by Kim Newman
He shook his head, raised his hand. A fresh bottle of champagne appeared instantly. Both their flutes were filled. Even in the low light, she could tell he was blushing.
"I shouldn't really have said all that. We're not to show our feelings, don't you know?"
"Do you love the Grand Duchess?"
He shook his head slightly. "What's love got to do with it? Duty comes first. My opinion of Ekaterina is of no importance."
She was crying. And trying not to.
"There are worse prospects. I could be stuck with blue-blooded English neurotic with a fashionable eating disorder and a brain the size of a pea."
Through blurry eyes, she saw Sir Anthony Blunt striding towards them.
"Thank heavens we've found your grace. There's a flap on out there. Half Petrograd is looking for you. Where is the Earl?"
The Duke poured himself another fluteful of champagne.
"Balham's in an upstairs room, Blunt. He's having a shag, so knock before you go in, there's a good fellow."
"Your Imperial Highness will be presented to the British Prime Minister, Enoch Powell," said Tatischeff, the court's Chief of Protocol, a spry man in purple pantaloons and red tailcoat. He wore a transparent plastic rain hat over his powdered wig. "Then Foreign Minister Sir Alec Douglas-Home and Minister of the Interior, Jimmy Edwards. If Your
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Imperial Highness might permit a humorous aside, Professor Edwards is known as 'Whacko', English onomatopoeia for the effect of one object hitting another. He sponsored a law for the birching of young criminals."
The Grand Duchess turned to Cinzia and snorted. "These English are perverts. What good is birching? If they want to instil discipline and respect in the peasants, they should knout them and have done with it."
It was early evening. The Grand Duchess was supposed to be getting ready for a state dinner at the Winter Palace which would be attended by British and Russian politicians.
"You will then be presented to our Russian government. Prime Minister Henryk Kissinger and his minsters. I am sure I need not remind your Imperial Highness of their names and titles."
"You do actually," said the Grand Duchess, from inside her vast wardrobe. "No, don't bother. They're all bloody crooks anyway. I'm surprised they've bothered to come up from Moscow. How can they tear themselves away from their money and mistresses?"
"And their tape-recorders," said Cinzia. The Grand Duchess laughed.
The imperial engagement was almost upstaged by daily corruption revelations. Two nights ago, Kremlin men were caught planting electronic listening devices in the Moscow HQof the Social Democratic Party. The Mensheviks, faking outrage, were calling for an immediate election. Vladimir said the crisis aided the cause of the Tsar more than that of the Opposition. He was convinced Batiushka was responsible for leaking Moscow scandals to put all politicians out of public favour. Certainly, Prince Yussopoff was celebrated for his inside knowledge of Duma dirty-doings and ITV played up the break-in as a big story. Vladi claimed a military coup in the Tsar's name was being planned at the huge army camp at Krasnoe Selo. Cinzia told her brother to stop believing the conspiracy theories he read in Bolshevik underground comics, but wasn't too sure.
"Then you come to what is called His Majesty's Loyal Opposition," Tatischeff was saying. "The leader of the Labour Party is Dennis Potter, a capable man with bad skin. His deputy, called the Shadow Foreign Secretary, is Alan Bennett. He is a very pleasant gentleman whose conversation your Imperial Highness may well find charming, though I have been warned by a foreign ministry official to beware lest he try to tell lengthy anecdotes about his elderly female relatives."
"That will be quite enough," said the Grand Duchess emerging from the wardrobe. Cinzia guessed she had taken in none of the briefing. The man bowed, back creaking, and left.
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
"I don't have a thing to wear," said the Grand Duchess, leaping onto her bed. "The court dressmaker must provide a miracle."
The Grand Duchess had heard of Cinzia's adventures with her fiance and the Earl of Balham, and was evidently amused. She wanted to know about Nikita's, and about the Earl absenting himself with a woman of easy repute. She thought the escapade hilarious. Cinzia did not talk about the Duke's confession that he hated his job.
"Put the tele on," said the Grand Duchess. "It's time for The Rostovs"
Cinzia got up and walked to the set at the end of the bed and switched it on. The Afrikan beat 1812 Overture was already playing over a series of postcard views of domes.
