His arms about her neck, his legs anchored around her waist, she descends the hill, her eyes combing every pebble underfoot, every gnarled root, every hidden sprinkler that might cause her to slip. She is drenched in perspiration under the weight on her back and the ache in her chest.
The whale’s mournful cries reverberate in the distance, the shriek of seagulls overhead, the crashing waves below, and in her chest the thumping of her agonizing heart.
He will be fine, she repeats over and over to herself as she enters her apartments and sets him down on the sofa in her living room. “Don’t move. I’ll be right in the kitchen. Here, take a look at this picture book.”
She chooses the necessary ingredients from jars of all sizes in the kitchen cupboards. A jar of oil extracted from sweet almonds, pounded and steeped in warm water and wrung drop by drop through a sieve. Pouring a thimble of the almond oil into a measuring cup, she adds a spoonful of nectar of black honey, a potent salve harvested in July from the hives of black bees who feed on pollen of a rare breed of purple Siberian rose. Next, she uncorks a bottle of red wine from Livadia grapes that ancient Greek immigrants fermented in oak barrels she obtained from a wizened blacksmith, who had inherited this last existing bottle from his great-grandfather. She adds a swig of wine, a few drops of melted saffron, and a palm-full of chickpea paste, known for its binding properties. She has done this before, with different herbs, roots, and barks for other ailments. As a cure for the Empress’s insomnia, or as a potion to calm Avram’s nerves whenever he brings himself to part with one of his paintings.
But she is hopeful to create a different elixir this time, something more potent, able to cure the incurable.
Ancient One, she cries out in her heart, help me! Help me make the right decision.
The Ancient One appears, a brilliant opal drop hanging from a chain around her white, throbbing throat. Never before has she been so close to Darya, so gloriously delineated, solid in her presence, her perfumed breath permeating the kitchen. Darya Borisovna, I have come to bid you farewell. My mission has been fulfilled. You are a better woman today. You possess the knowledge of two women, a deeper awareness. Cherish the gift so recently granted to you. It will serve you well. She turns around, her diaphanous train crackling with opalescent hues as it sweeps the floor behind her.
“Don’t go yet,” Darya cries out. “A gift? Tell me what it is!” But the Ancient One is gone, her fragrance intensifying in her wake. It takes an instant for Darya to identify the lingering aroma evoking the scent so recently introduced to her.
She runs into her bedroom, where the ambergris is lying like a lover she does not have the heart to banish from her bed. She takes shallow breaths, not wanting to be influenced by the musky, animal scent invading everything. She breaks off a trace amount from the buttery chunk that proves more brittle than yesterday when she had replenished her necklace by the sea.
Back in the kitchen, she crushes the ambergris, measures a teaspoon, adds a spoonful, and then a bit more. She does not know the right dosage, has no way of telling whether adding the ambergris to her healing potion will succeed in stemming the bleeding that must have begun somewhere inside the Tsarevich. But she is hopeful.
While Darya is busy in the kitchen, the Tsarevich leaves the sofa to explore the rooms.
Whether here, in the Livadia Palace, or any of the other palaces, Darya’s apartments are a source of fascination to him. Every cupboard and closet is a fairy-tale world crammed with curious objects he likes to photograph—a hammered gold box, opal bracelets, gold chains and dangling earrings, shawls so light they flutter in the air like colorful balloons, picture books of strange places, men wearing headgear and long robes, sandaled women with kohl-rimmed eyes—but tonight his camera lies shattered somewhere on top of the hill in the park. He uncorks perfume bottles that smell of Darya, pulls a few strands of her black hair from a latticed wooden comb. He steals back into the hallway and enters the bedroom.
At the sight of something lying on the bed, he jumps back to conceal himself behind the door. He opens his eyes, peers back in. A soft light from the window casts a metallic hue over the oily carapace that resembles a giant turtle on the bed. It is still and silent as stone. Open-mouthed and clutching the doorsill, he waits for a movement, a noise. But either asleep, or dead, the creature remains motionless. He takes a few hesitant steps inside, approaches the bed, climbs up to take a closer look. The thing smells of the tobacco in his father’s pipe and the leather gloves his mother orders from Paris. He looks around, searches for a sharp object. He unfastens the amulet from the lapel of his tuxedo and points the back pin into the carapace.
