The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

  ‘I don’t see why I should,’ Marie argued.

  Her brother smiled. ‘Do it for me.’

  Marie moved into her uncle’s mansion the following May, accompanied by her maid, Anna Radzinsky. Her quarters, with views of the fashionable Nevsky Prospect, included two bedrooms, a living room and a lavatory. The living room, with a set of bay windows leading to a small balcony, had views of the Winter Palace and the golden dome of St Isaac’s Cathedral.

  ‘How do you like your rooms?’ Darya asked over dinner on Marie’s first evening in her new home.

  ‘They’re charming. I know I’ll be very happy here.’

  ‘I saw Pyotr today,’ Darya said, a coy smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘He asked after you.’

  ‘Really? I find that surprising.’ All these months later Marie still felt the sting of his rejection.

  ‘Pyotr is rather unusual,’ Darya continued, as if she hadn’t heard the scorn in Marie’s voice. ‘He’s not at all like the other young men in St Petersburg. I’ve never seen him dance once at any ball. He’s always in some quiet corner, with his nose in a book.’

  ‘Dasha’s right.’ Monsieur Mostovsky looked up from eating. ‘You and Pyotr –’ he pointed to Marie with his fork ‘– have a lot in common. I remember you as a little girl, always with a book in your hands.’ He let out a throaty laugh. ‘Whilst Darya and your brothers chased one another, you sat quietly in the library reading the books.’

  Marie was about to object to her uncle’s assessment when Darya interrupted.

  ‘That’s settled then.’ She clapped excitedly. ‘I shall call him after dinner to organise a visit.’

  Marie groaned inwardly.

  ‘A marvellous invention, the telephone.’ Monsieur Mostovsky beamed. ‘Herman should get one.’

  ‘Papa was quite taken by them on his last visit to St Petersburg.’ Marie was grateful for the change of subject. ‘Mama is less convinced, but I think Papa will manage to persuade her.’

  Two days later, having forgotten Darya’s intention to invite Pyotr to call, Marie was reading in her rooms when the footman announced Pyotr Arkadyich had arrived.

  ‘Please show the gentleman to the drawing room,’ Marie instructed the footman, irritated that Darya was not home to receive him herself.

  Calling Anna, Marie changed from the pale blue dress she had been wearing, into a silk dress with a high lace collar.

  Anna fastened the last of the pearl buttons down Marie’s back and then stood back to scrutinise the result in the mirror. ‘Don’t you think this dress is a little conservative to receive a gentleman caller?’ she asked.

  ‘No, it’s perfect,’ said Marie. ‘Now help me tame these curls, will you?’

  When Anna had finished with her hair, Marie hurried down to greet her guest.

  ‘I took the liberty of buying you a small present,’ Pyotr said almost immediately upon Marie’s arrival into the drawing room.

  Surprised, Marie undid the wrapping and gasped when she discovered it held a copy of Chekhov’s The Lady with the Little Dog. Opening the book to the first page, she read a few lines.

  It was said that a new person had appeared on the seafront: a lady with a little dog. Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov, who had by then been a fortnight at Yalta, and so was fairly at home there, had begun to take an interest in new arrivals.

  ‘Nikolai said you are fond of reading.’ Pyotr looked anxious. ‘I thought you might enjoy Chekhov.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.’ She smiled at him and saw his face relax.

  ‘Shall we have some tea?’ She rang the bell for the house maid.

  ‘I know you are busy and I shan’t demand any more of your time,’ Pyotr said. ‘I simply came to welcome you and offer you this gift.’

  ‘Won’t you please stay?’ The words slipped out spontaneously before she had a chance to stop them.

  Pyotr too appeared surprised by the invitation. ‘Are you sure, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘Darya should be back shortly. She would be disappointed to hear she has missed you. And please call me Marie.’ She motioned for him to take a seat. ‘I’d like to hear more about your favourite books.’

  Over the summer, Pyotr became a regular visitor to the house, bringing with him armfuls of books. He read aloud to Marie his favourite passages, and she found she looked forward to his visits more and more. In a letter to Nikolai, she wrote: I have grown fond of Pyotr. He is such a dear friend. We can discuss our views openly with one another without fear of causing offence. So far our only argument has been over the merits of Hugo as compared to Tolstoy …

  ‘Do you seriously believe Hugo is a better writer than Tolstoy?’ Marie demanded.