There was a tap at the door, and a small procession of women entered. A stout matron bearing a green silk dress. The Grand Duchess leapt off her bed and greeted the dress. She took it and held it against her body. She turned to a mirror.
"This is horrible. The colour makes me look as though I have an unpleasant disease!"
There was an embarrassed pause. Cinzia thought the dress beautiful. It had a simple, understated elegance. The colour perfectly matched the Grand Duchess's eyes.
"The decolletage is immense. Obviously, none of you have been to the Winter Palace in a low-cut gown. Ladies, they don't call it the Winter Fucking Palace because it's hot! If I wore this I'd get a chill and probably die! Then you'd feel pretty terrible. Remember the Egyptian Royals who had their servants buried with them. No, not you Cinzia; you'd have to stay alive to make me look nice in the sarcophagus... Out! All of you!"
The Grand Duchess steamed in exasperation as the panicked women scurried out. She flopped back down on her bed to watch The Rostovs. Cinzia sat next to her.
"That's it!" said the Grand Duchess suddenly. "The dress I want!"
Onscreen, Natasha burst into Prince Bolkonsky's office to abuse him for bankrupting her Uncle Vanya. She wore a loose cotton djellaba, printed with bright colour swirls.
The Grand Duchess pushed a buzzer at her bedside. Mrs. Orchard emerged through a hidden side-door.
She pointed to the screen. "I want that dress, Mrs. O. Get it for me. Now"
The woman's eyes bulged. "That's The Rostovs, isn't it? It's broadcast live."
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"So?"
"We can't get you the dress immediately. We'll have to wait an hour."
"We don't have time, Mrs. O. In an hour, I have to be at a banquet for the civilised world's most important criminals and perverts and I want to wear that dress. Get it for me!"
Mrs. Orchard, clearly regretting that she had not punished her charge more when she was little, left the room.
On tele, Talia Gurdin and Yul Brynner worked the sexual chemistry that made Natasha and Prince Bolkonsky a hit with the viewers. They circled each other, shouting and lashing out, occasionally making soothing noises and embracing.
"My marriage is going to be like that," said the Grand Duchess. "Only without the interesting bits."
The next scene was laid in a lavish drawing room where Pyotr Bezukhov (Romek Polanski), son of Prince Bolkonsky's best friend, told his great grandmother (Maria Ouspenskaya) how much he was in love with a gypsy singer, Yelena (Nana Mouskori). Pyotr burst into tears (he was a poet) and said his sacred duty was to follow the dictates of his heart, even if he died.
The Grand Duchess sighed "if only"
Back in the Prince's office, Natasha was still screaming. She paced towards the door. The zip at the back of her dress was undone. She wasn't wearing a brassiere.
The camera cut to the Prince, furiously justifying his decision to send his mad brother Nikki (Stefan Berkoff) to Siberia.
The camera cut back to a close-up of Gurdin, looking downwards, displaying unfeigned anger and anxiety. The camera pulled back: a man in a brown overalls held a towel in front of the actress's chest and midriff, while a woman in a white coat busied herself around her hips.
There was a brief snowstorm and the picture returned to Brynner, eyebrows an inch upwards from their usual position. He stuttered his lines.
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inzia collapsed into fits of painful laughter. "It must be fun to be a Grand Duchess."
"No fun at all. It might be fun to be a Grand Duke, or a Tsarevich like my big brother. Men in the Imperial family are allowed to fall in love. They must marry out of duty, but can keep mistresses. It's different for women."
The Grand Duchess got off her bed. "I've been reading this book by an Australian commoner. The Female Eunuch."
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Cinzia had heard of it.
There was a timid tap. Mrs. Orchard came in, triumphantly bearing Natasha Bolkonskaya's colouful djellaba.
"It was rushed over here in a police car."
"Bring it back tomorrow. Tonight I'm going to strike a blow for women."
The Grand Duchess disappeared into her wardrobe and emerged holding a scarlet trouser-suit.
