Natasha's Dream

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘You’re to be my assistant, my colleague, not my servant,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘But your friends, your family – what would they think of my being here?’

  ‘They’d think it was better than your being in a corner of some cold, draughty passage. Don’t worry, you’ll be quite safe.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ Natasha, reflecting on her appearance, which Mr Gibson must plainly think miserably unattractive, realized that to suggest she considered herself unsafe would be laughable. She felt a strangely desperate wish to be clad in silks and satins, and to look beautiful.

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘I’m going to give you some money and send you out to buy yourself clothes and shoes, and whatever else you need to make you feel good and look lovely.’

  ‘Your Excellency?’ said Natasha faintly.

  ‘Never mind that ridiculous Excellency stuff,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘I’m quite serious. You’re to fit yourself out from head to toe. You’re – by the way, do you know a Madame Zinaida Tolstoy and where she lives?’

  The question, unexpected, and put to her while her astonished mind was trying to take in the unimagined delight of a new wardrobe, caught her off guard.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she gasped, ‘everyone knows she’s a lovely person.’ And she gave the address. Mr Gibson noted it down. ‘But you can’t truly be serious about giving me money for clothes.’

  ‘You shall have the money, and I shall send you out to spend it. If you come back, it will be because you’re willing to help me. If you don’t, then I’ll just write the money off and wish you luck. You may need lots of luck, because of what happened last night. Don’t you think you should tell me why someone should want to throw you into the river?’

  Natasha shivered. ‘Nothing, I’ve done nothing, you must believe me,’ she said. ‘Oh, how can I refuse to help you when you’ve been so good to me?’

  ‘I’m not being good, I’m being practical, and it’s more for my benefit than yours.’

  ‘If you give me the money,’ said Natasha quietly, ‘you will be very trusting.’

  ‘I believe in you, young lady,’ said Mr Gibson, and her eyes swam.

  He sent her out with such a large amount of money that she almost wept. He enjoined her to buy good clothes, including a warm coat and a couple of hats, and a smart handbag. She left the apartment in the middle of the morning. He went out himself not long after, to look for a telephone and a directory. He found Zinaida Tolstoy’s number, and rang her. She was in, and she took the call. He spoke to her, exercising the kind of persuasive charm that overcame her hesitancy. Her English was good, and that made it easier for him to explain and cajole. She consented to see him tomorrow morning.

  Zinaida Tolstoy had been a friend of the Tsar and his family at Tsarskoe Selo, and knew his daughters as well as anybody. She had befriended the sick woman here in Berlin, had suspected she was indeed Anastasia and been utterly convinced on an occasion when the woman recognized a waltz composed by Madame Tolstoy’s brother. It was a waltz Madame Tolstoy often played in the presence of the Tsar’s daughters. In a weeping and emotional scene, Madame Tolstoy fell on her knees before the woman and kissed her hands.

  Madame Tolstoy subsequently withdrew from all contact with the claimant whom she had acknowledged so emotionally as Anastasia.

  Mr Gibson returned to his apartment to wait for Natasha’s return. He read the extensive notes he had made about the woman – whom Natasha called a lady – and the apparently inexplicable recantations of people who had originally favoured her cause, people like Madame Tolstoy.

  He had told Natasha to take her time. Young ladies, he knew, always took their time when shopping for clothes. He waited all day for Natasha. When darkness fell, she was still not back. He waited another couple of hours, then, resigned, took himself off just after seven o’clock to a Russian-owned restaurant patronized by the more affluent exiles and by Berliners who enjoyed the boisterous Russian atmosphere. Above the sound of the ubiquitous balalaikas, he conducted a limited conversation with his Russian waiter, who spoke some elementary German, and smiled wryly to himself when he began to understand what was being offered to him – an interview with a leading member of the Supreme Monarchist Council. It would cost a little money, of course, for the right door to be opened, and just a little more when the door was open. Mr Gibson said he would think about it.

