The Tsarina's Legacy

by Jennifer Laam

  “Michael is gone,” Veronica cried, shuddering as she tried to control her mounting panic. “They took him. Did you see?”

  Anya looked lost in her own thoughts. Her breath formed a cloud of frost in the air as she spoke. “I saw.”

  “Why would the police take him? He hasn’t done anything!”

  Anya’s voice remained calm. “It was the same with Reb. We didn’t find out why he was arrested until much later. We will figure out what happened. I promise.”

  “Where is Dmitry?”

  “He had to go to Reb,” Anya said in a low voice. “Once you made your announcement, Reb received a death threat. It’s not the first one, but Dmitry needs to be with him.”

  The protesters still chanted at the top of their lungs, but now the police stood to the side, averting their eyes. One of them even laughed. Veronica wondered if she should approach them for help. Michael’s tourist visa was only good for thirty days. What would they do if that expired? Could the American consulate get them a new one? Maybe one of the police officers would know what to do.

  And then she turned to Irina, still on her phone. Veronica’s eyes narrowed. She suspected Irina would be more useful than any police officers. Irina likely knew the right people or at least could direct Veronica to the right people.

  “I’ll call you back,” Irina said, pressing a button on her phone.

  Veronica bit her lip. She could barely manage the words. “The police took Michael.”

  Irina ran her hand through her silky blond hair. “I know. I just spoke to Sasha. He will investigate.”

  “How?” Sasha looked as though he would feel far more comfortable surfing on a beach somewhere or hiking through redwood groves than busting an American out of a foreign prison. She couldn’t stand the thought of Michael’s fate resting in his hands. “He doesn’t even speak Russian.”

  Irina pulled her fur tighter around her pale neck. “Sasha does well here. He has plenty of friends.”

  “Female friends?”

  “Besides the bimbos. The Yusupov name opens doors. Besides, you never know when those women might be helpful.”

  The Yusupov name. All of that money before the Revolution. “These ‘friends’ think he will clean up if the family fortune is restored.”

  “It’s his family’s money. Everyone has a right to their proper inheritance. You should know this better than anyone.”

  Irina swept her hair to one side with her fingers, trying to keep it from getting mussed in the wind. Her phone rang again and she scrambled to answer it. Veronica heard Sasha’s deep American squawking and fought an impulse to snatch the phone from her hands.

  “I see…” Irina’s voice trailed off. “Very well then. I’ll tell her.”

  “Tell me what? What’s happening?”

  Irina dropped the phone back in her purse abruptly. Then she fumbled around until she located the Firebird pendant to pin her hair in place. “Your friend, Mr. Karstadt, he is an attorney? Immigration law?”

  Veronica thought her heart might burst. “Yes.”

  “You would think he’d know better then. Apparently he was carrying something on him he shouldn’t have been. Sasha doesn’t know the details yet, but Mr. Karstadt has been taken to a holding facility in the center of the city.”

  Veronica swallowed, throat suddenly hoarse. “A holding facility?”

  “He’s American,” Irina said. “They won’t keep him in a common jail with Russian pickpockets and Gypsies. This is a more serious matter.”

  “Michael hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “Not that you know of,” Irina said. “But how much do any of us really know? We have strong authorities here. They keep us safe. Besides, you’re the one who made this mess. I told you. I told Dmitry. Stay out of this. Keep the Society out of politics. You’re to blame.”

  Veronica took a step toward Irina but felt Anya’s steadying hand on her shoulder. “You think the arrest of Nika’s friend is related to Reb’s case?” Anya asked.

  “Of course it’s related,” Irina said. “They want to send a message and this is the best way they know how. They will hurt someone close to the new tsarina. But that doesn’t mean your precious False Mikhail is blameless. The police must have had some reason or another for taking him into custody.”

  “No,” Veronica said, shaking her head. “He hasn’t done anything.”

  “Either way, the solution is simple,” Irina told her. “Back down. Stop talking about Reb Volkov and this silly vodka boycott. I guarantee things will look much better for Mr. Karstadt.”

