Natasha's Dream

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Damn,’ he said.

  ‘What is worrying you?’

  ‘My companion – a young lady—’

  ‘She is valuable, your white virgin?’ said Princess Malininsky, slightly mocking.

  ‘Yes, very valuable,’ said Mr Gibson forth-rightly. He saw the young man then. He appeared to have just re-entered the restaurant. ‘Excuse me.’ The princess raised lazy eyebrows as Mr Gibson left her and made his way towards the young man, who smiled at his approach.

  ‘Mein Herr,’ he said in German, ‘your young lady is outside, waiting to see you.’

  ‘Outside?’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘In the office of the manager.’ The young man’s face was smooth and soft, his smile agreeable. ‘The room on the left of the lobby.’

  Mr Gibson strode out to the lobby. On the right was the reception room for cloaks. There was no one in attendance. On the left was a door. Mr Gibson paused for a moment, then knocked on the door and opened it. Immediately, he stood back, for the room was in darkness. Then he pushed the door fully open with his foot. It swung back and something whistled through the air, something that was long and heavy. It would have felled him had he been in its way. He glimpsed the shadowy outline of a man who had struck nothing and was momentarily off balance. Mr Gibson brought his foot up sharply, and the hard toe of his shoe thudded into a stomach. He heard a gasp of pain. The open door shuddered as the man lurched into it. Mr Gibson stepped in, felt for a light switch, found it and depressed the little brass knob. The light came on, revealing a carpeted office, a desk, a telephone and filing cabinet. There was also the man. He was bent double, one hand pressed to his stomach, the other holding a long blackjack. The blackjack moved as his hand tightened around it, and Mr Gibson kicked him again, hard behind the right knee. The man let out a whistling hiss and fell. Mr Gibson took a searching look at him. He was dark, bony and hatless, his black overcoat unbuttoned. A complete stranger. His face was screwed up in pain, his eyes furious. Mr Gibson stooped and wrenched the blackjack from his hand.

  ‘Where is the young lady?’ asked Mr Gibson in careful German.

  The man grimaced and spat. Mr Gibson, now thoroughly alarmed about Natasha, tapped his shoulder hard with the blackjack and repeated his question. The man, huddled, drew his lips back and showed teeth gritted in fury. An incoherent obscenity came. Mr Gibson rammed the end of the blackjack against the man’s teeth, and again repeated his question.

  ‘I know – nothing – of any young lady.’ The words were ground out.

  Through the open door, Mr Gibson glimpsed the whisk of a white dress and the black of a dinner suit. Natasha appeared. She saw Mr Gibson inside the office, standing over a huddled man. She flew into the office. She stared in shock. A straight-backed, good-looking gentleman followed her in.

  Seeing the blackjack in Mr Gibson’s hand, Natasha gasped, ‘What has happened?’

  ‘I wonder myself what was about to happen,’ said Mr Gibson.

  The gentleman, observing both the blackjack and the man on the floor, said politely, ‘Mein Herr?’

  ‘Good evening,’ said Mr Gibson, and Natasha, heart beating erratically because she felt he had just experienced unpleasantly dangerous moments, wondered what would have happened in Russia if Lenin had been up against a tsar as calm and resourceful as Mr Gibson.

  The man on the floor, groaning and nursing his knee, twisted about in apparent agony, then came up in a fast, energetic rush. Thrusting Natasha bruisingly aside, he burst through the open door and was away. The straight-backed gentleman, who had to choose between saving Natasha a tumble or stopping the man, elected to do the gallant thing. She shook his hands off in an impulsively impatient way, as if she felt he had made the wrong move.

  ‘What has happened?’ she asked again, plainly agitated.

  ‘Excuse me a moment while I go and ask a few questions,’ said Mr Gibson. He placed the blackjack on the desk and returned to the restaurant, now in soulful response to one more haunting song of lost Russia. Ignoring inquisitive looks, he peered through the cigarette smoke in search of the pale-faced young man, but there was no sign of him. He moved from table to table, without success. There was, however, an exit door to one side of the musicians. Princess Malininsky appeared out of the haze, which tinted the blackness of her hair with dry, dusty blue. She regarded him in sleepy amusement and drew him aside.