"Time to put my face on, Cindy. As little makeup as possible. Enough to stop me looking like a corpse, but not so much that it seems I've tarted up just to please some man."
Another knock at the door.
"Enter," said the Grand Duchess.
An officer strode in, saluted. It took Cinzia a moment to recognise Chekhov without his hussar get-up. He was in the more usual dress uniform: green tunic, green trousers, peaked cap worn at an angle. He still had more than enough gold braid.
"Her Imperial Highness's escort awaits orders."
"Pavel Andreievich, I'm trying to decide what to wear. A ball gown or this suit. What do you think?"
Chekhov's eyes widened. He smiled like a kid awarded a pound of sweets and a day off school.
"You'd look smashing in a potato sack, Ek."
Smashing? Ek?
The Grand Duchess walked up to Chekhov, scarlet suit held to her body. "Make my decision for me, Ensign."
"We were provoked," said the President of the Dynamo Petrograd Claque, talking straight to the camera. In the background, ambulance-crews busied themselves with casualties. Police-car lights flashed. Officers shouted at one another, talked urgently into radios.
The Grand Duchess had dismissed Cinzia. Bondarchuk didn't need her for the evening, so she could get an early night.
After her weekly shower, she sat in her bathrobe, watching Yussopoff smirk through the main evening news. The lead story was that Leonid Brezhnev, the Social Democrat leader, was accused of taking a heavy percentage of the bribes paid to Menshevik local authorities for building contracts.
"We were absolutely provoked," said the President, who was being interviewed. "When their team won, the Angliskis sang anti-Russian songs.
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We had to protect the honour of the Motherland. Any group of honest patriots would do what we did. Steamed in and give a well-deserved spanking. End of story."
The man had a scar running from below his ear to the side of his mouth. The friendly between Dynamo and Accrington Stanley had ended in a riot.
"I see you're carrying a sabre," said the interviewer. "Is that strictly necessary?"
"A lot of the Claque carry sabres. With this fashion for big baggy trousers it's easy to slip one inside 'em and get into the stadium. You've got to look after yourself. Football, right, well it's a game of two halves, isn't it? First, there's the bit where the players play the match. Then there's the fighting, where the fans prove loyalty to their team and protect its honour."
The telephone rang. The only people who ever called were her bosses, needing her in a crisis. It was Zhivago, Director of the Free Hospital.
"I know how busy you are at the moment, I wouldn't bother you if it wasn't an emergency."
On tele, the news showed the Dynamo Claque were armed with sabres, coshes, razors and, in a couple of cases, revolvers. The English fans were cheerful sporting spirits in scarves and bobble hats, carrying nothing more lethal than wooden rattles.
"I haven't seen this since the War. We've hundreds of Angliskis in here. I need every medic I can get."
The news cut to the Free Hospital. A middle-aged man with a toothbrush moustache sat upright in bed, heavily bandaged. He still wore an English flat cap. i
"I never thought I'd see the day when footer fans would go at one another with blimmin' swords."
"You're one of the few English-speaking nurses we've got. Some of these men are bleeding to death. I need donors, too."
She hung up and turned to her brother. "Get your coat on, Vladi. You're going to be a blood donor."
"Will it hurt?" asked Vladimir.
"It'll hurt a lot more if you don't come," she said.
Her watch said ten to midnight but it felt later. She had administered countless injections and pills, put a few limbs in plaster and stitched a dozen wounds.
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In a side office off the Casualty Ward, Cinzia gratefully accepted a mug of coffee. A nurse passed around a half-pint bottle of vodka. Everyone added a dash to their drink.
All sat on chairs or the floor. Some kicked off their shoes, lit cigarettes. Most of the patients were comfortable now; sent back to their cheap hotels or put to bed here.
"Where's that dishy brother of yours?" asked Lara, one of the younger nurses.
"I only brought him to drain his juice. He's still here?"
"He's been helping, lifting patients. It's wonderful to have a strong pair of arms around."
"You didn't let him near drugs?"
Vladimir wouldn't hang around the hospital without a good reason. Maybe he fancied Lara.
