Natasha's Dream

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Now, sir,’ said the gentleman, ‘is it questions you’ve come to ask?’

  ‘May I know who you are?’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘You are unaware of my identity?’ The gentleman seemed mildly surprised. He cast another glance at Natasha, who did her best to efface herself. ‘I am Count Orlov.’

  The name meant nothing to Mr Gibson. It was not among the names in his notes. He said, ‘I apologize for not being able to give you the reason for my interest in the lady claiming to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia, but I assure you my credentials are impeccable and I hope you’ll indulge me.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Count Orlov, sauntering casually. ‘Madame Tolstoy advised me you had come from England. I’m sure you represent a principal whom she and I would hold in as much respect as you do. You may ask your questions.’

  ‘I’ve no wish to offend anyone,’ said Mr Gibson, a tall and stalwart figure in his fur-collared coat and fur hat, ‘but it’s Madame Tolstoy’s answers I’m interested in.’

  ‘You may rely on the fact that my answers will be the same as hers,’ said Count Orlov.

  ‘Madame Tolstoy has spent a great deal of time in the lady’s company, I believe,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘Lady?’ The count raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, you mean the person suffering from hallucinations.’

  ‘Hallucinations?’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Is that your conclusion or Madame Tolstoy’s?’

  ‘A general opinion, with which Madame Tolstoy concurs,’ said Count Orlov stiffly.

  ‘May I congratulate you on your command of English?’ said Mr Gibson blandly.

  ‘I am a graduate, Mr Gibson, of Edinburgh University.’

  ‘Did Madame Tolstoy concur with that opinion before she identified the claimant as the Grand Duchess Anastasia, or after?’ asked Mr Gibson, and Natasha bit her lip at the satirical note.

  ‘Is that a question, sir, or an absurdity?’ asked Count Orlov.

  ‘The information I have includes a reference to a time when Madame Tolstoy said she recognized the claimant,’ said Mr Gibson.

  Count Orlov allowed his aloof smile to appear. ‘She recognized her as a sick person suffering mental disorders,’ he said.

  ‘After acknowledging her as Anastasia or before?’ Mr Gibson was persistent.

  ‘Oh, there was a moment, a moment of pity,’ said the count. ‘Madame Tolstoy is a kind and sympathetic lady, and one can’t deny this so-called claimant seems to have suffered some kind of unpleasant experience. In that moment of pity, Madame Tolstoy allowed her heart to rule her head.’

  ‘Strangely,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘other people seem to have been afflicted with similar tender-hearted moments. Is that correct, Count?’

  ‘I can’t speak for others, only for Madame Tolstoy, a close friend of mine.’

  ‘Are you sure Madame Tolstoy’s moment was only of mere pity?’ Mr Gibson was asking all his questions in an even and unhurried way. He had his notes and he also had an interesting piece of information Natasha had blurted out over breakfast. ‘I understand Madame Tolstoy was so affected that she requested the Tsar’s sisters to come at once from Denmark and do what they could for the suffering Grand Duchess.’ He felt Natasha quiver at his use of her information.

  Count Orlov’s stiff brows drew together. ‘That is incorrect, sir, quite incorrect,’ he said.

  ‘Madame Tolstoy did not communicate with the Tsar’s sisters?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Count Orlov, thereby establishing himself as a man of specious inexactitude, for Madame Tolstoy had indeed begged the Tsar’s sisters to come to Berlin. ‘And the person in question, sir, is not the Grand Duchess.’

  ‘You’ve seen her yourself?’ asked Mr Gibson.

  ‘I’ve not considered it necessary.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Gibson, and pondered. A damp autumn leaf fell from an almost bare pavement tree, and he watched its progress to the ground. A dog, passing by on a lead, strained to investigate the tip of Count Orlov’s cane. The animal’s owner hauled it off. A messenger boy, riding a bike, pedalled in slow fashion as he examined house numbers. Everything seemed as innocuous and humdrum as the damp, grey day, November being a month when the spirit of European enterprise is at its limpest and events of excitement rarely happen. Natasha bit her lip again as she heard Mr Gibson say, ‘I must point out that one of Anastasia’s aunts, Grand Duchess Olga, did not share your opinion. She thought it very necessary to see this woman. Was Madame Tolstoy’s request responsible for that?’

