“What are you two up to now?” asked Rasputin.
“Oh, Grisha!” they exclaimed, not at all surprised to see him sitting there. “Do help us with Mama.”
“Tatiana, Olga! Calm down!” said Alix. “What on earth is going on?”
“Just say yes!” began Olga. “I am nearly twelve.”
“And I’m nearly ten,” added Tatiana.
“What are you asking?”
“Mr. Epps has to go into town and he was wondering if we would like to go with him?” asked Olga, extremely tentatively.
“Whatever for?” asked Alix, visibly thrown.
“To buy buttons and ribbons?” suggested Tatiana.
“No.” Alix shook her head. “Town? Don’t be so ridiculous!”
“But we’ve been before,” said Olga.
“When?”
“Yalta.”
“That was different,” said Alix.
Militza remembered that day so very well. They’d all, on a whim, decided to walk the few miles from Livadia to go shopping. The girls had been terribly excited; they’d skipped all the way, accompanying Alix in her large wheelchair. It was one of those very brief moments of freedom when no one knew who they were. The empress had been told off for resting her wet umbrella against some display in one of the shops, and the girls had been shocked to pay for their buttons and ribbons with rubles, only to receive change! They had no idea what money really meant. Unfortunately, their anonymity did not last long, and as soon as they had left the shop, they were surrounded by well-wishers, keen to gawp at the tsarina and the grand duchesses. They had to call for a motorcar to come and collect them.
“Please?” they now begged together.
“No.” Alix shook her head. “And if you carry on asking, you will make my heart painful, and you don’t want me to have to lie down with a pain of two?”
“No, Mama,” replied Olga.
“I hate pain of two,” said Tatiana.
“It means we can’t see you,” added Olga.
“Exactly,” said Alix. “Now leave us.”
“They should go,” said Rasputin.
“Yes,” agreed Alix. “Leave us.”
“Into town,” he continued. Alix looked at him in astonishment. But she said nothing. “What harm could it do? A little trip to buy some frivolities? I see no harm in that at all.”
“But . . .” began Alix.
“God does not take against the enjoyment of children,” he said simply. “In fact, He delights in it. They should go. In the fresh air.”
The two grand duchesses looked stunned and stared at their mother, awaiting her response.
“Well . . . Very well then,” she said tentatively. “Very well. If you think so, Grisha.”
“I do.” He nodded slowly.
“Thank you! Thank you!” The girls could not believe their luck. “Thank you, Brother Grigory!”
“Only for a short time,” instructed Alix.
“Of course, Mama!” they promised.
“Back by five.”
“Five!”
They rushed out of the villa as quickly as they’d arrived.
“How lovely! A trip,” mused Alix, with a little laugh to herself.
“Tea?” offered Anna, picking up a large silver pot that had been brought into the drawing room.
“Shall I be Mother?” offered Rasputin, getting out of his chair.
THAT EVENING, AS THE MAID KATYA ATTENDED TO MILITZA’S toilette, brushing and piling up her long black hair with diamond pins, Militza stared at her reflection, running over and over again in her mind the scene she’d witnessed at the little yellow villa. Alix had let Rasputin overrule her. And there was something about Grigory’s manner as he sat in the chair, something about the way he’d looked at Militza, the way he challenged Alix, that she found disconcerting. He appeared powerful—worse, comfortable with those in power. Her mind wandered to the icon he’d taken from her. Was that the difference? Now that he had Philippe’s St. John the Baptist, the angel of the desert, was he truly as untouchable as Philippe had foretold? But what was worrying her most was that he appeared not to need her, Militza, anymore. She knew he visited Tsarskoye Selo without her, despite her protestations. But how often? And Brana had told her that he’d even turned up to the palace once or twice completely uninvited. He passed by whenever he liked. If she really pulled rank, reminded him exactly who he was and where he’d come from, could she grasp back control? He was hers. Entirely hers. She’d made him. Perhaps she needed to remind him of that.
