***
Darya presses her handkerchief to the unbearable pain in her opal eye, afraid it would suffer another fracture. She shifts in her seat, tugs at the worn edges of her skirt. This cannot be what her two lives amount to: a past of loss and devastation, a present repeating the same. A Romanov bastard claiming the throne. Decades of search cannot end here. “Jasmine was a good woman, Pavel Nikolaevich, but that didn’t stop her from taking many Romanov lovers. And you, young man, could be the offspring of any of them.” She glares at him to stop his objection, waves away the DNA document he has pulled out of his pocket again as proof. She knows he is telling the truth, knows he is the Emperor’s descendant. The imperial handwriting, scribbled on a ripped off sheet she had found in the moldy folds of the valise, is proof enough. This one night with Jasmine is the torment that was tearing the Tsar apart, the secret he had hoped to take to his grave, now exhumed to sully the Romanov name.
She goes to the tall windows to draw air into her lungs, into her aching brain. She comes back, her determination towering over Pavel. “I hate to shatter your dream, young man, especially since I believe in the importance of dreams. But the truth is that our Slavic law forbids succession out of wedlock. Not only are you the product of an unequal union, but you are a bastard. So you better forget about becoming our Tsar and do something else with your life.”
Pavel flips his hair off his forehead, his gray eyes blazing with conviction. “I promised my grandmother to do everything in my power to reveal my ancestry once the political tide turned, and I’m doing it now. Times have changed, Madame. Our laws of succession have changed.” He replenishes Darya’s stale tea from the samovar, stirs in two lumps of sugar. He stops himself from holding her hand, the hand that reminds him of Jasmine’s fragile fingers at the end of her life, the skin thin as rice paper, the branching veins pulsating beneath his touch. “I wonder what my grandmother wants me to do now.”
“To be honest, Pavel Nikolaevich, and respect the Romanov legacy. That’s what Jasmine would have wanted you to do. So do the honest thing, Pavel! Do you understand?”
“Even if it’s hurtful?”
“Yes, young man. Living an honest life never hurts, but a lie does.”
The samovar becomes louder in the corner. Pavel lowers the knob and brings her another cup of tea.
She pushes his hand away. “I don’t want tea, Pavel Nikolaevich. Sit down and tell me what you’re hiding.”
Pavel takes a moment to rub his temples. His face has acquired a pinched look of pain. He lifts the cup of tea Darya refused and takes an absentminded sip. “Soon after the revolution, my grandmother, God bless her soul, made it her business to follow every rumor about the fate of the Imperial Family. She, too, believed that Alexei survived that night. Since she was aware that you were searching the big cities, she concentrated on peasant towns, traveling from village to village, often by foot. The reality of her relationship with the Tsar changed shape in the telling and retelling of it in her mind, acquiring the attributes of a fable until she came to believe that she herself was of royal descent. She would press my finger to a blue vein on her inner arm, tell me that royal blood seeks the same artery, assuring me that even if she didn’t find Alexei, he would find her. Well, she did find him.”
“What are you saying, Pavel? Are you saying Jasmine found the Tsarevich?”
“Yes, Madame. I lied to be kind to him. Alexei Romanov is alive.”
A volley of curses and questions crowd her mouth. “You lied! You lowly son of a one-kopeck whore! I will see the Tsarevich. Right now! Right away!”
“But he doesn’t want to be found, Madame.”
“He wants to be found by me! Listen, young man, I am old and tired and don’t have much time left. One way or another, I will find him. We need each other, the Tsarevich and I.”
“I’m not certain he needs you, Madame. He is settled down into a calm life. It would be cruel to rattle the foundation of everything he’s become used to. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have revealed—”
“Let me tell you something, young man, you are in no position to decide who needs whom. So don’t insult me. Although I don’t want to hurt you, if it comes to it, I’ll turn you inside out to spill the truth out of you. So let us make a pact. Take that paper and pen on the desk and jot down where I’ll find Alexei, and I’ll show you the secret way out of here. Go on! Don’t keep me waiting.”
