Wig Betrayed

by Charles Courtley

  Before we left Fydor beckoned us over, his voice dropping to a whisper once again, “Back at hotel, please wait 30 minutes and then I come to collect you.”

  * * *

  Tsarkoe Selo had been renamed after the great Russian poet Pushkin in the 1930s. Half an hour’s drive from Leningrad, along ill-kept roads, took us to a small suburban town containing mainly unprepossessing modern blocks of flats. These were interspersed, however, with some well-maintained wooden dachas standing in fine gardens. Others though had been allowed to fall into ruin, crumbling into a tangle of vegetation.

  “Who do these belong to?” I asked.

  Fydor waved his hand vaguely and said, “Important persons – ordinary people cannot live in them.”

  “Why are some of them in ruins, then?” I persisted.

  Fydor hesitated before replying, “Sometimes there are changes and people disappear. Please, it is not my business.”

  I realized that it was pointless to press him further. We were following a broad tree-lined road, which might have been in the home counties of England had it not been for the security fence with barbed wire on top which ran alongside. Eventually, we came to a barrier. A sentry sat outside his wooden shack, smoking a cigarette; his Kalashnikov propped up between his legs. Fydor stopped the car, got out, and spoke to the guard in rapid Russian. We saw a flutter of hands (was money being exchanged, I wondered?) before Fydor waved us over.

  “This is Catherine Palace. It’s very beautiful. The guard is a friend of mine, so he let us go in. Some workers are here so we go through side door into the palace. We will not see them – they work on other side.”

  Passing the guard, who gave us a casual salute, we walked through the gate and into a park containing untended lawns and ill-cared-for trees. A lake lay close by with numerous boats tethered near a large freshly-painted and well-maintained pavilion.

  I detected a note of irony in Fydor’s voice when he said, “Boat house for the bosses, but the grounds are for the narod, the ordinary people, so they do not need much attention.”

  Through the foliage, we could make out the outline of a large mansion which we reached after walking up an unkempt driveway.

  Catherine Palace came into view. Stretching half a kilometre from one end to the other, the outside of the building was made up of blue and white facades etched with gold, which sparkled in the intermittent sunlight. All kinds of statues, some of humans, others of mythical beasts or simply grotesques, stood in a row on the roof looking down on us. The splendour of the place contrasted so vividly with the dreariness of the town we had seen earlier that it quite took our breath away. Even Fydor seemed impressed.

  “It is beautiful, yes? We are lucky the Germans did not destroy it when they left. Pushkin was Nazi headquarters at time they bomb Leningrad, but the city did not fall. But Germans, they steal everything inside before they left.”

  This became apparent when we walked through what Fydor described as the ‘Golden Enfilade’ – the state rooms including the great hall which ran consecutively through the whole length of the palace. It must have looked magnificent once but the presence of tools, dust sheets, and tins of paint indicated much work was afoot, so for the present, it all looked drab.

  “Since new President come, this palace is to be restored,” Fydor said. “Many pictures – one of Empress Catherine who built it – are being brought back. But please, I show you this.”

  He was pointing to a huge blue and white tiled stove standing in the corner.

  “Every room have one of these to keep palace warm in winter, because, here in north it is always very cold.”

  Despite that comforting thought, the array of rooms was still forbidding and oppressive on what was an overcast day until the clouds cleared for a moment. Then the light began to flow in from the large, arched windows and, as if on cue, Fydor pointed to the ceiling. This showed a glorious mosaic depicting Empress Catherine rising up to Heaven in a winged chariot, with the Holy Trinity, accompanied by angels, waiting to greet her.

  Anke stared admiringly at the ceiling and said, “This is wonderful. The light makes the figures move.”

  But the rest of the palace proved to be a disappointment. The famous Amber Room (originally stunningly decorated with panels made up of amber and precious gems and surrounded by mirrors set in elaborate carving, as we could see from a photograph on the wall) was still bare apart from one restored section.

  “Are the other panels in storage?” I queried.

