“Excellency, your Highness, please—”
He closed her lips with his forefinger. “You needn’t take the word of your besotted tsar,” he said, smiling. Slipping a hand in his pocket, Nicholas withdrew a crumpled wad of news clippings. He plucked out the first, and read: “‘The whole of her person, marvelously slim and elusive, moves with perfectly coordinated harmony.’” He cast it aside and snatched another: “‘Never have such complicated pirouettes been executed so impeccably.’
“Please, Anya,” he said, leaning forward. “No false modesty. You are the first woman to master forty fouettes. They call you ‘toes of steel’ because of your impossibly long pauses en pointe.”
In spite of herself, Anya shrieked with laughter. “So,” she said, feigning insult, “you brought me here to examine my feet!”
Impulsively, she leapt up. “Sire, if it is my feet you wish, you shall have them!” Anya stood on her tiptoes, and boldly lifted her skirt to her calves. The daringly risqué gesture exposed the soles of her dress slippers as they rose in perfect parallel vertical lines from the floor.
Now it was the tsar’s turn to laugh. “No, no, I brought you here to talk about your art.” He stood, crossed the car to the window and momentarily parted the curtain as she had. Frowning, he opened a burled walnut cabinet, poured two glasses of red wine, and turned back to her. His tone abruptly shifted to one he might have used at a state dinner or even, perhaps, the banquet he’d just attended.
“We live in a time of great turmoil,” Nicholas said, “a time of erratic, wanton behavior. Your dancing is visual evidence of the rewards of order and discipline. It reassures the masses. It says to them, ‘Do not pull down the past, it is the foundation for the future.’”
Anya remained silent for a moment, then spoke hesitatingly, uncomfortable to counter her country’s head of state. “But sire,” she said, “I am only a dancer, and dancing is inherently impulsive and intuitive.”
His eyes sparkled; he was clearly enjoying the give-and-take. “Au contraire, Anya,” Nicholas replied. “Art is evolution, not revolution. Think of the discipline required to perfect your movements. No, my dear, however avante their creators may think them, all forms of art conform to the laws of succession. They build on what went before. Today, no other dancer is capable of your pizzicati, so clear-cut, so elegant, so flowing. In a generation, however, it will be altogether another thing: Every ballerina will be held to your standard.”
They began a long discussion about art. Anya marveled at how intently he listened to her views. At one point she realized she was expressing herself more freely with the tsar than she ever had with someone outside dance. As their talk rambled, Nicholas spoke fondly of his youthful love for a ballerina—though he was too discrete to use names, Anya knew her as the famous Kshessinska—and a world cruise he’d taken years before with youthful male companions. Today, he was obviously a man burdened by a position he never sought and, she intuited, a marriage increasingly distracted by his son’s health.
One week later, Grand Duke Alexander again called at the Putyatin flat. Two weeks hence, he called again. At this third meeting, Anya and Nicholas II, Tsar of all Russia, did not discuss art. And Anya did not return home until the following morning.
Chapter 2
DAZED, KATE stood in the drab hospital hallway. She’d always taken pride in her ability to keep her emotions in check. An important part of her competitive armor, she’d told herself. Now, however, tears welled at the corner of her eyes. Somehow she knew she would never forget this moment—or the changes in her life that it would set in motion.
“We did all we could,” the doctor said with a look of futility. He twisted his hands together and stood awkwardly a few feet away. Massive internal bleeding, a broken leg and a severe concussion had claimed Irina Viktoria Gavrill, aged 69. “I only hope they catch the bastards.”
The grim-faced physician touched her arm, then faded down the hospital corridor, white tails billowing.
Kate pressed a hand to her lips. Not even a year past 30 and she’d lost her mother, her only remaining blood relative and her last link to a history she scarcely knew. As a teenager, Kate had rejected all things Russian, most especially the ballet, opting instead for the uniquely New World sport of high-board diving. Only as a maturing young woman, had she begun to appreciate the grace and beauty of her heritage, as well as the parallels between the sport she’d chosen and the art form she’d rejected. That grace, beauty and heritage would be much diminished in a world without Irina, a world she must now face alone.
