The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “Yes, and a very good one, too. He will be assisting us.”

  “Will it make me bleed, Dr. Botkin?”

  “I should think a little, but we are prepared, Your Highness, with all the latest remedies. All we require of you, young man, is that you relax as much as you can. Think of your trip next week to the Crimea, and the warm ocean, and all the lovely sunshine.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You’ll do very well.” Botkin turned to Yuri. “Yuri, would you remove the cover from the instrument table? I believe we are ready to begin.”

  The doctors finished their final preparations, and Yuri uncovered the table as he was told. The instruments gleamed and were in perfect order. Obviously, this was no ordinary procedure. Their patient was the heir to the throne of Russia! That thought alone made Yuri’s stomach lurch. And that unsettling sensation was only increased by the fact that one wrong move, one mistaken slip of the hand, could mean disaster. Yuri thought of his brother. He wondered what Andrei would think if he knew the future of the hated monarchy rested, for the next half hour at least, entirely in the hands of Yuri and the other doctors.

  But Yuri didn’t allow himself to dwell on such thoughts. This was only a ten-year-old child, in pain, suffering, afraid. Even Andrei would not be able to wish death on such a poor, helpless being.

  As the operation proceeded, Yuri cleared all his wayward thoughts so he could focus on the task at hand. Dr. Breit had wedged an ice pack in the boy’s mouth so as to lower the temperature of the area and hopefully retard circulation. The tsarevich was sitting quietly; in fact, once he was settled into the chair his eyes drooped shut. Hopefully the drugs would prevent him from feeling more than a little pain from the procedure itself.

  Suddenly the treatment room door burst open, letting in a draft of cold air. Yuri was the first to see the intruder. It was Rasputin. Yuri didn’t know what to say or if he should say anything. He knew that the starets had a certain amount of latitude with the royal family, but wasn’t this too much? It was bad enough that the man was not garbed in proper surgical attire, but the reek of his body indicated he wasn’t even washed.

  Botkin was the first to speak. “What is the meaning of this?” His tone was even and calm. He apparently was willing to give the starets the benefit of the doubt.

  But Rasputin answered defensively. “The tsaritsa called me to be here for this affair. And before you begin I insist you allow me to pray over the boy.”

  “This is a sterile operating theater, and you are not dressed properly.”

  “Do you think God incapable of protecting the child from a few germs?”

  “I will not become involved in a theological debate with you, Father Grigori. But if you have real concern for the boy, you will leave so we can proceed. Your prayers are welcome, but say them in the waiting room.”

  “If I truly had my way, there would be no doctors at all digging and probing at the poor little one. The hand of God protects him and heals him. My prayers alone, not your precious, sterile instruments and scientific procedures, will ease the child’s discomfort. But because the tsar wills it, I will allow you to proceed. Nevertheless, it is also his will that I pray over the child. Take it up with His Imperial Highness, if you wish to ignore his royal will.”

  Rasputin then strode all the way into the room and drew up within inches of the tsarevich. The doctors, needing to maintain their sterility, could hardly prevent him, nor did they wish for an altercation in the tsarevich’s presence—or at any time, for that matter! Yuri might have been able to block the priest’s approach, but that was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment, and, thankfully, the other doctors didn’t expect it of him. Only when Rasputin drew a crucifix from his pocket and held it in his grimy hand directly over the instrument table did Yuri find some courage to comment.

  “Father Grigori, can you withdraw your hand? The instruments . . .” Yuri’s voice faded away lamely when Rasputin focused a chilling glance in his direction. None of the congeniality of their last meeting was evident in that look.

  “Now I know why I have little use for doctors,” said the priest. But in a minute, he did reposition his arm so that it was away from the instruments.

  That was the only concession he made, however. As the doctors continued, Rasputin remained close by, mumbling prayers and breathing his fetid breath all over the sterile field.