He probes the pin this way and that, becoming braver with each poke, pushing deeper here and there, breaking tiny pieces from a brittle section. He likes the softer areas, the squishy parts. He giggles under his breath. There! A fun spongy section. He shoves the pin deeper. He gasps, hand flying to his mouth. The amulet is slipping away. He fights to hold on to it, to snatch it back, probes his fingers in, tries to catch it. He can’t lose his good luck amulet, can’t let it go. Darya will be very, very angry. But the amulet has disappeared. Swallowed whole by the monster that is not dead after all.
He vaults down from the bed. Wipes his tears away with his hand as he runs back to the other room and jumps up onto the sofa.
“I made a delicious drink for you,” Darya says, extending the elixir. She checks his arm. There is no sign of a bruise forming yet. Perhaps this time is different from other times, she dares to hope, perhaps blood will not pool somewhere in his joints, under his skin, inside his internal organs.
“Drink, brave boy. Go ahead. It’s not too hot, is it?”
He dips his tongue into the warm concoction. His face puckers into a grimace. “Ugh! I don’t like it. No! I will not have it.”
“You must, Loves. One big gulp and it’s all done. Pinch your nose and drink.”
He raises his face to her, and she squeezes his nostrils with thumb and forefinger, bringing the cup to his mouth and keeping it there until he empties it. “There. Bravo, my boy. Relax now, try to rest.” Her voice fills the large room, promising health, an evening of sweet ices and dark chocolates, soothing words that weave a hammock in which he peacefully sways.
“I like it,” he says. “Some more, please.”
“Maybe later, Loves.” She observes him closely, checking for the usual signs of anxiety, fear, restlessness that such accidents trigger. Each of these incidents makes him appear older, wiser, more subdued. She covers his face with small kisses. “You’re growing up, Loves, so fast I can’t keep up with you.”
“Some more of that,” he mumbles, eyes heavy with sleep.
“Don’t sleep, Loves. Keep your eyes open. I can’t tell how you’re feeling if you fall asleep. Stand up, Alyosha, try.” She lifts him to his feet, holds him tight under the arms until he is stable. “Come, my boy, come bow your head and pray with me.” She presses both hands to his temples, turning her vision inward, mustering the strength to will his blood vessels to contract, his blood to thicken and coagulate. “You will grow up to live a long healthy life. You will become our Tsar one day and rule until you are a hundred years old.”
“I will become the best Tsar in the world. I will give them a lot of money. And I will never be sick.”
“And here is a kiss to keep you doubly safe.”
She strokes his forehead, touches her lips to the tip of his nose, tucks both hands under his arms and raises him to a sitting position, straightens his suit, adjusts his tie, and combs his hair. “Come now, Loves. You have a dinner to attend. Shall I carry you?”
He passes both hands over his hair and tugs at his collar, habits he inherited from his father. Slipping into the role of the Tsarevich of all the Russias, he snaps his fingers, gesturing to the smiling Darya to follow him out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
He crosses the stretch of red carpet, past large porcelain stoves and orchid and lilac planters, a
cross the marble and mother-of-pearl floors, toward his parents.
He is preceded by footmen swinging aromatic pots of incense.
Thunder of applause and proclamations of “God save the Tsarevich” reverberate in the salon.
The Empress, clad in silver cloth and old lace studded with diamonds, a tiara of pearls and sapphires on her head, rises to her feet. The Emperor, regal in his court uniform, weighted with medals and gold braids, joins the Empress in welcoming their son.
The one-hundred-piece orchestra bursts into the national anthem.
The Emperor pats his son on the head. “You didn’t come to the ceremony this afternoon, Alexei Nikolaevich, my sovereign heir. I sent our squire to look for you.”
“I fell asleep in Darya’s apartments, Papa.”
The orchestra launches into a waltz. Reaching out to his wife and son, the Tsar leads them to the dance floor and into his arms.