  “No, no. The Germans, they steal them during the war and have never been found. The government, they are bringing the new ones but still many to come.”

  Given the wretched state of the Soviet economy, perhaps it wasn’t surprising that there hadn’t been much progress in that direction, I thought.

  Fydor was becoming restless and I suspected that he wanted to leave and take us back to Leningrad as soon as possible. Perhaps he felt that we had been rewarded enough for the cardigan which I had handed over. But Anke wasn’t having any of that as he took us back to his car. Although she spoke English to the guide, somehow her voice took on that note of command generally associated with her native tongue.

  “So is that all we are going to see of Pushkin, Fydor?”

  “I take you to see one palace. For many tourists, that is enough,” he answered sullenly.

  “But aren’t there more palaces for us to visit? Where other members of the royal family lived?”

  Fydor’s face assumed a sly expression.

  “Possibly Alexander Palace…it is not far from here.”

  “That’s where the last Czar lived with his family, isn’t it?” Anke exclaimed. “Couldn’t you take us there?”

  “It cost more – I have to pay guard on duty outside. This palace also is not open to the public.”

  “How much more?” I was now becoming resigned to his style of business.

  “Ten dollar US for my friend,” Fydor said, licking his dry lips, “and twenty for me.”

  I hesitated for a moment but Anke gave me a pleading look.

  “I would very much like to see it, Charlie.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, I peeled off the sum from a roll of bills I was keeping in my jacket. I had been warned to take in as much hard currency as I could. Roubles, because of their devalued state against western currencies, weren’t really rated.

  “You will find this palace very interesting,” Fydor informed us in the car as we set off once more. “Some private rooms of imperial family are being restored – the Czar’s office, a sitting room for having tea and the Czarevich’s bedroom – only people from the government have seen this.”

  Anke and I smiled at each other. We both felt that what we had seen in Catherine Palace was rather soulless, more like a museum than a home, the spirit of the place having long since departed.

  The Alexander Palace turned out to be virtually next door but was set in a much smaller park. It was far less ornate on the outside too, with a driveway cluttered with a jumble of prefabricated buildings. Fydor informed us that it had been the headquarters of the Russian Navy for many years and their offices had spread themselves into the grounds.

  As we approached the gatehouse, a fat lodge keeper sporting a bushy moustache (not unlike Stalin’s) ventured out carrying a large bunch of keys attached to a chain. Fydor jumped out of the car and after the two of them jabbered away in Russian, the lodge keeper unlocked a side gate which stood alongside the main entrance. We walked into the grounds, leaving the car parked outside.

  Palaces and stately homes, even when furnished, often have an ‘unlived in’ feeling, perhaps because hundreds, if not thousands, of people have traipsed around them depersonalizing them utterly. But Alexander Palace was somehow different. This remained, in spirit, the true home of the Czar and felt like the refuge of an ordinary family man. Moreover, it had never before been open to the public. Most of the reception rooms were still bare, but efforts had been made to restore some of the private apartments.<
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  First, we were shown into the family’s sitting room with a large photographic mural on one wall showing what it looked like before 1917 when the family had been driven out. This depicted a tiled fireplace lying underneath a shelf which contained many ornaments, icons, and framed pictures of the family. Some of the furniture depicted in the photograph appeared to have been replaced by originals or copies in the room.

  A door led to the Czar’s study, designed especially for him when the family took up permanent residence in the palace in 1905 and quit Leningrad (then known as St Petersburg) altogether. The room, in many ways, resembled a ship with the walls and ceilings covered with rich mahogany and brass fittings. Several chandeliers of various sizes hung across one side of the room. At the top of a staircase, a snug had been created with a fireplace and a built-in banquette made of green leather. Above the banquette hung a huge picture of Nicholas’s father, Czar Alexander III.

  It was a well-known fact that Nicholas II had been in awe of his father and in my imagination I could picture the former gazing up at his dad praying for inspiration in times of difficulty. Anke, however, was more interested in the collection of priceless Chinese porcelain housed in free-standing shelf cabinets in the room below.