  ‘If you are still looking for your valuable white virgin, she—’

  ‘Thank you, I’ve found her. It’s her mazurka partner I’m looking for.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the princess.

  ‘You know the young man I mean?’

  ‘He is a person, not a man,’ she said. ‘He departed.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘However, thank you for being so cordial. Goodnight, madam.’

  ‘A moment,’ she murmured. Her expression was slightly mocking, slightly intrigued. She was like a woman who had spent her life looking for a man just a little better than most, and was now willing to consider the qualities of a new candidate. Smiling, her red lips moist, she said, ‘If you would like to come into my life, my telephone number is 2473. Ask for Irena Sergova.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m Philip Gibson.’

  ‘I am really a far nicer woman than you think.’

  ‘Than I think? But I’ve found you quite charming,’ said Mr Gibson, and gave her a smile. He then returned to the manager’s office, where Natasha and the stalwart-looking gentleman were conversing in Russian. Natasha was in an earnest mood, the gentleman wearing a resigned expression. Mr Gibson explained what had happened. Natasha disliked all of it. The gentleman stood apart, unable to follow a conversation in English.

  ‘The young man who danced with me told you I was out here?’ said Natasha indignantly. ‘But I was not. I saw this gentleman after the dance was over, and introduced myself to him. We sat together at his table for a while.’

  ‘I failed to notice that,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘But it’s true,’ said Natasha. ‘The gentleman is Russian, and because I knew he had met the lady in the clinic many times, I told him you would like to talk to him. He agreed, but we couldn’t find you. Then Princess Malininsky said you had gone outside with that young man, so we came to look for you.’

  ‘Who is Princess Malininsky?’ asked Mr Gibson.

  ‘The person you were dancing with,’ said Natasha aloofly. She spoke a few words in Russian to the gentleman. He turned to Mr Gibson, lightly clicked his heels and said in German, ‘I am Captain Nicholas von Schwabe.’

  ‘Gibson – Philip Gibson.’

  The two men shook hands, and took stock of each other, while Natasha took stock of both. Captain von Schwabe, pure Russian despite his German-sounding name, presented a handsome and upright military appearance. Mr Gibson did not present so proud a chest, but still seemed a man in quiet control of events.

  ‘Happy to meet you, Herr Gibson.’ The captain’s German was accomplished.

  ‘Kind of you, Herr Captain.’ Mr Gibson’s German was passable. He closed the office door. ‘Can you spare a few minutes?’ Captain von Schwabe nodded. Mr Gibson extracted a little notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, opened it up, leafed through it and consulted it. He smiled. ‘Yes, I have heard of you, Herr Captain.’

  ‘I am on your file, you mean?’ said Captain von Schwabe, with a smile of his own.

  ‘It’s only a reference to your association with the woman who claims to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia.’ Mr Gibson delivered that remark in English, and Natasha translated.

  ‘I see,’ said the captain. He put a question to Natasha in Russian. ‘Does this gentleman stand behind the English throne?’

  ‘Oh, you may be certain he does,’ said Natasha. ‘His English Excellency is of the highest standing.’ She knew that while this imaginative piece of information might not impress Bolsheviks, it would greatly impress Russian monarchists.

  ‘What is that you’ve said?’ asked Mr Gibson, suspecting from
the gravity of her look and voice that she might be flying a little high.

  ‘I have assured Captain von Schwabe that Your Excellency’s standing in England is much respected,’ said Natasha.

  ‘Well, that won’t do any harm,’ said Mr Gibson.

  The impressive-looking Captain von Schwabe said, ‘Herr Gibson, this young lady begged me to let you ask some questions. Please ask them, so that I can then return to my table and my wife.’

  Natasha swiftly translated to ensure Mr Gibson fully understood. Mr Gibson responded. He had, he said, a note of Captain von Schwabe’s interest in the claimant, and of the fact that the captain became so sure she really was the Tsar’s youngest daughter that when his wife gave birth to a daughter, they named her Anastasia. ‘I have a further note,’ he went on, ‘that the claimant herself stood in as godmother to the child. Is that correct?’