She sighed. While Katya finished heating and placing the last few curls around her face, Militza called Brana to her room. Her little collection from Badmaev was growing on her dressing table, but what she really needed was a little cocaine elixir. A couple of drops should do the trick before she went out. If it had not been a soirée at the Countess Ignatiev’s, she would surely have sent her excuses. A few minutes later and there was a knock at the door and the crone arrived with a small red bottle on a tray. She drank the entire contents of the bottle and felt significantly better: her thoughts were clear; her brain was focused. She thanked Brana and then picked up her Marseilles cards from out of the top drawer of her dresser.
Should she? Why not? Just three cards before she went out. She normally didn’t turn cards for herself. In her early teens, she’d turn cards every day and live her life exactly according to them. But her mother had warned her against it and she’d broken the habit. But now, having drunk Badmaev’s elixir, she felt her self-control weakening.
“Are you sure?” asked Brana, tray in hand, as she watched Militza shuffle the cards.
“It’s fine,” snapped Militza. Sometimes the woman really was too much. She closed her eyes and held the pack close to her chest. She inhaled deeply before she chose three from the deck. “Le Diable,” she said, staring straight at the devil. “Chaos, anarchy . . . Le Pendu, the Hanged Man, suspended from one leg, unable to do anything . . . helpless . . .” Her heart was racing; she felt a little sick. The cocaine was surely a bit strong. She paused before she turned the final card. She’d asked about the future. This was not what she had anticipated.
“What’s the last one?” asked Brana.
“Le Judgement,” said Militza, looking down as the black eyes on the card stared directly back at her. “So the dead shall rise and we shall all be judged, not by our words, but by our actions and our deeds.”
“The cards are never wrong,” said Brana. “Maybe the question you asked was incorrect?”
IT WAS LATE BY THE TIME SHE ARRIVED AT COUNTESS IGNATIEV’S apartment on the French Embankment. Even the stairs outside were littered with people: some were talking; others were smoking; all were in quite an intoxicated state. Inside, the air was thick with conversation and the smell of cigarette smoke and hashish; the low light was crepuscular, and it was almost impossible to see the faces of the guests or to distinguish one person from another.
“Goodness,” exclaimed Sophia Ignatiev when Militza finally discovered her seated at a small card table in the corner. “There are so many people! I swear half the clergy are here.” She puffed her face as she exhaled and waved a pretty peacock-and-ivory fan. “But I am so glad you are here. I have been having these dreams, proclamations really.” She inhaled heavily on a small pipe. “Father Seraphim keeps appearing to me, and we discuss the fact that there is a prophet here amongst us whose purpose is to reveal the will of Providence to the tsar and lead him on the path of glory.” She exhaled a small curl of blue smoke. “And that person,” she whispered, leaning forward. “And that person is . . . Rasputin. Absolutely it’s him. I am sure of it.”
“Right,” said Militza.
“My dreams are actually prophetic. I have told everyone.” She waved her hand about her to indicate she had told the whole room. “Everyone.” She smiled. “He’s here, you know, Rasputin. In the other room. Talking to some journalists.”
“Journalists?” Militza looked towards the door.
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p; “Yes,” she said, nodding vigorously. “You should see them! Eating out of the palm of his hand.”
Sure enough, as she walked into the next-door room, there was Rasputin surrounded by an attentive group of acolytes. There was the actress with the plunging décolletage; there was the weak-willed general and the British journalist with the bad breath who always insisted on pinning you in a corner and asking the most impertinent of questions. Tonight, he was right next to Rasputin, asking him all sorts of things that didn’t seem remotely polite, but Grigory was loving the attention and gorging himself on red wine. He glanced over at Militza as she walked into the room, and a smile briefly floated across his lips before the actress thrust herself a little closer to him and took his attention.
How different he is outside of the company of the tsarina, thought Militza, staring at him as he leaned over and kissed the actress’s plump bosom. I wonder what Alix would think if she knew exactly how her dear Friend behaved without her? Perhaps someone should tell her?
She turned and walked back into the slightly quieter room, encountering Dr. Badmaev as she did so.
