‘My dear Nicholas,’ she murmured in her deep, husky voice, reaching out her gloved hand for me to kiss. I stood up and, since she made no move to continue, offered her a chair, catching the familiar heavy fragrance of her perfume as she sat down. ‘Nicholas, we need to go over a few points about tomorrow – the wedding ceremony…’
She looked away, as if ordering things in her head. I took advantage of her averted gaze to study her closely and realised I had been wrong. Though very formal, she seemed relaxed in herself, with a certain serenity in her eyes, as if infected by the quiet contentment shown by the others scattered around us at the other tables. She seemed almost reluctant to speak on this breathless summer night. She sighed her contentment, her lips parted slightly to show her clenched teeth in a gesture so similar to Natalie’s that I wondered yet again if they were related.
Slowly, she reached up and unpinned her hat, her long, thick, dark hair cascading immediately from it. She shook her head from side to side and wafted her perfume on to the still warm air. In spite of myself, I felt a slow arousal; my eyes fixed on her slender body and I recalled vividly those urgent, intimate moments we had spent, locked together like two animals on heat. Had it really happened? Had I made love to Madame Lili in her boudoir, that night? Or was it, like so much I had experienced in this House, a carefully choreographed scene, an illusion, planted on me, suggested to me, using hypnotism and drugs. I liked to think otherwise.
Whatever it had been then, she aroused me now. Certainly it was not the deep love and affection I felt for Natalie, but a purely physical desire, lust arising from who knows what primordial animal instinct not well connected with acceptable behaviour.
Madame Lili looked up suddenly and stared me straight in the face.
‘Do you think, monsieur, such thoughts are becoming in one so recently betrothed?’
I could feel myself blushing. Could she really read my thoughts, or had some involuntary movement or expression on my part given the game away?
She jumped up and stood in front of me and I flinched back, fearing at least a slap. Instead she just stared at me, a half-smile verging on a sneer forming on her beautiful face. Then, just as quickly, her body and features relaxed. Her shoulders began to twitch and I realised to my complete bewilderment that she was laughing; it was suppressed and silent, but it was laughter. She recovered immediately and, bending close to my ear, whispered with scarcely concealed contempt, ‘Oh, Nicolai Feodorovitch, do not be afraid! All your troubles will soon be over!’
She sat down and looked out across the gardens, which were barely visible in the fading light.
‘Now, about the wedding. Listen carefully, Nicholas.’
Barely seeming interested herself, she rattled out some details about the ceremony. I tried hard to concentrate; this was my last hurdle to happiness.
She started with the svideteli or witnesses. Serge was to be my best man, Anya would be the matron of honour and she, Madame Lili, Natalie’s official guardian in the Grand Duchess’s stead, would give the bride away. Father Feodor would perform a rather abbreviated Russian Orthodox ceremony in French (known in Russia as venchanie) and the wedding celebrations would take place that night.
She also mentioned something about gold rings being exchanged and some glass-smashing. She added more about candles and wearing crowns but by that time I was having trouble taking it all in. She, too, seemed anxious to be done with it, as if she accepted that it was all a sham – but a necessary sham, especially where Natalya was concerned.
Of course, I was more interested in the noces (honeymoon) part of it. I had not made love to Natalie for weeks and my body ached for her.
No mention was made of this, however, and my tentative questions about ‘after the wedding’ were brushed aside, as though no one had considered that far ahead. Obviously, we would not be going away!
There were other questions I needed to have answered: where exactly was this ‘apartment’ on the third floor in which we were supposed to live? When was our baby due to be born? What if there were problems with Natalie’s health during the pregnancy? Voikin was no obstetrician, nor did he seem much of a doctor.
To all these questions, Madame Lili sighed and said only, ‘Be patient, Nicholas; all in the fullness of time. Soon, very soon, such trivia will no longer concern you.’