"Ladies!" said Colonel Yevgeny Ivanov, appearing at the door. "My butchers and I will take our leave in a moment."
With the Free Hospital overwhelmed with casualties, Ivanov—Chief of Medical Services, Petrograd Military District—had come from Krasnoe with two helicopters loaded with hundreds of units of conscripted blood and a team of army surgeons. The military sawbones were the sweepings of the medical schools, but they had experience cleaning and closing wounds in Indo-China.
The Colonel was handed a mug of coffee and the vodka. He poured himself a generous shot and raised the mug.
"I toast you, ladies. I would be a proud man indeed if any one of you served at one of my field-hospitals."
Vladimir appeared. Somewhere he had found a white coat and stethoscope. He saw the Colonel and made to leave again. A sheaf of papers fell from under his coat.
Ivanov put down his mug and bent to help Vladimir with the documents.
"I saw you work earlier. You are a medical orderly, yes?"
"I volunteered, just for tonight," said Vladimir, face reddening.
"It is gratifying to see a youth with a sense of social responsibility. This must be important paperwork for Dr. Zhivago?"
"Very urgent. If you will excuse me..."
"Before you go, what is your name?"
"Bronstein. Vladimir Davidovich Bronstein."
"I couldn't help but notice that you have there a batch of Exemption
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from Military Service Blanks. It's disgraceful but there is a black market in Exemption Certificates. Here in Russia, there are unpatriotic, antisocial elements who steal these papers from hospitals and sell them to cowards who would shirk their duty to their country. Shocking."
Vladimir sighed and shook his head unconvincingly.
"I expect you've done your military service Vladimir. Or are you still a student?"
"I'm sorry to say I was exempted, Colonel. Weak chest."
"Really? A strapping lad like you? I saw you helping this pretty nurse lift men off stretchers earlier on. I'd say the doctor who denied you the chance to perform your sacred duty to the Motherland was a quack. You're a born medical orderly. We need men like you in the 'Chine."
Vladimir looked pleading. She shrugged. He deserved what was coming to him. She hoped, for Mother's sake, he wouldn't be sent to the front line.
Ivanov punched Vladimir playfully in the stomach. "I'm going to help you, Vl
adimir Davidovich. You must have been devastated to miss the chance to serve your country. I see there's nothing wrong with you. I'm giving you a second opinion. A few months training will sort out your chest problems: assault courses, route marches, cross-country runs, small-arms training, lots of parade-ground drill. Make a man of you. Then we'll fly you first class to Indo-China. Sadly, as a medico you probably won't be assigned to an operational zone. If you would prefer a combat unit, I can arrange it."
"No, no," said Vladimir quickly. "I've always been interested in, um, bandaging people and such."
"Splendid. I'll have the papers sent. Don't worry, we'll have your address on file."
The Colonel retrieved his coffee, drained it in one go and marched out. He turned at the door. "I bid you ravishing ladies fond adieu. It is a privilege to work beside such dedicated professionals. Should any of you wish to volunteer for the Army Medical Service—pay's lousy, but company's great, you'll all find soldier husbands within the week—phone Krasnoe camp and ask for Colonel Yevgeny Ivanov."
He grasped Vladimir's head in both hands and kissed him on either cheek, then left.
"Bozbe moil" said Vladimir.
The noise of rattling bottles came from the corridor. She looked out. Three men in suits carried crates of large brown bottles. A fourth, the
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Earl of Balham, carried cartons of Strand cigarettes. The Duke of Cornwall was with him, too, hands clasped behind his back.
"Cinds!" said Balham. "Delightful to see you here! Small world, isn't it? Chas and I thought we should come over after the bunfest and bring home comforts to the troops."
Despite the hour, the lights in the ward were on. Most patients weren't yet asleep. They sat up in bed, playing cards or discussing the evening's adventures.
"Ho! Ho! Ho!" said Balham, striding into the ward. "Merry Christmas everybody!"
When they recognised their visitors, the men raised a cheer. The Earl and the Duke went up and down the ward handing out Strands and India Pale Ale. "Flown in from Blighty at enormous expense."