The only offspring of older émigré parents, Kate had been pushed from childhood to excel. Her mother earned a modest income as a ballet instructor and, after her husband’s untimely death, she and her young daughter shuffled through a series of small towns in the northeastern U.S. Kate’s was a rootless, financially strapped childhood, lived in a series of apartments, unmemorable except for the antique furniture and icons—icons Kate scorned—that Irina dragged between domiciles. After completing her Ph.D., Kate took a teaching position at Marion State, a liberal arts college. Her mother was only one state and a few hours drive away, but by then the emotional gulf between them had congealed into a bitter, impenetrable mass. Their conversations were like a bloodless vein, functional but empty.
Behind her, Kate became aware of another presence.
“Miss Gavrill?”
“Yes?” She turned back to the speaker.
“I’m Lt. Donald MacMahon, State Police.” A tall man in a dark uniform and a wide-brimmed trooper’s hat stood a few feet away. He showed her a badge and ID card.
“Miss—Professor Gavrill, I’m sorry to have to do this so soon after your mother’s death. But we believe the perpetrators may still be in Pennsylvania. I need to ask a few questions.”
“Not now. Please.”
The officer had a lean-boned, western face, and warm, emotional eyes. Early forties, Kate judged.
“Miss Gavrill,” he began in a quiet voice, “I realize this is a difficult time, but the quicker we move at this stage of our investigation, the better our chances of apprehending whoever’s responsible.”
The air had grown stuffy. Filtered through a draped window, the moon fluffed into a colorless angora ball. Kate felt dizzy; she touched the wall for support. Summer heat closed around her like a sweltering crowd. On impulse, Kate opened her mobile phone. She’d missed a call; the number was Irina’s, the time less than an hour before her accident. What had she wanted? Her mother hadn’t called her cell in years.
MacMahon persisted. “Did she have any enemies—”
Dismissing him with her hand, Kate moved toward the exit. Behind Anya’s picture, Irina said. She must get home. Now.
March, 1917
Keeping Lydia close at her side, Anya had braved Moscow’s smoldering open fires and roaming bands of Reds to reach Nicholas in Pskov. It had been almost three years since they’d seen each other. Then, he’d been off to congratulate the troops on their success against the Germans and Austro-Hungarians in East Prussia and at Galicia. Now, with the Russian army defeated and dispirited, they met on the same train where they’d first shared their passion.
The fleshy bags under Nicholas’s eyes made him look sad and old. He greeted her, lightly kissed her lips and then held her close. It was an embrace of affection rather than desire, but he clutched Anya so tightly she had to turn her head against his chest.
A young aide whisked Lydia out of the room. And they both sat, as they had so long ago, in the swoop-backed setee. On this occasion, however, he looked at her almost sternly.
“Anya you must never reveal what we discuss this afternoon, agreed?”
She nodded.
“All is lost,” he said without emotion. “The rebels have taken Tsarkoe, and most of the villages nearby. Tomorrow, I will abdicate in favor of—”
“No, Nicky, you mu
st not, for the good of—”
He interrupted her. “For the good of Russia I must. It is the only way to bring an end to this cycle of… of death and self-destruction. And to this hopeless war. You and the child must leave Russia immediately.”
“But—”
“Yes, now. I am giving you these documents.” He handed her a small envelope. “They will grant you access to a depository account in Lydia’s name—you are the executrix—at the Bank of England. The amount is the same as I have set aside for my other children.”
He handed her a heavy, tightly sealed package, smaller than a shoebox. “As proof of ownership of the account, you will also need these.”
“Inside, is a valuable gemstone that has been in my family for many years, and a special Faberge piece to contain it. Per my instructions, the bank in London will require you to present both as proof of ownership of the account.”
He paused and they stared at each other, mutually struck by the gravity of his words.
“I’ll never see you again, will I?”