  Taking advantage of the white nights, Pyotr had suggested they take a stroll through the Summer Garden. A light breeze rustled through the branches, scattering leaves onto the footpath.

  ‘Tolstoy is a genius and I deeply admire Levin’s philosophical ideals in Anna Karenina,’ Pyotr explained, ‘but I found Les Miserables rich and lyrical. The story of Jean Valjean is very powerful.’ He gave a passing glance at the pair of statues flanking the path. ‘It is simply my opinion.’

  ‘So you disagree with Chekhov and Dostoevsky when they say that Tolstoy is the greatest of all novelists?’

  ‘I told you, I do not dispute Tolstoy’s genius.’ Pyotr laughed. ‘No one depicts Russian society as realistically as he does.’ He shrugged. ‘I just happen to enjoy Hugo more.’

  ‘You are being absurd.’ Marie pretended to be indignant.

  ‘I shall miss our discussions when you return to Narva.’ Pyotr’s voice was serious now. ‘I’ve grown extremely fond of them.’ Stopping abruptly, he turned to face her. He looked nervous as he took her hand. ‘It’s not just our discussions I’ve grown fond of.’ He swallowed.

  Marie’s pulse began to race as she lifted her gaze to meet his. ‘Yes?’ she prompted, her heart filling with joy.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but then changed his mind. ‘Forgive me, I do not dare.’

  ‘Please, speak freely, Pyotr,’ she whispered.

  He turned his head away, dropping her hand. ‘It is nothing.’ Then, looking to the sky, he added, ‘It is getting late. We should head back.’

  She felt her hand slip through his, disappointment replacing her joy. She studied his face a moment longer, noting the lines of strain at the corners of his eyes. There was more to what he was telling her.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, we’d better go back or I’ll be late getting ready for dinner.’

  2

  St Petersburg, 30 July 1914

  ‘Your Excellency.’ The maître d’, a short stout man with a perfectly waxed moustache, bowed deeply. ‘How wonderful to see you again.’ He motioned for the valet to help their guest with his hat and coat. ‘Countess Volkonsky is already here,’ he added quietly.

  ‘Thank you, Mikhail.’

  Dressed in his dark blue military uniform, the colonel checked his reflection in the mirror. At thirty-seven, Alexei Basilivich Serov’s hair was just beginning to recede at the temples. The touch of grey above his ears blended well with the blond hair and made him look distinguished. Fluent in German and speaking a little French, he was a fine horseman, a superb dancer and an excellent shot. Though of medium build and height, Alexei nevertheless struck an imposing figure through the grace and manner in which he held himself. He nodded at his reflection, satisfied, then addressed the maître d’ once more.

  ‘Have you seen to our usual arrangements?’

  ‘Of course, Excellency,’ Mikail replied. ‘This way, please.’

  Alexei followed him through the crowded room, nodding and smiling at familiar faces. The most fashionable restaurant in St Petersburg, the Donon was famous for its high-ranking clientele as well as its exquisite food.

  At the back of the restaurant, Mikail drew open a set of heavy crimson curtains, which led to a narrow corridor with dim lighting and doors to private rooms. A Tartar waiter stepped aside wh
en the two men approached. Rapping lightly on one of the doors, Mikail waited for permission to enter then stopped to let Alexei pass before him.

  ‘Enjoy your evening, Excellency,’ he murmured, before withdrawing discreetly.

  ‘Alexei Basilivich! I have a good mind to send you packing.’

  Countess Natalya stood in the middle of the room in a closefitting white gown that accentuated her narrow waist and full breasts. ‘What time do you call this? The champagne has grown warm.’

  ‘Forgive me, Natalya.’ Taking her hand in his, he drew it to his lips but at the last moment, turned her palm upwards and kissed the sensitive centre of her wrist. ‘You look divine.’

  ‘You are a cad, Alexei.’ Natalya pursed her lips, then smiled. ‘What kept you? Was it your wife?’