  Natasha translated.

  Captain von Schwabe gave a light laugh. ‘Oh, the naming,’ he said, and began to talk in Russian, with Natasha in the valuable role as interpreter. It was true, he said, that he had interested himself in the sick woman, and also true he had supported her in her endeavours to prove she was Anastasia. Natasha translated this with a cautionary look, for it was not wholly correct. Most people in Berlin knew it was not the claimant herself who ran around trying to prove her case. It was her supporters and well-wishers who did this. The claimant, in fact, did not see why it was necessary to prove she was herself.

  Captain von Schwabe, his manner pleasant, continued. As a member of the Dowager Empress’s personal guard, he had, he said, known Anastasia well. He had for some time sincerely believed the claimant to be the Grand Duchess, for at times she reacted to comments, questions and situations in a way identifiable with Anastasia. But she was an impossible person on the whole, with a tendency to show the kind of ingratitude one could never associate with anyone of royal upbringing. Because of her fits of bad temper and general behaviour, even some of her most sympathetic supporters found it increasingly difficult to sustain an unqualified belief in her, and eventually decided she could not be Anastasia. There had always been, and probably still were, some credible moments, but there were far too many occasions when only the most gullible people could believe she was in any way royal, let alone a daughter of the late Russian Tsar. No, he had come to the conclusion that he had been sadly mistaken in identifying her as Anastasia. It was his opinion now that she was either suffering hallucinations or was simply an impostor who had done her research well.

  Natasha translated impeccably, and Mr Gibson thought it extraordinary that such an intelligent girl could not get a job. It was even suspicious. Had she been found drowned, people might have said well of course, she had reached such a terrible state of starvation that suicide was inevitable. That thought entered Mr Gibson’s mind and stayed there.

  ‘Herr Captain,’ he said in his careful German, ‘you have known the woman since 1922. Is that all you have to say about her? That she has a difficult temperament?’

  Captain von Schwabe gave another light laugh. ‘Tell the Englishman,’ he said to Natasha, ‘that I could talk for hours about my association with her, but it would all be tediously repetitious.’

  Natasha conveyed that to Mr Gibson.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘However, if she has credible moments, and if she has similar physical characteristics to Anastasia, should her unhappy temper govern a decision on her identity? I understand she suffered terrible wounds, that she lay in agony in a cart all the way to Bucharest, and that she is still very sick. One would hardly expect her to be gracious, carefree and perfectly behaved, especially if she is who she says she is, and is being denied.’

  Natasha translated, and Captain von Schwabe nodded in acknowledgement of a reasonable point.

  ‘I can only say we have all made compassionate allowances,’ he said. ‘Under the circumstances, who would not? Fits of temper and moments of irritation, yes, perfectly understandable, but not ingratitude, pettiness and insults. These are no reflection of royal qualities, ingrained from birth.’

  Natasha having translated, Mr Gibson said, ‘There’s still the effect of her terrible ordeal. If I were in her shoes, and my closest living relatives were rejecting me, I think I’d go berserk.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Captain von Schwabe, ‘but this woman’s shoes are not the Grand Duchess Anastasia’s.’

  ‘How long after identifying her as Anastasia did you decide you’d made a mistake?’ asked Mr Gibson.

  Captain von Schwabe looked uncomfortable. ‘That question is more tiresome than relevant,’ he said.

  ‘It’s simply that I’d like to make my report as detailed as possible,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘Your report, whatever it covers and whoever it benefits, is your affair, not mine,’ said the captain.

  Natasha, busy translating, advised Mr Gibson he was beginning to irritate the Russian.

  ‘Dear me,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘You must excuse me now,’ said the captain. He managed a pleasant smile. ‘I really must return to my wife. I promised I would not be too long. Frankly, I’m sorry for this sick woman, but the matter really has become rather farcical and tiresome. There are a few people who still support her, but I think you’ll find they’re chiefly interested in her as a commercial proposition. I’m afraid they want to make money out of her. Goodbye, Herr Gibson. A pleasure to have talked to you.’

