“I will love you here and there and everywhere,” he murmurs, sucking her wet earlobe, covering her eyelids with kisses. “I will lift you in my arms like this and anchor your legs around me. I will be patient and gentle and tell you how very much I want you. And you will feel pleasure and no pain, my Opal-Eyed Jewess, no pain at all.”
Chapter Twenty
The Empress directs her tear-filled gaze toward her husband who, hands clasped behind him, paces the room. Her ears register nothing but her fifteen-month-old son’s moans and her failure to make his pain go away. What do doctors know about her suffering, her unbearable sense of self-blame and reproach? Now that Alexei has started walking and is prone to accidents, she and her husband have had long discussions about assigning two sailors from the imperial navy to protect him. But in the end, they had concluded that he did not require that kind of constant surveillance yet. How wrong they were.
To add to their grief, despite all precautions, rumors about the heir’s failing health have found their way into magazines and newspapers. Special services are being held in cathedrals and churches around the country. The Empress, when not at her son’s side, or finding refuge in the Feodorovsky Chapel at the end of the park, prostrates herself in front of Avram Bensheimer’s portrait of the Madonna, in whose arms her son is the image of health.
The Emperor comes to stand behind his wife who, having been diagnosed with an enlarged heart caused by worry over the condition of her son, is temporarily confined to a wheelchair. Over the room hover the odor of grief and all types of medication. His son’s internal bleeding is more serious this time. Months of civil unrest and a universal strike have left his country paralyzed. Ships dock idle along piers. Trains do not run. Factories, schools, and hospitals are closed. Food is scarce, and the streets are dark and empty at night. Crowds display antimonarchist sentiments. Red flags of the worker and peasant movement fly on rooftops. A new workers’ organization with the preposterous title of “Soviet” or “Council” has materialized out of nowhere and is gathering clout. Peasants raid estates and set fire to mansions.
In order to bring a semblance of peace to the country, he has reluctantly accepted the suggestion of Sergius Witte and signed the imperial manifesto, transforming Russia from an absolute autocracy into a semiconstitutional monarchy, and granting his people the Duma, an elected parliament. Despite such concessions, the situation has not improved. What is a ruler to do? Everything he grew up believing is chipped away in small increments first, then in larger chunks until he does not know what to believe in.
Darya tucks a blanket around the Empress’s legs, hands her a cup of hot tea. The Tyotia Dasha is screaming inside, pleading, demanding, furious at the Ancient One, who appears and disappears like an unwanted guest, yet is nowhere to be found now. Ancient One, I need you! My Alexei is bleeding! Suffering! I can’t help him. I’ve lost my powers!
Then she sees her, outside the window, far away in the horizon. The Talmud rabbinic law in one hand and the Book of Ethics in the other, the Ancient One is wading through rivers of blood, leaving in her wake ripples of subliminal information about the nature of the bleeding disease. A curse as old as man, she whispers, shrouded in mystery since ancient times. Pharaohs forbade women to bear more children if their firstborn was afflicted with the bleeding disease. The Talmud bars circumcision in a family if two male children had previously suffered fatal hemorrhaging.
Show me a cure, Darya begs. Tell me how to save him. But the Ancient One is turning her back to her, leaving, shrinking, drowning in blood.
Dr. Eugene Botkin, the court physician, applies another compress to the swollen knee of the Tsarevich that is darker than burned eggplant. A gold watch chain swaying over his stout stomach, the doctor retreats into a far corner of the room and silently gestures to the Tsar, who gently unlocks the Empress’s fingers from around his cane.
“The prognosis is dire, Your Majesty,” the doctor says in a low voice. “The Tsarevich is hemorrhaging in the stomach as well as the knee. We tried to check the bleeding with medication, pressure, bandaging. Everything failed. It’s time to call a priest.”
The Tsar clutches the handle of his cane. “To administer the last sacrament?”
“I am afraid so,” the doctor murmurs under his breath.
