The executive secretary pats her lips with a napkin. “You should know, Darya Borisovna, that we received a recent telegraph informing us that a claimant to the throne has been living quietly in Russia.”
“Where?” Darya cries out. “Right here? The Tsarevich himself? His son? Grandson perhaps?”
“You may find that out for yourself. Being the only surviving member of that Imperial Court, you are best suited to confirm, or refute, this person’s claim. A meeting can be arranged.”
Darya clutches her cane, the contours of her body acquiring a new youthfulness. “When? Where?”
“As soon as you are ready to travel to the estate of Grand Duchess Sophia Sheremetev.”
Chapter Six
Knife in hand, Darya risks the steep stairs to the upper level, making her way across the hallway of her home. Along the walls remain faded traces of frames of all sizes, the theft of which she never stops to grieve, her memories of the Imperial Court—coronations, births, anniversaries, deaths—etched on those canvases.
The same impudent rodent that gnawed at her toes this morning scrambles behind her and up the steps, intent on raiding her secret hiding place and digging its greedy teeth into her treasure. She lifts her cane to plunge the silver tip down in one fast motion. Her arm held high, it occurs to her that enough is enough. Ekaterinburg has seen its share of death.
She shoos the rodent off with a flip of the cane, pressing her lips to the handle, the double-headed eagles, the cane’s shaft smooth with polishing oils—sandalwood, ginger, and patchouli. She glances around to check if she is alone, an unshakable habit from the past. A smile on her plump lips, she mimics the Tsar, raises his cane above her head, and waves it with agility improbable for her age, as if the Tsar were reprimanding his only son for concealing himself beneath the dinner table at a state gala held in the Entertainment Palace. He had removed the high-heeled shoe of the Grand Duchess Chostayovska and planted it on the table in front of his father. The Tsar had ordered his son to return the “trophy” to its rightful owner, which the Tsarevich had, but not before dropping a plump, juicy strawberry inside. The grand duchess had squeezed her foot back into her shoe, a horrible smile pasted on her rouged face. The child was not allowed to attend formal events for several weeks after that.
An unfair punishment, Darya had bristled, since it was not often that Alyosha’s health allowed him to attend such ceremonies. As far as she was concerned, a firm warning from his father would have sufficed. Still, he was a good father, Nicholas II; he certainly was.
Making her way down the hall, Darya takes a moment to acknowledge the mounted aurochs head above the door to the salon, its dull gaze a permanent reminder of her parents. This, too, is a long-held habit, as if ignoring the first aurochs Sabrina hunted might unleash more misfortunes. She wiggles two fingers in her pocket and a breeze of butterflies emerges to soften her mood, adorn her hair, and burrow into the faded ermine embellishing her collar.
She unlocks the door and steps inside. The salon is an oval-shaped theater, where she once shared a tumbler or two of vodka with the Imperial Family and their guests, where she continues to enjoy her evening vodka laced with hallucinatory berries. Just enough to stir her memories to life without blotting out her present. The Corinthian columns, flaking stucco, and patterned parquet floor are reminders of a distant opulent era, resplendent with imperial silver, porcelain, crystal, and exotic flowers shipped from the imperial greenhouse at Tsarskoe Selo. This is where Château Lafite, Mouton Rothschild, and Larose were in endless supply and the French champagne, Monopole from Charles Heidsieck in Rheims, bubbled like eternal springs. Where dinners were followed by ballets performed by the Mariinsky Theater corps de ballet, and ornate menus with the imperial warrant, supplied by his majesty’s court printer, A. A. Levinson Moscow, were a much coveted souvenir of an evening of art and music and culinary bliss.
