Eight

by James R. Vance

  “I want to take you back almost one hundred years, my dear,” said Alexis's grandmother. “Tsar Nicholas II had four daughters, Grand Duchess Olga, Grand Duchess Tatiana, Grand Duchess Maria and Grand Duchess Anastasia. His wife also bore a son, Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich, who unfortunately suffered dreadfully from haemophilia and was constantly ill. However, the family conspired to keep his condition secret from the ordinary Russian people.”

  “Why?” Petra asked. “Surely, they would have been sympathetic.”

  “They would never have accepted an ailing heir to the Russian throne. The populace had perceived the Tsar as a deity. They would never have tolerated a ruler who was constantly ill…it was unthinkable. The Tsar's wife, Alexandra, engaged the services of a strange individual, a Siberian mystic, a charlatan with powers of healing. His name was Grigori Rasputin. Reputedly, Rasputin once brought the young Tsarevich back from the brink of death by using his mystical powers. Rumours also spread that the empress and her daughters were his mistresses. In St. Petersburg, he was a drunkard and a womaniser, a threat to the Romanov dynasty. Another visitor at that time was the Tsar's cousin, Grand Duke Dimitri Pavlovich. He, together with Prince Felix Yusopov, murdered Rasputin in 1916 in a bid to eradicate the damage that Alexandra's relationship with the mystic was causing the monarchy.”

  She paused to sip more vodka. The slight delay added a touch of drama to her story. She had survived from an era before television and other forms of entertainment, an age when storytelling was an art form. She was an expert in creating suspense.

  “The following year, when the Tsar abdicated and the family was under house arrest at Tsarskoye Selo, they discovered that their daughter, Grand Duchess Tatiana, reputably an arrogant girl, was pregnant. They also kept that secret within the family. Whether the pregnancy was due to a liaison with the Tsar's cousin or the result of a favour to Rasputin in return for services rendered to their sick son, we shall never know.”

  Petra was engrossed. “How fascinating…a dysfunctional Royal Family. In comparison, my dramatic life has a semblance of normality.”

  The old woman continued her narrative, a grave expression on her face. “Tatiana gave birth to a son in August 1917, shortly before the family was transferred to Tobolsk. The family doctor, Yevgeny Botkin, who stayed with them throughout their ordeal, delivered the baby. Immediately the child was born, one of the local maidservants smuggled it from the palace in a laundry basket. Her mother, a peasant woman, wet-nursed and looked after the baby.”

  The unfolding drama of the story was almost claustrophobic. Petra was enthralled. “Why did Tatiana let the baby go?”

  “She had no choice in the matter. Her parents made the decision. The child was both illegitimate and an inconvenience to their situation. Ironically, the actions of the Tsar and his wife saved the child's life.”

  She sipped more vodka and continued. “My mother was this woman's friend and neighbour. Not long afterwards, the woman died and my mother cared for the child until it was no longer possible to afford to feed it. There was a famine situation at that time and millions were dying from starvation. She placed the child in an orphanage as a foundling child, giving it the name Alexei, out of respect for the Tsarevitch. After the war, she became a regular visitor to the orphanage to see the toddler. For some reason, she never adopted him, probably because of poverty and the fact that she was pregnant, first with my sister who died at birth and later with me. I was born eight years after the war ended.”

  Petra had immersed herself in the old woman's historical narrative. “What happened to little Alexei?”

  “Subsequently, he was fostered out to a family who could afford to take him in. Over the years, he occasionally visited our house until he was old enough to be drafted into the Soviet armed forces. I was young…I adored him. He was my hero. He fought in the Second World War, survived the siege of Leningrad, now renamed St. Petersburg, was involved in the battle for Warsaw and marched victorious into Berlin. He was not only my hero, but a Soviet hero.”

  As her story unfolded, it became obvious that her life had been devoted to keeping the illusion alive. Her passion consumed her as she recollected the events. Petra realised that living, breathing history was in touching distance…in a nearby armchair.