The Tsar seems to diminish, a lost expression creeping into his eyes. His right hand makes a twisting motion in the air as if puzzled at his fate. His voice shakes a little. “Publish a medical bulletin. Announce that the Tsarevich is critically ill. But under no circumstances mention hemophilia.”
Darya kneels in front of the Tsarina, whose face has aged overnight, her lips blue with her effort to breathe. “May I speak, Your Majesty?”
“What is there to say, Darya? If you, too, want to tell me to rest while my son is dying, then, no, you may not speak.”
“Your son will not die, Your Majesty, but you will if you don’t eat. Constant fasting is taking its toll on your fragile health.”
“What else is a mother to do?”
“Allow me to ask Father Grigori to come see the Tsarevich.” Darya hates to admit that the vile man, with his cutting stare and disjointed way of speaking, who outbid her for The Cure, was right, after all. The Tsarevich needs him. Needs him badly. So she will swallow her pride and spit it out on her own face if Rasputin might be able to cure the Tsarevich.
“Nonsense!” Doctor Botkin interjects with an exaggerated gesture of his arm that raises the strong scent of his Parisian eau de cologne. “The best doctors in the country have examined the Tsarevich. An illiterate monk with no medical expertise is useless.”
“Those so-called doctors,” the Empress lashes out, “failed miserably.”
“I beg of you, Your Majesty. Another unnecessary examination might dislodge the clot, add more suffering…hasten the inevitable.”
The Empress grabs the handles of her wheelchair and raises herself to her feet, towering over the doctor, who seems to fade away in her presence. “This is my son you’re talking about, doctor! Death is not an option. Am I clear?
“Darya Borisovna, summon Father Grigori!”
Chapter Twenty-One
One hundred fifty guards stand at attention as the imperial motorcade roars through the sweeping driveway and comes to a stop in front of the Alexander Palace.
Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin steps down from the first car in the motorcade. He stomps each boot on the stone path underfoot as if to rid himself of the dust of his long journey. Shading his eyes with one hand, he observes his surroundings, the velvet expanse of turquoise sky, the chatter of birds of paradise among rustling leaves, a rose petal floating on the breeze.
On the landing at the top of the stairs leading to the palace, Darya observes Rasputin march toward her, boots clicking underfoot. His stench of bitter almonds grows stronger with his advance, the same odor he emitted in the auction house fourteen months back.
Birds of paradise raise a racket, taking flight from the surrounding branches. The sun takes refuge behind a dark cloud. A shrill wind makes its way from the east, swallowing the pleasant breeze.
Darya waves a hand as if to banish his odor, banish any misfortune it might portend. She takes two involuntary steps up the stairs to get away from him, then quickly retraces her way back to welcome the little heir’s last hope. It would not be wise to turn Rasputin away, even if she wishes to, even if his every approaching step feels like a blow. “Please, God,” she prays under her breath, “let the monk, this self-proclaimed priest, heal my Tsarevich.”
He ignores her extended hand, aims his bullet eyes at her, his odor nauseating, his smoke-infused beard too close, his brazen tongue flicking across wet lips. “A pleasure seeing you again. Strange! Very strange. A Jew in court.”
“What do you mean?” she blurts out.
“You were born Christian. Yes. But I see a past. A Jew! You are of other times.”
His stare ignites images that flash across the canvas of her life and strike her eye lik
e lightning. She flinches. Her hand springs up to her eye. What are these images? Pomegranate stains everywhere. Menstrual blood? Israelites dragging her by the hair. She is afraid to enter a temple, or a church, perhaps. She is preparing for some kind of punishment. Why does she pray in Hebrew?
Rasputin lowers her hand from her opal eye. “Much mystery in your eye. Your Jewel.”
She pulls her hand away. Suddenly she wants nothing more than to keep this man as far as possible from the heir, from the court, from herself. “Father Grigori, Her Majesty is not quite well and will not be seeing you after all. She will summon you back as soon as her health permits.”
He reaches out, bunching her hair in his fist. His gaze wraps about her like a vise. “This is not true, is it! Think of Russia, of our people. Help me cure the heir.”