  The extraction went smoothly enough. The bleeding did not get out of hand, and Alexis was smiling an hour later. Of course, the credit for the success of the procedure went entirely to Rasputin. His prayers had guided the hands of the doctors and had miraculously closed up the child’s blood vessels. Yuri had complete confidence that the operation would have been successful regardless. When he had first met Rasputin, he had been willing to give the man the benefit of his holy orders. But now he only wondered about a man, a mere mortal, who was so arrogant, so full of himself, that he would risk the safety of a child because he thought his germs were somehow exempt from natural laws. It simply did not seem right to Yuri. But more than that, he could never after that day shake the memory of Rasputin’s cold, contemptuous look. There had been nothing at all saintly about it. It had even lacked the element of righteous indignation. It had simply been ugly.

  27

  Andrei was at last having his gallery exhibit. It had taken longer than planned—over a year since he had first heard about the opportunity. But it had turned into a more awesome commitment than he had anticipated.

  Yuri would have said that was so typical of him, leaping into something without carefully looking about. In this case, he supposed it was true, as it was about his commitment to Kaminsky that he had never followed up on. But after his talk with Talia he gained a more realistic sense regarding his future. Nevertheless, producing twenty-four quality works of art had been no lark, especially when the realities of life were bound to intercede. In order to maintain his pride, he’d been forced to take on outside work, mostly grueling factory work from which he often came home so exhausted the last thing he wanted to do was paint.

  But he had made it at last, and there was a fine turnout, too. Of course he had expected his family to be there. Even his grandparents had come up from the Crimea especially for the showing. Most importantly, however, Talia was there. The centerpiece of the exhibit was the painting of her as “Dawn.” She had not seen it completed, and Andrei had worried that she would not make it because she was touring Europe with the ballet company, and the only date the gallery had available was a mere two days after her last show in Berlin. But miraculously, she had made it. Yuri had met her at Warsaw Station and brought her directly to the gallery.

  No one thought much of it when Andrei strode exuberantly up to her, embraced her, and kissed her on her soft, pale cheek. Those observers couldn’t hear his heart pound, nor feel the passion course through him as he held her close. But, then again, neither could Talia feel these things or even notice them. She couldn’t know how hard it was for him not to press his lips against her sweet lips, tasting her, loving her . . .

  Only Yuri gave Andrei a somewhat strange look after he welcomed Talia. But Andrei ignored it and tried to ignore his brother altogether. He tried not to notice how Talia was with Yuri almost exclusively when Andrei’s attention, as guest of honor, was demanded elsewhere. But he couldn’t deny the sickening fact that, even after months abroad and exposure to the créme de la créme of European society, she was still in love with Yuri.

  Andrei made that much more of an effort to throw himself into the festivities of the evening, flitting among the other guests, shamelessly promoting himself and his art. If nothing else, maybe he could make a sale or two.

  He sidled up to a heavyset man who was admiring a work entitled “Frosty Morning,” an Impressionistic piece he had done a few years ago that captured a scene of a lone skater on a small pond on the Neva with the city-scape vaguely rising in the background. Andrei found it was a singularly uninspired work and had included it in the
show only as filler. But the man gazing at it as he leaned heavily on a cane seemed rather taken with it. He was obviously not a connoisseur of the arts.

  “I painted that several winters ago,” Andrei offered, not mentioning that he had been inexperienced and unenlightened at the time. “Do you know that was the coldest day in St. Petersburg for ten years before and since?”

  “How interesting. I believe I recognize that pond.” The man shifted his weight so that he could look at the painting from another angle. “Yes, it looks quite familiar—”

  “It should,” came a new voice from behind both men. Andrei recognized it immediately as belonging to his grandfather.

  Both Andrei and the heavyset man turned sharply. “Grandfather,” said Andrei.

  “Grandfather . . . ?” The heavy man was truly perplexed, his flabby brow creasing.

  Viktor seemed amused at the man’s befuddlement. “Didn’t you know, Count Vlasenko, that the great artist, Andrei Christinin, whose work you are so admiring is my grandson? A small world, isn’t it?” To Andrei he added, “This is Count Cyril Vlasenko, Andrei, our distant relative. And I am not surprised that pond looks familiar to you, Count. The Fedorcenko Estate overlooks it.”

