‘He will tell the police.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Mr Gibson.
‘No, perhaps not.’ Natasha smiled.
That afternoon, Mr Gibson telephoned Princess Malininsky. She expressed herself very willing to receive him tomorrow morning, as long as he did not arrive before eleven. She was not at her best, she said, during the early hours of the morning.
After making the call, Mr Gibson went out shopping with Natasha, mainly for groceries. They had shopped for these necessities several times before, Natasha always behaving as if each expedition was like an advance into Arcadia. She loved shops and shopping. She loved the feeling of being able to participate, like other people, in the simple, everyday activity of looking and buying. Mr Gibson had let her lead the way, noting her natural tendency to be wisely economical.
‘Mr Gibson, no, no – that is much too dear. We can buy the same thing far more cheaply elsewhere.’
That was a frequent comment from her. Mr Gibson would have saved time and shoe leather by buying at a dearer price. Natasha considered time and shoe leather irrelevant. There was bliss in acquiring bargains. And there was such intimate pleasure in the fact of the two of them shopping together. It was like stolen pleasure. It was like being his wife.
This afternoon, subsequent to Natasha’s economical approach having been indulged in respect of tea, coffee, eggs, butter and other items, Mr Gibson had his eye fixed firmly on a plump, plucked chicken. The poultry shop was an extravaganza of shining white tiles, spotless aprons and produce so expensive that prices were not displayed.
‘No, no,’ whispered Natasha, ‘you will be robbed.’
‘Never mind,’ murmured Mr Gibson, ‘let’s treat ourselves to chicken.’
‘We will go to Gunther’s,’ said Natasha, ‘and buy one at less than half the price you will have to pay here. I can pluck it.’
‘We’ll have feathers all over the apartment.’
‘We will not,’ whispered Natasha indignantly. ‘Do you think I throw chicken feathers about like rice at weddings?’
‘Rice?’ mused Mr Gibson. ‘Yes, we’ll have that, chicken on rice.’
‘But we are not going to buy the chicken here, are we? No, I could not allow you to.’
‘Mein Herr?’ said a white-fronted assistant from behind a counter.
‘The chicken, please,’ said Mr Gibson, pointing to the bird he fancied.
‘No, no!’ breathed Natasha, and the assistant looked enquiringly at Mr Gibson.
‘Kindly wrap it,’ said Mr Gibson. The assistant made a creation of the package, then murmured the price. Natasha watched almost in horror at the amount of marks he received from Mr Gibson.
‘Oh, such criminal extravagance,’ she said, as they left the shop.
‘A little luxury will do us no harm,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘and the worth of it is in the fact that there’s no tedious plucking to do. Allow me the pleasure of saving you that.’
‘Truly, such consideration is another kindness,’ said Natasha, ‘but I am alarmed at what it has cost you.’
‘The cost, my dear girl, is of no consequence compared with how appetizingly you’ll bring the chicken to the table tonight. Now I shall let you lead me on a search for the lowest-priced rice in Berlin. Proceed, Natasha, you are at the head of things again.’
Natasha wanted to cry, so poignant was her sense of happiness. Arguing over the cost of the chicken, listening to him teasing her and going with him now to buy rice at a money-saving price, it was all related to how people behaved to each other, how her mother and father had behaved in their daily life. It was not much to ask of God, having someone who belonged to you. Millions of people belonged to millions of other people. All of them had each other. But there were some who were without. There were those who chose a solitary existence, and there were the others whose loneliness was the fault of circumstances. There were the circumstances that came about from running and hiding for years and years, and which pushed one farther and farther away from people. How overwhelming it was to suddenly find oneself not in a state of lonely starvation, but well fed, well dressed and in company with a man who called her his precious friend.
I am smiling at him, and he does not know my heart is full of tears. I am happy, but I am also in miserable self-pity. No, it is not self-pity. I am crying because life is suddenly beautiful.
