by John Burke
Rasputin himself saw her out, and came back to contemplate Zargo. It was humiliating to know that Rasputin sensed everything, reacted to every little flicker of emotion. It was this that gave him his power over his fellow human beings—this intuitive awareness of their inner response or lack of response, their willingness or reluctance, their devotion to him . . . or their doubts about him.
He said: “Don’t worry, Boris. Everything will go smoothly. Once you are installed you will enjoy every minute of it. You will be able to devote yourself to the task of healing. It means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?”
Zargo could trust himself only to nod. The devil knew just which temptation to stress!
“Have no fear,” Rasputin smiled. “It has all been arranged. You’ll see—all we have to do now is sit back and wait for a summons to the palace. That will be the next thing.”
In fact the next thing was not an invitation but a visit: a visit from Doctor Siglov. He arrived in the middle of the evening and stormed unceremoniously into Rasputin’s inner sanctum. Zargo was in the laboratory, trying to keep his mind off major issues by analysing some blood samples which Rasputin had taken from adoring, swooning patients. Rasputin was sprawled out on a couch eating his way through a huge box of chocolates. All his appetites were vast and insatiable: he ate as he drank, greedily and unceasingly.
“Am I to understand that you are responsible for my dismissal today?”
Siglov’s outraged voice almost made Zargo drop a test-tube. He looked round for a weapon. If the physician was going to turn nasty, Rasputin might need assistance. Yet that was an absurd idea: there were surely few men in the world against whom Rasputin could not hold his own.
“Well,” mumbled Rasputin through a mouthful of chocolate, “is that what you understand?”
“I know the Tsarina came here this morning. Immediately on her return she gave instructions that I was to be dismissed. I am putting two and two together.”
“Are you, indeed? My friend . . . you are right when you say that the Tsarina was here today. She came”—Rasputin’s voice was abruply as clear and incisive as a sword blade—“with a headache which you had been unable to cure.”
“Imagination.”
“Possibly. Nevertheless, I was able to cure her imaginary headache. You were not.”
“And on those flimsy grounds you advised her to dismiss me?”
“Before you go, Doctor,” said Rasputin silkily, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
There was the swish of his gown as he crossed the room and then he stood in the doorway. Zargo kept his head down, refusing to look round.
“Boris . . . stop meddling with those foul concoctions and come out.” There was a pause, then the quiet, deadly command: “Boris, I tell you to come out.”
Zargo wiped his hands on his stained laboratory overall. He went out in Rasputin’s wake and was confronted by the tall, fashionably dressed physician.
“Doctor,” said Rasputin with a flourish, “may I introduce your successor—Doctor Boris Zargo.”
The other was about to turn away in anger when something seemed to click in his mind. He stared at Zargo. “I know that name.”
Zargo appealed to Rasputin. “I am very busy, Grigori . . .”
“Just a moment. Were you not involved in some scandal . . . let me see . . .”
“Were you, Boris?” Rasputin mocked them both. “You never told me.”
“Struck off the medical register! Of course. Wait until the Tsarina hears this.”
“She already knows,” said Rasputin.
The physician put his hands to his head. All attempts at suave, aloof dignity failed. “I always thought her stupid,” he cried. “Now I know she is mad!”
“Doctor Siglov, you are speaking of Her Majesty in terms for which the lowest serf would not forgive you. Take care, or you may lose something more precious than just your job.”
Zargo saw that Siglov, like himself, had recognized the terrible strength of Rasputin’s boastfulness. He drew himself up and gained control of his voice, but could not keep the shaking hatred out of it when he spoke.
“And you take care too, Rasputin. You are trampling on too many people. Before long one of them will turn violent.”
8
The attic had been dark and wretched but there at least she had been close to Rasputin. There they had been transfigured by passion. She had known shame but she had also known an ecstasy of desire and fulfilment. The villa was beautiful and more worthy of such a man. But she was not welcome in the villa as she had been welcome in the attic. She did not lie in her lover’s arms. He did not send for her, and when she sometimes accompanied the Tsarina to the villa he did not spare her a glance.
Sonia had been awed yet not surprised by Rasputin’s swift rise to fame and power. She was the first in St. Petersburg to have recognized his inner magnificence, and she was proud to see that he should so quickly have set his mark on society and on the Court itself. But pride turned to misery. She was willing to be his slave, willing to do all that he wished, willing to listen when he talked, to give herself to him when he wanted her . . .
But he no longer wanted her.
She was becoming ill from lack of sleep. At night she tossed and turned, her body crying out for his. But he did not send for her and when she went to the villa she was politely sent away. The master was busy, the master was in the middle of a consultation, the master was resting and must not be disturbed. The master . . . who had so recently sprawled in squalor on the greasy bed above the horse-butcher’s shop.
She was determined to see him. Once they were together she would make him remember what she had been like, what their love had been like. Face to face with her, he would have to give in.
As Doctor Zargo left the palace one evening, Sonia caught up with him. Zargo came and went as he chose. Zargo could take her into the villa. That was all she asked.