  Further revelations were forthcoming. “I was a young nurse during the war and, though sometimes my mother received a letter from him, I lost touch. As the war ended, I was working in a field hospital near Berlin. Purely by chance, we met when he visited a comrade there. We resumed our friendship during which time my mother died, leaving me with no family. I had lost all those dear to me in the conflict. Of course, he had no known relatives either.

  “We realised that the Soviets wished to destroy and subjugate Germany in retribution for their savagery on Russian soil. The Allies’ aim was to rebuild the country. These opposing ideologies were about to create a divided nation. We had sacrificed everything for freedom. Consequently, we fled to the West with some refugees because of the ensuing partition. We were virtually homeless and stateless. First, we travelled to France, then to Italy and finally, we managed to procure a passage on a ship bound for the United States of America where we were married.”

  “What an amazing story. But how did you finish up here in France?”

  “In 1980 our only son, Nickolas, met and married a French girl whilst still in the States. Sadly, my husband had died fifteen years earlier and Nickolas cared for me. When he married Francine, he was adamant that I should continue to live with them. He had an extension built onto the house where I could live separately. This arrangement enabled me to be comfortable and independent but close by. Eight years after they married, they too bore a son, Alexis, my grandson. Eventually, the company where Nickolas worked transferred him to France and I accompanied them. They insisted, though I was not too keen.”

  Petra was thoughtful for a moment as she attempted to digest everything that she had heard. Suddenly, she grasped the point of the fascinating story. “Am I correct in believing that Alexis is a descendant of the Tsar's family?” She barely believed what she was asking.

  The old woman replied with intense pride. “Great-great grandson of Tsar Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias.”

  “But why doesn't Alexis talk about it?”

  “He does not know. I am the only person in possession of the greatest secret of the last century.” She drained her cup of vodka.

  Petra was confused. “Why have you chosen to divulge it to me?”

  “I asked you earlier about the number eight, yes?”

  Petra nodded, still having difficulty in absorbing what she was hearing.

  The old woman reached for the vodka bottle again. She poured some into her cup and passed the bottle to Petra. “I suggest that we have another tipple. You have heard the story, the main historical facts. Now I am about to add the mystical numbers that add credibility to those facts, numbers that now demand that the truth be revealed to the world.”

  Without thinking, a mesmerised Petra poured more vodka into her cup. Her mind was in turmoil.

  The old woman leaned forward towards her and whispered. “The number eight is a mystical number.” She moistened her lips with her tongue after imbibing a mouthful of vodka. A bulky leather handbag lay at her feet. She reached down and withdrew a sheet of paper on which she had written a list of dates and corresponding events.

  “This is for you, my dear. I prepared it especially. You must destroy it after I have explained its relevance.” She passed the sheet to Petra and snapped shut the bag.

  “You will see that Tsar Nicholas II was born on 18th May 1868. Note all those eights. He became engaged to Alix of Hess on 8th April 1894. His coronation took place on 26th May 1894, aged 26. In the date and his age, the twos and the sixes add to eight. They were married on 26th November 1894…two and six again.

  “Grigori Rasputin was murdered on 16th December 1916…two eights in the sixteenth day and look at the year. We have
nine minus one and sixteen again…three more eights in total. Nicholas abdicated on 15th March 1917…two eights in the year again.

  “Tatiana gave birth on 8th August 1917…the eighth of the eighth month and once more the eights in the year. The family's execution took place during the early hours of 17th July 1918…more eights. In 1998, eighty years after their deaths, skeletal remains, discovered beneath a remote woodland track in the Koptyaki forest near Ekaterinburg, were formally identified as those of the Romanov family, excluding a daughter and Alexei. On 17th July 1998, they were interred at St. Peter and Paul Cathedral in St. Petersburg, eighty years to the day after their assassination. Bone fragments of the missing children were finally discovered in the year 2008. If we include Tatiana's baby, there were eight members of the immediate family, the Tsar, his wife, four daughters, one son and one grandson.”