From the other side of the street, a pale-eyed man watched them. They were always together, those two. She never ventured out alone, and he never left her in the apartment alone. But Comrade Bukov had said be patient, we shall catch her by herself one day.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning, Mr Gibson went out to keep his appointment with Princess Malininsky. He left Natasha in the apartment, telling her he would not be too long. She was to open the door to no one while he was out. Natasha assured him she would take the greatest care of herself, and would spend the time polishing and cleaning. At which Mr Gibson said that since her domestic arts were so accomplished, it was time some worthy young man benefited from them. At which Natasha said that if he would produce such a young man, she would have a fight on her hands, for there was a great surplus of young women like herself. Mr Gibson gravely said it was his opinion she stood alone. He reminded her that the car he had taken yesterday was parked outside the block, and that someone might come looking for it. If that someone came up to the apartment, she was not to answer. Natasha promised she would answer the door to no one, no one at all.
He walked to the address given him over the phone by Princess Malininsky. He was stopped on the way by fourteen-year-old Hans, the boy with the club foot and cheerful smile. He had his little home-made pushcart with him, and inside the cart reposed his box of shoe-cleaning materials. He offered to give Mr Gibson’s shoes a shine.
‘I have an appointment, Hans.’
‘Ah, so? Perhaps on the way back, mein Herr?’ Hans was engaging in his cheerfulness.
‘Yes – wait.’ Mr Gibson thought. ‘Would you like to earn some marks by watching a car for me? For an hour or so?’
‘Willingly,’ said Hans.
Mr Gibson gave him details of the car, a British-made black Riley, and the address of the block of apartments outside which it was parked. Hans was to watch it from a distance, and to let him know if anyone arrived to inspect it or tried to get into it. The car was locked. Hans was not to do anything, only to watch and observe, so that he would be able to describe the person or persons. He was also to note if any such person went into the apartment block. Mr Gibson would see him there when he returned from his appointment. Did Hans fully understand? Hans said he did, and that he would write down everything he saw.
‘Write down?’ said Mr Gibson.
‘With my pencil and notebook,’ said Hans. ‘A pencil and notebook are very useful in business.’
‘You will be very good at business, Hans. Off you go now.’
He watched Hans limp away, the boy moving quickly despite his infirmity, pushing the cart before him.
Mr Gibson was admitted ten minutes later to the apartment housing Princess Malininsky. Irena Sergova Malininsky, voluminously clad in yards of ivory silk that fastened down the front in negligee style, swam towards Mr Gibson. The garment, he thought, made her look as if she liked to spend her mornings in something flowing, comfortable and informal. She did not favour modern fashions, in any case. Short-skirted dresses styled for flat-chested flappers were ridiculously unsuited to any woman with her kind of figure. Expecting her visitor, she had erased all signs of one more late night, and her make-up was a triumph. She looked no more than thirty-five, which was, in fact, her age. But in the mornings, if she did not take care with her toilet, she could look forty. She was a woman addicted to night life, and she had a horror of being bored. She was extremely attached to men, as long as they did not become so possessive that they wanted to marry her. Women she disliked, but only because she felt there were too many of them.
‘My dear Mr Gibson.’ Her English had quite
a Mayfair drawl to it, and her accent was charming.
‘Good morning, Princess.’ Mr Gibson bowed.
‘Irena Sergova, you sweet man. Will you take coffee?’
‘With pleasure.’
She clapped her hands and called. ‘Anton! Coffee! Coffee, Anton!’
From somewhere in the apartment, a voice acknowledged her call. She requested Mr Gibson to seat himself, directing him to a purple-covered French-style sofa. But the moment he sat down, she raised her eyebrows and shook her head.
‘A sofa is not my style?’ enquired Mr Gibson.
‘It’s not your colour. Please?’ She gestured, and she smiled as he transferred to a chesterfield of deep blue. ‘Much better. What could I have been thinking of, seating you on purple? I am not myself. But there, one can so easily lose one’s savoir faire when a gentleman of English distinction presents himself in person. I’m sure you’ve already been told by the blonde young goddesses of Germany that they will fall on their spears for you.’
