by Kim Newman
Both men stopped to chat with the patients as tops were cracked off the bottles on the edges of bedside tables. Cinzia noticed they were more interested in getting Balham's autograph on their plaster casts and cigarette packets than the Duke's. Cornwall gravitated towards the men who had fought in Indo-China and would chat quietly with each for a while.
Balham disappeared behind a screen and emerged completely naked. He waited a moment for everyone to notice him.
"I say, you fellows, can anyone tell me where I can find a decent tailor round here?"
The men laughed as Balham, still naked, climbed on top of a table and went into a long and utterly meaningless speech. As she realised Balham was pretending to be a politician, the Duke appeared at her side.
"You're a long way from the fairy tale tonight."
"I work here, as a volunteer. I didn't want to let my medical training go completely to waste."
"You prefer this to being a make-up girl?"
"The tele pays better than nursing, and we need every penny we can get. But this is more useful. And rewarding."
"Thank you for helping the lads," said the Duke, pointing to the men, now enjoying beer, tobacco and Balham's clowning.
She shrugged. "It was good of you to come and see them."
"I thought we'd never escape that bloody banquet and all those politicians."
She was home by 1:30. The telephone rang. She rushed to answer it before it woke Mother.
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"Hello." Cinzia? "Yes."
"It's Charles here. Duke of Cornwall, that is." "Hello."
"I just wanted to...thank you again. For all you did for the lads. Much appreciated." "It was nothing." "I'll say goodnight, then." "Okay, goodnight."
A she set down the receiver, mother came into the living room. "Who was that at this time of night?" "Just the Duke of Cornwall. Goodnight Mum."
The elegant drawing room, furnished approximately in the rococo style, was knee-deep in cables and drowning in light. An elderly lady dressed in pink sat on a sofa, a massive pink handbag in her lap, smiling at technicians buzzing around her.
"Two minutes, everyone," said Paradjanov. "That's two minutes, Imperial Highness."
Day eight of the Royal and Imperial engagement, Sunday, was to be a strictly televised affair. All four crews had moved to yet another Imperial palace, the Gatchina, twenty miles south of Petrograd, for a three-hour special about both families.
Several members of the Duke's family who had not been here before had been flown in and would stay until the wedding took place. Cinzia had been presented to the Duke's grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of York, who seemed very charming but struck her as a formidable character. She'd also met Balham's wife, the Duke's aunt, whom she overheard some of the others in the British party refer to as "Lady Bluebottle" or even "Lady Gin-Bottle" King Edward and Princess Consort Wallis had not yet come. They would only arrive for the wedding itself. The Tsar, likewise, was considered above this kind of thing.
"Everyone clear the floor," said Paradjanov.
Prince Yussupov emerged, sporting a black kaftan with violent eau-de-nil splotches. He bowed to the pink lady and sat on the sofa next to her.
The Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicolaievna was the Tsar's aunt. Even if she had not been born into of the Imperial family, Anastasia would
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have been rich. For as long as anyone could remember, she had written romantic novels with historical settings. Cinzia had been briefly addicted when she was thirteen, but quickly tired of them. The amazingly-prolific Grand Duchess was still a regular fixture in the bestseller lists. Well into her seventies, she knew the royal families of Europe intimately (she was related to all of them). Since her stories were regularly televised, she was completely at home among TV people. Paradjanov, director of Catherine, the Woman and Ivan, You re Not So Terrible, was one of the few she trusted to do justice to her sumptuous tales of love among the aristocracy.
Cinzia and other crew members withdrew to the adjoining ballroom where British and Russian dignitaries were being dressed or made up. They took coffee and watched the monitors, awaiting their cues to go in and chat with the Prince and the Grand Duchess.
"It looks hot under those lights," said Cornwall. He was behind her, so close she could feel his breath on her neck.
"Whatever you do, try not to look uncomfortable. People notice."
He pulled back from her slightly, and smiled. "Do you think I should try and hold Kate's hand?"
"Kate? The Grand Duchess Ekaterina? I don't know. You could ask her."
