“Think of Catherine for inspiration.” Irina gestured at the dress. “Catherine began her life baptized as Sophia, a little German girl. She wasn’t a Romanov at all except by marriage.”
“I know. I know.” Veronica set the pincushion back on the counter and stared at the gown, wondering if some of Catherine’s power might reside within, even in a reproduction.
“Catherine was renamed. She fashioned her own image. Her own glamur. She made herself the true heir of the tsars and changed her world.” Irina stepped back, once again taking stock of Veronica in the dress. “Our donors will be thrilled. The opportunities you will have to make a name for yourself, to be a true tsarina, will be endless.”
Veronica remembered the video of Reb Volkov on YouTube. Perhaps Irina had decided it was appropriate for Veronica to assume a political role after all. “I hope so.”
“This is not the time to hope. This is the time to act.” Irina began typing something on her phone. “I want to take a picture of you in the gown and see what Sasha thinks. One of our donors asked if he might see a picture of you in Catherine’s regalia. You should talk with him … I think he might fund a tour of the country for you if he gets access to your image. Of course if you promote the Ekaterina Restaurant as a spokesperson, they may want exclusive rights. Sasha’s the branding expert so I’ll ask him.”
“I don’t want to be a company logo.”
Irina smoothed the gown around Veronica’s hips. “Your decision, but I hope you will take advantage of such opportunities. You will find we have friends in the Duma as well. I believe they are going to make great things happen for us and help restore the nobility to its former glory. You can do very well for yourself here. I wonder if you might consider making Russia your permanent residence. Of course Petersburg is hardly Russia at all. It is a special place in and of itself.”
“St. Petersburg is beautiful,” Veronica said, “but I’m American. I want to make my home in the United States. In California, near my family.”
“You no longer have a job in California, from what I understand.”
The dress suddenly felt too tight. “I’ll manage.”
Irina fussed with a lacy ruffle at Veronica’s elbow. “Your friend Mr. Karstadt seems to be enjoying his room at the Ambassador. I understand he received free room service last night.”
“What?” Veronica spun around.
“Food. Dinner. Room service. I have sources in the hotel keeping tabs on him and this is what they tell me.”
“Oh.” She should have known Irina would find a way to circle the conversation back to Michael and mess with her head. “I’m not surprised. He has a way about him.”
“But he is also an imposter,” Irina said. “Some people call him the False Mikhail. Dmitry told me a reporter approached him. He pretended to be the heir. He faked a lineage. Faked it! It sounds as though that unfortunate little story has gotten out. This could reflect poorly on our organization at the very time when we hope to accomplish wonderful things. I mean, take Prince Potemkin’s mosque for example.” Irina gestured to the sketch on the other side of the room, the four minarets capped by crescent moons. “Think of what it might mean to construct such a place. It would demonstrate you are an enlightened tsarina. It would go a long way toward building goodwill between the Society and our Muslim friends.”
Although she agreed with what Irina was saying, Veronica sensed a false note in Irina’s voice when she spoke of the mosque, like it was more of a distraction than a genuine passion. Nonetheless, she still needed Irina’s help if she was to have validity as tsarina. She didn’t want to challenge her. Not yet. “I understand why you find it so appealing,” she told Irina mildly. “I think it would be a wonderful project to add to my agenda.”
“And you wouldn’t want to ruin any opportunities. If it becomes widely known you are associating with the ‘False Mikhail,’ it might damage your reputation.”
Veronica’s stomach clenched. “Michael is only here to help me.”
“I spoke to him earlier. He claims he was trying to protect you and that’s why he lied to you about his identity. But now he’s poking around again?”
Veronica tried to emulate Irina’s demeanor, to pretend she was Nordic and blond and emotionally detached, even though she was about as far from any of those things as a person could possibly be.
“I wonder what Mikhail really wants,” Irina mused. “Charming men can always get away with more than everyone else. I will be honest, Nika. You will need advisers and I don’t know about him. Are you sure you trust him?”