  Count Orlov’s aloofness became frigid. ‘I’ve already told you, sir, that Madame Tolstoy did not address any such request.’

  ‘That’s extraordinary,’ murmured Mr Gibson.

  ‘Extraordinary?’ said the count, regarding the vista of residential Berlin as if the city had sprung somewhat haphazardly from the lower reaches of Russia. ‘Extraordinary?’ he repeated.

  ‘Well, if you’ll forgive me,’ said Mr Gibson pleasantly, ‘here you are, on the spot and a close friend of Madame Tolstoy’s, yet you seem less well informed than I am. I have it noted that Anastasia’s Aunt Olga did travel from Denmark after hearing from Madame Tolstoy, and in haste.’

  ‘Perhaps, sir,’ said the count, ‘you have the advantage of being in receipt of confidential information denied to me. Information given to you by your principal in England, I imagine.’

  Mr Gibson did not take that bait. ‘I don’t think I mentioned a principal, Count.’

  ‘I hope you’re not from some damned English newspaper.’

  ‘Indeed I’m not.’ Mr Gibson maintained an even front. ‘I stand apart from those capers, I assure you. My interest and my references are of a bona fide kind, I give you my word. Well, speaking again of Anastasia’s Aunt Olga, at least it’s true she did visit the claimant, and more than once.’

  ‘It’s also true she’s no longer interested in her,’ said Count Orlov, and looked directly at Natasha, on the other side of Mr Gibson. He spoke to her in Russian.

  Natasha, unhappy, whispered, ‘Niet, niet.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘Lies, rumours and gossip, sir, circulated in a way to cast doubt on the simple truth,’ said the count sharply. ‘The simple truth is that this woman in the Mommsen Clinic is not the Grand Duchess Anastasia. Madame Tolstoy would tell you so. The Swiss tutor, Pierre Gilliard, would tell you so. Grand Duchess Olga, the aunt, would tell you so. A hundred others would tell you so. And I tell you so.’ The count made his own declaration icily. ‘This consensus of opinion and belief cannot be questioned.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘I’d still like to talk to Madame Tolstoy.’

  ‘Madame Tolstoy is unavailable. She has become tired of the matter.’

  ‘I’m new to it myself,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Can you tell me, Count, why several very estimable people, after expressing themselves in favour of the claimant, have issued retractions? This is one of the major factors prompting my visit.’

  ‘What you are speaking of are first impressions and second thoughts,’ said the count. ‘All first impressions should be subjected to second thoughts, the more so in a case of this kind. Whatever or whoever inspired your visit – and your questions – may I ask if you’re endeavouring to secure recognition of the claimant?’

  ‘No, Count, I am not,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘I’m here only to ask questions and draw conclusions from the answers. That’s fair and satisfactory, I hope?’

  ‘I’ve no further answers myself on behalf of Madame Tolstoy,’ said the count. ‘The woman in the clinic is an impostor who has obviously made a study of our late Tsar and his family. That is the beginning and end of the matter.’ Seeing a taxi, he signalled with his cane. ‘You must excuse me now. I have an appointment.’ The taxi pulled up at the kerbside. ‘Goodbye, Mr Gibson.’ The count climbed in without a look or a word for Natasha.

  ‘Thank you for standing in for Madame Tolstoy,’ said Mr Gibson. He and Natasha watched the taxi carry the count away, and then walked on. �
��Well, young lady, what was it he said to you?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Natasha.

  ‘Come now,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘Oh, he only asked if someone had been talking to you.’ Natasha looked sorrowful. She also looked a different being. Two nights of sound sleep and several good meals had taken from her the appearance of a starveling. Her pinched, sooty-eyed look was almost completely gone, her wretchedness only a memory. Her new coat, with its deep revers, belted waist and long full skirt, had a Cossack-style appeal that entirely suited her, for she was long-legged and taller than the average young lady. Mr Gibson thought her a revitalized creature, except that she was still painfully thin. ‘You have wasted your time,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I could have told you what Count Orlov’s answers would be. All the monarchists speak as he does. Not because they believe what they say, but because they use the voices of others.’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Natasha. ‘But you would not have found Madame Tolstoy as sure of herself as Count Orlov was. He did not speak with her voice, nor even with his own. It is no good asking me why, dear sir. Important people do not confide in me. All Russians hear things, but not many of us can say we were confided in.’