Her smile very nearly slipped into a sneer again, and I realised, with dismay, what utter contempt she really felt for me. She stood up and, not waiting for me to stand too, said, ‘Good evening, Nicholas,’ and walked off towards the House, as much an enigma to me then as on the first day we met.
The others had drifted away. I looked around for Natalie but she too had gone, leaving me for company only the lengthening shadows of the dying sun.
So this was it: the eve of my wedding day and it was nothing like I’d imagined it would be. Not that I’d thought much about marriage before. Here, in the heart of a big city, I felt totally isolated, with no way to contact my family or even my friends.
What would they make of such a fantastic tale? When would I even get to tell them about it all and, even if I did, would they believe it?
I looked about me; it was almost completely dark now. Darkness is a lonely place.
The wedding day fell on a Saturday and at 10 a.m., suitably dressed in my dark suit (there had been talk of a uniform but, thankfully, they couldn’t find one) and accompanied by an equally suited and booted Sergei, I presented myself to be married in the great dining room of the House.
Father Feodor, who in his Russian Orthodox robes reminded me of a diminutive Archbishop Makarios, was already standing in front of a small table covered with rose-coloured fabric. He lit two candles and, when Natalie joined us, handed a candle to each of us. Natalie was stunning in a white, close-fitting, full-length wedding gown, her face, unfortunately, hidden by a delicate veil. Madame Lili had apparently been persuaded to change her usual black apparel and wore a long, plum-coloured dress. She too was veiled, but her perfume would have marked her out anywhere. The Grand Duchess, it seemed, was too ill to attend.
At a signal from Father Feodor, we advanced to the table. He looked nervous, even furtive, and appeared to be swallowing hard. I noticed that he had written prompts, concealed inside the cover of his prayer book. With a quivering voice, he intoned what I took to be a blessing bestowed upon each of us, and then turned to bless the two gold rings lying on the small table. Then, choosing the smallest ring, he placed it on the second finger of Natalie’s right hand and then the other on mine. It was so loose that I had to grip my fingers together to stop it falling off. He then offered up more prayers.
At this point, the svideteli entered the room, along with the rest of the wedding guests. Everyone was there, including the kitchen staff and, of course, Anya, who looked very chic in a peach-coloured dress.
I gathered that the placing of rings was symbolic of betrothal but the ‘sign’ of marriage was yet to come.
After that, Natalie and I walked around the room to another table. Here, two symbolic crowns were blessed and Serge and Madame Lili held them above our heads as we paraded three times round the room, Father Feodor muttering some sort of litany as we went, and awkwardly holding his stole over our joined hands until we arrived at the table holding the Gospel Book. After reading a short verse from this book in heavily accented French, Father Feodor handed us each a glass of wine, which I tried not to gulp down and which Natalie sipped primly, lifting her veil.
She looked radiant. My heart was beating frantically in my chest as I realised that this stunning girl was now my wife.
The service finished, the guests applauded us. Serge, surprisingly, embraced me with a bear hug, and even Voikin and the hateful Chermakov managed to shake my hand, with grimaces that passed for smiles. Madame Lili, her veil finally lifted, gave me a sort of mandatory peck on the cheek and immediately turned away, while Anya’s kiss was equally cold and formal. I didn’t care. Nothing was going to spoil my happiness that mornin
g, and I held Natalie’s hand in a way that I hoped reassured her that she was the most precious thing in my life.
Vodka was produced for Natalie and for me, but I made to refuse it until Serge explained that it was part of the ceremony. Natalie had to drink it too, so I reasoned that it was safe. The toast was to the bride and groom.
‘Cul sec,’ Serge shouted, ‘down in one,’ and we both complied. It was only a small amount and quite weak by Serge’s standards, but the best part was to follow; all the guests began to shout, ‘Gorko, Gorko, Gorko!’ Gorko means bitter; it was the signal for the bride and bridegroom to kiss for a long time, to take away the bitter taste.