  * * *

  The guard took his time inspecting Veronica’s paperwork, running fat fingers over the form, her tourist visa, and her passport. Veronica wondered if he would find fault with some detail and turn her away. But after another minute, his features relaxed. He adjusted his brown jacket and made a little bow as he returned Veronica’s papers. “Everything looks to be in order, Nika.” He nodded toward the hat resting on the station before him, the gold double-headed eagle medallion, and winked.

  So he knew her. Veronica found herself leaning in close to him, not exactly flirting but taking him into her confidence. “How is he doing?” she asked in Russian.

  “Mikhail? He is managing well enough.”

  She would have preferred the guard sounded annoyed when she asked about Michael. Instead he seemed sorry for him.

  The guard gestured for her to follow. The sound of his boots on the tile floor echoed off the walls around them. The facility was not the darkly lit stone-walled dungeon she’d imagined, but rather pristinely white. Narrow hallways fanned out from the central booking area in neat lines and the strong scent of bleach almost overpowered the decay in the air. She’d feared Michael would be taken to a place where he would be dumped and forgotten. This seemed like a place prisoners were taken to be shot. It would be easy to clean blood from the walls. She fought off another chill. She needed to get Michael out of here now.

  No. They had let her in to see him. The situation couldn’t be that bad.

  Unless whoever had taken Michael saw her as no threat at all.

  The guard led her down one of the hallways to a steel door and swiped a key card over a magnetic strip. On the other side of the door, five cells were lined up side by side. The tiny cells only had room for a cot and a basin. As they continued forward, she saw they were all empty except for the cell nearest them at the end of the hall, which was occupied by a skinny, pale adolescent. His head was shorn and on the right side of his skull he had a bluish tattoo of a spider enmeshed in a web. He curled his arms around his legs and rocked back and forth on top of the narrow cot, muttering to himself. Veronica quickened her pace.

  The guard directed her to the last cell in the row. Veronica ran the final few steps and then stopped and gripped the bars. Michael was lying on his back, arm draped over his eyes. He shifted and dropped his arm, squinting at her. A dark purplish discoloration tinged with red swelled under his left eye.

  “Oh my God!” she cried. “What are they doing to you?”

  Michael stood quickly and grasped her fingers. “It’s okay,” he said. “Just a little misunderstanding, but I’m okay. I promise. Don’t panic.”

  She drew a deep breath, taking in the terrible bleach smell and trying not to stare at his eye. She couldn’t let the panic consume her, no matter how hard her heart thudded in her chest. But she didn’t believe him. He wasn’t okay. He was here because of her. This had happened to him because of her. She turned to the guard, pressing her lips together until she could speak in lucid, proper Russian. “May we have a few minutes of privacy?”

  The guard tipped his hat. Eyes wide, Michael watched him retreat to the other end of the corridor. “I don’t think he’s supposed to leave you alone with me. I thought he was going to bark at you and tell you we only had two minutes. I’m surprised he’s giving us even this much space.”

  “He called me Nika. I think he might want the Romanovs back.”

&nbs
p; “Ah!” Michael grinned. She was glad to see him in good spirits at least. His fingers felt comforting against her skin. “Royalty has its perks.”

  “Maybe he has some noble bloodline in his family and a lost fortune he wants to recover.” She leaned forward. “Irina says I’m turning conservative members of the Duma against the Society. She says you’re in jail as some sort of retaliation, that someone is trying to get to me through you.” Without thinking, Veronica turned her hand sideways to slide it between the narrow bars, gently touching Michael’s bruised cheek. He flinched and she lowered her hand. “What happened? What did they do?”

  Michael glanced at the guard and lowered his voice until it sounded gravelly. “I lost my temper for a minute and didn’t think before I said something stupid. Trust me. It won’t happen again.”

  She was afraid to touch his face again so she squeezed his fingers. “I’m getting you out of here. I have a call in to the American consulate. They’ll help. And I’ll talk to this guard. There must be something I can do.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything, Veronica. Look, the guard notified the consulate for me already. Let’s wait and see what happens.”