  She sipped more vodka before continuing. “I was born strangely enough in August 1926. I married Alexei on 28th August 1948. The number eight now starts to become even more dominant. As I said previously, Alexei was born on 8th August 1917. He died on 8th August 1965, aged 48.”

  “He died on his birthday?” Petra asked, almost mesmerised.

  “There is more. Our son, Nickolas, was born on 28th August 1953, married Francine on 28 December 1980 when she was 18 years old. She died in year 2000, aged 38. Nickolas also died on his birthday, 28th August 2006, two years ago, aged 53…yet another eight. Their son, your new friend Alexis, was born on 8th August 1988, the eighth day of the eighth month in the eighty-eighth year of the last century. Eight after eight after eight, culminating in a full house of the mystic number!” The pitch of her voice had risen. She was now breathless.

  She took another sip of vodka. “At that point, when all the eights came together, I knew that, not only was Alexis the special one, but that the time had come. I want the world to know that he is the one surviving true Romanov, the sole legitimate direct descendant of the last Tsar of All the Russias. I want it to be announced on 17th July 2018, exactly one hundred years after the Bolsheviks thought that they had erased the Romanov dynasty forever.”

  Her recollections astounded Petra. “How do you remember all those dates?”

  The old woman sipped even more vodka. “You must know the dates of your parents’ birthdays and in their cases, the dates when they died. Similarly, your memory will register dates involving your brother, your sister and other members of your immediate family. I am no different, apart from the fact that the best part of a century is etched in my head. In nine years when it is the time, I will be ninety-one years old, God willing. However, I may be too frail…I may not be even here to witness that event. My final days grow closer like the approach of the dark winter months.

  “Last year, the Tsar and his family, having been identified, interred and rehabilitated by the Russian Supreme Court, finally ceased to be news. I am determined to resurrect my story to complete the final historical chapter, not to wallow in nostalgia, but to inspire future generations. It is my resolve, therefore, that you shall present my grandson, Alexis, to the world.”

  Petra protested. “Why me?”

  “When you entered this room, Louise, I knew instantly that you were the one.” The old woman smiled. “Tell me truthfully, my dear, what is your real name? Louise is not a Slavic name.”

  Her question stunned Petra. How could she lie after all she had told her? “My name is Petra,” she said, allowing her long hair to hide her embarrassment.

  “Ah, such a bold name…and your surname?”

  “I am Petra Victoria Rebovka.”

  “Perfect. I could not believe that your name was Louise Charrière…such a disgusting name for such a distinguished young lady…and so French!” She spat to one side as if to cleanse her lips of those words.

  Petra suddenly realised what she had done. The awesome revelations and mystical fantasies of the old woman's tale had pierced her defences. “Please don't mention my name to Alexis or to anyone else,” she said. “There is a special reason for the name change.”

  “That is your business, my child,” said the old woman. “I will not pry. Your secret is safe with me, just as I trust that my secret is safe with you. Neither of us will speak about this again. Our lips will remain sealed until the moment of truth is at hand.”

  “But I may not be here in nine years time.”

  “Oh, you will be here, Petra. You will be here. It is your destiny to be here.”

  Once again, Petra's mind recalled the words of her fortune-teller: ‘You have the power to shape your destiny’. Confused and mentally exhausted by this present experience, she tried to compose herself. How could she refuse to carry out the old woman's wishes?

  Alexis's grandmother had closed her eyes, completely relaxed in her chair. Did her consumption of vodka or the exhaustion from her ordeal cause her current state? Petra was unconcerned. It was time to leave. She kissed the old woman on the cheek and whispered her farewell.

  Alexis's grandmother gripped Petra's hand tightly, opened her eyes and said, “You can call me Katherine now. I will still call you Louise, but it will always be Petra when we are alone.”

  Petra left the apartment, fully convinced that, whatever her misgivings, the Romanov business would not disappear. There would be no closure to her scepticism, at least not until the year 2018.

