“Imagine that!” said a young woman, a barmaid, clinging possessively to Rasputin’s side.
The starets leaned down and kissed her lips, pressing seductively close to her body. “Oh, my sweet little thing, your devotion isn’t wasted on a nobody. I am the very voice of God in the Imperial ear. The tsaritsa loves me as a father. We are very . . . very close.” He chuckled, then added, “So close, she can’t live without her dear Friend.”
“I never doubted for a moment your high esteem, Father Grigori. Look what I bought in the market today.” She produced a photograph of the monk.
He grinned. The souvenir hockers were making quite a profit selling the photos. “Shall I autograph it for you, my dear?”
“Oh, please do! I shall hang it next to my most sacred icon.”
“I’m not deserving of such an honor. I am only a humble man, a sinner whom God has chosen to use. Only through sin am I redeemed. The more the sin, the greater the salvation. Man must sin, you know, in order to have something to repent of. So, yield, I say, to sin—yield as often as God sends temptation. Do not resist. Then you will truly know the contrition of humility, and your penance will rise up to God as a sweet, sweet savor.”
He continued on this topic for several minutes, then suddenly stopped and grabbed the girl. “Come,” he said, his eyes penetrating her with open lust, “let me help you reach that true ecstasy of the spirit.”
She didn’t resist when he took her hand and they boarded his carriage, which drove them directly back to his hotel.
Later that evening Anna Vyrubova came to the hotel to visit Rasputin—one of her many calls on him since their arrival in Yalta. She often spent hours in his company, confirming to all who observed—and that was nearly all of Yalta society—that his boasts about his closeness to the royal family must have some validity. But Rasputin was on his best behavior when Anna was there. The moment his loyal spies informed him that her carriage was approaching, he chased out the barmaid he was with and made sure the samovar was replenished. The pious Anna might not understand his copious consumption of wine, and she most definitely would not understand his . . . other appetites. Besides, he couldn’t have her bringing back unsavory reports to Mama and Papa.
The gossips were at it again. They were so cruel and spiteful. Alexandra was growing to hate them all. Didn’t they have anything better to do than to spread their vile rumors about her dear Friend? And now they were whispering about Anna Vyrubova, too. How could they say such garbage about Alexandra’s best friend? Just because she wished to spend time with a holy man, sitting at his feet, basking in his wisdom, the gossips chose to taint it with filth and innuendo.
The tsaritsa’s confidant cavorting with the Mad Monk? What drivel! There was no more innocent, godly woman than Anna. Her heart was as pure as . . . as the gossips’ hearts were evil. But the sad thing was that the rumors were beginning to get to Nicky. Alexandra tried to reason with him.
“Nicky, you know how jealous they are of Our Friend. They cannot understand true holiness. You know what is said about a prophet not being accepted in his own land.”
“I know, Alix, but . . .” The tsar’s voice trailed away momentarily. It was apparent he hated what he was about to say. “Even if the things they say might be lies—that is, they are lies, but they can be no less harmful to the esteem of the throne.”
“And what about Alexis?”
“He has been doing quite well lately.”
That was true. In the last few months there had been no more of his terrible spells. He had hardly bled at all after his tooth extraction. Alexis’s color had returned fully, and he had even grown an inch. He was the picture of health. And Alexandra had allowed herself to hope that perhaps their holy Friend’s prayers had at last brought about the long-sought-after permanent healing. Nevertheless, was it wise to cut off the provider of such a profound blessing? She said as much to Nicky.
“But, Sunny, dear,” Nicky cajoled softly, “I’m not suggesting we cut Our Friend off entirely. But I think merely a brief vacation from the center of things for a short time is advisable. Only a short visit to his village . . . until the tongues stop wagging, you know. We have the matter of Olga to consider, too.”
Ah, yes. The Minister of Foreign Affairs, Sazonov, had been working hard to cement a betrothal between Alexandra’s eldest daughter, Olga, and the Crown Prince of Rumania, Carol. In a few days a trip was planned to Rumania, where a state reception was to be held, and where the romantic waters would be tested between Carol and Olga. Alexandra wanted a good match for her daughter, and though she completely repudiated the gossips, she realized what even a hint of scandal could do to Olga’s matrimonial prospects. Still, wasn’t their son’s welfare more important than anything?
“But, Nicky—”
“I’m sorry, Alix.” The tsar’s voice was firmer than was usual when he spoke to his wife. “This must be done.” Then he softened. “Grigori will be but a telegram away. Remember what he did from Siberia during the awful time at Spala? He will always be there for you.”
So, with the resignation of a true martyr, Alexandra allowed fate to follow its course. But this time she made certain that Father Grigori understood that she in no way believed all the lies tendered about him and that she had done all she could on his behalf.
30
Once again, Yuri buried himself in his work—not a difficult thing to do, since the life of an intern was so hectic. Because of the lateness of his shifts, he often spent several nights in a row at the hospital. Talia never guessed that he was avoiding her. It would have been much more convenient if she had returned to her ballet tour, but the spring season was over and the company was on sabbatical.