  He left the restaurant eventually, to return to his apartment. On his mind was the fact that Natasha had gone off with his money. He accepted that it might have represented a small fortune to her, and with her background of cruel heartache and misfortune, such an amount had been an irresistible temptation to her to buy a railway ticket and put Berlin behind her. There would be enough for her to rent a little room in a small German country town, where circumstances might be kinder for her.

  Then he began to feel concern for her. She might indeed have decided to put Berlin behind her, for last night’s incident must mean she was in danger here. Why? She had not wanted to say.

  On the second floor of the apartment block, Natasha awaited him. She was sitting against the door, parcels and boxes on either side of her. She scrambled to her feet, giving a little gasp of relief.

  ‘Oh, I thought you had gone, I thought I had had a dream, that I had imagined you,’ she said in a rush. ‘But then there was all the money, and all these things I bought – they are all real—’

  ‘And then there was the time you took,’ said Mr Gibson gently.

  ‘But I have been here over an hour,’ she protested.

  ‘It’s after nine o’clock,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘But one cannot buy a wardrobe in five minutes. It takes—’ Natasha’s thin face suffused with colour. Her eyes flashed. ‘Oh, you did not think I had run off with your money – you could not – oh, but you did!’

  ‘I confess I did have one or two doubting moments,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘Oh, Your Excellency, how could you?’ cried Natasha, emotional Russian tears swamping her eyes.

  ‘I apologize, profusely,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Disgraceful of me. Well, let’s take these things in, shall we?’ He opened the door, and together they gathered up the multitude of purchases and carried them in, placing them on the sofa.

  Natasha, still flushed and upset, said, ‘Never, never, would I have taken your money and run off with it.’

  ‘I do apologize,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘I am miserably poor,’ said Natasha proudly, ‘but I am not a thief.’

  ‘Shame on me,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘Oh, you see,’ she said, suddenly excited, ‘it was such bliss to go into shops with money to buy things. I did not care that I looked shabby. When one has money, one feels very superior, don’t you think so? I haven’t bought new clothes for many years, really I haven’t. You cannot imagine what bliss it was. The day flew away from me, Mr Gibson, dear sir. It takes such a long time to decide, to go into every shop, to try things on. Oh, I was so glad I had such a lovely bath last night, with lots of soap. Of course, what I did first was to make myself presentable underneath.’ Natasha turned a little pink.

  ‘Entirely sensible,’ said Mr Gibson, noting the hint of colour. ‘You were then able to try clothes on without feeling – ah – er—?’

  ‘Yes. How understanding you are.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I was so hungry long before I had finished shopping that I spent some of the money at a little restaurant where my awful clothes did not matter. But I will make it up to you, yes. I also spent some on a taxi, because I had all these things to carry, but I will make that up to you too. I will tidy the apartment for you and not ask any wage.’

  ‘Would you like some coffee or tea?’ he asked, smiling at her animation.

  ‘I will make coffee, yes?’ she said eagerly. ‘It will be good coffee. Please be seated, Your Excellency, and I will prepare it and bring it at the speed of lightning.’

  She vanished. It took her a little longer
than the speed of lightning, but when she reappeared, she set the tray down on an octagonal table with an air of self-satisfaction. From the pot, she filled two cups. The coffee steamed. She watched him taste it, just a hint of anxiety in her eyes.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘It is nothing, nothing at all,’ said Natasha, ‘I am very good at many things.’

  ‘What clothes have you bought?’

  That was the question she had been waiting for. She rushed to the sofa and began opening long boxes. So much money for clothes had enriched her whole being, and her day had been an excursion into heaven. She had bought two dresses, a costume, three blouses, two hats, a winter coat, three pairs of shoes, a smart handbag, cosmetics, and an array of silk and satin underwear. Mr Gibson had insisted she was to buy nothing cheap or inferior, and she had gladly refrained from disobeying him. Eager for his approval of her purchases, she displayed them one after the other, and could not hide her pleasure each time he complimented her on her excellent taste. She did not, however, reveal everything she had bought, and Mr Gibson asked her what was in the unopened boxes.

  ‘Oh, they are just for myself,’ she said.

  ‘I wasn’t assuming they were for me,’ he said.

  ‘Goodness gracious, no,’ she said, which he thought very English.