"I don't know where she is. To be honest, I'm terrified she might slap me in the face for my forwardness if I try to take her hand on tele."
"She won't. The only person in the world she's afraid of is Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanova."
"She frightens the life out of me, too."
Yussupov was on fawning form, explaining to the camera that Anastasia was the last surviving daughter of Nicholas the Good, the Tsar who dedicated his life to the peaceful transformation of Russia from absolutism to democracy. The Grand Duchess replied in French, which she spoke fluently. She also spoke perfect English and German, but never spoke Russian. Vladi said she was "a reactionary old bat" who refused to speak the language of the ordinary people the Romanovs no longer ruled.
"My father was a generous man who worked tirelessly for the good of Russia," said Anastasia. "Some say he was far-sighted in conceding a Duma and a democratic constitution, but my view is that he was blackmailed into it by scoundrels and demagogues when we were weakened during the First Patriotic War. You look at politicians nowadays, all the corruption and spying on one another. They're a shabby lot. I know people say I'm old-fashioned, but I know with all my heart that the old
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system was better. An autocratic Tsar takes no backhanders. He does not try to curry favour because there's an election around the corner. He does not get surprised in a hotel room with a can-can dancer."
"I say!" said Balham loudly. "What's the bally point in being Tsar then?"
Cinzia looked towards him. Lady Balham elegantly drew a cigarette-holder to her lips. Maybe smoke caused her eyelids to droop so much. Or perhaps it was contempt.
Behind Lady Balham stood her mother, Dowager Duchess of York. And she was looking straight at Cinzia with what seemed intense curiosity. Her head was inclined slightly: a result of some ailment of old age, or maybe force of habit. Tilting your head a little made for better photographs.
Cinzia looked away to see the Duke looking at her.
"What is it? Have I got a piece of cabbage stuck on my teeth?"
"There's nothing wrong with you at all," said the Duke, turning back to the monitor.
With the help of brief clips, Yussupov was ran through the recent history of the Romanov dynasty for the benefit of schoolchildren and foreign viewers: the funeral of Tsarevich Alexis in 1925; the constitutional change that allowed women to succeed to the throne; the marriage of Tatiana, Nicholas' second-eldest daughter, to Prince Louis of Bourbon-Parma; the cannonade announcing the birth of their only child Nicholas, the present Tsar.
There was nothing in the film about the marriage of Grand Duchess Olga, Nicholas' eldest daughter, to Crown Prince Carol of Rumania. Small wonder. Olga had not wanted to leave Russia. When she learned of her husband's womanising, she shot him and retired to a convent.
More film: the death of Prince Louis while attempting the world land speed record at Brooklands in 1931; the death of Tsar Nicholas in 1940; Tsarina Tatiana in nurse's uniform, Tatiana at the wheel of a truck taking food across the frozen Lake Ladoga, Tatiana standing on a tank near the front showing kneeling troops an icon, Tatiana lighting the great bonfire of captured German standards at the victory parade in 1945.
Mother would be watching this with tears in her eyes. The backdrop to the best years of her life was etched in the career of the indomitable empress. Ev
en in old age the tall, willowy Tatiana, with her dark hair and grey eyes, had a cold, enchanting beauty. Born to command, she was the saviour of Petrograd, if not her country, in the Great Patriotic War. While
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politicians cowered in Moscow bunkers or fled beyond the Urals, a woman with less formal power than the Duma's Doorkeeper stayed through the German siege of Petrograd, vowing to die with the defenders. When Tatiana died in 1970, Cinzia's mother—an Englishwoman—had cried for two days.
Onscreen, Grand Duchess Anastasia reminisced about Tatiana's funeral. A million people had surrounded the Cathedral of Our Lady of Kazan. Cinzia was there, with Mother, surprised to see so many young people with long hair among middle-aged and elderly war veterans. One hair-head held up a sign saying GOD BLESS EMPRESS TATIANA, HEROINE OF A RIGHTEOUS WAR. The point about the current unrighteous one was lost on nobody.