Defiant, struggling to contain her rage, Darya reclaims her hair. Strands remain coiled around the grimy fingers he rubs under his nose. “Where is Bensheimer’s painting? You promised to bring The Cure if I arranged an audience with the Empress.”
“An art dealer bought it months ago. But why am I here? To save the baby or to discuss the silly painting?”
“So you broke your promise to me, Grigori Rasputin. But you better save the Tsarevich, or you’ll never set foot here again!”
“Take me to him!”
He follows her into the grand foyer, handling an antique porcelain bowl on a side table, molesting the urns of malachite and jasper, his boots soiling the silk rugs, the ebony and rosewood parquet floors, the marble stairs as they ascend toward the Mauve Room. He lingers behind the door, fingers raking his matted beard. His gaze is boring into her opal eye, deep down to read her thoughts. She thinks he is polluting her. How wrong she is.
At the sight of Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin, relief softens the lines on the Empress’s forehead, transforming her into the gracefully regal woman she once was. These days she is always in white, various shades and weaves of white—linen, damask, taffeta, satin, mohair, and silk cashmere—pure and innocent, gift-wrapped like a sacrificial lamb.
She is seated next to a lemonwood Becker piano, on her right an antique planter with a burst of lilacs next to a wood-framed glass screen. Shelves are crowded with photographs of relatives and friends, glass and porcelain ornaments, and jeweled Fabergé eggs.
The Tsarevich, bundled in a silk-lined coverlet crocheted by the Tsarina and three of her older daughters, is propped up on embroidered pillows on his mother’s chaise lounge. He is small, pale, and listless.
The monk does not kiss the Tsarina’s hand as required by royal etiquette but kneels in front of her, gazing into her eyes as if her son’s future is reflected there. He rises, bends, and she allows him two consecutive kisses on her forehead.
“I received your summons in Siberia. I came right away.”
“Thank you. It must be kept private.”
“Always, Matushka. Always, Little Mother!”
Suddenly, he jumps up and shouts like a possessed creature, startling both women. “Out! Everyone! Out!”
The Empress gestures for Darya to leave the room.
He raises a calloused forefinger. “Not her, Matushka. You. Your son needs me, not you. You make him nervous. Make him bleed. Go, have a cup of tea. Read a book to your daughters. They need you too.”
The Empress gathers her skirts and crosses her boudoir, her heels clicking on the parquet. Hand on the door handle, she turns toward her son and takes a hard look at him. She crosses herself and steps out, shutting the door behind her.
Rasputin’s stare swivels past Darya, who is standing next to the Tsarevich, holding his limp hand in hers, past the portrait of Our Lady of Tsarskoe Selo, and comes to rest on the portrait of the Tsarevich in the arms of the Madonna. Brows knit, he tugs at his beard. The shadow of his darkening face is a flat stain on his coat, stiff with sweat and dotted with oily stains. A series of low rumbles emanate from deep in his chest as if a string of inner quakes are shaking him. His right hand darts out, a long reach, as if the Lord Himself is about to tear the painting out of its ornate frame.
An expression of stifled fury on his face, he shouts, “White Thighs fucking Paulina!”
“What?” Darya interjects. “Who is White Thighs Paulina?”
“Paulina. You don’t know her? Of course you don’t. Neither would the Empress.”
He leans forward to read the signature. He gasps. Straightens up. “Avram Bensheimer! He painted The Cure, didn’t he? The portrait you wanted.”
“Yes, Father Grigori. Bensheimer is the same artist. Why is this important?”
“This is no Madonna. Not at all! This is White Thighs Paulina. A fucking whore!”
Darya grabs her necklace, squeezes the jeweled egg. Pearls and diamonds dig into her palm.
The palace is quiet; not a sound comes from behind the shut door. She walks across the large room toward the window. The bright light hurts her eyes. The wind is gathering force, branches swaying like so many desperate arms.
What has Avram done? This is the end of him. Why did he do it? Now neither God nor His saints will keep Rasputin from revealing the truth to their Imperial Majesties.
Rasputin is at her side, his cutting stare aimed at her, as if to crush her with his powerful eyes. “You like this Bensheimer.”
