The Imperial Wife

by Irina Reyn

  She leaned a chin on his shoulder. Her womb was just barely settled, the boy so recently whisked away in beaver fur. “How can I enjoy Manfredini’s music when that louse will be destroying the music on the strings of his violin?”

  Gregory’s own interest in music was fleeting. Frivolity! he comments when cultural subjects arise. But he has a sharp instinct for political tactics; it was his idea to become promoted to treasurer of the Artillery so he could palm money and vodka onto the well-connected soldiers.

  “By this time next week, you may even be sole autocrat,” he mused, lowering himself to her lips, lingering there, proceeding to her neck along the valve of her collarbone. His cheeks were incredibly smooth, a soft dome of flesh. His weakness for cherries meant he often smelled of the fruit.

  “Sole autocrat,” she murmured. She allowed the words to persist on her tongue. “And they tell me I should act as regent.”

  Peter finishes the violin solo with a flourish of the wrist. He appears not to know his whereabouts, still in thrall to the notes. The crowd gathers itself to standing. His face is irrigated with pleasure from the applause, not realizing that the appreciation is polite, desultory. The singers wait for him to exit so they can turn the opera back into art.

  She rises to clap until bewildered faces turn to her, and when the applause dies down, she continues clapping with feverish enthusiasm. Peter looks at her in grateful surprise, a face wiped of spite. It is the face of the needy boy she once knew.

  “Bravo,” she cries, trying to engage the rest of the audience. “Was that not fine?”

  Her enthusiasm brings with it a fresh wave of ovation, and now Razumovsky, Panin, and even Manfredini are on their feet again. Brilliant, Your Majesty, just brilliant.

  Her husband appears miniature holding that drooped violin in his hand; with those pink cheeks, he resembles one of his puppets. Grinning widely, he is absorbing praise into his skin. When she feels doubt for what is about to occur, she remembers a typical afternoon the week before when he accused her of growing intolerably haughty. These days, the very glimpse of her sets him off on a tirade of insults. She had simply been taking a turn about the gardens after a morning at the chapel. She was bothering no one.

  “You walk around with your back all erect. Who do you think you are?” As usual, he emerged from nowhere, startling her. His dwarf, who was always at his side when Vorontsova was not, cackled.

  “Should it please you if I walked around bent over like a serf?” she retorted. The tulip trembled slightly in her hand but she was learning how to steady her emotions.

  “Is that a way to speak to your king?”

  “Treason,” the dwarf said.

  “Shut up, dwarf.”

  She said, “Pardon me, Your Imperial Majesty. I had somehow forgotten you were the king.”

  “Then maybe you need a reminder.” He drew his sword, an impressive instrument mostly used in role-playing and military drills. His dwarf moved closer for a better view. The entire scene was ludicrous, among the full bloom of apple and orange trees. But she dared not smile.

  “If we mean to fight, I’d better procure one for myself,” was all she said, coolly, before walking on.

  Now she thinks, Your turn to meet the tip of my sword, Your Imperial Highness.

  Tanya

  PRESENT DAY

  Moscow is a place of no limits, no boundaries, no control. What once seemed exhilarating in this country of awakening potential has now solidified into wariness, the constant possibility for danger.

  First of all: the traffic. Beyond any traffic I’ve ever encountered. As soon as the driver pulls away from the airport, I resign myself to spending anywhere from the next two to five hours alone with the man in a coiling snake of cars. Once I finish answering my e-mails, setting up meetings, and briefing Regan on Skype, I’m aching for freedom from this vehicle. The man at the wheel tends to be overly chatty and pessimistic. He complains about how the former mayor has destroyed the historical architecture of the city’s buildings or whether the president will reassemble the Soviet Union piece by piece or how his ex-wife incessantly calls his mobile with the most meaningless requests or how at least under communism, he could have counted on a pension.