“My grandmother asked him to come,” Veronica said. “I called her and she confirmed.”
“So you don’t trust him.” Irina narrowed her eyes. “Otherwise, why would you need to call your grandmother?”
Veronica managed an indifferent shrug. She didn’t want to let Irina know she still didn’t completely trust Michael.
“Not that I blame you,” Irina said. “He lied for so long. And now he is your number one supporter? If we’re not careful, the press could have a field day with this.”
“He led me to believe something that wasn’t true,” Veronica said carefully. “But he had good reasons to do so. He acted in good faith.”
“You are no longer with him? Romantically, I mean.”
Veronica felt a tingle of a blush. “We’re friends.”
“Just be careful,” Irina said. “As long as you are in Russia you are a celebrity and you will be watched. Try to act accordingly.”
* * *
After Veronica’s dress was hemmed, Irina decided they should take a look at backdrops for her first photo session. When they stepped into the dimly lit corridor outside the office, Veronica caught the dry taste of cigarette smoke in the air.
Irina tapped her hips. “What hooligan has snuck in here?” She turned around. “Who are you?” she demanded.
Veronica turned to look. The reporter she’d met yesterday, Anya, took a drag on a slim brown cigarette. When she saw Veronica and Irina, she quickly stamped the cigarette out in a potted plant and began waving her hands frantically in front of her face and dark violet hijab. “I know, I know,” she said quickly in Russian. “This is not supposed to happen. It’s disrespectful. But old habits die hard.”
“We don’t want the smell lingering on Catherine’s dress.” Even as she said this, Irina cast a covetous look at the cigarette.
“I meant disrespectful to my lungs and my beliefs, but sure.” Anya turned to Veronica. “Dmitry said you would be here and that you would be willing to answer a few questions. He let me inside. May I have a moment of your time?”
Irina crossed her arms. “Dmitry should have cleared any interview with Nika through me first.”
“I promise to respect Nika.” Anya smiled and widened her already large eyes. “And no more cigarettes.”
“Which paper do you work for?”
“The Moscow Review.”
“A Muscovite.” Irina rolled her eyes. “Of course.”
“I think I’m ready for a short interview,” Veronica said.
“You look fabulous,” Anya said. “And I only want to ask a few questions.”
“Fine,” Irina said, before Veronica had a chance to answer. “But be quick about it. Nika needs to get ready for a party tonight.”
Veronica thought back to Dmitry’s itinerary for the week. “At the Hermitage?”
“Yes. Important members of the Society will attend. VIPs, as you say. So I want you at your best.”
“What do you think I’m going to do to her?” Anya asked.
“I don’t know.” Irina took a step back and appraised Anya, gaze lingering on the fringed tassels edging her head scarf. “Just don’t monopolize Nika’s time. We have work to do.”
Anya adjusted her glasses on her nose as Irina walked away, heels tapping on the tiled floor. “You do look lovely,” Anya said, “but Dmitry gave me the impression you hadn’t come to Russia for this.” She waved at Catherine’s gown
.
“This just sort of happened.”
“I really only have one question,” Anya said to Veronica. “Why are you doing this? Why are you agreeing to work with the Monarchist Society?”
“It’s my birthright.”
“Did someone tell you to say that?”
Veronica had no idea why she had said that. It sounded like something Irina, Michael, or Dmitry would say, not her. “No. But I don’t feel like I have an easy answer.”
“I’m not looking for an easy answer. Tell me the truth.”
How good that sounded, at least in theory, to tell the truth and not worry about appearances. Something about Anya’s straightforward questions, the earnest look in her eyes, and even her lapse with the cigarette made Veronica want to confide in her. “Before I came here, I felt lost.”
Anya nodded. “Dmitry told me you quit your job to come. You must feel pressure. I’m sure Irina’s ideas for commercializing your image are tempting.”