  Vlasenko rallied quickly from his surprise. “You, of course, must mean the Vlasenko Estate.”

  “Yes, of course . . .” Viktor said coldly.

  Andrei knew well the Vlasenko name, even if he hadn’t been able to immediately recognize the person. But before he could respond or attempt to diffuse the chilly atmosphere, Viktor spoke again.

  “It’s been a long time, Cyril. I believe I can be big enough to let go of the past, if you can.”

  Vlasenko shrugged. “What past, eh? And to prove how big I can be—figuratively speaking, of course—” He paused to chuckle at his wit, and Viktor managed a smile also. “I wish to purchase this painting. I think it will make an excellent gift for my son, who, by the way, is about to be made Chief of Surgery at the St. Petersburg Sisters of Charity Hospital.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard,” said Viktor. “My grandson Yuri is an intern there.”

  “Is he, now? Well, perhaps one day he will rise to such heights.”

  “I don’t doubt it a bit. He’s already been called as a consultant at the Imperial palace.” Andrei saw the proud gleam in his grandfather’s eye and knew that, though the two men spoke of burying the past, they would always be rivals.

  “Ah, yes . . . well, about the painting. Would you take thirty rubles for it?”

  Andrei couldn’t tell if Vlasenko was speaking tongue-in-cheek or not. He certainly appeared serious in his offer. Andrei tried not to show his affront—he wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction. But thirty rubles would barely cover the cost of materials on a painting the size of “Frosty Morning.” But he knew he had to make some response, and quickly, because he saw fire begin to flash in his grandfather’s eyes.

  “Count Vlasenko, I wouldn’t dream of selling one of my paintings to a member of the family. Please, take it as a gift,” Andrei said amiably. The look of surprise on Vlasenko’s face and the approving look on Viktor’s face was reward enough.

  “Well, I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “A mere thanks is plenty.”

  “All right . . . thank you.”

  As Vlasenko waddled away, Viktor grinned and put an arm around Andrei. “That was an inspired gesture, son. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that old scoundrel at such a loss for words. But it is a shame he will now possess one of your paintings.”

  “That’s a terrible piece of work, Grandfather. I think the Vlasenkos deserve it.”

  Viktor burst out laughing and was still chuckling a while later when Andrei saw him talking with his wife. And Andrei felt an odd sense of pride that he had struck a blow for the family honor. It almost made him regret abandoning the family name.

  Later he shared the story of the incident with Yuri and Talia, who also milked a good laugh from it.

  “But Vlasenko is in for a big disappointment,” said Yuri, “if he thinks Karl has a chance at that promotion. He’s already been passed over, and I have it on good authority that he doesn’t have a chance this time.”

  “I’ll bet you’d have the job, Yuri, if you weren’t just an intern,” said Talia, her girlish admiration obvious. “Andrei, did Yuri tell you about attending the tsarevich?”

  “Of course,” Andrei responded drolly. “He’s been gloating about it for days. Next thing we know he will start behaving like Rasputin himself.”

  “Heaven forbid!” said Yuri.

  “So, you’ve changed your tune about that charlatan?” Yuri shrugged, and Andrei knew it was hard for him to admit his mistake, but Andrei pressed relentlessly. “It wasn’t long ago you were singing the Mad Monk’s praises. Whatever happened?”

  “I was not praising the man. I was merely countering your outrageous remarks about his importance in the government. And, no matter what anyone thinks of Rasputin, it is pure hogwash to believe the tsar is controlled in any way by him.”

  “So, now you are just a loyal monarchist, eh, brother?” challenged Andrei. “It didn’t take much for them to get you to kiss their—”

  “Here we go again!” Talia rolled her eyes. “But I’m not going to put up with it this time. I’m going to visit with your mother.” And she turned as swiftly and gracefully as if she were on stage and strode away.

  Andrei scowled at Yuri.

  “What did I do?” Yuri protested.