Now, a lattice of cobwebs clings to the chandelier that hangs over a stage. A finger-depth of water from a leak overhead encircles the stage that should have rotted decades ago, but excellent wood and craftsmanship hold it together. The sound-making machine for wind, thunder, and rain and a device that once raised the orchestra pit so the theater could be used as a ballroom were plundered in front of her eyes when the revolution was still in full force. She had crouched behind the velvet curtains then, her mourning heart a bloody fist in her chest, her veins jumping at her temples as the thieves combed through every niche and corner, poking their bayonets up the shaft of the fireplaces, ripping the blue damask of the Louis XVI sofas and armchairs, yanking the French goblin tapestry off the wall, carting away the massive silk carpet, a gift from Sultan Abdul Hamid II of the Ottoman Empire. She was thirty-one years old then and did not know how to utilize her greatest asset; a glare from her recently cracked opal eye would have sent any thief bolting to the nearest exit.
She lingers in front of the last portrait Avram had painted of her, which the Bolshevik bastards found no use for. She strokes the canvas, the grief palpable in every brushstroke. She is naked in the painting, reclining on a dais, her nipples erect, her soft curves half-lit by the chandelier, her grief-stricken eyes gazing at the painter with a blend of wonder and adoration.
In the gold-framed, tarnished mirror above the fireplace, she gazes at the ancient woman with hair like silver seas. With steady thumb and forefinger, she plucks out a black strand woven among her curls. Her bug-eyed servant has strict orders not to light the two fireplaces in the salon or any of the thirty-six others around her home. It took a chunk of ambergris and the powers of a wandering monk for her to understand why fires thrust her into fits of shivering, piercing her marrow like gusts of Siberian winds.
Wrapped in a blanket, Little Servant walks around the Entertainment Palace in winter, setting small blazes to keep himself warm, unable to comprehend what sort of blood runs in his mistress’s veins to make her react in such a strange manner.
She squats by the fireplace, checks the flue for dirt or rat droppings. Finding none, she flicks off a fleck of dust from the gold molding around the hearth, and then pulls out a large package from a hidden niche up the flue.
She unravels layers of fabric to reveal a porous, waxy chunk of ambergris, the ashy shades variegated like marble. She caresses the ambergris, rubs her palms together, raising them to her nose to drink in the perfume of ages, the high and low tides, the warmth of sun-drenched waves, lightning in the Crimean skies, hot sand flowing between her toes. The salon fills with the scent of ocean breeze, warm honey, and crustaceans, sending her reeling back to the day her mother gave her the Fabergé necklace, back to her life with the Romanovs, and to Rasputin and that fateful day by the Crimean shores when she discovered this ambergris.
Spreading her fingers across the surface, she measures half, then three-fourths, then a bit more. This much she owes to the Tsarevich. Bracing herself, she raises the knife and brings it down with a swift motion, dissecting the ambergris.
Like a warning, something pokes out of the cut section. With great trepidation, she passes her palm over the buttery surface to discover what might be embedded in it. Her fingers catch upon the object, smooth and hard. She grabs the tip and carefully loosens it, jiggling it this way and that, a bit more pressure to dislodge it without causing damage. Out slides a miniature enamel hand splayed as if in prayer. With two fingers, she carefully grasps the little hand, never letting go, afraid it might break or slip back and bury itself again. Her breath painful in her chest, she coaxes out the rest. An amulet! A mythical childlike figure with pointed emerald ears and an opal stomach gapes at her with ruby eyes.
She lets out a cry of disbelief, closes her fist around the amulet and then opens her hand again to take a closer look. Her heart thrashing about, she rests the amulet on her open palm and checks the back, her forefinger verifying an engraving. Hastening to the window, she flips the curtains open, raising a cloud of dust and letting in a shaft of light that is not much help. She needs her magnifying glass. It
is illogical that her eyes pierce through people’s chests to decipher their emotions but have trouble reading small characters. She rifles through a stack of yellowing newspapers on a side table, in the drawers of the ornate cabinet, behind the portrait leaning on the mirror above the mantelpiece. She half-opens the door and calls, “Little Servant! The magnifying glass. Immediately!” She paces back and forth, cursing the slow dwarf, who must be drunk on berries.
A tentative scratch on the door. “Madame. Your magnifying glass.”
She thrusts her hand out and grabs the glass, lowering it over the engraving, moving it up and down, back and forth. Unable to trust her eyes, she wipes the glass with her skirt and gazes at the engraving with the possessed eyes of a nonbeliever.
Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov August 12, 1904
The memory of the Tsarevich’s christening day remains vibrantly alive after eighty-seven years. A great honor was conferred upon her that hot summer day. A young, inexperienced orphan appointed to carry the heir to the Russian throne to the baptismal font. Even then, she already felt the Tsarevich with her heart, with every nerve in her body, deep in her bone marrow. That day she had pinned this very amulet to the Tsarevich’s baptism robe, slightly to the left, just above his heart. The amulet disappeared several years later. With its loss, the Romanov fortunes turned for the worse.
She gropes for an understanding, which is out of her grasp for now, fastens the amulet to her dress, then goes to the full-length mirror of mottled glass on the other end of the salon to check herself. The baptism comes to life in the mirror. The Imperial Family, dignitaries from around the world, diplomats, grand dukes and grand duchesses congregated in the chapel in the Peterhof Palace to celebrate with the Tsar and Tsarina as if all were well in their world. But all was not well. Russia was at war with Japan. The Russian navy was struggling. A series of defeats ignited the people’s anger. Discontent with the Imperial Family, for their presumed indifference to corruption in the government, was simmering around the nation. Unions were formed by liberals, socialists, Marxists, and populists. Seeds of a revolution were being planted.
Darya folds the remaining ambergris in its protective layers and tucks it back onto the upper niche of the fireplace. She inspects the rest of the room for signs of intrusion, the curlicues over the window, the precise details obscure now, the once magnificent indigo faded, the rusting lock on the windows. The stem of the chandelier, covered with decaying velvet, still firmly anchored, sways slightly, as if at the hand of a playful ghost. She steps out of the salon and locks the door behind her, nudging the handle this way and that as she does with every other locked door across the upper corridor. Life has taught her to be on her guard. No telling when another dissident, another soldier, or another group of revolutionaries might burst through the door and attempt to pilfer more of her memories.
“Dinner is being served, Madame,” Little Servant calls from the lower level.
“I am busy,” she replies, descending the stairs.
Little Servant is at the landing, his face drooping with disappointment. “A tumbler of vodka, perhaps?”
“Maybe later, but do not wait for me. Have your dinner, let out the cats, and feed the butterflies.”
She enters her room. Selecting a couple of the Empress’s outfits, two sets of underwear, a pair of shoes, and another in case of a formal event, she lays them on the bed next to the ambergris. She checks a handbag with a catch of coils tipped with metal balls that snap into each other. The purse is sturdy enough to hold the precious jewels she will be carrying to the Sheremetev Estate, jewels she has been safeguarding for decades. Her mouth is bitter with the taste of ash at the pungent memory of the day she buried the imperial jewels under floorboards in the cellar here. She cursed and screamed and grieved as she buried sapphires, rubies, diamonds, pearls, and emeralds, certain they would be returned to their rightful owner one day. She was right. That day is here.
She crosses the length of her bedroom toward the moth-filled storage room with its odor of things past their prime. She tries to avoid this place. Once the Tsar’s library, the room is now storage for abandoned chests, trunks, and assorted boxes. She takes a quick look around and selects a valise, the pigskin dulled with the patina of time, the elaborate gold studs imparting an air of decadence. A faint memory of having seen this valise somewhere in the palace, or perhaps being carried by one of the servants, is sparked. She snuffs out the memory and drags out the valise, depositing it on the bed. Surprised at the ease with which the lock clicks open, she takes a closer look, discovering that the lock and the studs are made of solid gold, which, unlike humans, does not rust. She lifts the top, stirring up a whiff of mildew and stale cologne.
A folded piece of paper, a page perhaps ripped from a notebook, lies forlorn and yellowing in a corner of the spider-webbed, opium-brown lining. She steps back and observes the sheet as if it might come to life and bite her or open wide a door to intruding memories that she would rather keep at bay. The outline of some inscription peeks out under a curved edge of the paper. She picks it up with thumb and forefinger, checking every angle before unfolding the delicate sheet to reveal the handwriting she knows well. The inscription, somewhat slanted, the delicacy of certain letters with their elongated loops, the bluish purple ink, a special formula resistant to fading. Yes, she has no doubt the handwriting belongs to Tsar Nicholas II. He was meticulous, her Tsar, he certainly was, caring about every loop and precise curlicue set on paper.
