The Tsarina's Legacy

by Jennifer Laam

  Michael reached for her hand. “Never mind,” he told her, squeezing briefly before letting go. “That was just wishful thinking on my part. It’s all right. I know what you’re doing here. I know it’s important. We should focus on that. I only want to make sure you’re safe.”

  She knew he was right. But his touch lingered on her skin long after he let go.

  * * *

  “Please,” Dmitry told her, gesturing broadly at the heavy furniture as he led them inside the office of the Russian Monarchist Society. “Have seat.”

  The office was located in a converted palace. The walls and floor were painted light gold and two electronic chandeliers hung from the center of the ceiling. Behind a large cherrywood desk, floor-to-ceiling picture windows looked out at the dark river and the gentle northern sun poking through the clouds. Small patches of ice speckled the granite embankment.

  Veronica took a seat in the leather office chair behind the desk, running her fingers along the smooth padded armrests. She could imagine either Catherine the Great or Nikita Khrushchev sitting here. Catherine dipping a feather-tipped pen into an inkwell before signing her name on a letter to Voltaire. Red-faced Khrushchev pounding a shoe on his desk as he yelled at Kennedy over the phone. She wondered which ghosts haunted the rooms more frequently, those of the tsars or their neo-imperialistic successors, the Soviets.

  Michael paced the room, hands clasped behind his back, examining framed documents and gold-plated certificates in lavish Cyrillic, and then moving on to drawings of St. Petersburg from the early eighteenth century, when it had still been a quaint maritime port. Russians in plain trousers pointed at the Neva River and the simple bridges and buildings beyond the water.

  Portraits of Russian aristocrats hung on the wall to Veronica’s left. The older pictures were rudimentary, men with sharp features, long hair, and wild eyes. That led into more refined portraiture and then black and white photographs of early-twentieth-century Romanovs. Along the back wall, opposite the desk, a glass-fronted set of mahogany shelves and display cases housed worn eighteenth-century medallions and ribbons, including a frayed tassel tied to the hilt of a rusting sword that hung next to the shelves. Above that, official portraits of Potemkin and Catherine were majestically lodged in ornate silver frames. They were depicted later in life, stout but still regal. Prince Potemkin had a mischievous glint in his eye that reminded her of Dmitry.

  “This wasn’t one of his palaces, was it?” Veronica pointed at Potemkin. “I thought this place was built in the eighteen hundreds.”

  “Irina purchase mementos and move them to office,” Dmitry told her. “The Yusupovs were proud of their connection to Prince Potemkin and Irina is obsessed with Catherine. I think she tolerates me only because I am related to Grisha.”

  An array of knickknack animals perched on a corner of the desk: puckering angelfish and tiny frogs made of jade, a silver and gray owl in a gilded cage, a polar bear made of rock crystal. Dmitry chose a crouching carnelian rabbit with tiny diamonds for eyes and began to transfer the trinket from hand to hand. “However, some people think this building was originally banya in eighteenth century, perhaps space for rendezvous. Some say Grisha wanders halls, naked except for towel, nibbling on radish or turnip, looking for Catherine.”

  “Let me guess,” Michael said, swinging around. “When they try to talk to him he walks through a wall and disappears.”

  “Exactly,” Dmitry said, smiling.

  Veronica felt sure the ghosts of Catherine and Potemkin were here, huddled together over some document or decree. She shivered.

  “What’s this? A mosque?” Michael approached a charcoal drawing. Veronica recognized the sketch from the dossier Dmitry had given her. She looked more closely and saw a curved, bell-shaped entrance adorned with abstractly flowered tiles and curling arabesques.

  “It is,” Dmitry said. “Prince Potemkin’s plan and a testament to his attempts to live in peace with Catherine’s Muslim subjects. It was meant to stand in Moscow.”

  “Was it never built?” Michael asked.

  Veronica heard tapping heels and a high female voice with a hint of a faux British accent. “You arrived right on time. I should have known with Dmitry at the helm.”

  Irina entered the room in black pumps, blond hair swept neatly to the side. She wore a white skirt and crisp matching jacket trimmed in black piping. A man followed her, young and tall, rugged and handsome in an inoffensive way, with a hint of a scruffy beard. He wore a ribbon with a Russian flag and a double-headed Romanov eagle on his lapel.