It was almost an art form, Princess Malininsky’s approach to the founding of a relationship with a new man. Her lush smile, neither forced nor false, was perfectly in keeping. A woman of St Petersburg, the city whose pre-revolutionary art and culture had embraced the traditional, the risqué, the avant-garde and the decadent, she was faithful to its Rabelaisian exuberance. She was an honest libertine, and considered boredom more frightful than the guillotine.
‘I don’t count myself a man of distinction,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘I’m not a doctor or professor, nor have I invented anything of material benefit to the human race. Had I produced the electric light bulb or discovered the laws of gravity, or found a cure for—’
‘Electric light bulb? Laws of gravity?’ Princess Malininsky shook a finger at him. ‘Mr Gibson, those are everyday things, and there is not the slightest excitement in either of them.’
‘I might beg to differ,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘but shan’t. If I did, I feel I’d be a disappointment to you.’
‘I am an incurable optimist,’ she said. ‘Now, why did you wish to see me? To tell me you think we may fall in love with each other?’
‘A charming thought,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘but I’d be on shifting ground there, I think. I’m sure I’d find myself losing my balance. No, I’d simply like you to talk to me about the woman who says she’s Anastasia.’
Princess Malininsky did not seem put out. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why not? No one could say she’s boring.’
Anton, her handsome French servant, arrived with the coffee, on a silver tray. A short interval took place for the pouring and serving of the coffee, after which the princess embarked on a monologue with the enthusiasm of a woman escaping the tedium of morning.
She had, she said, seen Anastasia three times. Twice during the war and before the Revolution, and once since she had surfaced in Berlin. She had visited her on the latter occasion in company with a gentleman who had served on the Tsar’s secretarial staff at Tsarskoe Selo. The poor thing had looked a wreck, especially as she had lost some teeth – knocked out, no doubt, when a blow had broken her jaw. She had obviously been through the most brutal experience, one that had left its mark on her body and her nervous system. The gentleman, the erstwhile member of the Tsar’s civil staff, was distinctly taken aback by the sick woman’s appearance, which he was unable to associate with that of a Grand Duchess. The man was an absurdity, a clown and an unimaginative weakling. He had expected to see a person he could plainly recognize, even though he knew the story of the terrible wounds she had suffered. He mumbled his doubts. But there were no doubts in the mind of the princess.
‘Why?’ asked Mr Gibson.
The eyes, the hands, the little characteristics and the knowledge of life at Tsarskoe Selo, these were the things that convinced her. And they were the things that convinced others. In addition, descriptions of events and intimacies that only Anastasia could have known. But most of these people subsequently declined to stand by their original declarations.
‘Why?’ asked Mr Gibson again.
There were many suggestions as to why. The Tsar’s hoard of gold, supposedly in the keeping of the Bank of England, and Anastasia’s right to inherit it. Her claim to the Russian throne, by no means popular with the Grand Duke Kyril, or the Supreme Monarchist Council. And her disclosure, out of the blue, that she had seen her uncle, the Grand Duke of Hesse, at Tsarskoe Selo during the war. This was a dramatic disclosure, and even her closest supporters felt her memory was playing tricks on her. When they asked her what her uncle could possibly have been doing in visiting Tsarskoe Selo during the war, she said he wanted to persuade her family that they should leave Russia or make peace with Germany. She said her uncle could confirm she spoke the truth. This was a bombshell, said the princess, and one that would shatter the world of the Grand Duke. It was unheard of, a German of his stature visiting the ruler of an enemy country in an attempt to use family connections for the secret arrangement of a peace treaty. The disclosure must have infuriated him. It must also, continued the princess, have caused him to think seriously about whether or not his niece, Anastasia, actually had survived the massacre.
‘Why?’ asked Mr Gibson yet again.
The princess, animated by the rapt attention he was paying her, said because relatives of the Grand Duke agreed he had gone secretly to see the Tsar in 1916. Therefore, if the claimant knew this, she could not be other than who she said she was. But the Grand Duke not only refused to comment on the bombshell, he also refused to take one step in the direction of Berlin to confront the author of the disclosure. There it was, said the princess, the possibility that his niece had survived, and yet he did not make the slightest move to see the claimant. His only reaction was to declare it was impossible for any of the Imperial family to have survived. He was now his niece’s implacable enemy.