“But I can walk out of here whenever I want. I’m not a prisoner.”
She bursts into laughter, slapping both thighs. “Maybe not a prisoner, but certainly under strict surveillance. The grounds are dotted with plainclothes security guards hired by the Russian Nobility Association to monitor whoever enters and leaves the premises. In addition, Grand Duchess Sophia and Rostislav, a dangerous forensic anthropologist whom you don’t want to cross, expect me to step out of this room to announce your candidacy to the throne. And, most important, a coup d’état is already in the planning. Too much is at stake for you to just walk out of here without giving them a convincing explanation. And that I forbid you to do.”
“But I don’t intend to walk out, Madame. Not when the throne is rightfully mine.”
She curls her mouth in amusement. “No, Pavel, the throne belongs to Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov!”
“But I’m much younger, Madame. More able to reign.”
An irrational affection for this stubborn youth is taking root in Darya’s heart, and she tries to dismiss it. “My dear Pavel, you could never claim the throne. There’s something else about your grandmother you need to know. Here, have some tea, something to calm you. I’d give you one of my berries if I had any left. All right! Are you ready? Your grandmother, my dear Pavel Nikolaevich, was a Jew. Yes, Jasmine was Jewish. I see your shock. She kept it a secret up to the very end. I don’t need to tell you that the Russian people will never, ever accept a Jewish ruler. And if it becomes necessary, I won’t hesitate to reveal the truth.”
“No, Madame, I don’t believe you. My grandmother couldn’t have been Jewish. She would have told me if she was.”
“I’m certain she did, in her own way. You must be circumcised, Pavel Nikolaevich, as all Jewish boys are at birth. Aren’t you? Of course you are! That was her way of telling you the truth.”
Pavel turns pale. A drop of sweat trickles down his forehead. His hand creeps up to his cravat. He folds it, twists it, rolls it in his hand. He lets go and the cravat falls limp and creased like his linen suit.
“All right, son, I believe we have a pact. There’s paper and pencil on the desk. Write down where I can find the Tsarevich.”
“I hope I am doing the right thing, Madame, and you’ll be good for him.”
She presses the folded paper between her palms. The air around her stirs as if Alexei followed her into the room as he used to in the past, when she felt his presence without having to look. All she wants now is to tuck away her jumbled emotions and go to Alexei. She drops the note into her purse, opens the French doors, and walks onto the terrace, gesturing for Pavel to follow her. Before them, a lavender-covered hill slants down to the sea and toward neighboring mansions on the lower slopes. The disk of a fat moon hangs low in the velvet sky. An owl alights on the balustrade and begins to hoot a melancholy tune.
Darya squeezes the young man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, son, one day you will look back on this night and remember me with fondness. You have a bright future ahead of you. You might be sad sometimes, but never lonely.” She retrieves the pouch from her purse and plants it in his hand. “Here, this will help. Enough jewels to support you for a long time. Bribe the security guards with a charm or two if they catch up with you. They’ll let you go.”
“No, Madame. I cannot accept what belongs to Alexei Nikolaevich.”
“Take it. There’s more for him. Listen to me well, son. Walk down the hill and out of the compound. When you reach the shore down there, keep to your right. You will pass a deserted dock, then an abandoned skeleton of a shi
p at which point, on your right again, you’ll find a narrow staircase hewed into the hill that leads to a thoroughfare, where you’ll find a taxi station. Lose yourself for a few months until you are forgotten. Go, before they come looking.”
Pale hairs flutter in the breeze. His nimble downward steps gather speed. He hesitates for an instant, opens the pouch, and selects a few small items with which to buy his freedom, then turns back, and tosses the pouch toward her before breaking into a trot at the foot of the hill to lose himself in the thick darkness.
Chapter Forty-Three
Darya waves her cane in salutation at the multiple images of Grand Duchess Sophia and Rostislav in the surrounding salon mirrors. Gilded consoles are set with delicacies and scented vodkas, above which a portrait of the duchess looks down, demanding the truth.