  Second: the people. As soon as I enter the orbit of my clients, I’m instantly exposed to a faint halo of danger. Once, while I was in the middle of dinner at the restaurant Oblomov, a restaurant where my meal is brought to me in bed, a man was shot on a backroom mattress by someone who calmly walked out the front door. I screamed, my client shrugged, the police were called, but an hour later, the sheets of the dead man’s bed were cleared for the next reservation. Even without the possibility of murder, there’s the absurdity of scenarios in a country where rich men can realize their most esoteric desires. Once, a client insisted I accompany him to a nail parlor. There I sat reviewing lots in an upcoming auction trying not to stare at the breasts of the topless technician while my client received a “special menu” pedicure. Yet another time, while visiting the penthouse of one of my most powerful consignors, I crossed paths with a woman in a leopard-printed miniskirt on towering heels holding a painting under her arm. She didn’t greet me, but dragged the frame to the elevator and disappeared inside it.

  “Who was that?” I asked my client.

  “A prostitute,” he said simply, ushering me in. He was dressed for the meeting in a crisp formal suit, only the hair at his neck revealed a recent shower. It was then I noticed the blank square of his wall where the most exquisite Pirosmani had hung just the day before, the same Pirosmani I was counting on as a centerpiece for the fall auction.

  I proceeded to the kitchen, past the Doric columns, past the swimming pool with a mysterious pair of women in black cut-out bikinis. “Do you know how hard it is to be a Georgian in South Ossetia?” he asked.

  “I can imagine.” I reached for the proffered glass of wine.

  “She told me her whole life story. Bombed the shit out of her village in ’04 and ’08. And let me tell you, Tanyush. It raised the hairs on my arm. Separated from her parents, her mother in camouflage fighting alongside the soldiers. Horrible.”

  “A tragedy over there.”

  He held up a bottle of wine. “This is actually from her family’s vineyard. Such shame we can’t get good Georgian wine in Russia anymore.”

  “So you gave her a Pirosmani?”

  The man shrugged. “I felt bad for her. Wouldn’t you do the same?”

  Oh, yes, I have personally redefined professionalism, the need to keep my face neutral before the unbelievable.

  Arriving in the center of wealthy Moscow I steel myself. For women wearing ruched evening dresses in the cold light of morning, for prostitutes loitering at my hotel bar, for paying eighty dollars for a movie that comes accompanied by cocktails and rocket salad, for the babushki guarding the entries to art galleries who berate me for seeing a show out of linear sequence. I steel myself for being yelled at, because unwritten rules of the Soviet period are being broken, and the babushki have to punish someone for their change in circumstances, for the end of the security they had once been promised.

  My one oasis of solace after an exhausting auction preview is the Park Hyatt Hotel, a sleek sanctuary where the staff have taken a rare course in customer service, one of the few places no one yells at me, pickpockets me, or charges me a different amount than was listed on the menu. The city looks magical from its roof, where I am summoned toward a seat (“Would you prefer a blanket or a fur coat?”) and a mohair blanket is wrapped around my legs. Women under fur coats warm themselves by chrome space heaters, sipping champagne while their companions swirl cognac and rust-colored liqueurs. We are all facing the cupolas of Red Square, flashing against the purple of the night. The iconic spires poking at the sky, the perfect, globular red. I imbed myself into the blanket and count the days until I can leave.

  * * *

  On the Park Hyatt roof, I settle into my usual lounge chair, the one pointing directly at the maj
esty of nighttime Kremlin. I send for tea but a bottle of rosé Dom Pérignon arrives instead. “A little gift from your friend Igor,” the server says, with a slight smile. As if, Don’t worry, I know what you are so don’t think you’re anyone special. All the women here have an Igor.

  I start to tell him not to bother uncorking it when a flash of blond hair says in Russian, “Bring us a second glass.”

  I look up into the taut, glittering skin of Nadia Kudrina. The young woman is entirely swathed in white—a skintight white shift dress that looks like an Alaïa, white silk strappy sandals that she flings to the floor next to the chair. As if on cue, the majestic tips of the Red Square spires recede behind the opacity of cloud.

  “I’m here to pick up a Shishkin,” Nadia says. “Can’t stand to look at them, can you? Bubbling brooks and those itty-bitty forest animals. Blech.” She motions to the server. “Bring us sushi. And a stool for my handbag. Where do you expect it to go? On the floor? On my lap?” The fact that designer purses can expect their own chairs in the best Moscow restaurants is another charming detail of the city.