  But the room which moved us most was the young Czarevitch’s partially restored bedroom on the floor above which we visited next. A narrow camp bed lay in the corner next to a row of cupboards along the floor. Above these, arches had been built into the wall containing shelves. On these stood a proliferation of religious icons of every size and variety. Anke pointed out a photograph of the Czarevitch which stood on a bedside table. A young innocent face, wearing a sailor’s cap, stared out at us.

  “I read that he spent a lot of time in this room,” she whispered, “because he was so often ill.”

  I nodded. The story of the Czar’s only son was a tragic one, of a boy born suffering from the terrible disease of haemophilia and whose parents tried desperately to hide his condition.

  “He may not have survived very long anyway, but nobody could have guessed that the whole family would be murdered later at Ekaterinaburg.”

  Anke stared at a larger photograph on the wall of his parents and three sisters. She began to cry quietly.

  “His parents were killed in front of him – oh, it’s so horrible!”

  I put my arm gently around her shoulders. Knowing what had happened to her own parents, there was nothing I could say to comfort her. When we returned to the hotel, Anke said she was feeling tired and decided to go to bed. I took her hand as she lay there.

  “I’m sorry, Anke. Perhaps it would have been better not to have gone to that palace.”

  She smiled and replied, “No. Usually, I can cope with remembering. I’m feeling much better now.”

  “I’ll leave you to sleep then and just pop down to the bar for a nightcap.”

  She put my hand on her breast and looked up into my eyes.

  “I may snooze for a few minutes but then...don’t be too long, my darling.”

  I went down to the bar and, finding it virtually deserted, decided not to linger after consuming a beer.

  When I returned, Anke was wide awake, sitting up in bed naked, waiting for me. The air conditioning had gone off. Not an infrequent occurrence, so I opened the window a fraction to let in some air due to the stuffiness of the room.

  Glancing across the room, I noticed the unopened bottle of vodka we had purchased from GUM earlier sitting on a chest of drawers. I turned to Anke and gently began to untie her bandana which she only ever took off in bed. Her fine, blonde hair spilled out from the headband which accentuated her gamine appearance.

  “Fancy a drink?” I murmured.

  Anke shook her head slowly and pulled her hand from the bedclothes. She was clutching two thin ampoules containing a clear liquid.

  “I’ve something much better, Charlie – poppers.”

  My eyes widened. Amyl nitrite, a drug sometimes called Liquid Gold. Probably illegally obtained but, knowing what it would do for us by way of sexual pleasure, I cast all reservation to the winds....

  Soon the weekend was over and we returned to Bad Zur Linde. It wasn’t long before I abandoned any remaining scruples and Anke now began to spend most nights (and days too) in my flat in the town. I may have been taken aback when Anke produced a spliff one evening but it didn’t take her long to persuade me to smoke cannabis in my pipe. From then on, our affair turned into a drug-fuelled adventure which we both knew had no real future but was just too good to stop. We both knew our relationship wasn’t permanent – Anke made that perfectly clear – but neither of us wanted it to end…yet.

  Then one day, a letter from Andrea arrived.

  Twenty-One

  First of all, I just have to tell you, Charlie, and there’s no easy way of doing it. Bozzy died a few weeks ago in Ireland. He was run over by a car.

  That’s where Tarquin and I were when it happened. We were strolling back one night to the caravan where we were living, on the west coast, and Bozzy was behind us on what we thought was a deserted country road. Just a lone driver going too fast to see Bozzy trotting along, but not breaking any speed limit, so he wouldn’t accept any blame, the bastard!

  Fortunately, Tarquin’s own dog, Pilot, was in front of us and I was thankful for that, at least. But it was T’s attitude to Bozzy’s death that really got me!

  ‘Just a dog!’ he said, ‘You’ll get over it. We can always buy a puppy from a farmer to replace him.’ I asked him – how would you have felt if it’d been Pilot? He laughed, saying it’s not like losing a person! Well it is, as far I’m concerned, I told him.