  “Matushka.” Sarcasm colored Dmitry’s baritone.

  “Spare me.” Irina held her hand up in Dmitry’s direction and turned to Veronica. “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.” Irina sank into the chair on the other side of the desk, opposite Veronica, and then gestured fondly at the young man who had followed her inside. “This is Alexander Yusupov, the son of my second husband, the late and honorable Ivan Yusupov. We lived together in San Francisco for a time.”

  “Hi,” the young man said in laid-back English. “Please call me Sasha.” He extended a hand, the businesslike American despite his Russian nickname.

  “So you’re also from California?” Veronica said.

  “Sasha lives in Mill Valley,” Irina answered for him. Her features shifted when she looked up at Sasha, genuine affection softening the set of her lips and relaxing her high cheekbones. “He is here to visit. I’m sure you’re familiar with his ancestor Felix Yusupov.” Irina nodded at one of the pictures, a black and white photo of a pretty and slender aristocrat with bright eyes, posed with his dark-haired wife, also named Irina Yusupova.

  “Of course,” Veronica said. “Felix murdered Rasputin.”

  “Whoa.” Sasha held his hands up. “The guy was only doing what he thought was right.”

  “Your poor great-grandmother Empress Alexandra wasn’t as strong as Catherine the Great.” Irina looked as though she feared some of Alexandra’s weakness had manifested in Veronica. “She let Rasputin get ahold of her. Felix did what needed to be done. After all, he was a descendant of Prince Grigory Potemkin as well.”

  “Do you speak Russian?” Veronica asked Sasha.

  “Uh … un peu.”

  Michael had circled in on their conversation. He looked over Veronica’s shoulder to address Sasha. “That’s French.”

  “Oh right!” Sasha said. “So yeah, I guess not. Everyone has been really nice here, though. They all speak English, or most anyway, and I’ve made plenty of friends.”

  “You see,” Irina said, gloating. “Americans are more than welcome here, despite what you might have heard on your sensationalist news stations.”

  Veronica’s forehead creased thoughtfully as she wondered why someone like Sasha, who seemed more suited for a Silicon Valley start-up, had come here. And then she looked again at his ancestor Felix. “The Yusupovs were extraordinarily wealthy before the Revolution.”

  “So I hear.” Sasha had the smile of a handsome man, like nothing bad had ever happened to him.

  “There’s talk of restoring wealth to some of the old families.”

  “That would be pretty sweet,” Sasha told her.

  Veronica looked at Sasha’s pleasant, open, oh-so-very Northern Californian face. He seemed harmless enough, but he also seemed very happy to be in Russia. Too happy. She wondered what his stepmother had promised him. Veronica turned to Irina. “One of the goals of the Society is restoration of property that was taken away by the Communists. Reparations.”

  “It is,” Michael chimed in. “It’s in the bylaws. I looked.”

  Irina smoothed her skirt. “I’m so glad you were able to come, Mr. Karstadt. What would she do without you?”

  “Your stepson is set to benefit from those reparations?” Veronica said.

  Irina shrugged mildly. “All of that is a long way off, I’m sure. Who knows what the future will bring? In the meantime, we must do what we can to raise money for our organization today. Oth
erwise, what use is any of this?” She reached into her leather handbag and pulled out her sparkly phone and an oval locket with a little insignia of the Romanov double eagle.

  Veronica rocked in her seat, still slightly off balance from jet lag and lack of sleep. Dmitry put a hand on her arm to steady her, leaving it there longer than necessary. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Michael watch them, frowning.

  Irina opened the locket and Veronica saw the same picture of her own face transposed onto a body wearing Catherine’s coronation gown that Irina had shown her on the plane.

  “Again … this is just a rough mock-up,” Irina said. “But as you see, there are a number of uses for such a remarkable image. That’s why we’re fitting you for a reproduction of Catherine’s gown. It’s all in Dmitry’s schedule I’m sure. You will be the epitome of glamur.”

  “Do you really think this sort of trinket is necessary?”