  Our glasses are poured, champagne the color of the palest of petals. As I’d expect, it’s dry and delicious. I plan my escape strategy: one drink, then plead a headache.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Nadia says. She’s taken note of my wary expression. “No way we are going back to our rooms before five in the morning. You are I are going to skip the Garage VIP gala and head right to Krysha. Live a little, right?”

  I pretend I too was invited to Zhukova’s gala. Oh, well. I would have liked to stroll the Rem Koolhaas building at night.

  She’s polished off her glass, popped a single California roll in her mouth, and rises to stand in those towering heels, with that cascade of hair. “Let’s go, idem. Get up. It’s getting late. Let’s just go straight to Krysha.”

  “I don’t think so.” I drape the blanket more tightly about my legs.

  “I know, I know. Krysha’s so five years ago, I prefer Strelka, but it’s Krysha’s birthday tonight. We’re supposed to wear white.”

  “Ah, well. I’ve got nothing white. Next time.” White is a color for the young, the wafer-thin. But now we are attracting attention from guests in the other chairs, probably because Nadia is a high-profile Moscow socialite on par with Zhukova and Sobchak, constantly photographed by the Russian media, her outfits dissected on entertainment talk shows. She protested against the president when it was fashionable and then got engaged to a top-level politician in his administration when protesting became passé and is separated from the man now that protesting is back in vogue. Someone snaps a photo of us with a cell phone.

  Somehow the bottle is empty, the evening chill wrapped around my shoulders. More phones are raised, and Nadia pulls me toward the exit, down the transparent elevators, the lobby with its black and wood, its geometric lines. We spill out on the streets toward a chauffeur opening the door of an idling sedan.

  “Wait a minute,” I protest, but I’m being shoved into the car, and someone introduced to me as Pyotor is driving us along the slick streets of Moscow night.

  “This baba’s got something against fun,” Nadia tells the driver. And it’s only after she pulls out the lipstick in her purse and checks the messages on her phone that I’m calm enough to be convinced this is not a kidnapping. I can enjoy the view out the window.

  It can be beautiful too, Moscow. Roads like unfurling carpets, the stony, august illumination of the statues of poets, squares so clean and regal, the magnificent golden caps of churches, the gold moldings and imperial eagles of the restored Bolshoi Theater, the GUM department store. We are riding over sloping bridges, past soaring cathedrals and libraries. We slow down in front of an apartment building and four more women pile in to arrange themselves in pairs. They’re draped entirely in white, in knee-high patent boots, ribbons in their plaits; one is decked out in a Vera Wang-ish wedding dress. They’re a swirl of twittering voices. One exclaims over my black ensemble, not to mention my conservative cowl-neck top and jeans, complaining that getting past face control with me in tow will be a bitch.

  Nadia says, “Ladies, ladies. Our next stop is TsUM.” And they quiet down.

  Purses are splayed open to reveal a spread of cosmetics, lavender powder exploding on leather surfaces.

  “I’ve got a client to meet tomorrow. I should get back to the hotel.”

  “Oh, quit your whining, old lady.” Nadia rolls the window down, expelling the curl of cigarette smoke. “The Art Twins will be there.”

  The entire night has taken on the logic of dream, a succession of events in which I’ve no agency. Squeezed next to Nadia and her friends, I’m reminded of my first year at Worthington’s, my first years in America even, when I was simultaneously inside and outside its rules. How little was expected of me in both situations—my teachers assumed I spoke no English or Hebrew and never expected completed assignments; at Worthington’s I was an invisible junior trainee with no connections, no claim to its insider privileges. And now, in Russia, among the real Russians, I’m an American imposter. The girls speak in rapid-fire slang, passing around a canister of pills, chasing them down with the contents of a flask.

  “You didn’t hear I’m launching a fragrance?” Nadia answers somebody. “It’s going to be called Muza. Hey, Petrushka. Crank up the tunes, will you?” Her blond hair is plastered prettily to her forehead.

  The others congratulate her and chime in with updates on their own projects. One is hosting a reality show, another anchors a political program, someone else is starting a denim line. The driver turns up the music, Nadia is congratulated on her father’s new acquisition. An entire Greek island or just a portion of it? Everyone is buying Greek islands. What parties they’ll throw when the deal is finalized! I turn my attention back to the streets, to the blur of streetlamps. When Carl comes back home, after the auction is over, we should take a vacation.