  “What are they saying you did?”

  He scratched his head.

  “You didn’t do anything … did you?”

  He shrugged.

  “What did you do?”

  “They found something on me.”

  “What? Drugs?”

  “Veronica, come on. No. It was a pamphlet for an LGBT advocacy group. They found several in my coat pocket. I was arrested under the gay propaganda law.”

  Her chest felt like ice. “Oh my God.”

  “Not that I’m offended or anything, but, Veronica, the pamphlets weren’t mine. Someone planted them in my coat. And when I tried to explain, no one listened.”

  “You were set up.” She rocked back and forth now, sliding her hand out and holding on to the bars to steady herself. A hooting sound came from one of the other cells, the boy with the spider tattoo. She couldn’t let Michael stay in here one more second.

  “And then they asked for my visa and said it was the wrong kind. I guess because of the pamphlets they think I’m here for political reasons and the tourist visa isn’t valid.”

  “That’s crazy. I’m going to sort it out.”

  “Let the people in the consulate do their job,” Michael said. “I don’t know who set me up, but the Americans aren’t going to let anything happen to me.”

  “My apologies, Tsarina Nika,” the guard called from the end of the hall. “But there will be more men coming. I must ask you to leave now.”

  “One more minute.”

  “Please, Veronica. Do what he says. I don’t want you to end up in a women’s ward somewhere. Help Reb. Don’t let this intimidate you. I’ll be fine.”

  Veronica took his hand again and grasped his fingers tighter. “I miss you. I wanted to say it before … I miss you.” She touched his face gently, steering clear of the bruise. “I love you.”

  He smiled sadly. “I love you too. I’ve always loved you. But I think you know that.”

  “Just a little while longer,” she told him. “I’m getting you out of here.”

  * * *

  By eight that evening, Veronica still hadn’t heard back from the consulate and she didn’t want to return to her hotel. It was too cold to wander the streets aimlessly, and besides, it didn’t feel safe. Dmitry had asked her not to come to Reb’s flat. He thought it might make matters worse for everyone, at least until they learned more about Michael’s arrest and the threats to Reb. And she still hadn’t returned the call to her abuela. She couldn’t bear to tell her Michael was in jail. Abuela would order her home immediately.

  So she ended up back at the office of the Monarchist Society, staring out the window at the twinkling streetlights lining the courtyard. The white curve of a half-moon flickered into view between the bare limbs of the trees outside, casting shadows on the aristocratic portraits and mementos lining the walls. She stared blankly at the itinerary Dmitry had prepared for her and all of Irina’s notes neatly placed underneath a blotter on the desk.

  Michael was paying for her ambition. The thought made her stomach turn. The more time she spent by herself, turning over worst-case scenarios in her mind, the more she was convinced coming to Russia had been a huge mistake. She’d had a secure job; she was rebuilding her relationship with her grandmother. She could have gone to Los Angeles to see Michael. When she reviewed the way her life was taking shape, she wasn’t sure her head had done her many favors. She should have listened to her heart.

  Her phone pinged and a text message from Dmitry popped up on the screen.

  I’M STILL AT REB’S APARTMENT. TURN ON THE TV.

  Veronica didn’t have access to a television, but she stayed on her phone, searching for the latest news to come out of Russia, anything connected to Reb.

  She soon found the footage. She recognized the front steps and the same crowd of protesters she had seen in Palace Square earlier in the day. Rainbow flags unfurled and she spotted the picture of the Russian president with makeup. A few black-clad policemen lingered toward the back of the crowd. Reb descended the staircase with Dmitry two steps behind him and the crowd cheered. He waved and looked as though he were about to speak.