That first morning after their passionate encounter, he had immediately realized what a mistake he had made. But when she greeted him with that glow of love in her eyes, he simply hadn’t had the heart to say anything to her. And her confession that she had loved him for years only made it harder. Yuri had always considered himself a sensitive man, but apparently it wasn’t true. If he had been, he would have noticed her feelings long ago. And he most certainly would not have taken advantage of her as he had that night on the Nicholas Bridge.
Or would he? He had been so caught up in the emotion of the moment and so terribly needy. Talia’s love, the intensity of her affection, had filled the dark void left by Katya’s rejection. For that moment, at least, it had affirmed to him that he was not completely worthless.
In retrospect, however, their encounter only proved how worthless he truly was. That night after he had fallen into a wretched sleep, his dreams had not been of Talia, but rather of Katya. Still he could not get her out of his mind—or heart.
What kind of man was he?
A coward.
Each time he saw Talia over the next several days, which amounted to only two or three times, he could not find the strength to tell her it all had been a mistake. It didn’t help that in so doing he would also be proving his brother right.
But then an interesting thought occurred to Yuri. Did he really have to say anything to Talia? Why not accept her love? A man could do a lot worse. He did care deeply for her—even loved her, though only as a sister. But marriages had been built on far less. Why not accept a life with Talia? They could be happy—she was obviously happy now, basking in her love finally requited. He certainly should have no complaints when a woman as lovely as Talia was showering him with devotion.
Why not? he asked himself once more, as if he dared an answer to appear.
Yuri had made his decision. He would go to Moscow and use the time there to reflect further on the situation. If for some reason he reached a negative conclusion, he would talk to Talia. But he felt certain he could make things work. When he said good-bye to Talia the night before his departure, he kissed her for the first time since the Nicholas Bridge without sensing a shadow looming over them.
The cardiology conference in Moscow proved to be quite stimulating and informative.
Yuri thought he might be bored between meetings, but there was a great deal of material to read and study. He almost declined an invitation from several of the younger doctors for an evening of recreation. But it was important for advancement in his profession to cultivate relationships with others in medicine. These were young men, hardly at the age where they wielded much influence, but two were sons of important men in the field. In the end, he went along.
Moscow’s night life, in Yuri’s opinion, was not nearly as lively as that of St. Petersburg, but it was not a desert, either. Still, he enjoyed it only half-heartedly. The complications that awaited him in Petersburg always lurked on the fringes of his mind. And then there was Katya. Before speaking to Vladimir, Yuri had actually entertained the idea of seeking her out during his trip to Moscow. He hoped that somehow in person he could appeal to her in a way his letters never had. Perhaps he actually had a chance with her. But now the shame of his folly goaded him. He wasn’t about to make an attempt to see her again. Even Yuri Fedorcenko had only so much capacity for rejection.
Nevertheless he couldn’t keep his thoughts from focusing on her. In a chic nightclub called The Caverns, he heard the familiar laughter and was certain he had imagined it. His heart nearly stopped when he saw her seated with a group of half a dozen others, three tables away. At the same instant, she glanced up and their eyes met. His chest constricted with an awful ache, partly because of his own sudden pain, but partly because of something in Katya’s eyes. He must get control of his imagination. There simply could not have been sadness in her eyes, nor yearning, nor caring.
Oddly, Count Prokunin was not among her companions.
Yuri, you are a fool. Give it up.
Against everything that was sane and rational in him, he found himself rising from his chair and walking to her table.
“What a coincidence, Countess Zhenechka!” He listened to the casual tone in his own voice as if from outside himself, as if viewing an actor on the stage. His clicked his heels together and grinned, as he had observed his uncle Dmitri do on many occasions, and held out his hand to her.
“Prince Fedorcenko, this is a surprise.” Her tone was equally casual, but as she took his hand, she lifted eyes to him that seemed disturbed. Were they both such incredible actors?
“I don’t want to interrupt your party, but I did want to greet you at least—it would have been quite rude of me to ignore you, wouldn’t it?”
“I can be a forgiving soul.”
“Can you, now? A virtue I haven’t acquired, I’m afraid.”
Her cardboard smile faltered and momentarily died, then the corners of her lips turned up once more in a very mechanical smile.
Yuri seemed to have no control over himself now; despite his better judgment, he pressed on. “And I understand congratulations are due you, Countess?”
“For what?”
“On your engagement.”
Several of her companions responded to this with a flurry of surprised comments, which she immediately quelled.
“Whoever are your sources, Prince Fedorcenko?” she said with a little chuckle. “Those St. Petersburg gossips never could get anything right.”
“It’s not true?” The actor in Yuri faltered and his real self emerged, completely perplexed, confused, staggered.
She laughed. “Life is just too much fun to be spoiled with marriage.” But there was something unreal about her laugh, something hollow in her words.
“Well, then, I will leave you to your party,” Yuri managed to mutter, desperately looking for a fast escape.
“Why don’t you join us?” It was more of a challenge than an invitation.
“I’m with friends.”
“Then some other time, perhaps.”