The Grand Salon is filled with ministers, diplomats, and honored foreign dignitaries who have come from near and far to celebrate the inauguration of the summer palace. For the first time in history, artists of the salon, men and women born to no titles but who achieved fame by their own energy and genius, will share dinner with their Imperial Majesties.
Laughter of the grand duchesses can be heard across the room. They are gathered around the Creator of Miniatures. She is displaying her latest miniature: the Livadia Palace etched on a walrus tooth.
Count Freedericksz, the Minister of the Court, who has the delicate task of resolving disputes between the Tsar and members of his immediate family, joins the girls to discover the source of their delight. Olga, mesmerized by the exquisite detail, is examining the miniature. Tatiana reaches out for the walrus tooth and holds it up to the gold chain around her neck. “A necklace?” Anastasia giggles. “It might bite off your finger.” Maria lets out a bored grunt and wanders in search of her parents.
“Fascinating,” Count Freedericksz exclaims, tugging at his broad mustache. He digs into his pocket and flips out a thick wad of rubles. “May I entice the artist to part with her priceless treasure?”
Tamara turns red. She extends a trembling hand to reclaim her treasure, stuffing it into her pocket. “I apologize, Your Excellency, but this is for our Tsarevich.”
“The apology is all mine, madame,” Count Freedericksz replies. “May he enjoy it in good health.” He clicks his boots, turns his attention to the sixteen-year-old Olga, and invites her to the dance floor.
Darya walks around, keeping an eye on the artists, proud of their achievements, wary of their volatile tempers. “Don’t stand and chatter like chipmunks,” she chides Belkin and Dimitri, who are in the midst of a heated debate. “Mingle and converse with others.”
Rosa Koristanova is missed, Darya thinks. She became an important member of the salon, policing the artists, demanding order, creating sculptures that were acquired by the most reputable museums. But nothing could save the sculptress from her raging emotions and infatuations that catapulted her into the depths of madness.
She fell in love with every block of stone she worked on, every sculpture she created, but most of all with Joseph and his photographs.
One afternoon, after Joseph told her to mind her own business, she left the Portrait Hall, found her way into the palace kitchens and was about to plunge her head into a pot of bubbling oil. The chef grabbed her from the back. It took two men to restrain and transport her to the infirmary. After extensive medical tests, Dr. Botkin diagnosed her with cyclical madness, a chronic, severe, and debilitating brain disease that rendered her dangerous. No choice was left but to institutionalize her.
Now, Joseph is telling Avram about his visit to the Livadian asylum, where he had photographed Rosa. Evidence enough, at last, to prove that the shape of a head has nothing to do with madness. “The woman is mad. Mad as a rabid dog! Yet the shape of her head is like mine and yours. Are you listening, Bensheimer?”
Catching sight of Darya, he says, “Yes, my friend, your point is well taken. Well, I will be off for now. See you later.” He wends his way toward her, steering her away from the crowd. “You look especially beautiful tonight. Why did you miss the ceremony?”
“Alexei had a small accident. I’m terribly worried.”
“Not again! What happened this time?”
“He fell. I’ve a lot to tell you, Avram. Pray to God for Alexei’s health.”
“I always do, my Opal-Eyed Jewess.”
She touches him lightly on the arm and then quickly tucks her hands under her beaded wrap. The name he gave her has taken a different meaning tonight. Tonight, the syllables tumble like sweet bonbons in his mouth and melt like syrup on his tongue. Accept the title, the Ancient One had advised six years back. She does now.
“I’ll wait for you at dawn, behind the chapel,” he says, wondering whether a day will come when they won’t have to meet like thieves under the gray blanket of dawn.
“I want to, Avram, I really do.”
“I’ll walk you down to the beach. Make love to you on the sand. Bathe you in the sea.”
“I’ll come then,” she sighs, glancing at Alexei.
Russian nobility in gold braid and scarlet sashes and jewel-studded medals on their chests follow the Imperial Family through the Reception Room and onto the verandas, where dinner is served on center tables and a legion of white-gloved servants runs around on soft-soled patent shoes.
Lilies and violets burst out of giant Chinese vases set about balustrades. The perfect disc of a moon casts a burnished halo on the marble façade of the White Palace. The spectacular outline of the grand mountains looms over the Black Sea in the horizon.