  “Trinket! It’s more than that. We want your royal persona firmly planted in the public’s mind. People seek meaning in their lives. We wish to return to a more cultured and beautiful existence, just as we enjoyed prior to the Bolshevik Revolution.”

  Most Russian people had led anything but a beautiful life prior to the Revolution, but Veronica decided it would be undiplomatic to mention that right now.

  “Try to embrace this idea. Think of the possibilities! We are already looking into restaurants willing to put your name to dishes and drinks … of course, it is such an unwieldy name … Veronica…” Irina frowned and tapped her fingers on the desk thoughtfully. “When we use the Roman alphabet let’s spell it with a ‘k.’ And we need to start calling you Nika.”

  “Nika! I like that,” Michael said.

  “Thank you, Mikhail. I’m glad one of you understands. I think it will remind people of poor Tsar Nicholas.” Irina crossed herself in a haphazard fashion and then began typing notes into her phone. “I see the press conference is scheduled for the day after tomorrow at five. That’s when we will announce Nika is the Society’s official claimant. The honorary tsarina.”

  Veronica exchanged glances with Dmitry. They had already made plans for the press conference. Different plans. Nothing to do with reparations.

  “The tsarina should be graceful,” Irina said. “She should be elegant. And yet she should also prove herself a woman of the people. By the way, what did you think of Hotel Krasny?”

  Sasha exhaled. “You’re making them stay at that dump?”

  “The Red Hotel. This was a little test,” Irina said. “I like to think I have some sway around this city and I wanted to try the princess and the pea, although I admit I wanted slightly different results. The perks of monarchy shouldn’t go to your head. We want you to be relatable after all. Glamorous, yes, but also someone everyday Russians can trust. Be humble, but be regal. This is the monarch’s art. This is how you gain trust.”

  “But we’re all Americans,” Veronica said. “We’re all liberal Californians for that matter. You don’t think that will bother anyone?”

  “Well, yes, but then what does anyone expect?” Irina said. “The nobility were all killed or kicked out of the country in 1917.”

  “You have an even bigger problem the way I see it,” Michael said. “As your stepson says, restitution of property to old families would be ‘pretty sweet’ for him. But I doubt most Russians will support it. I have family here. I’ve spent time here. Russians don’t want more oligarchs.”

  Irina stood up and walked toward Michael with a coy smile. “A solid Russian Cossack.”

  He shifted his weight, but his voice remained steady: “I promised Veronica’s grandmother I would take care of her the best I could.”

  “Ever the loyal servant.” She appraised Michael. “Perhaps we might commission a reproduction of the Preobrazhensky Guard uniform so you can participate in the photo shoot with Nika. A masculine presence is always welcome.” She rested her hands on his shoulders, looking at him closely. “Yes, you’ll do. You’ll do quite nicely.”

  As she watched Irina tilt forward, closer to Michael, the heel of Veronica’s boot started clacking against the smoothly polished floor. She tried to summon a sarcastic remark, but before anything came to mind, her thoughts were disrupted by a harsh shout from outside, only slightly muffled by the double-paned windows. “Tsarina!”

  “What was that?” Michael asked, removing himself from Irina.

  “Oh!” Irina said innocently. “Have they arrived already?”

  Dmitry strode past Michael, unlatching one of the large windows facing the Moika River and the courtyard below. When he opened it, a blast of icy air made Veronica shiver.

  “What is this?” Dmitry demanded, pointing outside.

  Irina regarded one of her manicured fingernails. “You would think they could keep it down out there. After all they are here only at our invitation. Sasha?”

  Sasha peeped out the window. “Oh sweet! Let me see who came.” He headed downstairs.

  “I guess you can’t blame them for being excited,” Irina said. “It is a historic occasion.”

  “Who?” Veronica said. “Who’s here? Who’s excited?”

  “I think you know them best by Italian name,” Dmitry told her. “Paparazzi.”

  * * *

  Veronica made her way down the flight of steps to the courtyard, hand gripping the cold iron railing, Michael and Dmitry flanking her. Ominous silver clouds rolled across the slate-gray horizon. Her fingers trembled as she buttoned up her new winter coat, stiff in the elbows and chest, against the sharp wind and pulled a pair of gloves from her pocket. Dmitry hunched into his thick raincoat and squinted out at the road. He said he had ordered a car service but Veronica only saw buses and taxis zipping past bedraggled private vehicles. The stench of diesel fuel competed with a musty scent of dying flowers.