The Sheremetev Salon is pregnant with unspoken expectations, with the weight of the unknown. The afternoon has stretched into evening while Darya Borisovna and Pavel Nikolaevich were sequestered in the study. In this wing of the estate, Rostislav and the duchess were served afternoon tea and supper as they awaited word from Darya.
“Good news?” the duchess asks as soon as she sees Darya approach. She reaches out her cigarette holder for her attendant to reload. She draws deeply, letting out a cloud of smoke that momentarily conceals her pensive face.
Her bones aching, Darya settles in a chair the attendant pulls forward. “Unfortunately, not. Pavel Nikolaevich is not the person he pretends to be. I asked him to leave.”
Rostislav jumps out of his seat. His burned profile is puckered in anger. “Why? Why in the world did you send him away?”
“I despise impostors, Rostislav! Either he had to go or I would have strangled him.”
“Alert the guards!” Rostislav shouts. “Right away! Before he leaves the grounds.”
The grand duchess points an accusing cigarette holder at Darya. “You were here to confirm or refute his authenticity. Other decisions were not yours to make.”
“And that’s exactly what I did. He is a charlatan, your eminence, with no ties to the Imperial Family.”
Rostislav pours himself a glass of vodka, downs it in two gulps, upending the empty glass on the tabletop. “My dear woman, DNA tests have already proven his paternal ties. You must have insulted him. That is why he left.”
A sudden rumble originates from faraway, a startling sound like cannon fire in the distance.
“An earthquake!” Rostislav shouts.
“We’re under attack!” the attendant hollers.
Darya leans back, crosses her arms over her chest, and allows the fear of nature to work its magic. In another half hour Pavel will be beyond the reach of the security guards. She snaps open the clasp of her purse and finds a weathered berry in the bottom, flicks away a petrified butterfly from the stem, the dried fuzz disintegrating in midair. She drops the berry in her mouth and allows herself to celebrate the miracle of Jasmine’s grandson leading her to the Tsarevich.
“What in the world is this dreadful noise?” the grand duchess demands.
Darya rises and goes out to the terrace, nodding, gesturing, and bowing as if conducting a private conversation with a higher authority, expressing her thanks to a miserable whale somewhere in the sea, beyond the fire-laced horizon.
She taps her cane on the marble underfoot, crosses the terrace, and steps back into the salon to confront her stunned audience. For the first time since that night in the cellar of the House of Special Purpose, she attempts to make the sign of the cross, but her hand will not obey, and she drops it to her side. “What you hear out there is the Lord’s voice informing me that the Tsarevich is alive.”
Rostislav’s mocking laughter rises above the whale’s thunderous interruptions.
The duchess’s cigarette holder is poised as if to banish the intrusion from her realm.
“Call the guards!” Rostislav barks. “She’s trying to buy time.”
“My dear Rostislav, I was invited here to decide whether Pavel is a Romanov or not. Well! He is not. Must I repeat myself?”
“Stop this nonsense! I put up with your old woman imaginings, certain the true contender to the throne will find his way to you. Now that he has, you act like a Bolshevik!”
Darya swings her cane and, without as much as batting an eyelash, aims the tip at the artery on Rostislav’s neck. “I’ll skewer you like a rat! Then we’ll see who is a Bolshevik!”
He freezes in place. He has observed this woman wield her cane with the force and speed of a dueling master’s sword. He is certain she will not hesitate to plunge the silver tip into his artery.
The grand duchess crushes her cigarette among other lipstick-smeared stumps, rises to her feet, and gestures to her attendant to remove himself from her path. She grips Darya around one arm, reaches out, and extracts the cane from her. “What has come over you, Rostislav? Let Darya finish what she has to say.”
“Stop jumping up and down like a monkey, Rostislav,” Darya bristles. “Would you rather an impostor ascend the throne or Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov? Call the Russian Nobility Association and explain that my prayers have been answered; the Tsarevich has been found!”
Rostislav passes one hand over his profile as if to iron out the creases. “Dreaming again, Darya? No hemophiliac would ever live so long. Stop deceiving yourself!”