Her own gaze is steady, challenging. “Yes! I do. He is a brilliant artist.”
He faces her, eye to eye, asserting his authority. He holds up a warning finger. “Yes, but his name makes you blush, makes you sweat.” The anger on his face transforms into a conspiratorial grin. “We will be good to each other,” he exclaims as if closing a deal. “I won’t tell the Empress about Avram’s appalling offense if you allow me entry into the mysteries of your opal eye.”
Her spine stiffens, straight as the Tsar’s cane. From now on she will fear this man, be vulnerable, exposed, a step below him.
She is unaware that a conspiracy is shaping in his mind. Unaware that his powerful stare will find a way to bore through her opal eye to steal a glance at much coveted secrets. Unaware that in six years she will eventually bow to this despised man’s persistent manipulations and will reveal herself to him.
The Tsarevich opens his eyes and whimpers.
Rasputin pulls a chair close to the child, leans forward, flips back the coverlet, and lifts the small hand. His intense seerlike gaze examines Alexei’s pale face.
“Precious son, listen to Father Grigori. Listen well. I will tell you a special story. A jewel you must treasure and keep to yourself.
“Once on a white planet of snow lived a little boy named Alexei. But no. No! That was not the name the Lord intended for him. Alexei? Never. This boy was meant to choose his own name and his own destiny. He did not want to be crowned Emperor. He did not want to be a prisoner of that snow planet. What he really wanted was to be crowned archangel of all the firmaments.
“One dawn, eighteen silver-lashed, filigree-winged angels fluttered their lacy feathers, swooping down to congregate around the little boy’s palace of ice. Their honeyed voices rose to the seventh heaven heralding the good Lord. They prayed for the sun to shine upon the palace for forty days and forty nights and to melt the cocoon of ice. They pleaded with the Lord to have mercy on the little boy and thaw his bones that had become as brittle as his icy home. They flew around the palace, chanting hymns, praising the Lord and all His saints, their gossamer wings sheltering the boy from the ravages of hail, snow, and frost. On the dawn of the eighteenth day, the boy’s blood began to warm up, his joints became supple, and his once dry eyes sparkled with the joy of experiencing warmth for the first time in his life. He smiled, laughed aloud, ran outside to thank the kind angels. But perched on a chariot of clouds, they were on their way to fulfill another promise.
“Overjoyed at the sight of young shoots, colorful blooms, and emerald leaves that had replaced the barren land and the carpet of frigid snow, the boy knelt to inhale the sweet perfume of possibilities. He raised both hands to heaven and s
houted, ‘My name is Life!’
“And this is who you are, Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov. You are life.”
A hint of color appears on the heir’s cheeks and soft breathing replaces his anemic moans. The lilacs in the antique planter vibrate, their fragrance inebriating. The scent of rosemary and mint floats through the windows. And for the first time since her parents’ death, warm currents flow through Darya, thawing her own bones.
Rasputin rises to his feet, bends over the Tsarevich, his long coat concealing the child from her sight. An instant of silence passes, then another, and the monk’s body begins to shake, weak spasms that grow stronger. His fingernails dig into his palms, drawing blood. His breath is loud and gurgling with phlegm. His long hair drips with sweat and another sound is rising from his throat, as if something is blocking his windpipe.
Darya lets out a cry of alarm. She puts her arms around Rasputin’s sweat-drenched coat, pulling him with all her might, struggling to drag him away from the child. She helps him to a chair, knocking a vase over in the process. He slumps in the chair, eyes rolled back into his head, shaken by a series of powerful shudders. She picks up a pitcher of water from the nightstand and upends the contents on his head. A groan, a sharp intake of breath, and he staggers to his feet, disoriented, but only momentarily. Fishing out a soiled kerchief from his sleeve, he wipes his sweat-drenched face.
Darya steps back, rubs her eyes with her knuckles. She wants to grab the Tsarevich from the chaise lounge and flee somewhere away from this madman and his strange ways. Except that the child is no longer pale, no longer in pain.
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