“It’s that. But it’s not only that. I’ve felt lost for a long time. I never really felt like I fit in where I grew up. I love my family, but I never wanted to stay in my hometown. It’s too conservative. Too quiet. Does that make any sense at all?”
Anya gave a little smile. “I come from a small town. I left to come to university in Moscow when I was eighteen. Yes, this makes sense.”
“I moved to Los Angeles to pursue my graduate degree. And that was good. That worked for me for a while. But then I was engaged … and that failed. And I never had children. That makes me feel like I need to make something of my life. Otherwise what’s the point? What will I leave behind after I’m gone?”
“I see.” Anya started to smile. “Dmitry said you were a passionate woman and you would be a strong advocate for Reb. I see this in you as well.” She reached into her bag and withdrew a phone. “I will record the remainder of our conversation, with your permission.”
Veronica nodded and tried to look comfortable in the massive dress.
“Many people have claimed to be a grand duchess but then were proven imposters…”
Veronica played with a loose fold on the gown and tried not to think about Michael and the way the reporter had hassled him yesterday.
“… and other Romanovs have made claims, but their connection to the last imperial family was distant. You’re different, a direct link to the last family. This will give you emotional sway. How do you picture your role?”
“In the modern world, a monarch is nothing more than a figurehead. But that’s the point. A monarch is apart from politics and free to champion just causes.”
“Do you have any specific causes in mind?” Anya nodded vaguely at the phone, as though Veronica needed a reminder she was being recorded.
“Irina mentioned a mosque she wants built…”
Anya’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard rumors about this. So it’s true. That would be wonderful. I have connections to imams in Moscow who may wish to speak to you about this.” She pressed the button once more to go off the record. “At least this woman Irina and I agree on one thing.” She pressed the button again and the red light went back on. “But of course I am curious about what other causes you wish to support.”
“Reb Volkov,” Veronica said. “I think his sentence should be dismissed.”
“If you speak for Reb’s release, won’t you be in direct defiance of the government? Isn’t that political?”
“A Russian court made the decision. A terrible decision.”
Anya nodded thoughtfully and pressed something on her phone.
“We’re off the record again, I take it,” Veronica said.
“I think you are a brave woman.”
“I may be a Romanov, but I’m also an American citizen. I can get away with speaking out more, or at least I think I can.”
“I still say you are a brave woman.” She inclined her head. “I understand what you say about purpose. I do. Americans are like this, looking for something more. Reb always said this. He enjoyed visiting America so much. He wanted to live there. I wish I had encouraged him to do so. He would be safe now.”
“So you know Reb?”
“Dmitry didn’t tell you? Reb is my little brother.”
“Oh!” Veronica said. “I didn’t know.”
“We have different fathers,” she said. “Mine was a journalist from Afghanistan originally. Reb’s father was a member of the Old Guard. Would have made it to the Politburo if the USSR lasted long enough.”
“Can I meet Reb?” Veronica asked.
She leaned forward. “Are you sure you want to do this? Reb is no monarchist. I can’t guarantee he will be friendly.”
“I’d still like to meet him.”
Anya lifted her palms. “All right. I think he will do it. He’s stuck at home anyway. Who knows? Perhaps the two of you will get along.”
* * *
“I thought Reb was under arrest,” Michael said. “How are you going to meet him?”
“House arrest. For the moment.” Veronica struggled with her umbrella against the wind. The wet pavement was uneven and she trod lightly in her unfamiliar rain boots, making her way through a group of young men in heavy rain slickers. An Australian tourist bus had just parked on the other side of the street, and the men were braving the cold rain to shout into bullhorns about discounted tours of Tsarskoye Selo.
“They slapped him with an ankle bracelet like he’s Lindsay Lohan,” she added. “So Reb can’t get very far regardless.”
“I thought they wanted to make an example of him.”
