Egg & Spoon

by Gregory Maguire

  The cook and maids had already departed to join the crowds in the Nevsky Prospekt, hoping to catch sight of the Tsar’s procession into the city, so Monsieur d’Amboise drew the drapes and locked the house up with a big iron key. He climbed up front with Korsikov. They didn’t talk. The party set out from the kerbstones, snaking through the carriage and the foot traffic, all that tintinnabulum of a city on the eve of a holiday.

  “Tante,” said Elena as a stout woman named Olga washed her hair with lavender lather, “what is Prince Anton actually like?”

  Madame Sophia: “Are you getting nervous? Please don’t. I hear he’s very”— she searched for a word — “nice.”

  “How so?”

  “Princely.”

  “Is he old?”

  “Heavens no. He’s hardly older than you, I should expect.”

  “Is he pleasant to look at?”

  “In point of fact, ma chérie, I’ve never met the young man, or I’d be better able to advise you. However, I know you’ll do just fine. You may want to switch to French, of course. In the royal courts, French is still the most elegant tongue.”

  “But I am Russian.”

  “That’s what Catherine the Great said, and she was German. Well, you’ll give up this fancy for the vernacular when you hear the great buzz of French. A divine frottage upon the eardrums, as someone said. Presumably someone French.”

  “Will we meet him tonight?”

  “Or tomorrow night, or the next. Mind, there are hundreds of eligible daughters of privilege for him to meet. I do hope you won’t slump, as you’re doing now.”

  The great-aunt allowed her own head to be soaped. When wet, her silvery hair plastered itself against her scalp like threads of metal. She looked masculine. She might as well put on armor, thought Elena. “How is our darling’s hair coming along, Miss Bristol?” asked the great-aunt.

  “This hairdresser is a magician,” replied the governess. “Of that nest of eels, she has made a rather fetching chignon.”

  “Wonderful. Now, if she can only tease my hair up to make me look like Lady Godiva on a windless morning, we’ll be satisfied.”

  Several hours later, they descended the narrow wooden staircase to find Korsikov and Monsieur d’Amboise guarding the barouche. The chauffeur offered no compliment. The butler intoned, “Dreams of loveliness, both.”

  “I wonder what a nightmare of loveliness might be like,” replied the great-aunt. “Something by Fuseli or Bouguereau, no doubt. Or Goya. We’ll go home now and force down a little something, and dress in our finest. I hope you have wrapped the gift in Nanking silk as I requested.”

  “The box is fully wrapped,” said the butler.

  Notice the care he took not to speak a lie.

  The carriage turned into a demure street off the Bolshoy Prospekt, where Madame Sophia kept house. In swerving around a couple of pedestrians, it splashed them. Korsikov cursed their insouciance, walking where he wanted to drive. “Silliness, to trample in these wet gutters,” muttered Madame Sophia. “What are people thinking?”

  Elena craned to see. One figure, a scrabbling ferret of an old woman, had leaped with vigor. The other person was a young woman near Elena’s own age: Does she seem familiar? Could it be —? Or maybe I’m beginning to feel guilty, thought Elena, noticing people who look like Cat in this great city. Just as I start the exercise of impersonating her.

  So I can get to the Tsar and beg for his mercy, she reminded herself. But she also thought, And so I can meet the prince. Once in her life, peasant or no, every girl should have the chance to meet a prince.

  “An intolerable offense,” said Baba Yaga. “Were I feeling a bit more like myself, I’d turn that carriage into a haunted calabash and send it hurtling toward its vegetable graveyard.” She shook the wet from her clothes.

  “I didn’t imagine my great-aunt would be there,” said the girl flatly. “But I thought some staff would be in residence, waiting for her. For me. They knew we were expected from London. Yet the house is locked tight as the Tower of London.”

  “Perhaps your great-aunt is out bobbing on the canals on the back of some hogshead. We had the benefit of a swimming table, remember. She might have caught a nasty current and been swept out to sea. What? I’m being consoling.”

  They had rounded the corner already. They didn’t see the great-aunt’s carriage pull up at the very steps they had just left.