“I was hoping you’d be here!” she exclaimed, moving to kiss him on the cheek.
“Will you sit and have a glass of wine with me?” he asked, indicating two chairs.
“Of course.” She smiled. “Do you have any of your elixir with you?”
“The cocaine?” She nodded. “Here,” he said, pulling a small red bottle from out of the pocket of his loose trousers. “The tsar goes through about three of those a week,” he said, handing over the bottle.
“It’s a good way to start the day,” said Militza. “Poured into sweet tea to take away the taste. Thank you,” she added, immediately pouring some into her wine. “It’s so crowded in here these days.” She looked around the room before taking a sip.
“I remember when it was simply Stana, you, and me and the countess, plus a few divorcées!” chuckled Badmaev.
“What’s happened?”
“It’s the boredom, I suppose. In these gilded drawing rooms, life becomes weary much faster. When money can get you whatever life offers, even the most fantastic possibilities fail to satisfy.” He paused to take in the crowded room before him. “Everyone is tired, everyone is jaded, and in such times people gravitate to what lies beyond human comprehension. Talking to Spirit. Table tipping. Tarot. Even your Martinism.” Militza raised her eyebrows. “People tell me everything.” He smiled. “Even Rasputin.”
“What of him?”
“The tsarina talks of little else. When I am summoned to prescribe herbs for her heart or her sciatica, she always talks of him. The man of God who is no priest, the miracle worker from Siberia.”
“She says that?”
“But both you and I know there are no miracles, only science.”
“And faith.”
“But where will your faith get you when your son is bleeding to death?” he asked.
“Hush!” She shot him a look. “Maybe that is all she has?”
“And what of all of my medicines and my expertise and all that I have done?” he replied sharply, placing another bottle of cocaine elixir down on the table. “For you,” he said, standing up as if to leave. “Don’t take it all at once!”
“Well, well, if it isn’t my old friend from Tibet!” Rasputin placed a large hand on Badmaev’s shoulder. “Don’t trust him!” he said to Militza. “He’d sooner betray you and sell your soul for a kopek!” He roared with laughter, rocking back and forth as he slapped the doctor hard on the back. “What?” he declared. “Have you lost your sense of humor? Come on, friend!”
“Go to hell,” hissed Badmaev.
“Me?” said Rasputin, taking a step back and flinging his arms open as he laughed even louder. “I’m already there! Come,” he added with a chuckle, putting his arm around Militza. “What on earth is wrong with him?” He yawned. “Must be terribly upsetting, losing one’s position at court! Take me home!”
AS THE CHAUFFEUR DROVE THROUGH THE CHILLY STREETS OF St. Petersburg, Militza listened to Rasputin ramble on about his dealings with the tsarina and his afternoons at Anna’s little yellow house. He was obviously drunk—and with her he did not feel the need to hold back.
“That fat little Anna,” he laughed. “She just repeats everything I say; it’s as if she does not have a mind, or will, of her own! She is the emptiest of vessels. Like a great big bell. If she weren’t so plain, like a poorly cooked suet pudding, I might bend her over a table and show her the way of the Lord! As for the other one, Little Mama, squeaking through the gardens in that wheelchair of hers, she is so scared and isolated from her own people. I don’t think she’s left her quarters for months. She claims ill health, but I am not so sure.” He snorted. “But she listens to me, and me alone. She’ll do anything I say, anything to keep that little boy of hers alive. It would be sweet if it weren’t so pathetic.” He leaned over towards Militza, his eyes staring into hers, the pupils slowly dilating. “See this,” he said, waving his hand in her face. “Between these fingers I hold the Russian Empire! Its future is in my hands.” He laughed as he thrust his fingers between her thighs.
Chapter 27
November 20, 1907, St. Petersburg
IT TOOK MILITZA THE SUMMER TO BETRAY HIM.