He looked uneasy. “Of course my carriage is at your disposal if you wish it, but I fear you may be disappointed when we reach the villa. I’m not sure that Grigori would approve of my—”
“You need not fear his approval or disapproval,” said Sonia loftily, with more confidence than she felt. “I will explain that I asked you to take me with you. As a gentleman you could hardly have refused.”
“No,” said Zargo dubiously.
She had intended to make the journey with him in silence—she was not going to abase herself and not allow him to detect any uncertainty in her—but as the carriage swept up the drive towards the villa she could not restrain herself.
“Why does he treat me like this?”
Zargo glanced at her and then looked away. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He . . . hm . . . he’s been very busy.”
“Yes?” Bitterly, hating her own weakness, she said: “Who is it tonight?”
He ought to have been shocked. If her remark had been really as wild and senseless as she would have wished it to be, he ought to have spoken up indignantly in defence of Rasputin. But his chin sank on to his cravat. Jealousy consumed her. The fashionable young women, the fluttering duchesses, the finely dressed and finely perfumed—how could a man with his appetites have resisted them? He would use them as he had used her. She had told herself that it wasn’t true but all along she had known that it must be true.
The carriage stopped. Zargo sat where he was. Then he said:
“You don’t have to let him obsess you like this. Put him out of your mind. Forget him.”
“Have you tried rebelling?” she asked.
Zargo let out a long sigh. He opened the door and got down. She took his hand and stepped down to the drive.
Zargo looked up at the door. She saw that he would still be glad to find an excuse for not letting her in. He was scared and resentful. Before he could try to persuade her to go away, she walked resolutely towards the door.
They went in together. The hall was deserted, but light shone through a half-open door. There was
the crackle of a deep voice, and a girl’s shrill laugh.
Sonia hurried across the hall.
“No!” Zargo pleaded.
She went into the lavishly appointed room beyond.
Rasputin was lying on a couch with his head back and his mouth greedily open. A slim, raven-haired girl whom Sonia recognized at once as the daughter of an influential Minister was laughing uncontrollably and dropping chocolates into his maw.
The girl stopped laughing as Sonia entered. Rasputin glanced lazily round; then scowled and swung his feet to the floor.
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to be with you,” said Sonia. “Is that so strange?”
“It’s a bore,” he said quietly but with an edge of fury.
She was here. They were face to face. There could be no question of pride, no reserve, no pretence.
“What have I done, Grigori?”
The girl stared from one to the other, fascinated. She would hardly dare to gossip: she could not admit to having been here. But Sonia was uncaring. Let her gossip if she wished, let her keep silence, let her do anything—preferably let her cease to exist.
“I’ll tell you what you’ve done,” said Rasputin levelly and viciously. “You’ve served your purpose. I don’t want to see you again.”
She had promised herself that when he saw her he would smile and everything would be wonderful again. There had never been any other possible ending. But now she saw the savage contempt in his face, and she was suddenly desolate and defenceless.
Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. In spite of herself her face twisted and jerked, and she knew she must be grotesquely ugly.
“Go away,” said Rasputin. “You disgust me.”
“I disgust myself,” said Sonia. But still she could not believe that he could be so impassive, so utterly unmoved. “Oh, God . . . what do I have to do, Grigori? Is there nothing you want of me now . . . nothing?”
His lips curled and he tugged at his beard, relishing a thought that was chasing through his mind.
“I’ll tell you what you can do, little Sonia. Your friend Vanessa—your pretty friend—get her for me.”
Sonia forgot the gaping, foolish girl who stood at one side, and forgot Zargo. She ceased to be conscious of anything but that leering face immediately before her. She sprang and stabbed out with her hands. Her nails raked Rasputin’s cheek.
He exploded into a great bellow of laughter and got a grip on her shoulders. His fingers bit cruelly into her flesh. Love and hatred were one. She kicked out and sobbed at him. She struck again and again, and he did not even flinch. When she tried to claw at his eyes he turned his head to one side, laughed again, and then looked back at her. His eyes continued to burn with their hellish mockery.
“Go home,” Zargo was shouting somewhere, miles away. “Go home—keep out of this.”
The girl was there no longer. The two of them fought and they were alone together—Sonia crying and damning him as she flailed out, Rasputin laughing on and on as though he would never stop.
They reeled against the door which led into the small laboratory. Sonia tried to force Rasputin back against the bench just inside the door.
“Be careful!” It was Zargo again, close this time, grabbing her arm and trying to pull her back. “That’s acid.”
Rasputin thrust himself forward. Bottles on the bench jingled, and then Sonia was forced back. Rasputin held her away from him and at last, with one brutal push, sent her sprawling. She lay on the floor, sobbing, staring at his sandalled feet close to her head.
“Get up,” said Rasputin.
She could not bear to move. She wanted simply to lie here and cease to exist.
“Look at me.”
She turned her head and saw him at a dizzying angle, glaring down at her.
He said: “Go. Get out of here. Go . . . and destroy yourself.”
“Grigori, no . . .”
Zargo came up beside Rasputin, but was thrust away with one mighty sweep of Rasputin’s arm.