‘You are convinced she is his niece?’ said Mr Gibson.
Princess Malininsky said that while a thousand people might recant, she never would. The claimant was definitely Anastasia.
‘Well, what you’ve said about the Grand Duke of Hesse, her mother’s brother, tells me at last why he has turned a blind eye on the claimant.’
‘There are many blind eyes,’ said the princess.
‘So I’ve discovered,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘However, despite the discomfort of her uncle, the chief reason why Anastasia will remain tragically unacknowledged is the existence of her child.’
‘It’s correct, I believe,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘that she had a son by the Red soldier responsible for bringing her out of that house in Ekaterinburg when he found she was actually alive. That, at least, is what she has said. He managed to get her to Romania, to Bucharest, where he married her. That made her child legitimate.’
‘The marriage gave the child a father, yes, but the right father?’ Princess Malininsky smiled cryptically, and pointed out that the Tsar and his family and servants were murdered in July 1918. The child was born five months later, in December, and in Bucharest. Five months. So badly injured had Anastasia been that her life had hung by a thread for weeks. Alexander Tschaikovsky, the Red soldier in question, could not possibly have made love to her during that time, and even if he had, was it to be suggested that any woman could give birth to a live child of only five months? Perhaps even less than five months? Obviously, said the princess, the child was conceived before the execution of the Imperial family, while Anastasia was imprisoned with the others in Ekaterinburg, that dreadful, dreadful pit of iniquitous Bolshevism. The conditions of their imprisonment must have been frightful, the Red soldiers as brutal and unfeeling as Moscow could find. Tschaikovsky, perhaps, although no angel, had shown some pity, and in return for that had asked Anastasia for the kind of favours she was forced to give. Perhaps, in a drunken or less charitable mood, he had demanded them. Or perhaps it had been another of the loutish guards, one completely indifferent to all sense of decency. Perhaps Anastasia – and her sisters – had been forced to favour seve
ral of the guards. Will the world ever know, the princess asked, the full story of what the Imperial family suffered at Ekaterinburg?
‘My God,’ said Mr Gibson, and thought of a Bolshevik commissar who had murdered Natasha’s family.
‘Do you not see, my friend, how unacceptable are the implications to the exiled Romanovs? Leaving aside Olga, Tatiana and Marie, whose souls may God preserve and cherish, Anastasia’s conception of a child in circumstances unspeakable is the chief reason why she will never be acknowledged. Consider the attitude of the person one might call the all-highest – Anastasia’s grandmother, the Dowager Empress. It is unimaginable to her that a daughter of the Tsar could allow illiterate peasant soldiers into her bed, and even more unimaginable that she could conceive a child by one of them. Neither the Dowager Empress nor any other of the more exalted Romanovs will ever accept such an act, irrespective of what the circumstances were. And even if they did accept, they would never forgive. What do they care for the terrible nature of the Imperial family’s imprisonment, when all their concern is for the honour of the Romanovs? Honour? Not one of them lifted a finger to help the Tsar. That pretender, that caricature of honour, the Grand Duke Kyril, was among the first to swear allegiance to the revolutionaries who overthrew the Tsar, his own cousin. He is the last one who is ever going to acknowledge that Anastasia survived, for if he did, her claim to the throne, and that of her son, would come before his. Yes, my friend, her child, her son, what Romanov is going to accept the claims of a boy whose father is a matter for conjecture? She gave the child up, and I think she did so because it was no child of love, and because she herself may not have known who the father was. Even so, that child is the chief reason why Anastasia will spend the rest of her life being rejected by her family.’
‘May I suggest,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘that the Dowager Empress might sincerely believe that Anastasia, because she was the Tsar’s daughter, would have killed herself rather than submit, or killed herself afterwards? That any other woman might have submitted and endured, but not a daughter of the Tsar?’
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