Veronica stiffened. She would have recognized his blue eyes anywhere.
“May I have a few minutes,” she said slowly, taking care with her voice, so she wouldn’t give away her guest’s identity when he was so clearly trying to hide it, “to try on the outfit?”
“Fine. Good idea.” Irina took Sasha by the upper arm and practically dragged him out of the room, saying: “I told you not to mention money. It upsets her.” She didn’t notice that the man with the garment bag hadn’t followed them out.
After Sasha shut the door behind them, Elena looked up, surprised, and asked, “Reb Volkov? I thought you were under house arrest.”
Veronica waved her arms to indicate Elena should keep her voice down.
“How come they did not see you?” Elena added, gesturing in Irina and Sasha’s direction.
“The noble is concerned only with herself and the handsome man lives in his own world.” He turned to Veronica. “We need to talk.”
“I’m supposed to take pictures.”
Reb eyed the gown with obvious distaste. “This is why you came to Russia? To become a trinket? A tool for the noble pigs and their capitalist masters?”
“She looks lovely!” Elena cried.
“Why don’t you wear the dress then?”
“I am not the tsarina.”
“The selfish nobles only want a pretty face to help their cause. Yours will do as well as any other. They don’t care about this one’s connections to the Romanov oppressors.”
“This is not true,” Elena said. “They care about Nika’s family.”
“Do they?”
Veronica was thinking about everything that had happened since she arrived in St. Petersburg. Had Irina even once asked her to take a DNA test? To talk further about her family? To have the letter from Empress Alexandra speaking of her secret daughter authenticated? It seemed like all she cared about was having someone who fit the gown well enough, who seemed like enough of a Romanov. Veronica looked in the mirror again. Maybe Catherine would finally make her presence known.
Veronica felt nothing, only knew she was over Irina and her self-aggrandizing fluff.
“To hell with this.” Veronica unhooked the clasp and slipped the cape off her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Elena cried. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Tell Irina I’m not doing the photo shoot,” Veronica said. “But I will be here for the press conference. I’d tell her myself, but I want to make sure Reb gets back to his flat safely and I don’t trust Irina.”
Reb tapped his ankle. “I’ll make sure this won’t betray me. I’ve stayed within two kilometers of my flat. We’ll remain nearby. But you? Little Miss Romanov Heiress? Dmitry and I want a word.”
* * *
Reb wore a jacket too light for the weather. The cold rain had dissolved into a wet and heavy mist with traces of snowflakes. Frustration chilled his voice. “Imperialist scum.”
Veronica scrutinized the monument before them, set on rounded steps like the curved seating in an amphitheater, swamped in a slushy mix of mud and ice. Atop the pedestal, Catherine the Great stared straight ahead, not deigning to look down at her loyal subjects. Catherine was encircled by her most prominent advisers. The tranquil Princess Dashkova read a book, representing her position as the head of the Russian Academy. Among the men, Veronica recognized Prince Potemkin, his boot resting atop a limp turban. Her gaze lingered on his proud expression, and yet somehow she thought if the statue could move, he would lift his foot.
Reb gestured toward the sad little turban. “A conqueror. Disgusting.”
“This is supposed to help?” Veronica asked, switching to English as she turned to face Dmitry. “This is your big pep talk?”
“Pep talk?” Dmitry said.
“You brought me here to see Catherine, to inspire me, and then I have to listen to this.”
Dmitry cast a warning glance in Reb’s direction.
“Fine.” Scowling, Reb reached into a leather bag he’d brought with him and withdrew a thick notepad and a stubby charcoal pencil. Catherine and Potemkin may have been imperialists, but that didn’t stop him from sketching the lines of the statue in broad strokes.
“I’m going to help. I told both of you already.”
“We only want to remind you we are here and to see if there is anything else we could do to support you. Even Catherine had advisers.”
“Advisers! Dima is so modest.” Reb looked up from his sketch. “He orchestrated everything. Otherwise you would remain the tool of that silly noblewoman.”