  When Dmitry had said “paparazzi,” she expected a horde of screaming men with giant flashbulbs. But the courtyard outside seemed perfectly quiet. She felt a little disappointed.

  “We should have car by now.” Dmitry checked his watch and frowned. “I will check to see what happened.”

  “Pazhulsta! Tsarina!”

  A round white face popped into Veronica’s view and a flashbulb winked. For a few moments, the world consisted only of splotchy brown dots. Once Veronica’s vision cleared, she saw four more reporters circled around her, pale, doughy men pressing buttons on their smartphones, the sort of guys who lived in their grandmother’s basements and played lots of geeky Russian video games. Of course, she lived with her grandmother as well …

  Dmitry ran up to them. “Wait!” he called in Russian. “Direct your questions to me and I will translate for Nika.”

  “I can speak to them in Russian,” Veronica said.

  “This will give you few extra minutes to consider question.”

  “I’ve got this.” Veronica smiled. And then she held the smile even though it felt fake. More flashes went off, winking in the gray light. Someone held a large television camera. Her heart raced, but in a good way. The reporters began to shout questions, mostly in Russian, but some in accented English.

  “Have you made plans for the coronation ceremony?”

  “Are you planning to investigate the disappearance of the Romanov jewels?”

  Veronica bobbed her head like an idiot, breathing deeply and drawing in the frosty moisture in the air. She noticed a woman in the back, holding her phone high but not shouting questions at Veronica. She wore a fitted fuchsia raincoat over her slender figure and a matching hijab framed her delicate features. When she looked at Veronica, her eyes came into intense focus behind the lenses of cat’s-eye glasses with thick frames.

  “Is it true you plan to host a dinner party with William and Kate at the Winter Palace?” another reporter asked.

  “What?” Veronica threw him a puzzled look. Unfortunately, he chose that exact moment to take a photo and she cringed. She must have looked exactly how she felt right now, awkward and out of her league. She sho
ok her head, blinking away the spots.

  “Hey!” Michael told the guy. “Can you at least warn her first?”

  “Dr. Herrera, my name is Anya and I write for the Moscow Review.” The woman in the fuchsia raincoat and head scarf spoke in clear Russian. “Is it true you are related to Nicholas II?”

  Veronica almost said, “That is the story,” but then she glanced at Michael and remembered what he had told her back in Los Angeles. It wasn’t a story. It was her history. “Yes.”

  “Do you plan to make a claim for the Romanov throne?”

  Veronica was trying to think of a more sophisticated way to answer “yes and no” when Dmitry stepped in front of her.

  “Dr. Herrera appears to be a Romanov relation. That’s all we are prepared to say at this time. And her title would be strictly ceremonial.”

  The reporter, Anya, gave Dmitry a half-smile and a wink. She tapped a few notes on her phone. “A Potemkin at her side. I suppose this is a tradition.”

  “Hello, Anya,” he said quietly.

  Anya adjusted her glasses and her full, rosy lips parted in a smile. “I came all the way from Moscow. When do I get my interview?”

  “Not now.” Dmitry motioned toward the street and began to descend the staircase once more. Veronica and Michael followed.

  “Can you at least tell me whether or not she will help Reb?” Anya said. “I think he’ll agree to meet with her at least.”

  Veronica stopped. “I could meet with Reb Volkov?”

  Anya nodded. “As long as you agree to give me your first one-on-one interview.”

  Dmitry turned to face Anya. “That is supposed to go through me.”

  Veronica tried to listen to what they were saying, but a wiry male reporter had sidled in close to her. Veronica prepared to smile and pose for another picture. But then she realized he wasn’t looking at her. He raised his phone and tapped Michael’s back.

  “Mikhail Karstadt?” The reporter took a picture and then lowered his phone to smooth back a few strands of greasy blond hair from his waxy forehead. The reporter held his phone closer to Michael’s face. “You are the imposter? The one who claimed to be the heir?”