by Tessa Lunney
“Felix Felixovitch, Irina Alexandrovna.” I held out my hand. “Kiki Button. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me.”
“Who taught you our formal address? Theo?” Felix raised an eyebrow.
“Please, call me Irène, everyone does.” Irène’s handshake was just a touch, almost as if she expected me to kiss her hand. She wore the palest shade of lilac, a dress so exquisitely cut that it floated around her body, the sleeve slipping over her pale skin.
“This place delights me every time I come here.” Irène sighed. “So beautiful and, what’s the word…”
“Rich.” Felix replied.
“No, don’t be vulgar.” She slapped him playfully. “Sensuous, that’s the word. So very French.”
Felix was busy ordering champagne and caviar, and she leant forward to me.
“Speaking of, I’m so glad you’re taking care of darling Theo. Montparnasse is not really our scene, but Theo seems much happier after a night there. Will he be joining us?” Her inference was in only the slightest of smiles.
“Of course he will,” Felix cut in. “Lunch at Maxim’s? No one says no.”
“But his taxi…” Irène whispered “taxi” like the word was something dirty.
“He had better change out of that grimy suit, that’s all I can say.”
“No need,” I said as I saw Theo come in. “It seems he’s found a dinner jacket that fits.”
Theo strode over to our table, kissed his sister’s cheeks, shook his brother-in-law’s hand, and kissed my hand with a wink. He had set up this meeting so I could interview Felix and Irène. This was not only a favor to me, as I had said that I would help out Theo by using the interview to investigate Felix’s politics. I was, of course, silent about any ulterior motives for doing so. Theo hadn’t laughed when I said I had wanted to call the column “Lunch at Maxim’s with Rasputin’s Killer,” but simply said “Be subtle, chérie.” If the way Felix drained his first glass of champagne and quickly drank another was anything to go by, “subtle” would go the same way as their Russian palaces.
“So, your readers want to know what it’s like to have lunch with Rasputin’s killer, correct?” Felix grinned at the protests of Irène and Theo.
“They want princes and princesses, Paris, and gossip.”
“They shall have it!” Felix topped up my glass. “Shall we give the interview in English? I spent my university days in London, we were in London just a couple of years ago…”
“But my English is not perfect,” said Theo. “Let’s stick to French.”
“I’ll leave you to describe all of this, Kiki.” Felix waved his hand at the rich surroundings. “But how a prince feels about losing his country, well, that’s a… a ‘scoop’ as they say in English, yes?”
“As long as it’s a scoop of wit and chiffon, Prince Felix, then—”
“You can provide that for your readers. What does Kiki Button want from me?”
I returned his hard gaze. “Blood on the snow and the long trail of memory.”
“Excellent!”
Irène pouted as she took a spoonful of caviar. “Felix, be good. Don’t make my aunt and uncle seem hapless and somehow ridiculous.”
“Of course not, ma chérie! But the lady has asked. Besides, it will really give her readers something to think about, non? Now, Kiki, can you imagine what it is like to see your queen consort with the devil? His flashing eyes, his greasy hair, his long fingers that soiled everything he touched? The tsarina was—”
“Oh, Felix…”
“Really, Kiki, take this with a pinch of salt.”
Felix put up his hands. “Alright! I’ll be very kind to my in-laws. But you have to admit the tsarina was desperate for a cure for little Alexei Nikolaievitch, for our tsarevich, yes?”
“Poor little Sasha, who wouldn’t worry?”
“He had the ‘Royal Disease.’ ” Theo lit my cigarette.
“Once he started to bleed, he couldn’t stop. Fatal for anyone, but especially for a little boy.” Felix spooned caviar into his mouth. “So, the tsarina worried. Everyone worried, the heir to the throne was sick. Then the devil came along and, seeing the tsarina’s need, created a little home for himself. He put his filthy fingers all over the boy, then he apparently healed him from hundreds of miles away! They say he was touched by God.” Felix made the sign of the cross over himself. “But so was Lucifer before he fell. No, Rasputin’s aim was to weaken my wife’s family,” he took Irène’s hand here and kissed it, “and to let in the agents of evil to destroy Russia. I had to do what I could.”