  ‘I had some business that required my attention.’ He rang the bell to summon the waiter standing outside the door. ‘Bring us a new bottle of champagne,’ he ordered.

  When they were alone once more, Alexei hooked an arm around Natalya’s waist, drawing her to him. ‘I’ve missed you.’ He kissed her on the neck.

  ‘Not so fast.’ She pushed him away. ‘You have not even explained what business was so important that you kept me waiting for almost an hour.’

  ‘Surely you understand the consequences of the assassination on relationships between the Serbs and the Austro-Hungarians,’ he countered.

  ‘Omph! The assassination!’ She turned to the table where a cold supper was laid out. ‘I’m tired of hearing about the Archduke and his mousy wife. It seems all of St Petersburg is obsessed by it.’

  ‘My dear countess, the Archduke was after all the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne.’

  ‘So, what of it? What do the Serbs and Austrians have to do with us?’

  ‘Austria, backed by Germany, has declared war on Serbia, in which case Russia must step in to defend the Orthodox Serbs.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m bored by it all.’ The countess spread a small dollop of caviar on crispbread and popped it in her mouth.

  ‘In that case, let us hear no more about the subject.’ Alexei grabbed her hand and pulled her towards a sofa in the corner of the room.

  ‘No.’ She snatched her hand away. ‘I have not forgiven you yet.’ Moving to a chair on the other side of the dining table, she leant forward, presenting Alexei with a view of her ample cleavage.

  The waiter entered carrying a tray bearing a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Excellency?’

  ‘No thank you.’ Tipping the man, Alexei whispered, ‘Make sure we are not disturbed.’

  ‘Yes, Excellency.’

  Alexei filled the glasses and offered one to the countess.

  ‘I’m still waiting for your explanation.’ She fixed him with a stern look. ‘I thought you had forgotten me,’ she added in a hurt voice.

  ‘Forgotten you? My dearest Natalya, you are the most ravishing creature in all of St Petersburg. How could I forget you?’

  Clearly pleased by Alexei’s response, Natalya beamed. The sternness disappeared from her eyes and, taking Alexei’s hand, she drew him down into a seat beside her.

  ‘Will you stay tonight?’

  His face grew serious. ‘I’m afraid I cannot.’

  She stiffened. ‘Is it your wife?’ She stood abruptly and moved away from him. ‘You never showed such concern for her in the past.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with Emily. I must know if Russia will enter the war. My regiment might be called to the front any day.’ Alexei went to her and took her in his arms. At first she shrugged him off but then relented and allowed him to draw her into his chest. ‘I’m a professional soldier,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘This is what I’ve trained for all my life.’

  ‘Oh, Alyosha, is there really going to be a war?’ Turning to him, she looked up at his face with concern. ‘What if … what if you are hurt, or worse, what if you …’ The words were choked by a sob.

  Alexei felt a surge of affection for her. He kissed her, brushing his lips down her cheek to her smooth jawline. It pleased him to hear her breathing slow and deepen with every kiss. Travelling lower, his lips found her throat and he felt a stirring in his groin when a moan escaped her lips. Returning to her mouth, Natalya’s lips parted. He kissed her hard then, stopping to catch his breath, he looked into her eyes. Confident of the answer to his unspoken question, he took her hand and led her to the sofa.

  Two hours later, Alexei quickly climbed the stairs to the officers’ club. At the top of the steps, he was met by a valet who helped him with his hat and cloak.

  ‘General Tatistchev still here?’

  ‘Yes, Excellency. The general is in the smoking room.’

  ‘And Foreign Minister Sazonov?’

  ‘I’m afraid the foreign minister has already left.’ Moving quietly behind him, the valet brushed lint from Alexei’s coat. ‘Does Your Excellency require supper?’

  Alexei gave a small wave of his hand. ‘That will be all, thank you.’

  As he walked briskly to the end of the corridor, Alexei heard the swelling of voices from behind heavy double doors.

  ‘Good evening, Excellency.’ Opening the door for him, the footman gave a short bow.

  Silvery blue smoke hung in clouds above clusters of uniformed men. A waiter offered Alexei a drink. Choosing brandy, he took a large sip and surveyed the room. He found the general by a set of windows, surrounded by a group of officers.