  I ask you – what kind of man is that? I saw through him there and then. He’s vain and shallow and a sponger and I came to my senses mighty quick, I can tell you.

  So I’m back home, miserable as hell, missing little Boz dreadfully. I know it’s probably too much to ask but is it too late to salvage our marriage?

  The reason it broke down was a combination of a number of things – my feelings of isolation in Germany and then meeting Tarquin – although I reckon I fell in love more with his dog than him! How stupid can one be?

  It’s probably too late, but could we start again? Not getting back immediately – after all, you have to complete your tour in Germany and I couldn’t face coming back there anyway. But if we, at least, could speak on the phone and perhaps meet up in England for a chat? We’re not actually divorced, are we? Just give it some thought and perhaps give me a call?

  I sat back and took a deep breath, overcome with emotion. Suddenly, I realized that the life I’d been leading recently was a mirage. Deep down, my feelings for Andrea hadn’t really changed and it was time to face reality. But that meant finishing with Anke and although I knew it had to happen eventually I dithered about choosing an appropriate time – something which would cause a dark shadow to fall over the rest of my life.

  One day, when the weather was sweltering, we visited Wolfram Park again. Hoping for a cooling breeze from the lake, we decided to picnic a short distance from the dam and took sunbeds and camping chairs with us. Exhausted by the heat, I was content enough to swig cold beer from cans in an icebox but Anke wanted to smoke a joint.

  “Please, Anke, it’s too much of a risk,” I cautioned her. “There are people about and somebody might smell it. We don’t want anyone to alert the police.”

  We had seen a police patrol car at the entrance of the park and a coach offloading elderly people.

  She laughed and lay back on her sunbed.

  “Well, there’s something we can take which doesn’t smell at all.”

  She took a small box from her bag which contained two sugar cubes.

  “What on earth..?”

  “Charlie, it’s the perfect day for a trip. I bought these some time ago in Berlin. There’s a tiny portion of LSD on each of them but enough for us to blow our minds.”

  She popped one of the cubes in her mouth and began to suck it before
turning onto her back.

  “Anke, you know I can’t do this. Quite apart from anything else, who’s going to drive us home if I’m as high as a kite?”

  Anke rolled over and gave me a dreamy look.

  “Then just look after me, Charlie. I’ve done it before and there’s no risk.”

  Stupidly, and to my eternal regret, I believed her.

  She seemed just relaxed at first but I’d read somewhere that it takes at least 30 minutes for the drug to kick in, so I lay back on my own bed and closed my eyes. The sultry weather, combined with the beer, eventually sent me into a deeper slumber than I had anticipated and I woke up with a start. Anke no longer lay next to me. I struggled to my feet and looked in every direction. Then I saw her standing on the wall of the dam, her arms upraised in a diving motion and her body swaying.

  God in Heaven! What did she think she was doing?

  Then, in a moment of horror, I remembered people who had taken LSD sometimes thought they could fly! I ran towards her shouting but it was too late. She disappeared from sight. I reached the wall and leaned over. Horrified, I saw her limbs flail and her body collide against the cascading water as she descended to the bottom of the dam. There was a group of elderly people not far away, some in wheelchairs, but there was no indication that they had spotted anything amiss.

  Glancing in the other direction, I saw a police patrol car parked up by the side of a café, with a policeman lounging up against it, smoking a cigarette.

  She might still be alive! I had to report it!

  But instead, to my eternal shame, I walked back to my car. Why? Shock, certainly to an extent, although that was no excuse. Cowardice more like: The shameful thought which kept racing through my mind was that I could ignore what had happened, pretend I wasn’t even there and resume my career.

  I spent the next few days at home, telling the office staff I had flu. Unable to sleep except in snatches and eating virtually nothing, I took regular nips from a bottle of brandy, although not even that eased my torment. I was in an agony of indecision and felt desperately guilty. Thoughts whirled round my head: I had deserted her – even before I knew she was dead! Her life might have been saved if I’d told the policeman at the time.