Felix said all this while eating and drinking. He was a skilled performer.
“I started to see Rasputin as a patient. I pretended I had anxiety, bad dreams, premonitions. He ran his long dirty nails over my face, he spoke in a gravelly voice that seemed to come from the pit of hell. I had to pretend he put me in a trance and do all he said. But this… violation was worth it as it revealed his innermost desire: power. Power was his drug. He would do anything for it, anything to break our rightful hold over Russia and bring in his Bolshevik dogs. I had to stop him.
“I gathered a group of righteous men around me—Purishkevich, Sukhotin, de Lazovert, and Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, that is, Irène’s cousin, Dima. By then Rasputin trusted me, he assumed I was another of those who depended on him. His arrogance made him stupid and his stupidity made him weak. When I invited him to my family home, the Moika Palace, to view some of our renovations, he accepted. He came in his usual black rags, hair lank around his face, his dragging step as though his devil’s disguise was too heavy for him. He sat in my parlor and smiled with his brown teeth.
“We fed him poisoned wine. We chatted, our nerves were strung tight.” Felix froze, acting out his watching. “Nothing. He drank the wine down and nothing happened! How could any human body drink such poison and survive? Not just one glass but three! He was truly a devil. We cast our frightened, incredulous eyes to one another as Rasputin sat there, serene. There was nothing for it. We would have to take more drastic action.
“We invited him to see something in the cellar and he came without demur. Sukhotin was a soldier. He knew what had to be done. He had the revolver in his hand, he called the devil to look him in the face, and he shot. Rasputin’s body received the bullet, but did the devil die? No! He shuddered, he rolled, then he got up! He came toward me, he grabbed my shoulder and would have throttled me if I hadn’t shot him again. Then he stumbled out into the December night, trailing blood. A bullet was the deadliest thing we had, so we shot him again, that devil, and this time, finally, he went down. His devil’s disguise was a stain against the snow.
“Sukhotin took Rasputin’s coat and hat and walked to his home, so the people wouldn’t know straightaway that the devil had gone. The rest of us took his body and dumped it in the nearby Malaya Nevka River. It was grubby but necessary, as we knew that the tsarina would naturally take time to understand how we had helped her, helped the tsarevich, and helped Russia. It did take time—enough time that Dima was exiled to the Persian front, Purishkevich to the Romanian front, and I was exiled to my country estate.” Felix had his hand over Irène’s, who looked queasy beneath her expression of indulgent boredom. She had clearly heard this story before and didn’t like it. “It’s hard to convey what it meant to be isolated from the capital. And for Dima and Volodya to be thrown into the war! But we were all glad to serve Russia, however we could.”
“Oh… you didn’t fight?” I asked. I could see Theo trying to hide his smirk in his champagne glass.
“Alas, I could not. I tried.” He shrugged. “We set up a home for wounded soldiers at the Liteyney Palace, didn’t we, chérie? And—”
“Sorry, is that a different palace? How many palaces did you own?”
“Palace is just the name for a home that isn’t an apartment, or a shack.” He waved his hand dismissively. “We tried to save Russia, we perjured our souls to do so, but in the end, all that effort was for nothing. We
were too late. The damage had been done, the Bolshevik dogs had been let into the Winter Palace and, in 1917, they tore it down with their teeth. We fled with nothing but the clothes we stood in.”
“And a few diamonds.” Theo raised his glass. “And some paintings and so on.”
“We had to, Theo,” said Irène. “It’s his heritage as well as his inheritance. You know this.”
“Those peasants could never appreciate its true value anyway.” Felix almost spat out his words. “To them everything is just bread, vodka, or a manger to rut in.”
“Felix, that’s not fair,” Irène’s admonishment was too gentle. “Nadya isn’t like that.”