  ‘The Emperor needed a lot of convincing,’ Tatistchev was telling the men. ‘He kept saying he wanted more time to think.’

  ‘It’s that Nemka, that German woman, whispering in his ear,’ a lieutenant said hotly. ‘I always thought her behaviour was odd but now …’ He spread his arms theatrically. ‘Now that she has brought that holy man of hers to the court – that … that Rasputin … well, the Emperor doesn’t seem to be able to make a decision without discussing it with her first.’

  ‘Don’t be so hasty to judge the Emperor, Lieutenant,’ Tatistchev advised. ‘After all, he has the weight of the nation pressing on him, not to mention the fact that the Kaiser is his cousin.’

  ‘The Emperor is nothing like his late father,’ a captain close to Alexei mumbled. ‘This one is better suited to writing poetry than leading us into battle.’

  ‘I remind you,’ said an elderly major, glaring at the captain from under bushy brows, ‘you are speaking of the Emperor.’

  The captain bowed. ‘My apologies.’ He gave the major a rueful smile. ‘I meant no offence.’

  Alexei returned his attention to Tatistchev. Taking another sip from his brandy, he enjoyed the feeling of the liquid flame travelling down his throat.

  The lieutenant was impatient to learn more. ‘Has the Emperor reached a decision?’

  ‘Well …’ Tatistchev took a long pull on his cigar. ‘The foreign minister was pleading with him to mobilise our troops, while the Tsar shouted that he didn’t want to bear the awful responsibility of sending thousands of men to their deaths.’ Tatistchev paused as waiters circled the group with fresh rounds of drinks. ‘When I saw how troubled the Emperor was, I stepped forward to commiserate with him on the difficulty of his decision. I didn’t mean anything by it, but it enraged the Emperor. He declared, “I will decide,” and he signed the order forthwith.’ Tatistchev held out his glass to be refilled. ‘As we speak, gentlemen, wires are being sent all over Russia, summoning our troops.’

  The group fell silent as each man absorbed the news. Then, after a long moment, the lieutenant raised his glass above his head. ‘To the motherland.’

  And then the drinking started in earnest.

  A few hours later, Alexei stumbled out of the carriage, almost losing his footing.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said brusquely to the coachman who was climbing down to help him. Reaching into his vest pocket, Alexei pulled out a few coins.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the driver beamed. ‘God bless you.’

  Alex
ei dismissed him with a wave then made his way unsteadily up the stairs to the door. A triangle of light from gas lamps lit the entrance. Alexei checked his watch. Four o’clock. The staff would not rise for another hour. Patting his pockets, he searched for his key.

  ‘Chert Poberi! Dammit!’

  He thought back to his movements during the evening, trying to remember where he might have misplaced the key. But his memory of events following Tatistchev’s announcement were hazy.

  ‘Chert Poberi,’ he cursed again.

  He lifted the large brass knocker and rapped on the oak doors. After a few minutes, he heard the sound of shuffling slippers approaching.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Open the door, Anton.’

  The door opened a crack. Upon seeing Alexei, the butler pulled the door wide and straightened his back.

  ‘Terribly sorry, Excellency, for my oversight; I thought you had your key. I would have made sure someone had stayed up to let you in.’

  Ignoring the apology, Alexei headed for the stairs, grasping the rail to steady himself. ‘Tell Grigory I need to speak to him first thing in the morning.’

  Hesitating a moment, the butler asked, ‘Doesn’t Your Excellency wish to sleep in, considering the late hour you’re retiring, sir?’

  ‘In the morning,’ Alexei repeated, dropping his hat and cloak over the railing.

  ‘As you wish, sir. I shall be up directly to help with your uniform.’

  ‘Yes, fine, fine,’ Alexei replied irritably.

  A few minutes later, the butler – having dressed in his trousers, waistcoat and jacket – joined Alexei in his room to help him change from his uniform into his nightdress. Afterwards, Alexei, his urges spiked once more by alcohol, tried the door of his wife’s bedroom and was irritated to find it locked. He knocked and called her name several times, but there was no response. At last, disgruntled by her rejection, he went to bed.