"I'm on in forty minutes," said the Duke. "Could you touch me up?"
She led him to a corner of the vast ballroom that was curtained-off like a hospital bed. It was a makeshift dressing room. She sat him in front of the mirror and tucked a sheet into his collar.
"You're tense," she said. "Still nervous about holding your fiancee's hand on tele?"
The Duke's hand slipped out from under the sheet and patted her on the hip. It was not unprecedented: Georgi Sanders, among others, often took the opportunity of having her bend over him to paint his face to snatch a feel of her bottom. The Duke's touch was more tentative, affectionate rather than lecherous. His hand stayed on her hip. No, she admitted, his touch was shading into lechery.
"Was there something, your highness?" she said, tapping his hand. He took it back as if scalded.
"Charles," he said.
"Charles."
He looked oddly sheepish, like a little boy caught out. On impulse, she kissed his forehead. Looking at his face in the mirror, he was bright red under his powder. His hand emerged again and took hers, gently. His throat worked, as if he were swallowing: his adam's apple was as prominent as his ears.
The curtain twitched aside and a man popped his head in, breaking the moment.
Charles went redder and started sweating. He looked guiltier than Kissinger.
"I'm frightfully sorry," said the person from Porlock. "I was looking for someone. George Smiley. Security wallah. Have you seen him?"
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They both shrugged. The intruder showed no sign of departing.
She remembered the man. He had been at Nikita's: Balham had recognised him as Philby, a senior English journalist. He was a very well-connected newspaperman if he could breeze unsupervised about the Gatchina.
"You're British, aren't you?" Charles said. Philby nodded. "Good. You'd be obliged to obey an order from your future king."
"Certainly, highness."
"Well, push off then, there's a loyal subject, would you."
Philby looked at them both. She had an impression of canny intellect.
"I'd be delighted, highness."
Philby withdrew and Charles got out of the chair, the sheet falling from his collar. She had to look up to him. The red had faded from his face. He still held her hand. Cinzia...
Oh hell, she thought, letting him kiss her.
The polite, formal, etiquette school kiss escalated gently. He didn't taste more royal than other men, though his tongue was sweeter than the Allen's nicotine-permeated one.
She closed her eyes and felt his pull. He held her hands in the small of her back, pinning her to him. Medals pressed against her blouse.
Somewhere, "Always" was playing.
A tiny soothsayer of panic sparked in her mind. Whatever Isaac might prophesy, make-up girls did not win Princes. At least, not for long.
She broke the kiss and pulled back, letting go his hands. Cinzia...
"No," she said, kindly. "I don't want to hear it. I think you're better than that. And I am too."
She couldn't read his face. Royalty were trained to obscure their feelings. But she had felt: appreciated the tentative, trembling touch. She knew enough simple leches to recognise deeper feeling.
This was not fair. This was impossible.
Damn it, she kissed him. He was surprised, but responded. She knew she would stop kissing him soon. When she wanted to.
There was a warning commotion outside the curtained area. She stood away from Charles. The Grand Duchess had arrived.
"You're on," she told him. He sighed and adjusted his uniform.
"You could tell they were in love," Mother told her. She had faithfully watched Yussopoff's interview with Anastasia and the Royal
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Couple. "It may have been a political thing at first, but it's a matter of the heart now. I know you're still a cynic, dear, but he was just glowing. And she's so lovely."
The Grand Duchess Ekaterina had been attended by her hussar, Chekhov. He was the only subject in all the Russias who would think of calling her "Ek"
Cinzia could have told Mother more about Charles's glow, but hadn't sorted it out in her mind yet. She knew from the sick feeling in her stomach that she was stuck; it hadn't been this bad since the first week with Allen. She also knew from alarms ringing in her brain that she'd never been involved with a man who could get her into more trouble. Including Allen.
If this came out and it were down to Anastasia, Cinzia would be lucky to get off with an oubliette. For ruining the fairy tale, she would most likely be beheaded with a scimitar.
"They held hands but never looked each other in the eye," Mother said, meaning Charles and Ekaterina. "That means something."