  “I’m also thinking of starting a gallery. What do you think, Tan? You and I leave our auction houses and go into business together. The pressure of auction is exhausting, no? With our contacts and your expertise, we can do private business for ourselves. I can get us nice modern space in Chelsea, maybe near Pace.”

  Momentarily, I’m flattered. I even allow myself an image of it, the hush of a gallery on a weekday morning, the bare white desk, the walls waiting to be arranged to my taste. No meetings with Marjorie, no ominous fruit bowl upstairs. No consignor kickbacks or corporate machinations. Of course, now’s hardly the time for shaking up my life but the idea is tempting.

  “I really like my job.”

  “Well, think about it,” Nadia says, returning to her texting. “We’d make a good team.”

  Pyotor turns up the music and the entire backseat vibrates with the swirling of hips.

  We pull up in front of a darkened department store and Nadia spills out, dragging me up the steps behind her. The place is shuttered, but Nadia punches into her cell phone and the door swings open. A man ushers us inside. One by one, the floors erupt with a brilliant radiance. I’m greeted with a museum of clothes organized by color, sloping racks of draped garments in blues and reds and pinks, on the walls paintings of dogs in bathing suits, chandeliers low and ripe, recamier chairs piled with scarves. Under the gaping skylight in the back of the store hangs a row of silks and jerseys and corsets, white as winter.

  “Isn’t an empty store the only way to shop?” Nadia says, combing through the white Martin Margiela section.

  “Are you kidding? I’m not going to buy new clothes for this one party.” I avoid not only the topic of money but even glancing at the exorbitant prices. But Nadia is flinging hangers onto the chair, crinkled blazers and silk pants and a white bustier.

  “Quick, they’re waiting. Try this on.” Nadia shoves me behind a velvet curtain.

  I stand among pants and bustier, half in, half out of the clothes. Outside the dressing room, Nadia and the man are exchanging friendly inquiries about one another’s fa
mily and beyond them are floors of emptiness, piles of unseen clothes. A kind of rabid energy overtakes me. I start to frantically try one thing after another. A hand reaches in to me behind the curtain and I follow its directions until I’m zipped into some complicated Comme des Garçons thing, a Marie Antoinette–type gown to the knee, a silk blazer of white flowers draped over my shoulders. I look like some bold projection of myself at twenty-five, convinced I would have time for multiple reinventions.

  “Perfect,” Nadia says, giving me a quick survey.

  I finally read the tag. “It’s over four thousand euros!”

  But I’m swept out of the store with the same stealth, my own clothes draped around an elbow, and the man in the sunglasses waves and tells us to have a nice time. In the backseat, my hoop skirt engulfs all the girls, and they’re all giggling, pinned by my taffeta.

  “Now you look like somebody,” they say with approval.

  “She is somebody,” Nadia says. Her tone, to my surprise, seems sincere.

  We climb the steep staircase to the roof. In front of me, there’s only night, only the flash of white leather leggings, a buffed heel at my nose. Each window is murky, exploding with light and flesh. The bouncer hurries us inside to avoid photographers. “Have good time, devushki.”

  The club is a series of windowless rooms with bursting music and a bald DJ swaying to his beat. A fuzzy drink that smells of peaches appears in my hand and next time I look down, it’s gone. There are clumps of men standing around the fringes of the dance floor watching Nadia and her friends undulate. The women are whispering to each other, pointing their phone cameras at Nadia. In the whirl of the strobe, they’re a sea of colorless creatures dipping in shades of blue. This is the new Russia: technology and hair and the frisson of danger.

  Onstage is a woman who looks like Medovsky’s Marina, a blaze of red hair, bony limbs flailing. They call out to me, drag me inside their circle (“All hail the queen!”), and I shock myself by being capable of this still, sweaty gyrations to a mindless beat, hands electric in the air among the socialites of Moscow whose toothpick bodies hide mine from the onlookers, open only to the cool white lights of Krysha, the DJ at his turntable, cuing the awaiting track on his headphones, waiting for it to burst out onto the speakers.