“The government wanted to give him time to get his affairs in order, make it appear as though due process is being followed before they send him off to the gulag.”
“They’re not really using that term anymore, are they?”
“They might as well be,” she said.
“What if they find a reason to slap an ankle bracelet on you and send you to the gulag?”
“Then they’ll have to deal with our government.”
“Forget our government.” He smiled. “They’ll have to deal with your abuela.”
Veronica laughed softly. When she drew in her breath, she caught a strong taste of the gasoline pollution that clung to the cold air, along with the faint scent of forest and river.
“I know you’re worried about me,” she said. “But it’s bad, Michael. It’s really bad. I know this is a long shot, but maybe if I say the right thing at the right time it could make a difference. I have to try.”
“At least let me come with you to see Reb,” Michael said.
Veronica shook her head. “Anya said he would only see me. And frankly, even that sounds iffy.”
“If anything happens to you, your abuela will kill me.”
“That’s probably true,” Veronica said.
Most of the souvenir stands had shut down for the season, but they approached a lemon-yellow kiosk in the tree-lined square, where a middle-aged man in a bulging white jacket sold newspapers and mineral water. Next to the kiosk, a large canopy sheltered a folding table lined with doe-eyed nesting dolls, T-shirts featuring brash images of the Russian president, and flaming Firebirds painted on wooden balalaikas.
“Look.” Michael pointed to a Soviet-style movie poster for Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin, a defiant sailor holding a red flag. “I wonder what Dmitry’s ancestor Grisha would have made of that?”
“From what I’ve read, Prince Potemkin was full of himself.” Veronica put her umbrella down to dip under the canopy and take a look for herself. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He’d probably find it flattering. A ship was named after him on Star Trek too. The Potemkin.”
Michael gave her a sidelong glance, playful and sarcastic, just as she remembered.
“I’m a nerd,” she said. “You already knew that. I thought you liked that about me.”
“I still like that about you.”
The rain began to fall harder, pounding against the canopy over the table. It felt
good to talk to him this way again, but she didn’t know what to say. Veronica rifled through miniature icons of John the Baptist and amber pendants dangling from cheap chains. She spotted an entire chess set with Romanov and Bolshevik figurines facing off and scowling at each other. Nicholas II and Lenin were the kings.
At the end of the table a postcard of the last imperial family caught her eye. Fairly standard, except someone had drawn an extra Romanov, a redhead with features similar to Grand Duchess Tatiana. The fifth daughter stood to the side, gazing wistfully at the rest of her family.
“Is that supposed to be Grand Duchess Charlotte?” Veronica asked the man behind the kiosk, pointing to the postcard. “Who drew this picture?”
“You like our secret grand duchess?” In his bulging white jacket, he resembled a snowman.
“How much?” she asked.
“For you, eighty rubles, or two dollars.” He spoke in heavily accented English. He must have detected her American accent. “Should buy now. Price goes higher tomorrow.”
The wind gusted, stinging Veronica’s ears. “This is my grandmother.”
“This secret Romanov?”
Michael peered over Veronica’s shoulder at the postcard. “I met Charlotte once. She was older when I met her, but whoever drew this got her right.”
Veronica fumbled in her purse for her crumpled wad of ruble notes and handed them over. Then she tucked the postcard in the side pocket of her purse and started walking again, still struggling with her umbrella. She would just as soon have spent the chilly afternoon inside the Hermitage or another museum, but Michael wanted to see The Bronze Horseman.
The little yellow flowers encircling the statue wilted under the rain. Above them, Peter’s hand was extended forward while his horse reared up on its hind legs. Personally, Veronica didn’t much care for the statue. She had always thought Peter looked awkward and too stiff.
“I can’t believe you’ve never seen him,” Veronica said.
Michael kicked a pebble. “When I was a little boy, my mother read Pushkin’s poem to me. A statue coming to life? A wild horse? I had nightmares for weeks.”
The Tsarina's Legacy Page 13