  “Nothing. I’ll see you later, too. I’ve got business to do.” Andrei turned too, wondering why he continued to put up with things as they were. He was a fool, and it was absolutely no comfort that Yuri was no less a fool.

  Yuri tried to distract himself by studying his brother’s paintings. But he made no pretense at understanding art, especially Andrei’s modern interpretation of art. For example, the work in front of him called “Portrait of Pavlokov.” He assumed it was supposed to represent their uncle Paul. Yuri did see a couple of eyes in the painting, one near the top and another about six inches lower and to the left of the work; there was also a hand—a very nice hand, too, long and fine, emulating intelligence and sensitivity, very obviously belonging to a man like Uncle Paul. Yet it was located somewhere in the vicinity of where a knee should be. And, other than those body parts, there was little else that hinted at the human form in the painting. If Yuri were a psychoanalyst, he might diagnose the creator of that piece of art as having serious mental problems.

  However, even Yuri had to admit he was impressed by the painting of “Dawn.” Knowing it was of Talia only made it that much more intriguing. It was a deeply moving work, even if the abstract presentation was hard to fathom. It occurred to Yuri that the artist could not have produced such a work without some intense feelings toward his subject. But then again, what did he know about the artistic process?

  “Quite a fascinating work, isn’t it?” came a voice at Yuri’s back.

  “Vladimir!” Yuri greeted his friend Vladimir Baklanov. “I had no idea you were a patron of the arts.”

  “Galleries are wonderful places to meet women of means, you know.”

  “Oh, you cad!” Yuri slapped him on the back. “It’s good to see you. How long has it been?”

  “Three months since I joined that law firm in Moscow.”

  “And so, are you now a converted Muscovite?”

  “Are you kidding? I jumped at the chance to take a case here in the Capital. I only arrived yesterday, heard about Andrei’s showing, and hoped to see you here.”

  “That’s ironic, because I’ll be going to Moscow in a few days—only for a medical conference, though. Just a brief stay.”

  “Well, I shall be here for a few weeks, so when you return from Moscow we can get together. I want to visit all the old haunts—The Bear, The Villa Rhode, you know, like old times.”

  “You act as if you’ve been in a social vacuum in Moscow.”

  “It hasn’t near the attractions o
f Petersburg. But I can help you make a few social connections should you want some diversion while you are there.”

  “Really?” Yuri rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then, you do get around socially there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps you are familiar with a certain family—the Zhenechkas.”

  “Yes, in fact our firm represents Count Zhenechka’s business—what a tyrant he is! You’d think with all that vodka he produces he’d be a bit looser.”

  “Well, I wasn’t exactly interested in the count.”

  “Ah, his daughter . . . now, I remember, you met her at Youssoupov’s engagement party last year. Are you and she . . . ?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Vladimir’s brow creased and the jovial glint in his eyes momentarily dimmed.

  “What is it, Vlad?” It had never occurred to Yuri until then that perhaps Katya’s failure to reply to his letters had been due to some tragedy in her life. Perhaps she was ill—or worse.

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen or heard from her?”

  “Months, I suppose. Is something wrong?” But when Vladimir hesitated, Yuri pressed, “Come on, Vlad, tell me.”

  “Well, Yuri, it’s just that I have seen her on several occasions. We often travel in the same social circles, especially since there are such a limited number of social circles there, you know—but, of course, society in Russia is like that, isn’t it—?”

  “Vlad, get on with it! Tell me about Katya.”

  “You really care for her, Yuri?” Yuri only gave him a dark look that said he was losing his patience, and Vladimir continued. “Every time I’ve seen her, Yuri, she has been with the same man, a Count Pytor Prokunin. I heard a rumor that they . . .” He paused, licked his lips, and reluctantly finished, “Well, Yuri, that they are as good as engaged.”

  “A rumor, you say?”

  “I know for a fact—and this is privileged information, and I am risking a great deal in telling you because of client-lawyer confidentiality—but Count Zhenechka has had our firm draw up papers regarding dowry and such for a match between Prokunin and his daughter. I tell you only because of our friendship.”