The Emperor leads his wife and son to the head table, and then visits one table then another to keep the conversation lively. He returns to his radiant wife and animated son. “Alexei Nikolaevich, are you well? Your cheeks are flushed, son.”
“It’s hot, Papa. May I take off my jacket?”
The Emperor helps his son remove his jacket and hangs it behind his chair. “What a beautiful evening,” he says, squeezing his son’s arm.
The Tsarevich winces, jerking his arm away.
The Emperor discreetly removes his son’s cufflinks, rolls his sleeve up, and raises his arm for inspection. He stares at the swollen elbow, the taut, darkening skin. “What happened?” he asks, the terror in his voice alerting the Empress.
The boy moves his arm up and down, twirls his wrist. “Look, Papa, no pain. Please, don’t send me to bed.”
At the sight of her son’s inflamed elbow, the Empress’s hand springs to her chest. Her lips are smiling, her face a mask of horror as she exchanges glances with her husband. Where is Darya? How could she have allowed this to happen? Neglected to notify them?
Darya is standing alone, not far from the imperial table, on guard, following Alexei’s every move. In answer to the Empress’s summoning forefinger, she makes her way to the imperial table.
The Empress points to her son’s elbow.
Darya no longer hears the orchestra, the click of crystal flutes, Rasputin’s flirtatious boastings at another table, or the high-pitched hyena laughter of the minister of agriculture.
“A moment to explain, Your Majesty. We were on our way to the chapel when Alexei fell. I should have let you know, but I didn’t want to alarm you. I was hopeful I’d found a cure in a chunk of ambergris I found yesterday. I tried it on myself first. It cured a weeklong stomach affliction. I applied it on one of the gardeners as an antidote to snake venom. I’ve been studying…reading about ambergris, and I think, hope, it might modify the chemistry of the Tsarevich’s blood. Please, Your Majesties, be patient.”
“I am hungry, Mama,” the Tsarevich declares.
“How did you apply the ambergris?” the Tsar demands.
“I added it to a potion the Tsarevich drank.”
The Empress gasps, grips her chair’s handles, attempts to rearrange her expression.
The Emperor’s face turns the colo
r of red brick. “You did what?”
“Ambergris is edible, Your Majesty. It was used for medicinal purposes in ancient times.”
“Ancient times! Have you lost your mind? When did he drink this thing?”
“Two hours ago.”
“Call Father Grigori to our table,” the Empress says in a low, urgent voice.
Rasputin’s drunken laughter can be heard from across the terrace, where he is seated with the artists. His stained linen shirt, rough peasant coat, and soiled worker’s boots have been replaced with a red silk shirt with flowers embroidered by the Empress, a pair of fine velvet trousers, and kid leather boots. Around his neck glitters a heavy gold cross, a gift from the Empress.
The party is in full swing, the orchestra playing Stravinsky’s “Petrouchka,” the dance floor bustling with the swish of bejeweled ball gowns and drunken feet.
Darya’s stare falls upon the lapel of the Tsarevich. “Alexei Nikolaevich, what happened to your lucky charm? I pinned it to your jacket this morning. It was there on our way to the chapel.”
“I don’t know, Darya. Honest.”
Her hands turn as cold as abandoned tombs. Did it fall off during the hillside accident? But she had checked the amulet. Its lock was sturdy. No, it couldn’t have fallen off. It must be a conspiracy. The scheme of one minister or another to rob the Tsarevich of the little good fortune he possesses. Michael Radzianko, the president of the Duma, must have stolen it to hurt the Empress. He despises Rasputin and his influence on her. Or perhaps it was the work of Alexander Fyorovitch Trepov, the traitor. He is doing everything he can in the Duma to curtail the Tsar’s unquestionable sovereignty.
The Tsarevich digs a spoon into the bowl of caviar and devours a mouthful. He then moves to borscht, samples pepper-pot soup, and asks for pheasant in cream sauce.
The Emperor raises his knife and fork, stares at the mushroom patties, roast goose, and rissoles in cream on his plate. He pretends to take a bite, then sets his knife down.
The Last Romanov Page 19