“Irina’s focus has always been money,” Dmitry admitted. “It is starting to worry me. That is not what you want though. I know this. I told Reb you would abandon the photo shoot with only little nudge. And I was right.”
“Yes, yes.” Reb waved his hand in the air and continued his sketch.
“People in the West do not fully understand what happens in Russia,” Dmitry said. “I think you are right person to speak. You can draw attention we need.”
“I’ll speak at the press conference,” Veronica said. “I’ll speak out against the propaganda law and other civil rights violations. I’ll support the vodka boycott.”
“Look.” Dmitry motioned behind them. Veronica turned around. Two long rows of benches faced one another in the square. They seemed innocuous enough. Veronica shook her head and shrugged. Dmitry motioned again and she looked closer. On the side of the bench nearest them, she read a tiny graffiti message in Cyrillic.
Burn the gays in ovens.
Veronica shivered. “I saw something similar by The Bronze Horseman.”
“That tag has been here two weeks,” Reb said. “The police will not remove it.”
“The problem is not only laws,” Dmitry said. “It is violence, lynchings, and everything between private companies and government.”
“Russian bureaucracy,” she said. “I understand.”
“Do you understand the extent of it? If a bank makes a loan to gay couple … closed. If a university accepts gay faculty member … no funding. If landlord rents to gay person … suddenly building does not meet codes. This is how they go about it. They want us out of country.”
“Out of Holy Russia,” Reb added bitterly.
Veronica couldn’t look at the graffiti any longer. Instead, she looked up at Catherine.
“What do you think she would have done?” Dmitry asked.
In truth? Veronica now realized she had no idea. This was the historian’s curse. She wanted to be transported to an age where beauty and manners and honor were highly prized. It sounded appealing and sexy. The late eighteenth century had been the age of enlightenment. And yet how did the eighteenth century look from modern eyes? Sexist, despite empresses like Catherine of Russia and Maria Theresa in Austria. Racist. The conquered turban beneath Potemkin’s foot spoke to that well enough. Certainly homophobic.
On the other hand, people who lived in the present liked to believe that if they lived in the past they would have done things differently than their ancestors. Catherine and her prince were conquerors and expansionists, but they were also intellectually curious, cosmopolitan, open to debate, and tolerant of other religions, remarkably so.
Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she believed Catherine and Potemkin would hate what was happening in this new Russia.
Veronica turned to Dmitry. He had taken Reb’s hand. Reb scowled but otherwise looked as though he could have been purring. If she had been able to catch Prince Potemkin staring at Catherine, she would have seen the same look in his eyes. Dmitry gazed wistfully at Reb and Veronica knew he wanted to kiss him. But he didn’t dare. Not in public.
Guilt barbed Veronica’s thoughts as she realized she had violated an intimate moment between them. She remembered Caravaggio’s brokenhearted lute player, his lips gently parted and his gaze so tender.
“I’ll do whatever I can to help you,” she told them quietly. “I promise.”
* * *
&nbs
p; At least it was a small event. Veronica was glad for that much. Irina had only asked ten reporters from various Russian news agencies and popular blogs to attend and now they crowded into the foyer of the Hermitage Theater, where Veronica’s disturbing conversation with Borya and Zenaida had taken place. The reporters were seated in folding chairs, tacky and anachronistically modern in the rococo fairy tale. A podium was centered in front of one of the windows looking out to the canal and the gray morning.
Sasha hung a banner with the Russian red, white, and blue flag and the Romanov double-headed eagle in front of the podium. In Cyrillic, it declared: “Welcome, Tsarina Nika.” Sasha took a step back and then glanced at Veronica, who was waiting in a corner wearing the suit Irina had chosen for her. “I’m so stoked! I can’t wait to hear what you have to say.”
He gave her a thumbs-up and a big smile.
Veronica remembered what he had told her at the party, that she could tweet about Reb. She tried to return the optimistic gesture but even her thumb felt nervous.