  ‘Damned if the whole thing isn’t a lot more mysterious here than it sounds in London,’ murmured Mr Gibson. ‘Damned if it doesn’t feel as if the Tsar himself survived and is commanding a strange silence in certain people. Well, let’s find a café where we can enjoy coffee and cognac. What d’you say, Natasha?’

  Her face expressed familiar delight. ‘I say that to be with Your Excellency is like standing in the sun,’ she said in earnest simplicity.

  ‘You’re going to be an embarrassment to me,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘This way,’ she said, and walked beside him in pride. She was quite sure such a distinctive and civilized man commanded great respect in England. She took him in the direction of Unter den Linden, the magnificent thoroughfare that always set her imagination to work and made her dream of an existence in which there was beauty, grandeur and a ready-made family of sons, daughters and husband, all of whom adored her and heaped her with the riches of love. The dream could uplift her and make her live it in her mind, but there was always an underlying note of haunting sadness.

  Many times she had gone into Unter den Linden’s cafés and restaurants to beg for work, any kind of work, even work that would only earn her a meal. Because she was just one more Russian émigré among so many, she had sometimes been hustled out or thrown out. In some places, there was a certain kind of work she could have done to earn money, but she would never do it, never, however desperate she was. She had been offered jobs in some clubs, clubs that offered customers a little more than glittering lights and risqué cabaret. She retreated from such offers in shame and disgust. She was a fierce virgin. Before continuous hard times had wasted her flesh, before she had lost her figure and become unattractively thin, more than one oily procurer had made propositions to her and had their faces angrily slapped. And there were women procurers too in Berlin, sweet-smiling women, with beautifully painted faces and soft, sympathetic eyes.

  How good it was, and how exciting, to enter Unter den Linden feeling well dressed and quick with life, and in company with Mr Gibson. The dull morning had become bright, and the avenue looked majestic in the pale November sunlight. The linden trees had lost their autumn gold, and stood in silvery winter array down the whole length of the central promenade. Before the war, before the fall of the Hohenzollern monarchy, Berlin had been an Imperial city bursting with pomp, pride and energy. Colourful uniforms, glittering helmets and the music of military bands had created an atmosphere of brilliance and power. Now Berlin was no longer Imperial. It was merely the capital of the struggling Weimar Republic. The military bands these days were made up of ex-servicemen, and such bands headed political parades, particularly parades organized by the rising National Socialist Party. It was sometimes called the Nazi Party.

  The Russian monarchists were putting their money on the National Socialists as the party of the future, and identifying themselves with many of its aims and principles. Its rising star was a man called Adolf Hitler, and in him the Russian exiles saw the fiery scourge of Communism. The Weimar Republic maintained a friendly relationship with Moscow, and the Russian exiles, particularly the monarchists, needed that relationship to be changed. That change could come about with the accession to power of Adolf Hitler and his National Socialists, who were violently anti-Communist. The monarchists accordingly attached themselves firmly to the rising star.

  The nuances of politics did not, however, seem to affect the atmosphere of Unter den Linden.

  Natasha said, ‘This is the place I like best in Berlin. It is always so cultured and civilized. It is most appealing, of course, to people who have money. But the rest of us can still look.’

  ‘Yes, it’s splendid,’ said Mr Gibson, who was having a thoughtful period.

  ‘If one has no money,’ said Natasha, ‘one can still enjoy it, especially if one is wearing nice clothes. I am not too bad in my new coat and hat and shoes?’

  ‘I did mention, before we left the apartment, that you looked charming,’ said Mr Gibson, aware that she was carrying herself with self-assurance.

  ‘I should not want people to think I don’t do you justice,’ said Natasha. ‘A gentleman is entitled to expect a lady companion to look fashionable.’ Mr Gibson smiled. ‘It is really very kind of you to escort me. I’ve often imagined how pleasant it would be to walk here with a gentleman of distinction.’