  I hope they play a great many waltzes that I can sit out,” said Madame Sophia. “Ekaterina, ma chérie, are you nervous? You’re so quiet.”

  The girl did not speak. She felt for the shape of the matryoshka, which she had put in her evening purse for courage.

  “The nearer we have gotten to this festival, the more retiring you’ve become. I do realize the delay in that peasant village alarmed you, for you’ve not been yourself ever since. But, my dear, the Happyweather School for Young Ladies in London has prepared you well. As long as you let the Prince see your natural ebullience, you shall avoid disgracing the family, and perhaps do a good deal more.”

  “What do you want of me?” asked Elena. The carriage, lolloping along broad avenues, splintered the frozen puddles. A dreadful sound. Elena had always been afraid of dropping through the ice on a pond and drowning.

  Madame Sophia took her hand out of an ermine muff. The dry evening air made the fur stand up. The great-aunt patted about Elena’s knees until Elena supplied her own gloved hand for the old woman to clutch.

  “I know something of the arithmetic of likelihoods. The chance that you, of all the young women drawn to Saint Petersburg from all over Russia, and its colonies, and its allies — that you might be the one to secure the signal interest of the young Prince Anton — well, that is a slender chance. So slender that I pay nearly no attention to it.”

  Elena sighed.

  “Nearly,” emphasized the great-aunt. “I didn’t say I pay no attention to the matter.”

  “No one can descend from a carriage and just walk in and become engaged to an heir to the throne,” said Elena.

  “You have forgotten my lessons in genealogy. Silly girl. Prince Anton is not in direct line for the throne. He would never become Tsar unless the extended royal family was struck simultaneously by an impossible series of epidemics, revolutions, intrigues, and peculiarly accurate comets. But by custom, any consort of the Prince would become a member of the court and would have a palace of some sort in which to live, sooner or later. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  “A palace would require a lot of sweeping.”

  “If you flaunt and flirt, you will mortify us with forwardness. But if you relax and exhibit your natural charm, who knows? At worst, we shall have had a glorious time. You won’t wonder, later in your life, if you might have appealed to the Prince had you met him. You will have met him. When I am dead, recall this night and bless my soul. Heaven knows this exercise has cost me half my annual income. Now, to draw the Tsar’s eyes upon you, I trust in this wonderful present reclaimed from the safe.” She patted the silk-wrapped box on the seat next to her. “Monsieur d’Amboise wrapped it beautifully. I only hope that the Tsar is not presented with eight or ten ornamental eggs from the same studio, or if so, at least that he sees ours first.”

  That thing, thought Elena. That oversize duck egg I found someplace. I hope he breaks it. But not until I get a chance to talk to him and meet his godson.

  They neared the river. “I’ve never known the Neva to remain in thaw at this time of year. They say the world continues to change as one ages, but I hadn’t expected so much change at this late date in my long life.”

  They turned a corner to join a queue of carriages dispersing their passengers. And then Elena rushed her hand to her mouth in case some crude word from her former life in the fields slipped out.

  Upriver and down, across from the Winter Palace, eleven pavilions floated. Anchored in place and linked like beads on a necklace. Against the south bank, the black water glittered with the reflection of lights shini
ng in the palace windows. On the north side, from which direction they were arriving, a covered gangplank funneled guests across the water to a central salon roofed by a pale silk dome.

  Madame Sophia: “Oh, Ekaterina! It outshines the Brighton Pavilion. It rivals the Crystal Palace in Chicago a few years back. Even these tired old eyes can see how luminous, and they tear up at the sight.”

  Each open room bobbed on pontoons. Each was linked to the next by lighted walkways. Together they looked as if they might easily house the population of Miersk: every soul going back centuries since the day of its founding.

  Evergreen boughs roped the railings and the white cast-iron pillars. Set out on tongues cantilevering around the edges, iron kettles burned tinder, shaking the air in aromatic, heated curtains. Under the canopies, whose various elevations and bulbous profiles were painted in patterns of cobalt, gold, and aquamarine, oil lamps flickered behind spheres of frosted glass.