“Nor your chauffeur,” said Theo.
“You mean you?” Felix laughed. “You’re both right. It’s all the fault of the Bolsheviks, poisoning the people’s thoughts for years. That’s why we need to give them real food for thought!”
“Oh, Felix, darling, not this. We’re in France. The French don’t talk politics at the dinner table.” Irène indicated the chicken cooked in cream and the delicate spears of green beans the waiter had brought to our table. He was placing goblets next to our champagne glasses in anticipation of the new wine that would grace the meal.
“How can we talk about anything else?” asked Felix.
“I want to know about Kiki’s fabulous dress…”
“But Kiki wants blood on the snow. Let me tell you, Mademoiselle Button, there’ll be more blood on the snow before too long. I know people. There are plans afoot.”
“Which people? What plans?” I leant forward, imitating the position of his body. He was seated directly across the table from me, so this little intimacy cut off Theo and Irène. Irène sighed theatrically and let the waiter serve her chicken, while Theo kept a little smile on his face. Felix gave me a small nod to indicate that he’d talk once the waiters had left.
“There’s a man, a wonderful man—oh, not your type at all, my dear Feodor Alexandrovich—but truly excellent, very committed, beautiful hands. Edouard Hausmann, you know, like the man who transformed Paris from a slum den to this city of modern boulevards. He’s one of his relatives, I’m sure… Edouard has been telling me about a group of men like myself, like you too, Theo, whether you own it or not. Proper men, noble men of old houses, who want to restore Europe to its glory. Not this fractured, fragmented…”
“Rubble ruled by rabble…” I goaded. It was all I could do when my heart pounded: Hausmann was involved.
“Yes! You understand. Not this mutilated soldier we have now, but a beautiful Europe, a strong Europe, from London to St. Petersburg—never Petrograd, always St. Petersburg—and not Moscow either, that overgrown village. Edouard knows men who are committed to making this happen. He knows how passionate I am about this and he sought me out especially to join his cause.”
“Which cause is that?” I asked. Theo squeezed my knee under the table as a thank you.
“The Italians call themselves fascisti, so fascism is the general term. You’ve heard of this? Good, so you know how important it is. Edouard’s been introducing us, so to speak, so that we can work together more effectively.”
“Like a Soviet,” Theo said.
“Yes, like a—no! Not at all like a Soviet!”
“Theo, don’t tease.” But Irène matched his smile.
“Like soldiers, a band of brothers.” Felix gestured with his fork. “We will take back our lands, our lives, from the rabble who has stolen them. Do they think, just because they are numerous, that they have more of a right to the land than us, who have held it safe for centuries? Like so many rats, they have overrun Russia, Austria, Germany, Galicia, all the way to the Mediterranean. Europe is being ruined by these rats and their revolutionary plague and we must exterminate them!”
“Felix, darling, please calm down.”
“And who would run your estate if you exterminated all of them?” Theo raised an eyebrow.
“Alright, alright. These two keep me on the straight and narrow. Just the Bolsheviks, yes? Lenin and that grasping Trotsky and all those dogs. Am I allowed to revile these rabble-rousers? Good. Edouard has a plan. He’s so persuasive, such fire in his eyes, perfect Savile Row suit. I’m always susceptible to a man in a good suit… but really the plan is very sound. A real show of strength. He’s telling me about it soon, once all the details are in place.”
“Not now?”
“No, well… I haven’t formally joined the group. It’s a requirement, a bit like the Masons, I suppose. Not that I ever wanted to be a Mason… but Edouard, he has such conviction, I might follow him anywhere.”
Irène rolled her eyes. “Just don’t let him lead you here, Felix. Maxim’s is our special place.”
Felix picked up Irène’s hand and kissed it; this was the signal to end political talk and begin the gossip. It was clear that Edouard’s persuasiveness was not merely political, with his “fiery eyes” and “beautiful hands.” It must be the same Eddy Houseman, formerly Bertie’s lover and Fox’s agent, the same Edward Hausmann I confronted in my mission last year.