  Before he got the chance, the camera jostled, suddenly focusing in on something happening toward the back of the crowd. Two protesters—a boy and a girl no older than eighteen—had gotten into a scuffle with a policeman. Except this didn’t look like an ordinary policeman, at least not the ones Veronica had seen earlier. The man who confronted the boy and girl wore a fur hat and a gray-green tunic coat with red military epaulettes. Veronica realized he was one of the so-called neo-Cossacks who had started engaging in military and civilian patrols. The camera focused on something that was in his hand, a gleaming piece of metal with long, snaking, rawhide tendrils attached to it.

  A knout.

  The Cossack pushed the protesters. When the boy made a move, he lashed the whip at them until they were huddled on the ground, feebly struggling to protect their faces from the blows. The Cossack turned toward the camera, looking very young. Too young. He raised his hand, raised the knout. The camera phone fell to the ground and the last few seconds were just shaky footage of shoes.

  All of this had happened far enough away from the crowd that only a few people toward the back caught what was happening and recorded videos with their phones.

  Veronica stopped the video. She couldn’t take it anymore. She had always been prone to anxiety, but nothing like this. A wave of panic sat heavily on her chest, paralyzing her.

  As she struggled to catch her breath, her gaze shifted to the drawings of St. Petersburg in its early years. What a quaint little city it seemed back then, and yet she knew the history. How many thousands of men had died forging a city in the swamp? St. Petersburg was nothing more than artifice, a pretty façade covering a history of leaders willing to build legacies on the massive suffering of other human beings.

  Veronica shivered, chilled to the bone. She felt a presence draw near, not to speak with her but to judge her somehow. Slowly, she lifted her hand to massage her forehead. The muted gold of the frayed sword knot caught her eye. It hung precariously from a hook near the portrait of Potemkin. At that same moment, a truck rumbled by outside. The vibration shook the tassel from its place and it hit the floor.

  A light chill skipped across her shoulders.

  Veronica stared at the portrait of Catherine the Great. Maybe what Dmitry said was true and ghosts still haunted the building, looking for the old banya.

  “Okay, I don’t know if I even believe in any of this stuff at all,” she whispered. “But if you’re still around here somewhere, please. I could use your help now. I could use some advice.” She looked at Catherine again, right in her steely blue eyes. “What would you do?”

  She waited, but nothing happened. And she couldn’t just stay in this
office like an ass feeling sorry for herself and talking to imaginary spirits.

  She turned to the portrait of the auburn-haired Prince Grigory Potemkin, Dmitry’s ancestor. Catherine had been a strong woman, confident and self-assured. But Potemkin? One minute he was moody and ready to take on the world, and the next he withdrew from it completely. Veronica realized that for all her admiration of Catherine, she identified far more with her prince. Her eyes glazed over, imagining how he might respond to what was happening in contemporary Russia. She blinked quickly, trying to focus, and then found herself looking at the sketch of the mosque. The frame hung at an awkward angle. Veronica walked over to the drawing and tried to right the frame. When her fingers moved underneath the wood, she felt something dry and crumpling, poking out of the backing. Dust spotted her fingers.

  Veronica heard a murmur of a voice in the hallway. She pressed as gently as she could on the paper and it began to slip out from its hiding place behind the frame. It looked like a letter, yellowing and smelling of must, so brittle with age she was afraid it might tear apart in her hands. The crumpled Cyrillic handwriting in the first part of the letter was shaky and her heart thumped wildly as she tried to make it out.

  Matushka,

  I can’t believe we are separated this one final time, especially when I feel the end is so near. I want to be near to hold your little hand and help you with the hundreds of small tasks that occupy your day. But this time, darling wife, even from afar, I must ask you to grant me one last favor to make our legacy to this great empire complete.

  The voice in the hallway grew stronger, headed her way. Veronica looked all around the room, her gaze coming to rest once more on the itinerary Dmitry had prepared for her. Hands shaking, she placed the delicate paper between two of the plastic leaves for safekeeping. Then she went to the door to listen.

  It was Irina, deep in conversation with someone on the other end of the phone. Veronica got as close to the door as she dared and strained to hear.

  “Homosexual propaganda!” Irina was saying in Russian. “That makes him a clear and present danger to this country.”