Irina stood nearby, trying to smile but looking more like a hyena baring her teeth. Her shoulders kept rising and falling dramatically and her perfume made Veronica’s head hurt. She had barely spoken two words since Veronica had bailed on the photo shoot.
“Don’t blow this,” Irina said in a low voice. “Don’t try to cross me again. Remember why you are here. You don’t have anything waiting for you back in California. Get this right.”
Veronica drew in a deep breath, remembering to count to three in English, Spanish, and Russian to calm herself. One of the windows had been left slightly ajar and she heard a bird trill outside. Veronica wondered again what Grigory Potemkin would have made of all of this: the spectacle of a woman from a foreign land staking a claim in Russia. He’d seen it before, of course. A German girl who changed her name to Catherine and ruled an empire, becoming a woman he had loved for so many years. She thought Grigory Potemkin must have been watching her from somewhere, one of the ghosts of the Winter Palace, of St. Petersburg, of all the lost Romanovs and their courts.
Sasha pressed something on his phone and the first grandly thundering notes of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 filled the room. This was one of Veronica’s favorite pieces of classical music, one she had known as a child when she first read Nicholas and Alexandra and started to dream of palaces dusted with snow.
At the majestic sound of the music, the reporters who had been invited to meet her all swung their heads to look. Veronica followed Irina to the podium as calmly as she could manage, trying not to scramble in her purse for her notes. The reporters snapped pictures as she nodded, trying to look pleasant and approachable and yet fully in charge of the situation.
Irina was slated to speak first and introduce Veronica. As they waited for the murmuring to die down, Veronica scanned the room. She spotted Anya in the back row and then, to her great pleasure, Elena’s fiery hair. Elena stood against the back wall and wiggled her fingers at Veronica, who smiled in return. Other than that, everyone’s faces seemed fuzzy.
She looked around the room one more time but didn’t see Michael. Her heart sank.
Veronica adjusted her purse at her side, feeling stiff and stuffy in the lilac skirt and blazer. Her phone buzzed and she reached inside to peek, hoping it was Michael. It was a voice message from her abuela but she didn’t have time to listen. She put the phone back.
Dmitry cleared his throat and the reporters’ murmuring died down. Sasha pressed his phone again and Tchaikovsky’s epic concerto came to an abrupt halt.
“Thank you for joining us,” Irina said, trim and self-assured in an ivory-colored pantsuit. “This is truly a momentous occasion, a day for celebration. As most of you know, the Monarchist Society has been engaged in the most important project in our history. We searched a hundred years for an heir to the Romanov family and have been disappointed time and time again. But now…” She paused for dramatic effect. “Our prayers have been answered.”
Veronica shifted her weight, thinking of Reb’s painting. She saw Dmitry reach for something near his collar and caught a quick glimpse of his cross.
She touched her own cross, at the base of her throat, a gift from the Dowager Empress Marie to Grand Duchess Charlotte.
“The woman before you now is the true heir and representative of the House of Romanov,” Irina continued, her affected British accent growing more pronounced even though she spoke in elegant Russian. “The granddaughter of a grand duchess, a secret fifth daughter of the tsar, removed from Russia by the saintly Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna before the Bolsheviks came to power.”
Veronica rolled her neck. Marie had removed her granddaughter from Russia before the Revolution. But Irina made it sound like a heroic act, as though somehow Marie had foreseen a revolution fifteen years later and had known that if the girl remained in the country, she would be murdered along with the rest of her family. In truth, Marie had merely been trying to protect her son’s throne from the political fallout of yet again failing to produce an heir.
“This true grand duchess, named Charlotte, took the married name Marchand. The fifth daughter of the tsar, unrevealed for nearly a century. We are proud to introduce her granddaughter and Nicholas and Alexandra’s great-granddaughter, the woman who is the true claimant to the Russian throne, Dr. Veronica Herrera. Our honorary tsarina. Nika.”
Veronica hadn’t expected excited applause. Or had she? An obligatory smattering of claps acknowledged it was her turn to speak.