  Part Three Southern Discomfort

  Massey was unable to sleep. His mind was in contemplative overdrive. Besides, there was a steady hum of nightlife from the street below his window. The hubbub was certainly not conducive to gathering meaningful thoughts about the current issues. He decided to leave his room and take a stroll around the old port. The air would clear his mind and a few drinks in one of the myriad of bars would surely guarantee a sound sleep.

  Crossing the Quai des Belges, he followed the drifting revellers along the Quai du Port. Many people were still dining, crowding the tables on the terraces fronting the numerous bars and restaurants. He stopped at La Chope d'Or for a large scotch before moving on to the Bar de la Mairie. He completed his short pub-crawl at l'Hacienda, whereupon he crossed to the quayside to admire the conglomeration of boats moored in the harbour. The bay was a sea of twinkling lights. The floodlit basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde rose like a guardian angel above the southern limestone crop east of the city.

  There's some bloody money's-worth out there, he thought, casting his eyes across the old port. Amongst the motor cruisers and sailing dinghies, one large yacht caught his eye. It was lit up like a Christmas tree. Music blared from every orifice of the superstructure. On board, a party seemed to be in full swing.

  “Lucky bastards,” he muttered under his breath and continued walking. Something clicked in the inner recesses of his mind. Retracing his steps, he walked over towards the edge of the quayside and peered across the gentle swell of oily salt water towards the illuminated vessel. The name on the bow of the yacht leaped out at him…Etoile Olympique.

  Massey grinned, turned away and quickened his stride back towards the hotel. That will simplify our search tomorrow, he thought. He contemplated contacting Harcourt to deliver the good news, but decided against the idea. The walk, the alcohol and the discovery of Dumas's yacht would ensure a good night's sleep. A late night encounter with his colleague might severely damage that prospect. He based his judgement on D.S. Newton's opinion of her as a potential femme fatale. That was the last thing he needed.

  8888

  Petra was in a slight dilemma. Katherine had distracted her from her mission. Her training had conditioned her to remain focussed, but the enormity of the Romanov saga occupied her thoughts. She sat in her apartment staring at a 2009 calendar, issued by La Poste. Today was Tuesday the eighth. Thank goodness, it isn't August, she thought.

  Her troubled mind responded to distant music, the sound of reality, normality. She walked to the kitchen and picked up her mobile phone. It was Alexis.

  “Hi, Louise…I've just arrived back in Limoges from St. Etie
nne. We finished earlier than anticipated. I wondered if you fancied a drink. I could pick you up at your place, if you like.”

  Petra hesitated. What harm can come of it, she thought. At least, I know that he's on the same side. What if he does know where I'm lodging? He's a useful contact and, besides I like him. After his grandmother's revelations, I could do with a drink and some company.

  “Okay.” She gave him the address.

  “See you in five.” He rang off.

  Three minutes later, he arrived at the apartment and rang the bell. He must have been in the square, she thought. How did he happen to be so close? She picked up the intercom. It was Alexis. She pressed the button to release the lock and opened the door at the top of the stairs. Seconds later, he stood before her wearing a dark suit, cream shirt and a patterned tie. Very smart, she thought.

  “Are you going to invite me in?”

  Flustered by seeing him again, especially by his rather business-like image, she ushered him into the lounge and asked him to sit down. A whiff of expensive aftershave or deodorant wafted towards her as she settled into a chair opposite. Recently applied, she imagined.

  Choosing appropriate words, he intimated rather cleverly that he was free for the evening. “I called grand'maman to say that I would be late home and not to wait up for me.”

  Petra scrutinised his face. “Was that before or after you called me?”

  Alexis lowered his head “Truthfully?” His eyes sparkled mischievously as he looked across at her.

  “Truthfully.” I know from whom he's inherited that expression, she thought.

  “I called her earlier. If you had said no, I would have been devastated and resigned to staying in town drowning my sorrows.”

  “It's fortunate that I took pity on you like a Good Samaritan, which is unusual for me. You should be grateful that I've saved you from the excesses of the demon drink.” She smiled. “Have you eaten? I can offer you a meal. Mind you, I'd have to throw something in the microwave. I'm not accustomed to entertaining guests.”