She should resign from ITV, work full-time as a nurse, marry a doctor, bear a half-dozen sons for Russia, get out before it got worse.
"He's changed, the Duke of Cornwall," Mother said. "He looked so gawky when he first came to Russia, so ill-at-ease. Now, he's become handsome. That's love for you."
Cinzia wanted to strangle her mother with her Imperial Wedding Souvenir towel.
She had recognised the voice on the telephone, speaking English with a comical Russian accent, as one of Balham's characters. With conspiratorial glee, he told her to be on the steps of Our Lady of Kazan the next morning at nine, wearing an orchid in her hair. She did not bother with the flower, but had turned up at the cathedral.
Hordes of the devout swarmed around. On the steps was a permanent vigil of Russian mothers who'd lost boys in Indo-China. They handed out snowdrops for peace. Cinzia took one and fiddled with it, waiting. A longhair strummed a balalaika, wailing a song about the War, "Sonia, Don't Take Your Love to Kiev" He wore fingerless gloves and had a transparent scraggle of beard like Che Guevara's.
Vladimir had cleared out of the flat, taking his guitar and records. He would lie low or flee to Finland until Ivanov forgot about rescinding his certificate of exemption. Or the war ended.
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A pilgrim tottered towards her, weighed down by a bearskin coat and a huge fur hat. Despite the false moustaches, she recognised Charles.
He kissed her before she could giggle too much.
After a while, she pushed him away to look at his disguise. She professionally adjusted his sticky moustache.
"I hope you used the proper gum or your upper lip will be skinned."
"One had help."
"Let me guess, the Earl..."
"...never travels without his old stage make-up kit."
"Charles," she said, seriously.
"No. Today one is just Old Karol, Humble Sight-Seer. And you are my Tour Guide."
She looked around. There were two obvious Okhrana men huddled by a chestnut stove, eyes on the peace protesters.
"Do you know the penalty for two-timing a daughter of the Tsar?" she asked.
"Castration, one believes. And forfeiture of estates and titles."
"You can laugh. The blood of Catherine the Great flows in that little twit's ve
ins. Our heads could be book-ends."
A mounted guardsman trotted by, plumes bobbing. Longhaired kids chanted at the toy soldier. "Nothing could be finer than to be in Indo-China killing chi-i-ildren. .."
Charles was surprised.
"That's not fair," he said. "Our lads are brave souls."
"And that guardsman's for show, not for the 'Chine."
"They don't know what they're saying."
The guardsman was gone, but the kids still jeered, sloganising while the balalaika man strummed. They sang "Nothing could be nicer than to massacre a ricer. .."
Captain Lucan, an English aristocrat, was standing trial at the Old Bailey, having ordered the slaughter of an Indo-Chinese village. Around the ITV news room, Cinzia heard stories of worse atrocities committed by Russians.
Charles was reddening, not with embarrassment. She had to intervene before he laid into the kids.
"Remember your disguise, Old Karol," she said, holding his shoulder, nuzzling his false moustache.
"I'm sorry, Cinzia. But they don't know what it's like."
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She slipped an arm around his waist and steered him away from the Cathedral.
"Kings in disguise always hear things they don't want to," she said. "That's the whole point of the exercise."
His arm was light on her shoulder.
"Not this time."
"So this is where you live. It's very..."
"Small?"
Mother was still at work. She had brought the Duke of Cornwall back to the apartment.
Charles stood in their front room, uneasy in a domicile with fewer than a hundred rooms.
"Cosy," he said, at last, deciding.
She laughed.
"Well, all right, small."
"Dingy, too. Cold in winter, hot in summer. Cramped. Hard to fit three difficult people into."
"Which is your room?"
"Usually, I sleep on the couch. But with Vladi underground, I can stretch out on his floor-cushions. It won't last."
They had spent the day walking around Petrograd, pretending to be ordinary. Well, Charles pretended. Cinzia was the genuine article, though she didn't feel ordinary just now. Not every girl walks out with the future husband of a daughter of the Tsar.