It was also clear that, if he knew anything, a showman such as Felix would have bragged about it. Felix was a prince, my mission statement wrote of princes, Hausmann had reappeared: I had a dreadful feeling that my mission would once again set me up against the Fascists.
Over the rest of the meal—which I noted down for my readers, chicken followed by a dessert of delicate apple flan, cognac, and coffee—we chatted about the delights of Paris. Irène wanted to open a fashion house and was gathering ideas, interrogating me on every detail of my outfit. Theo kept stroking my leg under the table. The other guests were looking at us, some discreetly curious and others blatantly staring. They were quite gorgeous, these Romanovs and Yusupovs, with their pale skin and dark features, graceful movements in luxurious clothes, Irène’s diamonds and Felix’s loud laugh. Every movement, every word, spoke of power. And of course, with Rasputin’s murder and the tsar’s execution, they were famous, even for Paris. Bertie was going to love this. I guessed that this was why Hausmann had also made Felix a target.
Even though the Star paid for the lunch, Felix left a tip so generous that the waiters bowed to him. As Felix was being helped into his coat, he turned to me.
“So, is our little luncheon enough titillation for your readers?”
“I’m planning on calling the column ‘Lunch at Maxim’s with Rasputin’s Killer.’ ”
Theo gasped but Felix laughed. “Excellent! Send me a copy.”
I was about to follow them out the door when the old man who brought me my coat looked at me full in the face, put his hand on my arm, and nodded to the head waiter.
“It must be,” he said.
“Mademoiselle,” the head waiter bowed, “I’m sorry to bother you, but you remind us very much of a beautiful woman who used to visit. An English woman, she promised she would return soon but she has not come. I know this is an impertinence, but you look so alike… perhaps you know her?”
“Mademoiselle King,” the old man said.
“No, Albert, her married name is Madame Cordelia Bouton.”
He said my name in the French way.
“That’s my mother.”
9
“you remind me of my mother”
They exclaimed with delight, telling me how beautiful I was, how beautiful she was, how lucky this meeting was, but I could barely move with shock. Theo looked at me, concerned, but I just shook my head and watched him follow his sister down the street.
“Albert, run and fetch the coat. Tell us, how is your wonderful mother?”
“She… she’s…” Thankfully I didn’t need to finish the sentence.
“Oh, my deepest condolences, Mademoiselle… Bouton, is it not?”
I nodded.
The head waiter looked around at the restaurant, then ushered me into a little alcove, as opulent as the rest, with nymphs and flowers, curling leaves in gold, and dark wooden furniture. He indicated for me t
o sit on a deep velvet bench set into the wall. Another nod brought a waiter with tea in a delicate green cup. The head waiter produced an ashtray and a lighter before I even realized I needed a cigarette. Albert hurried back with a soft blush-pink coat in both his hands.
“How is Madame…” he faltered at the stern look on the head waiter’s face. “Mademoiselle, I’m so sorry.”
He handed the coat to the head waiter who extracted a book from the pocket, folded the coat carefully, and tied book and coat together with a ribbon he produced from his pocket, placing the bundle on the table in front of me.
“Madame Bouton walked out without this last time she was here.”
“That must have been years ago.”
“It was,” Albert said.
“Nothing is too much for our valued customers. She’s visited us almost since we opened. We would do… we would have done anything for her.” He dropped his head. “I’m so very sorry.”
“How did she leave a coat behind?”
“It was a balmy night. The day had had spots of chill rain, I remember, but when the skies cleared at dusk a warm breeze blew through the streets, the kind that spoke of love’s bright possibilities.”
“Jean’s a poet.” Albert spoke sotto voce.
“Albert had taken ill and gone home early. I did my best but your mother was, as always, surrounded by friends, being addressed by two or three people at once but speaking only to one of them, intensely, binding them to her with her luminous eyes.”