  ‘I see. Did you buy a nightgown?’

  ‘Yes. You said to. It is a pretty one, I think. I cannot tell you how grateful I am, I shall remember your kindness to my dying day. So many things, so many clothes.’ Natasha was still in bliss, and because her excursion into heaven had been wonderful, the dark rims around her eyes had lightened, and her starved look was not so haunting. ‘A young boy helped me. He had a little home-made wooden cart to put the things in, and he came round many shops with me, waiting outside each one with such shining honesty that – oh, you don’t mind I gave him a little money?’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’

  ‘Oh, and I still have some money left.’

  ‘Well, hold on to it. Consider all of it earned for the help you’re going to give me. Tomorrow, you’ll be a well-dressed young lady. Together, we’ll call on Madame Tolstoy. I’ve made an appointment to see her in the morning.’

  ‘Madame Tolstoy?’ Natasha quivered. ‘Is it about what she thinks of that lady?’

  ‘Yes. I have a note that she knew Anastasia intimately in the old days.’

  ‘But she has said she wants nothing more to do with her,’ said Natasha.

  ‘Do you mean nothing more to do with Anastasia?’

  ‘No. No. I mean with the lady who says she is.’

  ‘According to my information,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘Madame Tolstoy had much to do with her in the first place, and she’s consented to see me.’

  ‘You are sure?’ said Natasha.

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘It’s because you’re English, I expect, and she’s interested in meeting you. Yes, I expect so.’ Natasha seemed to reassure herself with that. ‘Now I must put all these things away, and tidy everything up. Your Excellency, you really should have a servant—’

  ‘It’s not going to be you,’ said Mr Gibson firmly.

  ‘But I shan’t ask you to pay me much, truly.’

  ‘We are friends, Natasha, don’t you understand?’

  Russian emotionalism took hold of her again, and her eyes flooded with tears.

  Chapter Six

  It was a dull morning, with the air a little damp, but the rain was holding off and the streets were peaceful. For once, there were no political demonstrations abroad. Demonstrations by political extremists frequently turned the streets noisy and riotous. The extremists posed a major threat to the stabilizing policies of the Weimar Republic.

  ‘Pardon me.’

  A café waiter, polishing pavement tables, looked up. A man was smiling at him, and another man stood at his elbow. The first man was not the most handsome in the city, his face being darkly ascetic and scarred, but his smile was very polite. The second man was pale-eyed and wooden-faced.

  ‘Mein Herr?’ said the waiter.

  ‘We’re looking for a lost relative,’ said the man with the scarred, swarthy countenance, in thickly accented German. ‘No, to be frank, not lost. Run off.’

  ‘Run off?’ said the waiter.

  ‘After a family quarrel.’

  ‘Ah, so? A girl, no doubt,’ said the waiter sagely.

  ‘Is it always girls who run off?’ enquired the man.

  ‘Nearly always. They take quarrels more to heart, and always imagine that in Berlin they’ll find fame, fortune and romance.’ The waiter shook his head. ‘I ask you, mein Herr, fame and fortune in these days? And romance? It’s as much as most runaways can do to stay alive.’

  ‘I hope the girl we’re looking for is in no trouble. This is her photograph.’ The man produced a sepia-tinted photograph that had been taken out of a frame. It depicted a pretty young girl, big-eyed and softly smiling.

  ‘So young?’ said the waiter. He took a long look at the photograph. He glanced at the man with a scar, and at his pale-eyed, silent companion. He liked very much the girl in the photograph. He was not too sure he liked either of these men. ‘So young?’ he said again, handing the photograph back.

  ‘Oh, it was taken a few years ago. She’s a little older now.’ The scarred face was smiling. The eyes were not. ‘Do you think you might have seen her around? Her eyes are dark blue, a very dark blue, her hair black.’

  ‘Are you her father?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘No, a relative, an older cousin. We are both her cousins. Do you know her, or have you seen her?’

  The waiter thought he had seen her often. She was always coming into the café, asking for work in the evenings.

