring at the garden wall. “Rasputin,” he says.
“Our friend Rasputin,” Olga corrects automatically, as we’ve been trained to say whenever speaking of the mystic. Mother insists on it still, even though he has been dead several months, and, until recently, was buried in the park.
The first thing Kerensky’s soldiers did upon taking control of the palace was to exhume and dismember the body of Grigory Rasputin. We watched from the second-story window as the coffin was dropped in the courtyard and the lid thrown off. Mother immediately fled to her room in horror. But no one protected the rest of us from the grisly sight. We stood aghast as Semyon pried a brick loose from the ground and used it to measure the length of Rasputin’s decaying penis. My sisters wept and hid themselves in the couch pillows. Only Alexey and I saw him cut it off and display it as a trophy on the end of a bayonet. Semyon had it propped up for weeks afterward in the courtyard, but we kept the curtains drawn on that side of the house until it disappeared one morning. Where it went after Semyon had his fun, no one could say. The rest of Rasputin’s body, however, was put on display in Tsarskoe Selo a few miles away.
“Our friend Rasputin,” Alexey mutters, his soft blue eyes transfixed by the vulgar proportions of the drawn bodies.
Friend or not, I won’t repeat the words. My devotion to the mystic waned considerably after suffering that blow on his behalf. Mother might not wear the ring any longer, but I wear a tiny scar above my lip as a result.
“Enough of this,” I say and gently pull my brother away. I turn to Botkin. “Is there nothing we can do?”
He looks at my clenched fist and shakes his head. “We can leave. We’ve complied with Kerensky’s orders. We have taken our daily walk.”