  ‘Then we must try to find one for you.’

  ‘Find one?’ Natasha made a little face. ‘Your Excellency, that is not very amusing.’

  ‘Perhaps it isn’t. But you are.’ Mr Gibson stopped to look at a window display. Natasha, despite so many hard and revealing years, blushed in case people thought he was making an inspection on her account. It was a lingerie shop, and the display was both delicate and intimate. He moved on, however. ‘We’re being followed,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. Agitatedly, she added, ‘There, I told you, you should not have concerned yourself with that poor woman. Count Orlov has already decided you’re dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous to whom and to what? I’ve only asked questions, Natasha. A thousand people have asked questions, haven’t they, since the news broke three years ago that the woman was claiming to be the Tsar’s youngest daughter? Why should my questions make me dangerous?’

  Natasha could have said it was because she had been with him. Instead, she answered innocuously. ‘Perhaps because you are English and someone doesn’t like the English, or what they might get up to.’

  ‘I’m not going to get up to anything myself,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Shall we have our coffee here? Yes, I think so, don’t you?’ He pulled out a chair for her as they reached a pavement café. She sat down. An aproned waiter arrived. Mr Gibson ordered coffee and cognac, then seated himself opposite Natasha. From there he observed the oncoming people. A man passed, a man in a smart grey overcoat and grey hat. He went by at a slow saunter, looking this way and that, his interest in the characteristics of Unter den Linden that of a sightseer, apparently. Mr Gibson’s eyes followed him, and Natasha’s eyes followed Mr Gibson’s. ‘That’s the gentleman,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ said Natasha.

  ‘He’s about the same build as the man who attacked you on that bridge.’

  Natasha winced. ‘If he’s Russian, and I were face to face with him, I might know him. Russians go to the same places regularly to meet each other, and I go often to these places to ask for an evening’s work.’

  ‘Natasha,’ said Mr Gibson, watching the disappearing figure of the man in the grey coat, ‘what was it you said Count Orlov asked you?’

  ‘Oh, nothing important,’ said Natasha, and hid her eyes.

  ‘Something is worrying you, even frightening you,’ said Mr Gibson sob
erly.

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Why do you stay in Berlin, when it has offered you so little?’

  ‘Truly, where can I go, without money? Thousands of refugees are trapped. I am one of them.’

  ‘I’d like to know what Count Orlov really said to you.’

  The waiter brought the coffee and cognac, and Natasha took advantage of this and kept her peace.

  Have you told this damned Englishman what you told us, you peasant? That was the question Count Orlov had put to her.

  ‘Natasha?’ enquired Mr Gibson.

  Natasha shrugged and stirred her coffee. ‘Oh, Count Orlov only said you were a man full of questions.’

  ‘And you said no to that? You did say no, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did not wish to agree with him.’ Natasha swallowed coffee, then took a mouthful of cognac. She coughed. Mr Gibson watched her making heavy weather of her uneasiness.

  ‘I forgot,’ he said, ‘would you like a pastry?’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ She was instantly ecstatic.

  He called the waiter and ordered. The waiter brought more coffee for both of them and two huge confections for Natasha. She attacked one with a rapturous manipulation of the fork. She had always longed to sit in style at an Unter den Linden café, to drink good coffee and eat expensive pastry. Mr Gibson smiled at her total lack of inhibition. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the reappearance of the man in the grey overcoat. Having retraced his steps, the man stopped outside a shop, looked at the display and lingered there.

  ‘That kind of pastry will quickly help you put on weight, Natasha. You’ll get nicely plump in no time at all.’

  ‘Plump? That means fat.’ Natasha looked perturbed. ‘I don’t wish to be fat, just myself. When I’m myself, I am perfect.’

  ‘Well, you’re too thin at the moment,’ said Mr Gibson, aware that the man was still lingering. ‘So eat both pastries, and perhaps before I leave Berlin I’ll see something of this perfection.’

  Natasha peeped a smile at him. ‘You are interested in perfection, Excellency?’