  Natasha translated, and the two men shook hands again. Mr Gibson thought the Russian still looked a little uncomfortable. They all went back into the restaurant, where Captain von Schwabe rejoined his wife at a distant table and Mr Gibson paid his bill. A few moments later, in their hats and coats, he and Natasha left the restaurant. The night was damp. A light rain was falling, and the streets were glistening in the lights of moving traffic.

  ‘A straightforward gentleman, Captain von Schwabe,’ said Mr Gibson.

  ‘Likeable, I think,’ said Natasha.

  ‘Yes. He became a little uncomfortable. A likeable man, with a conscience, would become uncomfortable if he himself did not believe what he was saying. At home, there are only newspaper reports or stories on which to base one’s feelings and opinions. Here in Berlin, one is much closer to the undercurrents. I find it disturbing, this contradictory factor. Captain von Schwabe isn’t the only one who has turned his back on the claimant after identifying her as the Grand Duchess.’

  ‘You should finish with it, and go home,’ said Natasha, walking through the night rain with him. Then, realizing life would be a desperate emptiness again if he took her advice, she said hurriedly, ‘No, no, you must stay as long as you need to, of course. But I am very upset.’

  ‘Upset?’

  ‘Yes. Someone tried to kill you. That terrible bludgeon he used, he could have killed you with just one blow.’

  ‘Oh, usually a blackjack is for dealing a knockout. That allows one to have one’s pockets picked without too much fuss.’

  ‘How can you make jokes like that?’ Natasha said hotly. ‘I told you asking questions could be dangerous. Berlin is a bad place, full of hungry refugees from everywhere. If you are killed because of asking questions, the police may think it’s because you were attacked by starving thieves. You must stop asking awkward questions. You must simply ask people like Count Orlov and Captain von Schwabe to tell you what their opinions are, and then say thank you. You must not ask questions that make it look as if you are calling them liars.’

  The light rain pattered. People on their way home from the theatres had their umbrellas up. Taxis were swishing over the wet street. And Mr Gibson was smiling.

  ‘Opinions are not the same as answers to questions,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I am not going to take the blame if your head gets in the way of dreadful blows,’ said Natasha. ‘And really, Your Excellency, to take up with a woman like Princess Malininsky – I did not expect that of you. It is like a death wish.’

  ‘A death wish?’ said Mr Gibson, overcoat glisten
ing with raindrops.

  ‘Princess Malininsky devours men,’ said Natasha.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Natasha stiffly. ‘And I’m getting my new coat wet.’

  ‘We’ll find a taxi.’

  They could not talk much in the taxi because of the ears of the driver, but the moment they were inside the apartment, Natasha said, ‘Because of the man who tried to kill you, we shall have to be even more careful.’

  ‘We don’t know he intended that.’

  ‘Ha!’ Natasha was scornful. ‘You think he meant only to tickle you? Never. Someone sent him to kill you, someone who knew you were in the restaurant. This is terrible.’

  ‘Captain von Schwabe had very little to say about it. And all he really said about the woman was that he didn’t like her behaviour at times. You hadn’t met him before tonight?’

  ‘Oh, I have seen him at places, but never met him. Tonight, because I have promised you my help, I made myself known to him. He was really very nice and did not seem surprised when I mentioned you and how I was sure you would like to talk to him. But he’s a monarchist, of course, and—’ Natasha broke off, and Mr Gibson realized she always bit her tongue when she was worried.

  The monarchists – were they the people who frightened her?

  ‘You’re suggesting Count Orlov has warned the monarchists I’ve come to ask questions, Natasha?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Mr Gibson nodded, then declared himself in need of coffee. Natasha immediately announced she would prepare it. Her tidying hand was already evident around the apartment, and she had become very well acquainted with the amenities of the kitchen. Mr Gibson thought there was more than willingness about her when she was exercising her domestic arts. There was a happiness also, as if it had been far too long since she had known the homely, comforting aspect of four walls and a roof.

  She made the coffee. He pronounced it excellent, and that put her into a less prickly mood.

  ‘I am sorry I’ve been so irritable,’ she said.