Yuri knew he would seek her out. He couldn’t sleep that night for thinking of her. And he cursed the conference meetings the next day because his sense of duty required him to attend, even though it was the last place he wanted to be just then. When the final session ended, he left immediately. This was his last day in Moscow. It was now or never.
It wasn’t difficult to locate the large Zhenechka Estate in town. But Yuri’s zeal began to falter as his taxi pulled up in front. Was he really going to do this? He must be insane. What if she rejected him again? The idea brought an ironic grin to his face. That hadn’t stopped him before, why should it now? Perhaps it got easier with each rejection. If so, by now, he ought to be able to shrug them off with a laugh.
He was still weak-kneed, however, as he walked up to her door. He pulled the bell cord and heard beautiful chimes within. As he waited, he entertained one frantic thought of leaving. He still had a chance to change his mind. He’d even told the cab to wait. Then he heard footsteps and knew it was too late.
To the butler who answered the door, he introduced himself, giving the man his card, and asked to see Countess Zhenechka.
“Are you expected?” asked the butler.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then, I shall see if she is available. But she usually doesn’t take callers without previous arrangements.”
Yuri waited awkwardly in the entryway. The Zhenechka wealth was quite evident even here with its hardwood floor of intricate inlaid wood designs, crystal chandelier overhead, and walls decorated with several pieces of fine art. He examined the art. There were no masters present, but they seemed to be originals of the Renaissance period. But he forgot all about the art when he heard her voice.
“Yuri.” An electric charge coursed through him. She spoke his name with such familiarity. Images of the Crimea washed over him, and for a moment he was back there again, with her at his side.
He spun around, and his first glimpse of her left him breathless. She was so much softer than she had been last night. She wore a pale yellow day dress of a gauzy fabric that draped in delicate folds around her shoulders. But that delicate look came not just from her clothes, but from a kind of aura radiating from her very person. Her amber hair had grown since he last saw her and now fell in soft waves about her shoulders, wisps of curls framing her luminous face. Her lips quirked in a tentative smile, and her eyes glimmered. She looked like a Greek goddess.
“Hello, Katya.” He tried to be cool and aloof as he had been at the nightclub, but it was impossible. “I’m sorry for not calling first.”
“I have come to expect that from you, Yuri.” There was amusement in her eyes and no reproach at all.
He wanted to throw his arms around her, but instead they just stood facing each other. “As long as you don’t throw me out.” He forced a chuckle from his tight throat. He was hoping for an invitation into the parlor.
Instead, she said, “No, I won’t.” But no invitation came.
Taking courage from her kind reception, he pressed, “Could we . . . talk?”
“I knew you’d come today,” she began.
“Just like a loyal puppy.”
“I don’t want a puppy, Yuri.”
“What do you want, Katya?”
“If only I had a simple answer to such a simple question . . .”
“Simple answers have never been good enough for me, anyway.”
She smiled. “Would you like to walk outside?”
“I have a cab waiting.”
“Then, take me somewhere.”
She didn’t stop for a wrap but just slipped her arm through Yuri’s and led the way outside. Yuri followed, still feeling a bit like a puppy, but not caring. She could not look at him that way if she didn’t care for him . . . just a little.
31
As they drove along Tverskaya Prospekt into the heart of Moscow, she said, “I’m afraid I will give you the wrong impression.”
Straight ahead the red brick walls of the Kremlin gleamed in the silvery light of the summer gloaming. The steady clip-clop of the horses filled the silence that followed Katya’s words. Yuri was afraid to respond. He had asked her if they could talk, yet he did not want to risk the sense of peace he felt between them at this moment
. So he said nothing until the silence became as oppressive as a royal decree.
“How could you do that?” he said, then held his breath waiting for his fleeting happiness to be shattered.
“By coming with you tonight, by agreeing to talk. Yet I was too cruel to you before in Petersburg when I cut you off so coldly. I hope you can forgive me.”
“I’m here, am I not?”
“Yes, but I don’t think you came only to be told, though more kindly, that there can be no future for us. Still, I must tell you the truth. I care for you too much to hurt you again.”
“Why, Katya? If only I understood why. You say you care for me, yet you push me away. Is there someone else? Prokunin? Is your father insisting that you marry him?”
She gave a petulant shake of her head. “Prokunin! He is nothing to me, and there is no way I would marry him, no matter what my father wants. Our families are trying to arrange a union. But I won’t have it. I don’t think I will ever marry. There are too many . . . complications.”
“I don’t care about that, Katya! You have referred to your past before, but nothing you could have ever done would bother me. I love you, Katya—”
“Hush, Yuri! Please, don’t talk that way. It only makes things harder.”
“Good. The harder it is for you to reject me, the better. I will only say it again: I love you—all of you, your past, your mistakes, your future—all.”
“You would, dear Yuri,” she said with a sad sigh. “And that is why I must take the initiative and set you free.”
“I don’t want to be free.”
“I will not destroy your life.”
With a sharp intake of breath he rolled his eyes in frustration. “You are a stubborn wench.”
“Wench, is it?” she retorted with mock affront.
He grinned, hoping a bit of levity would steer them back to a better path. “Exactly! Shakespeare’s Katherina comes especially to mind.”
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