  It was the most magical thing that Elena had ever seen. Crowned heads do throw a good party.

  Madame Sophia handed the gift parcel to the governess to hold while she alighted the carriage. “I do not think staff is included in the invitation.”

  “Certainly not,” said Miss Bristol. “Where would you like me to freeze?”

  Elena looked at the abrasive Miss Bristol. So beleaguered, not knowing if this was her last evening as a free woman. Why wouldn’t she flee? Behind the great-aunt’s shoulder, the girl made the same shooing gesture she had once made at hens, back when there were hens in Miersk. Go. Go!

  “I shall send for you when we are ready to depart. It could be dawn, for all I know. But there will be a room nearby, and benches, and gallons of hot tea, no doubt. Perhaps some decks of cards, or a sing-along. Jolly chatter.”

  “Very well. My teeth shall jolly well chatter. Till dawn,” said Miss Bristol.

  She straightened the shawl on Elena’s shoulders, then settled her hands there, lightly, and looked Elena in the eyes.

  “You are a brave child,” she said. “Foolhardy, but brave enough. Whatever fate you walk toward, and however far you walk away from us, you will not be forgotten.”

  Elena was inclined to reply: I do not need your blessing. But something stopped her. The woman looked like a little old lark about to be squeezed to death in the fist of a gorilla. Life was too strong for some people. What was it the doctor had said to Natasha Rudina? You have to want to live your life.

  “I appreciate your kindness,” said the girl. It came out sounding more dismissive than she intended. Miss Bristol almost controlled the flinch in her eyelids.

  “We shall be waiting for you.” Korsikov jumped down from his perch with the reins in his hand. The horses shook their heads, releasing the shattery sound of small bells.

  “Come, ma chérie,” said Madame Sophia. With the gift for the Tsar in one arm, clutched tightly to her well-padded bosom, she linked her other arm into Elena’s. “Let us see what enchantment this night shall bring.”

  As Madame Sophia was of great age compared to some of the other guests, she and Elena were ushered to the head of the line. They came to a halt at a podium set upon the granite embankment of the Neva River.

  The Deputy Sub-Lieutenant was wearing a red sash and a pince-nez. He was too busy to recognize them. “Madame Sophia Borisovna Orlova,” said the old woman, only slightly testy. “Accompanied by Mademoiselle Ekaterina Ivanovna de Robichaux.”

  The officer found their names on a list and made two checkmarks. “Please proceed to the reception salon, where you can leave your wraps if you like. You will be surprised by the warmth supplied by the fires and by the crowd itself.” He patted his hair affectionately.

  Another officer rigid with pistols unhooked a velvet rope from a brass stanchion. He stood aside as Madame Sophia ventured aboard. The ramp was slatted, and the gangplank swayed. “A caution, a trial,” murmured Madame Sophia, “but worth the vexation. I shall try not to pitch headfirst into the brink.”

  Once inside the central pagoda, the great-aunt and the girl decided to liberate themselves from brocaded coats and ermine muffs. The weather was indeed comfortable. Almost like being in a ballroom, Elena guessed, in the Winter Palace itself.

  Another adjutant told them that they should make their way to the final pavilion, farthest downriver — to the right from the broad reception area — and deposit their gift to the treasurer. Good, thought Elena. I shall be shot of it. But Madame Sophia said, “Oh, I had planned to have my great-niece present it herself.”

  “His Imperial Majesty is not yet arrived. In any case, you cannot be expected to carry a parcel while you dance and feast.”

  “Of course not. I’ll deputize Miss Ekaterina to consign our gift to the treasury. Ancient ladies need to sit down at once.”

  “You will find many cushioned chairs for your comfort.”

  They stepped farther into the press of guests. From downriver, a floating orchestra began to play. “What a delight. Heavy in the woodwind and brass sections, whose sound carries better in the cold, I should think.” Madame Sophia sank into the first love seat she came upon. “Do deliver that package. And carefully, ma chérie. It would do us no good to have you drop it at this late date in the campaign.”