He looked beyond her to the window, whose silk curtains had been replaced by coarse military cotton. For the first time she noticed that his shirt collar was frayed against his neck and that two small stains marred the front of his tunic.
“My dearest, Anya,” he said slowly, “our hours together have been few but glorious. In that brief time you helped me forget the sadness of life. For that, I am more grateful than you can ever know. My fondest hope is that you and Lydia find safety and happiness.”
He drew her to her feet and again embraced her. “You must go,” he said. “Now. Archbishop Chenko will be waiting for you outside with a carriage. He is a close family friend. Lydia is with him. Go.”
Anya turned as she reached the door and looked at Nicholas one last time. He stood in profile, a stooped, middle-aged man who suddenly appeared quite small. She thought of a Russian proverb: Happiness is like a butterfly that briefly delights us, then flits away.
Chapter 3
Still reeling from Irina’s death, Kate bruised her Saab’s tires as she parked in front of the two-bedroom home. Built in 1875, the structure’s simple, square-pillared facade belied its ornate interior.
She moved slowly up the front steps, feeling an overwhelming sense of Irina’s presence. It was as if her mother’s spirit occupied the house, even though Irina herself had never lived here or even been inside. Perhaps subconsciously hoping not to disturb any ethereal occupants, Kate opened the heavy front door gingerly, just enough to slide through. The foyer beckoned with a soaring cherry wood staircase and its own hand-carved fireplace.
Kate had bought the house of necessity. Marion had few apartments and its beautiful old Victorians were a bargain by big city standards. A year before, Kate’s improving salary as a professor had allowed a major renovation. She’d told the architect to bring in more light. Now, however, even as the moon cast neon shafts through its windows, the place seemed gloomy and improbably dark.
What had Irina meant ‘they’ have found us? Her mother had been in nearby Kutztown, attending the annual Amish fair. Her brief cell phone message had sounded urgent: I must see you right away, today. But why? Who had found them and what were ‘they’ looking for?
Suddenly, Kate felt an utterly illogical yet desperate urge for a quick diving session at the university pool. The world she’d occupied since the doctor’s terse pronouncement of Irina’s demise seemed shapeless and terrifying. At its center lay the most troubling, incomprehensibile question of all: Why would anyone run down Irina Gavrill with a car and then just drive away?
A few quick dives would offer a chance to return, temporarily at least, to a world she understood and could control. Before her athletic and romantic life crashed around her, Kate had been an Olympic candidate. She still kept up a rigorous training regimen. Competitive diving—precise, disciplined, yet incredibly liberating—reflected the rythyms of life. When light danced on the pool’s surface, this was Kate’s symphony. She could almost feel the stiff flex of hardwood under her feet, the surge of power through her thighs, the water slipping over her body like cool hands. High-board diving had been the vehicle for her independence when she felt suffocated by her culture and Irina’s unmet expectations.
Her mother had dreamed of a different path for her daughter.
Kate could still remember the glow in Irina’s eyes when her seven-year-old attempted her first baby-step pirouettes. “Just watch,” she told Anya excitedly, “Katya will be at least a principle dancer, perhaps even a prima ballerina.”
Years of musical child labor followed. Six days a week Kate spent four to five hours at the practice bar. In the evenings, Irina and Anya played videotapes of performances by Margot Fonteyn, Svetlana Lunkina and even Pavlova in grainy black and white. Irina prayed to St. Vladimir for her offspring’s success.
Alas, Kate’s career en pointe was not to be. As happens with many a young dancer, as she reached her teens, Kate’s body changed in ways that made the gods of balleto frown. Her arms and legs were long and shapely, but her arch lacked height and her fingers were a trifle short.
“Classical ballet is not a kind or forgiving art—as you both well know,” Kate’s instructor told Anya and Irina, “It makes rigid demands for a certain body type. In Katya’s case, the shortness of her arch is affecting her turnout,” she said, referring to the 180-degree opening of the pelvis, in which the dancer points her toes in opposite right and left directions while the rest of her body remains in vertical alignment.