A vein in her throat hammers as she settles on the edge of the bed and carefully smooths the paper on her lap. Her glance jumps up to the top of the page, seeking a headline, a date, which is missing.
It has been an especially difficult day. It is hot and we are not allowed to open windows. Sunny’s sciatica forces her to remain in bed… The girls busy themselves with crocheting. And…Alexei…boredom…with his box of trinkets. At nine there was a vesper service. The day of the Feast of Presentation we had to forego church service…did not allow it. It is heartbreaking to hear…what is happening in Petrograd… How could those Bolshevik scoundrels… My soul is in turmoil. I am preoccupied with the same…thought. Mogilev! War! Such poor judgment…lifetime of torment…forgive this sin…why did you? Why? Lord…cannot…not even with Sunny…the details I shall take to my grave.
Darya turns the page around, this way and that, searching for another sentence, another word, hoping to unearth the meaning of the faded letters, any clue to illuminate the reason for the Tsar’s agony. What could have burdened him with such personal torment? She passes a finger over the frayed edge, certain now that the sheet must have been torn from the journal he most likely kept when residing in the House of Special Purpose.
She folds the paper and tucks it into the lining of the suitcase, another mystery assigned to the revelations of time.
Clad in a black velvet dress trimmed with handmade gauze, flowing sleeves, and a train frayed by thousands of accidental footsteps, she lifts the suitcase and begins her journey to the estate of Grand Duchess Sophia Sheremetev.
Chapter Seven
A warm Crimean breeze transports the faraway roar of waterfalls through the window of the rented Volga, the engine coughing spurts of black smoke. Farther on the horizon, beyond the subtropical belt of thriving foliage, an ancient volcano pierces the brilliant sky. Grape-lush vineyards adorn the valleys along the cliffs. Darya’s eye throbs at the memory of those far-gone years, when hundreds of bottles of red and white wine from Massandra, the Emperor’s Crimean estate, were consumed during winter balls in St. Petersburg.
Eighty years have passed since she last set eyes on this marvelous landscape of jutting cliffs, deep canyons, and lush mountains that look over the Black Sea. On these shores, she found the ambergris. On these shores, Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin succeeded in breaking her resistance and thrusting her into a hypnotic trance. And on these shores, her mother, Princess Sabrina Josephine of Corinin, gave her the Fabergé egg necklace she has been carrying like a ta
lisman for eighty-eight years.
Now, decades later, her memory intact, Darya turns to Rostislav behind the wheel. “Do what you can to move this monstrous car. You are not transporting breakable goods.”
Rostislav wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “We should have checked into an inn first.”
“Nyet! Never. The less time in these hateful places, the better.” Even when her continued search for the Tsarevich takes her away from home, forcing her to rent a room, she makes a point of leaving her meager belongings in her travel bag rather than feed them to a closet that must have nibbled on the soiled underwear of one or another fatherless Bolshevik. “Rostislav Alekseevich Dalevich! Why are you so slow today?”
“See the state outdoor inspection directorates? They’re packed with policemen.” She sighs, checking the cache of jewels in her purse. A butterfly flutters out to settle on her shoulder. “Shoo,” she scolds. “Move to the right before I spit on you.” She rests her head back on the seat, certain she will never accept what has become of her country, never understand a generation ready to be led by a bunch of oppressors. She unlocks her necklace and inhales deeply.
The perfumer’s pupils narrow, and as if he were in the presence of Shesmu, the Egyptian god of precious oils and embalming, he draws a series of deep breaths through his flaring nostrils. He is familiar with ambergris, has often attempted, unsuccessfully, to acquire some in the black market to use as fixative in his perfumes, to provide a base from which to create an enhanced blend of rare, long-lasting fragrances. He has tried numerous times but failed to emulate with any other ingredient the uniquely subtle perfume ambergris adds to the mix of scents in a bottle.
The Last Romanov Page 5