  ‘I can’t recall seeing her, mein Herr, and I certainly don’t know her.’ The waiter resumed polishing a table. ‘Ask that boy over there.’ It was a way of getting rid of them, pointing them in the direction of a boy with a club foot, who was pulling a wooden box mounted on four small wheels. ‘He might help you.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ said the swarthy man, and he and his companion approached the boy, who was looking for customers, for ladies with parcels, or for gentlemen who would like a shoe-shine. ‘Young man?’

  ‘Mein Herr?’ The boy had lively eyes and a cheerful smile. He was fourteen and made light of his infirmity.

  ‘We’re looking for a cousin of ours, a girl.’

  ‘Yes, mein Herr,’ said the boy, looking up into grey eyes that were remindful of chill winter.

  ‘This is a photograph of her, when she was a little younger. Do you think you might have seen her around?’

  The boy, gazing at the photograph, shook his head. ‘No, mein Herr.’

  The man, dressed in a belted coat and felt hat, shrugged and moved on, taking his companion with him. He had only recently arrived in Berlin after years of following fruitless trails in Latvia and Poland. There had, however, been one fruitful pointer that led him into Germany, and inevitably to Berlin, which housed the largest gathering of Russian émigrés in Europe.

  He had, this morning, begun a tour of the cafés and restaurants of Berlin.

  The house in which Madame Zinaida Tolstoy resided was splendid. The door was opened by a servant. Mr Gibson, Natasha beside him, announced his name and the fact that he had an appointment. The servant requested him to wait a moment. It was some little while before an austere-looking gentleman appeared. Natasha immediately paled.

  ‘May I help you?’ said the gentleman in English. ‘I am a friend of Madame Tolstoy’s.’

  ‘I am Philip Gibson, and this young lady is my colleague.’

  The gentleman glanced at the whey-faced, thin young woman with blue eyes as dark as her new navy-blue coat and hat. Natasha, although still peaky from privation, wore her new clothes with such grace and distinction that she bore little resemblance to the wretched creature of two days ago. A fine and delicate use of cosmetics added magically to the improvement of her
looks. The gentleman, slim and faultlessly dressed, and approaching middle age, let his glance linger. The slightest frown creased his smooth forehead.

  ‘Delighted,’ he said, the word at odds with his expression. He did not offer his name. ‘I regret, Mr Gibson, that Madame Tolstoy has been called away. I am asked to convey her apologies at not being able to receive you. However, if you’d allow me a moment to get my hat and coat, I shall be happy to walk with you and to speak for Madame Tolstoy in respect of the matter you mentioned to her.’

  ‘I’m willing to wait until she gets back,’ said Mr Gibson, who did not seem put out by having been kept on the doorstep.

  ‘I am in her confidence,’ said the gentleman, looking polite but aloof. ‘Please excuse me while I make myself ready.’ He disappeared.

  Mr Gibson, still on the doorstep, gave Natasha a smile. ‘You know that gentleman?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, perhaps I have seen him sometimes,’ said Natasha indeterminately.

  ‘I felt he knew you.’

  ‘He is not going to let you see Madame Tolstoy,’ she said in a little whispered rush, ‘she has been packed off somewhere.’

  ‘You know him to be capable of commanding her?’

  Not answering the question, Natasha went on, ‘It’s because she is one of the people who knew the Grand Duchess Anastasia well, and because she wept tears when she recognized her. She is an irritation to Markov.’

  ‘Who is Markov?’

  ‘The leader of the Russian monarchists here.’ Natasha was keeping to a nervous whisper. ‘He was very interested in the lady at first, but is now impatient with people who cry over her.’

  Mr Gibson murmured, ‘And our frigid gentleman is perhaps Markov’s friend as much as Madame Tolstoy’s?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He is—’ Natasha broke off as the gentleman reappeared. He was wearing a black coat and homburg, and carrying a cane. He came out, the servant closed the door on him, and he began a languid walk, taking Mr Gibson and Natasha along with him. Natasha placed herself on the other side of Mr Gibson.

  The neighbourhood was select, an area for the well-to-do, the streets and pavements clean. Here and there, servants walked their employers’ dogs.