  Elena accepted the silk-wrapped parcel and held it close to her heart. She passed from chamber to chamber, across the linking walkways. Relief suffused her. Some lackey guarding the treasury would have to explain how a plain if substantial specimen egg from the wild had been substituted for a bespoke confection. As long as Miss Bristol and Monsieur d’Amboise kept their mouths shut, no one need ever know.

  About halfway along, she came upon a dining chamber. On one side, champagne was being poured. Extra bottles were tied in groups of a dozen and submerged in the river for chilling; she watched waiters haul them up and pop the corks. Opposite this station, behind more velvet ropes, stood an exceedingly long table covered in lace of black, gold, and ivory. A narrow silver tray, the length of a railway carriage, sat upon them. When Elena pushed for a better view, she saw that the tray held edible maquettes of the eleven different pavilions. Spun sugar columns; platforms of biscuit and cream; decorations of candied berries; canopies of tinted meringue. The dark river was represented by the blackest liquid chocolate.

  “Dinner will be served in due course,” said the Guardian of Imperial Pastry, shooing people away.

  In a state of subdued panic, Elena reached the floating treasure-house. This final pavilion was a tented caboose of sorts. Its sides were not open but paneled loosely in canvas. Behind yet another velvet rope to divide the gift givers from the chamber of treasure, seven handsome soldiers stood at attention, receiving the tribute and recording the names of the givers.

  Beyond them, when the drapes parted, Elena caught a glimpse of the bounty. She’d never heard of the riches of Babylon, the glories of Troy or ancient Rome, or even Ali Baba’s cave. She just thought: Ah, the Tsar’s playground.

  As the drapes fluttered, she spied gifts standing about in heaps, on tables, some too large to be wrapped. A six-foot bejeweled rooster made of hammered precious metals, inset with cloisonné. A glass globe at least as tall as she was, encasing a colorful model of a grand cathedral. A set of nesting dolls, like her mother’s own humble set, but life-size. At those proportions, the smile on the superior mother, the matryoshka, looked not so much devoted as demented.

  Elena regarded the soldiers. They seemed stamped from a common press. Erect, handsome, aloof, precise. Only the colors of their hair and the shapes of their beards and moustaches differed. All, that is, except for the beardless one at the end, the seventh, who looked a little younger, more relaxed. Possibly a troublemaker. His eyes were more alert. He reminded her of Alexei. She went up to him.

  The youngest of the soldiers bowed solemnly to Elena. “The Throne of the Tsar of All the Russias receives your tribute.” He reached out for the wrapped parcel. “Please let the Commissar of Gifts know what the gift is, and from whom it is given, and
their homeland.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “I mean, tell me,” he continued, not unkindly.

  “Oh. Well, I’m informed that this is a Fabergé egg specially commissioned from the factory of the artist. It comes from Madame Sophia Borisovna Orlova, of Paris and Saint Petersburg.”

  “You look young to be called Madame.”

  Elena supposed she had to give the name. “Oh, no; I am Madame’s great-niece. Mademoiselle Ekaterina de Robichaux.” She raised her chin with what she hoped was elegance, not fear.

  “… of … ?”

  “Well, a school in London.”

  “I see.” The soldier said something in English.

  Elena had practiced her response in the pier glass. She drilled her eyes into his. “Out of respect for the Tsar of All the Russias, I speak only in Russian.”

  He laughed. “Well. Imagine that, someone who doesn’t like to show off. You’re at the wrong party. But thank you for the gift.” He made a note at his podium, and then he handed the gift to a fellow soldier standing at attention behind him. When he turned back, he was surprised to see that Elena was still standing there.

  “Have you another gift? Trying to get in good with the Romanovs?”

  “I have a question.”

  “If I can’t cadge another gift out of you, I might as well take a question.” He grinned as if he thought his remark clever.

  Elena felt bold because the young soldier seemed less abrasive than she had come to expect in a military man. She leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “I was wondering if you are familiar with someone I know in the army. I was wondering if you could tell me if he is in Saint Petersburg tonight.”