“Do you hear me, little Sonia? Destroy yourself.”
It was as though hands were beneath her armpits, lifting her up. She got to her feet and stood there, swaying.
“You’re mad,” Zargo was saying. “Insane. Don’t you realize . . .”
She heard the words and they meant nothing. She heard Rasputin laugh again, more quietly this time, and that meant nothing. The only words that counted were the words he had dropped into her mind, burning their way through her. She loved him. He had told her what she must do and she would do it. It was the last thing she could offer him. She would not hold back.
Slowly she went out of the room and out of the villa.
She was not conscious of making the journey back into the city. If anyone spoke to her, either she did not answer or she replied automatically and non-committally. She was unaware of the lapse of time. Somehow, by some route which she must have known but which passed before her and then fell away into blankness, she made her way to the palace and at last to her bedroom.
All around her was a great silence. There was no need to shut things out: there was nothing to shut out; yet she locked the door behind her.
In the cupboard was a small bottle of smelling salts. Beside it stood a bottle of brandy. It was kept here for emergencies and so far had not been opened. Sonia took it out and weighed it in her hand. The touch of it was cold. Everything was cold.
She opened the bottle and poured a large measure into her tooth-glass.
The movement was echoed in the long mirror on the wall. Sonia raised the glass and watched her reflection answering. She tried to smile, but in the glass the only response was a tortured grimace. Her hair was lank and tangled.
She drank.
The spirit burned its way into her. And Rasputin’s words burned and burned and burned.
Sonia finished the drink. Then she smashed the glass against the edge of the dressing-table. She stared once more at herself in the mirror. But now it was not herself. A stranger parodied her movements. She forced this other person, this wide-eyed creature, to do as she ordered. She held out her left hand and watched to see that the echo was obedient and exact.
Then, studying it with a remote calm, she slashed the jagged edge of the glass down across her wrist. In the mirror a dark stain appeared across the white skin. Blood began to run. It was not fast enough. Sonia drew the glass across once more; and then again, and again.
9
The lawn below Ivan’s windows was a sparkling green in summer. It was accustomed to the tread of small, dainty feet and to the rustle of silk dresses. The Tsar and Tsarina had condescended to attend garden parties here. Even the Tsarevitch was allowed to come and play here, though he had not visited the house and grounds since his accident on the ice.
Now the ice was thick and almost blue. The lawn had disappeared below a coating of crisp snow. The only sound was that of feet crunching down the slope and of a winter wind through the dark treetops.
Peter stood by the low wall at the end of the garden and looked down on to the unyielding, unrelenting ice.
He had been waiting for half an hour. The cold had bitten into his bones but he could not bring himself to walk away. Sooner or later Ivan must come home. They must talk. He had waited too long—not here, but in the gaudy ballrooms and the fashionable antechambers of a time-consuming social life—and now they must thrash the matter out quickly . . . and act.
He thought of his sister’s dark, melancholy face and was angry with himself. He had neglected her. Instead of cursing at her he should have stood beside her and defended her. The guilt was as much his as hers: she was young and impressionable, and he had done nothing to help her.
A carriage swung up the drive towards the coach-house. The coachman lifted a lantern and hung it above the door as two people descended from the coach. Peter recognized them: Ivan was helping Vanessa down. As they started towards the house, Peter scrambled up the slope and crunched through the snow acros
s their path.
Vanessa caught her breath and raised an arm defensively. Then she cried:
“Peter—what are you doing here?”
He looked straight at Ivan. “I must talk to you.”
“But of course. At any time. Why didn’t you wait in the house? Come on in and get warm.”
“No. I . . . we mustn’t be overheard.”
“My dear fellow, in my own home—”
“Please.”
Ivan leaned forward to get a better view of Peter’s face. Then, concerned, he said: “It’s too cold to stand out here. At least come inside . . . into the coach-house.”
Vannesa made a move to join them, then with a faint, rueful smile turned away and went into the house. Ivan took Peter’s arm and led him up a flight of wooden steps to a room over the stables. A fire crackled in a squat black stove. From below they could hear the creaking and shuffling as the coachman unharnessed the horses and murmured to them, settling them in for the night.
Peter said: “This Rasputin . . . you know who he really is?”
“Who he really is? Does anyone know that? But I know what Vanni has told me—that he’s the chap we saw dancing at the Tzigane that night.”
“And you’ve heard how he’s behaving?”
“Nobody talks of anything else.”
“He’s using the Tsarina for his own filthy ends. He will twist her round his dirty little finger. You know how impressionable she is. He’ll twist her until he has her completely under his power, and then he’ll destroy her. And with her he’ll destroy the Court . . . all of us, all we stand for . . . unless we destroy him first.”
Ivan had been nodding solemnly. Now he froze. “You’re not serious? You want to . . . to get rid of him? Drive him out?”
“Destroy him,” said Peter emphatically.
“Murder him?”
“Assassinate.”
“Assassination . . . murder . . . what’s the difference?”
“In a cause such as this, there’s a great deal of difference.”
“Not to me.”
“You refuse to help?”