“She can correct that with stretching and strengthening exercises,” Irina insisted. “She musn’t stop now.”
Anya was more stoic.
“You know as well as I do, Irina, that dance is all about the lines of the body,” she said when they talked later. “A high arch and instep are critical to their perfection. Exercises can’t change the shape of the bones in her feet or lengthen her fingers. Look at Pavlova, half of her dance was in her hands.”
Irina couldn’t hide her disappointment from Kate, but Anya was more philosophical. “You are going to be a beautiful, healthy young woman,” she said. “You must not let this discourage you. Classical dance can be a cruel master. There are many other ways to express yourself, Katya, and you will find the right one for you.”
Stung to the core, young Kate retreated to her room. “Whatever I do next, I’ll be the best in the world,” she resolved, “and I won’t pray to some dead saint to do it.” Within a year, Kate was captain of the girl’s diving team, and a year after that she’d won the state high school championship. Now, standing in middle of her darkened living room, Kate smiled bitterly at the memory. You almost made it, girl, she said to herself, you almost made it.
Her answering machine beeped.
Lt. MacMahon wanted Irina Gavrill’s financial records. His tone sounded unofficerlike somehow, almost apologetic. She shouldn’t have brushed him off before. He seemed like a nice enough guy, just doing his job. Kate pressed the stop button, and looked at her watch. A few minutes past 2:00 A.M. Cried out and wrung out, she undressed for bed and poured a glass of wine. The rest of the messages could wait; what she must do next could not.
Kate crossed the room to the fireplace.
Atop the mantle, next to a lacquered icon of the virgin—one of the few icons Kate kept in her house—sat an oversize, nickel-plated picture frame. Though nearly a century old, the photograph it contained would captivate any man in any age. Its subject wore a high-necked, snug-bodiced gown that profiled her small but shapely figure. Her eyes were large and luminous above a delicate nose and full lips. Tawny hair streamed down her back in a cascade of waves and curls. She’d been born in the last years of the nineteenth century, danced as prima ballerina for the Imperial Ballet, and lived until the 1980’s. This was Anya Putyatin.
As a little girl, Kate remembered sitting on the floor while her great grandmother wat
ched her line up a set of matryoshka dolls she’d received for Christmas. Painted in vivid blue, red and gold lacquer, the nested dolls told the famous Pushkin fairy tale of Tsar Saltan.
“Which is your favorite, Katya?”
“This one, Granmama Anya. The Swan Princess rescued by Prince Guidon.”
With surprising lightness, the old woman knelt beside her, quickly rearranging the dolls in a circle. She placed Kate’s favorite in the middle, then turned back to face her.
“Katya,” she instructed, “always put the things you love at the center of your life.”
Despite Anya’s wise words, as a teenager Kate had little use for her heritage. “I don’t want to take piroshkis in my lunch box,” she’d screamed at her mother after an argument. “I never wanted to be a ballerina anyway. And I hate being Russian!” Mostly, of course, she hated being different. Once, when Irina baked traditional potato dumplings for a school potluck, Kate had seen some of the other girls spit them out. “Yuk, who wants Russian food?” whined one blonde-curled princess.
Kate again thought of Granmama Anya’s words. And of the parent she’d just lost. Even with their estrangement in recent years, she’d never doubted her mother’s ultimate love. With Irina gone, she wondered, where was her center now?
Carefully, Kate lifted out the back of the large picture frame. From its deep velvet recess, a silver key fell into her palm. She removed a single tape cassette, and a folded, unsealed envelope.
December, 1917
Where WAS the archbishop? In the cold night air, Anya tangled her fingers in a clump of frozen curls.
For more than a month, Anya, Lydia and Archbishop Radislav Chenko had huddled in a blown out tailor’s shop just off Tolstovo Street near Kiev’s main rail station. The shop’s Jewish owners, Herman and Yullya Meyers, were afraid to go outside. Whenever the house was empty, thieves stole bread and milk, or tore boards from the floors and walls for firewood.
The Romanov Stone Page 2