Father Feodor, looking greatly relieved, congratulated us and made his excuses to leave. To my surprise, the wedding then became something of a genteel social exchange, with people chatting in twos and threes, sipping glasses of champagne and nibbling blinis and caviar.
More than ever, I wanted to be alone with my wife – just calling her that gave me a thrill of happiness – but that was not allowed to happen. Serge and Madame Lili split us up, and the old ‘Cossack’, after pumping my hand in another rather forced display of bonhomie, took me to one side and asked what was troubling me. I told him simply that I’d thought that Russian weddings were supposed to be lively affairs, with much drinking and dancing and gipsy music.
‘But of course, Nico!’ he cried, slapping me on the shoulder so hard that I staggered backwards. ‘Of course. Tonight you will have your dancing and you will never forget it!’
So it seemed that this was not the reception but merely the finale of the marriage service. The real festivities would begin later that evening, and I would see what a Russian wedding was really like!
That was all well and good, but it meant that Natalie and I would now be parted until the celebrations began, when all I wanted was for us to be together. Nothing could be done to change things, however, so I tried to accept the situation philosophically.
I should have been looking forward to it – there hadn’t been many parties in this House! But something – I don’t know what – was niggling at the back of my mind, a feeling of uneasiness that I could not shake off.
CHAPTER 11
Danse Macabre
‘Thy dead men shall live;
Together with my dead body shall they arise.
Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust.’
ISAIAH 26:19
Towards early evening, Serge came to find me in my room. He had changed into an odd-looking costume with dark breeches and a long black cloak; this was my first clue that the ‘ball’ was to be a masque with elaborate costumes, though mine, which he carried over his arm, was simple enough: black breeches, knee-length boots, a white Russian shirt, buttoned at the side, and a plain black eye-mask.
In his huge right hand, Serge carried a half-bottle of champagne and a glass. Still wary of what might have been put into my drinks in the past, I’d intended to forgo drinking this evening, but relented on this occasion since he opened the bottle in front of me and poured a glass immediately, though refusing it himself on the excuse that he had been drinking vodka.
The champagne cheered me up and, two glasses later, I was suitably kitted up in my costume and pulling on the tall leather riding boots, hoping that I would not be required to execute any fancy dancing steps in them. The white shirt was a tight fit, and we decided that it could be left undone at the neck. By the time I had finished the third glass, I felt much more cheerful and began to look forward to the rest of the evening. I had never been to a masked ball before, and the ones I had seen on films seemed a bit sinister, but I was prepared to have an open mind.
The next surprise was the venue. Serge explained that, instead of the huge dining room where the séance had taken place, a room had been prepared ‘in the attic’. By this, he meant above the third floor where most of the staff lived in a series of beamed mansard rooms, cramped and basic. There was, he said, a large ‘loft’ in the roof space, long disused, but now brought back into service as a ballroom of sorts, and this was, according to him, very ‘atmospheric’.
As we left my rooms, Anya appeared, looking quite lovely in an exotic flowing costume that I thought made her look like Queen Guinevere in pictures of King Arthur’s Court. She said that she had been sent to explain what was expected of me.
I was really pleased to see her. We had once been close, in a brother-and-sister way, and I felt guilty that I had stupidly upset her at our last meeting in the garden when, thanks to my appalling drunken behaviour, we had parted in bad grace. Now it seemed she had forgiven me, and her presence beside me when we mounted the stairs was comforting and reassuring.
Leaving the second floor by the servants’ stairs, we climbed to the third floor and entered a long, low corridor with small rooms either side where I knew the staff slept. At the far end of this narrow passageway, a tight spiral stairway of rough-hewn timber led up towards the attic. It was here that I had my first hint that all was not well. My legs seemed to give way and I grabbed the curving banister rail for support. Serge was behind me and pushed me forward and somehow I managed to step on to the small landing at the top. There, Anya caught up with us and fussed around me, mumbling about how I should learn to drink champagne more slowly…
It was hot up there, close to the roof timbers, and airless, with a very musty smell, but I reasoned that I would be all right once we were in a larger space. Anya opened a small, low door and we emerged into a long, low mansard-windowed hall, so brightly lit that I blinked behind my mask; it was a marked contrast to the soft glow of oil lamps in the rest of the House.