She was not a woman to react rashly, so she went over and over what she had seen and heard during the last few months, and just before the tsar went on maneuvers with the navy, she, together with Peter, invited Rasputin to dinner at Znamenka. It was far enough away from the city, they concluded, that he couldn’t arrive and then disappear off on another appointment. They also invited Nicky and Alix—and were somewhat surprised when they both accepted.
What passed was an extraordinary evening, where the true extent of Rasputin’s influence became frighteningly apparent. They learned he visited the palace two or three times a week, turning up unannounced, arriving at any time he pleased, and that Alix was calling him frequently on the telephone. It wasn’t daily (not yet, anyway), but she spoke to him three or four times a week, about many subjects, but mainly for advice on the Little One.
“He is always so reassuring,” she said, playing with her food.
“It makes Alix happy,” Nicky added, patting his wife on the back of her hand.
Rasputin simply sat there, smiling, soaking it up, drinking more wine, eating more sweetmeats, appearing more and more benevolent.
“Just so long as I am near, the young boy will be well,” he declared, his knife and fork in the air.
“So reassuring.” Alix nodded.
“Very reassuring,” agreed Nicky.
“I don’t know what we’d do without him.” Alix smiled.
Fortunately, Alix and Nicky left early because Alix had a slight chill. As soon as the door was closed, Peter and Militza turned on Rasputin. They accused him of betraying them, of ignoring their wishes, their express wishes, for him not to visit Tsarskoye Selo without them. They told him he was disloyal, unfaithful, treacherous, untrue. He was trying to undermine them. He was trying to edge them out, pushing himself forward at their expense. Somewhat embarrassingly, they ended up shouting at him. Both of them raised their voices in fury.
“You are a charlatan! And a traitor!” Militza yelled.
“We trusted you!” added Peter.
“We made you!” Militza continued.
“You couldn’t make a simple borscht!” sneered Rasputin before starting to laugh. “You can’t make anything! You, Mamma, are nowhere near as powerful as you think. I could destroy you—like this!” He clicked his fingers. “I have Philippe’s icon, John the Baptist . . .” He smiled wolfishly and then laughed louder.
“What’s he talking about?” asked Peter, looking bemused and certainly the worse for wine.
Her husband could wait. She could explain away the icon and the wolfish stare. It was the laughter that really unsettled Militza. She hated the sound of laughter. It reminded her of the night when George—Stana’s George—had
laughed in her face, showering her with spittle and humiliation. How she hated the sound of laughter. And Rasputin would not stop. He laughed as he walked down the steps of Znamenka and laughed as he stepped into the car to take him to the station. Militza imagined he laughed all the way back to St. Petersburg.
If she’d doubted her plan, or hesitated for a moment, then it was Brana who strengthened her resolve. The stories the old crone had discovered after ferreting about in the filth of St. Petersburg beggared belief.
“Sex,” she said as she shuffled along the path to the walled herb garden, her stooped shoulders covered in a dark cape despite the sunshine.
“Oh?” Militza feigned surprise.
“In the banya . . .” This was news. The banya? “In the afternoons. Two, three—as many as four at a time. Women. Girls. Sometimes it is hard to see through the steam and the writhing flesh. But he’s there, all right, surrounded by a harem. It’s like an orgy, sometimes they’re whipping each other with birch. You can hear the screams—”
“Of pain?”
“No. Pleasure,” replied Brana. “They scream for more, apparently. They drink vodka, loads of it. Beer, sometimes. And not all the girls are young. Some are married. Wives whose husbands are hoping that if they manage to satisfy the beast, he might put a word in, write a letter, get them a job or a promotion.”
“So the women are prostitutes?” Her mind was whirring with confusion.
“No, Madame. Aristocrats. He is said to have bedded half the court.”
“Not half, surely?” Her hand quivered as she gripped her parasol.
“His member is reported to be the size of a horse,” Brana continued, with a wide toothless grin. “It has a wart on the end, which apparently makes it more pleasurable.”
“Really?” Militza swallowed.
“A healing—that’s what he calls it.”
“That’ll be all, thank you, Brana,” she snapped. How much more detail could she bear?
The Witches of St. Petersburg Page 31