She traded places with Irina and scanned the notes before her on the podium. For such a simple piece of furniture, the podium was intimidating. “Thank you,” she said in Russian. “Thank you all for coming.” Her voice was high and she made a conscious effort to lower her register. “I am not pursuing an official title, of course, but I am honored to accept this symbolic position with the Society.”
Someone cleared their throat. Anya crossed her legs.
“I have always believed a ceremonial monarch can effect positive change in the modern world.” Veronica struggled to convey complex ideas in Russian. “A monarch can act as a force for good in a country and a cultural diplomat to other nations. I am honored to serve.” She straightened her back, tried to seem regal. Had she really just said all of that? At her first press conference? She scanned the crowd. Some of the reporters were looking at her with a fixed and almost hostile lack of interest. Others typed furiously on their electronic tablets.
“If it’s what the people want, that is,” she added quickly. “I hope it’s something people might be open to considering. I understand people probably have mixed feelings. It’s complicated.”
She looked again at the paper, imagining Dmitry and Irina huddling over the speech, diagramming every last word. And yet those words felt so artificial right now, so canned. More branding of Tsarina Nika. Veronica steadied her trembling hands. She crumpled the paper, folded her palms on top of one another, and looked directly at the reporters.
“I think having another voice in Russian politics is a good thing. These are troubled times. I know, times are always troubled. And I can’t say that I am in the mood to celebrate, given what is happening in this country. The suppression of free expression.”
Veronica could just kill the time with platitudes: national unity, pride, good works, and blah, blah, blah. The reporters would jot down a few notes. It would be good enough. Russia was scary. The leaders of this country had proven they would do whatever they needed to do to shut down dissent. They didn’t care who got hurt. They didn’t care if they offended other countries. They still had all of the old Soviet weaponry at their disposal. Why should they care?
And she was about to piss them off.
But she had promised Reb and Dmitry. She had promised herself. She would never be able to live with herself if she backed down. Now was the time to fight.
“I wish to address the arrest and conviction of Reb Volkov. I was immensely sorry to hear of it.”
“So what
of the picture with Vasily Turgekov?” a reporter called out. “Vasily says Reb is getting exactly what he deserves.”
That stopped Veronica, but only for a second.
“I am sorry to have inadvertently posed for a picture with a man, a celebrity, who has expressed social views I find repugnant. Vasily is a fine actor but he is a homophobe.”
“You didn’t recognize him when you took the picture?” Anya clarified.
“I did not,” Veronica said, voice still clear and even authoritative. “That was a mistake. I want to focus on Reb’s situation now. I know some people think because I’m an American I should stay out of Russian affairs. But I understand many Russians feel Reb’s punishment was inappropriate. I intend to start a petition to reverse his sentence and ask the Duma to reconsider the so-called gay propaganda legislation. It is discriminatory. It is hateful. It must stop.”
A pin could have dropped. So when the door handle turned with a loud squeak, everyone heard. Michael came in as quietly and unobtrusively as he could, but he was so tall he couldn’t help but draw attention. He caught Veronica’s eye and once again she thought of the sad-eyed lute player from the picture. She and Michael kept hurting one another. They were breaking each other’s hearts. What was the point? She wanted him at her side. She didn’t want to turn him away any longer.
Veronica removed her blazer. Underneath she wore a T-shirt with a Siberian wolf on it. The same image that Reb used on his website. “I stand with Reb Volkov. But I also stand with the communities in this country who have been marginalized at the hands of the current leadership.” The reporters’ faces were a blur, but Veronica caught Dmitry’s eye. “As a show of support, I understand that bars in several cities around the world are declining to purchase or serve Russian vodka. I call on the bars to stick to this boycott until Reb’s sentence is reversed.”
A flurry of Russian questions from the audience, all at the same time, impossible to distinguish and understand. Anya was beaming. Dmitry stepped up to the podium and blurted: “Wait! Please! One question at a time. Once we can hear you, then we will take the questions in a fair order. We’ll get to as many as we can.”
The Tsarina's Legacy Page 22