All the household staff were there and, as I grew used to the light, I could see the brilliant costumes and the stunning coloured drapes that hid the walls. I guessed that on this occasion the ban on electric lights had been lifted.
Truly dazzled by the light and colours of this reception, I tried to take in who was there. The costumes and weird bird-like masks reminded me of those I had once seen at a carnival in Venice. Masks were on sale all over that city, colourful, exquisite and artistic yet at the same time ugly, sinister and weird, as were these, and some of those wearing them!
In some cases, I recognised people by their figure and build and easily identified Agnès the maid and Amélie the cook. Voikin and Chermakov were also easy to spot, but I really had eyes only for Natalie, my wife; her lovely white close-fitting dress and long blonde hair marked her out as special, and the beaked eye mask with its glittering sequins could not disguise her.
Lifting her mask, she kissed me in a way that took my breath away, holding me to her with one hand on the lapel of my shirt and the other gripping the hair on the back of my head. At that moment, I could have forgone all the celebrations, the masked ball, the staff of the House, everything, just to be alone with my wife.
But, of course, it was not yet to be. I consoled myself with the thought that it could not now be long.
Somewhere at the back of the room, a wind-up gramophone with a huge horn speaker struck up a waltz, and I did not need Serge’s urging to realise that I was expected to open the celebrations by dancing with my wife.
Natalya seemed so fragile in her long dress that, when I put my arm around her waist, I thought she might break. At first, I stepped out with a confidence that surprised me – dancing had never been one of my skills, but the waltz seemed easy enough and Natalie was as light as a feather. Around and around we went, my confidence growing in leaps and bounds.
I had never dreamed that I could be so happy. The House had dragged me down to the depths of despair, only to elevate me to a happiness I never knew existed. It seemed symbolic somehow that we were now at the very top of the House, as if having surmounted all its difficulties.
It must have been about halfway through the dance that I felt the effects of the champagne again – if, indeed, it was the champagne. My knees buckled without any warning, and had it not been for Natalie’s quick supporting action I would have gone down. R
ecovering the beat, we carried on, only for me to trip and this time nearly drag Natalie down with me. Somehow she continued to hold me up, and we shuffled around in a parody of a dance until mercifully the music ceased.
Now I was sure that something was wrong. Two or three glasses of champagne could never have done that to me. In some way, I had been drugged again; but why? What could anyone gain by doing that to me at my own wedding?
The waltz ended, and drinks were again handed round, while someone wound up the gramophone. I refused everything and Natalie stood beside me, stoically holding my arm and secretly supporting me.
It was stiflingly hot there under the eaves and the lights seemed unnaturally bright, and so intense as to be oppressive. The dancing began again and this time everyone joined in, masks in place and looking really weird to my befuddled mind. Gallantly Natalie held on to me, and we stood together in silence as everyone danced around us. I was so ashamed to be like that and wanted desperately to dispel the notion that I was too drunk to dance with my wife on our wedding night. Somehow I had to overcome whatever had been secretly given to me.
I stood up straight, took a deep breath, and concentrated on shaking off the malaise that had almost overcome me.
All might have been well except for the arrival of someone who, in spite of her elaborate costume and mask, I knew well. Madame Lili, her lovely face hidden behind the sinister mask of a raven and dressed head to foot in black, cut in on us, while Chermakov drew Natalie away.
Madame Lili’s overwhelming perfume would have given her away whatever costume she wore, and now she held on to me with a strength that surprised me.
‘My dear, dear Nicolai Feodorovitch,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘How I have looked forward to dancing with you!’
The Spaces in Between Page 13