The grand duchess lifts a fleck of tobacco from her lower lip. “He has a point. Even if the Tsarevich survived the carnage that night, it’s improbable he would live to be—”
“Eighty-seven,” Darya offers. “Other hemophiliacs don’t reach such advanced age because they can’t get their hands on ambergris to stem their internal bleeding or keep them young.”
Grand Duchess Sophia strokes the frown lines between her brows. She chases away some cigarette smoke with one hand. “You did mention a pillow stuffed with ambergris that might have deflected bullets. Very interesting. Do you have some ambergris with you?”
“Not much,” Darya lies. “What about you, Rostislav? I gave you a generous chunk.”
His lips turn the color of curdled milk. “I don’t recall you giving me any ambergris!” He pats his coat, thrusts his hands into his back pockets, makes a show of rising to his feet to check his pants pockets. “We both know you never gave me any, Darya. But now that the matter has come up, I’d like some ambergris too!”
“Search your suitcase,” Darya suggests, leaning back in her seat and thinking that Pavel must have made his way out of the compound and reached the Crimean thoroughfare by now.
Chapter Forty-Four
Darya steps down from the taxi that transported her the twenty miles from the Warsaw-Moscow railroad to Biaroza on the banks of the River Yasel’da.
She sets her small suitcase down, leans on her cane, and gazes at the surroundings. Is it truly possible that this town is home to her beloved Tsarevich? Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov, who remains everything and everyone to her, who continues to temper the ache of her parents’ loss, who replaces the sons she lost, who fills up the void of Avram’s absence, which she will not call a loss because he is always with her. Is it possible that the child who once lived among unimaginable opulence is now living in one of these mostly decaying houses in this peasant town?
Part of the independent Republic of Belarus, Biaroza has witnessed its share of upheavals. The town was, throughout numerous historical unrests, tossed around like a rotting melon between Russia and the Red and Polish armies. During the Great War, the German army wiped out most of the town’s population, seventy percent of whom were Jews.
She walks past the town hall and the ruins of the Biaroza monastery, which was looted and demolished in the distant past. The bricks were used to build the main prison. What is left of the monastery has been placed on the list of historic architectural heritage of Belarus to be renovated and restored, but little progress has been made. Pedestrians stroll around a fountain in the center of the marketplace. An emaciated donkey is tied to a tree. Shops display bolts
of fabric, jars of spices, plastic toys. The scent of fresh bread emanates from a nearby bakery. The mix of old and modern surprises her. A few forlorn birches line the streets, a handful border the fountain.
Will Alyosha remember her? Will he remember the ambergris and its miracles? At the possibility of encountering an old, senile man who would turn his back to her, she settles on the ledge of the fountain, wipes her forehead, suddenly feeling the weight of the tiring journey from the Crimea.
A hydroelectric power station on her right comes to life, and her heart starts to pound like a mad woodpecker. According to Pavel’s directions, the house in which the Tsarevich lives is on the far right side of the power plant.
She grabs her suitcase and walks ahead with the confidence of a young woman, savoring every step to cross the narrow street and circle the whitewashed wooden fence. Is this his home? This two-story building of fired brick with two balconies aflame with bougainvillea. Although modest, contrary to the surrounding houses, it is well tended. She pulls out the note, unfolds it, reads the directions again.
The air smells of grass and fire logs. The sky is a pure blue. A passing peasant with a thick kerchief on her head and a bundle in her calloused hand smiles at her. An emaciated donkey brays, clattering by.
She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and climbs three steps to the front door that smells of fresh paint.
The thought occurs to her that she should have dressed for the occasion, purchased a new blouse, a pair of shoes. Wearing the Empress’s old hat and maroon velvet skirt, she must look old and tired. “Nothing can be done now,” she mumbles, lifting the lion-shaped knocker and tapping on the door once.
A wind wails around the corner, a handful of pebbles smacks itself against her right leg. She rubs her leg, straightens up. Her back is aching.
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