by Judith Gould
'Ssssh!' Senda hissed, squeezing Inge's wrist to silence her. She pushed a branch aside and peered ahead into the darkness. Two men had come out of the gatehouse. One of them carried a ladder and the other peered cautiously through the filigreed wrought-iron bars before unlocking the gate. Their furtive apprehension nagged at her, and she watched quietly as in the white gleam of the ironwork lanterns mounted on the stone piers at either side of the gate, they began to work quickly. First they unfurled long red banners.
A roiling sickness clutched her belly. Red, she thought with an involuntary shudder. Why does that bright, crimson red strike such terror in me? Despite the cold, a faint mist of perspiration sleeked her features.
Having finished hanging the banners, the two men began to affix a wooden sign on the gate bars. Close enough to see what they were doing, Senda was too far away to make out the words. But she could see that they, too, were painted in red.
Inge tugged at her sleeve. 'Shouldn't we leave?' she whispered sibilantly. 'What if they find us here?'
Senda didn't reply. Her squinted gaze was fixed on the men. Suddenly she understood their furtiveness and laughed softly to herself. Her tensed muscles relaxed and the warm rush of relief she felt as she recognized one of the men was good. The tall, thin, praying mantis of a figure was unmistakably Count Kokovtsov.
'Well, I'll be,' she marvelled, shaking her head in wonder. 'Clever. Very clever.'
'Ssssh!' Now Inge silenced her.
'We don't have to whisper anymore,' Senda said, raising her voice above a whisper but still speaking softly. 'I think it's safe to approach now. But stay back with Tamara a little, while I do the talking.'
'You're sure?' Inge asked hesitantly.
Senda nodded definitely and branches rustled as she emerged from the bushes. Brushing her woollen coat with her hands, she hurried toward the gate.
Hearing the briskly approaching footsteps, Count Kokovtsov turned slowly to face her. She heard his sharp intake of breath, and in the wash of the lamplight she could see a single eyebrow arch into a poised question mark on his high, domed forehead.
'Count Kokovtsov,' she said pleasantly.
'Madame Bora,' he said tightly. He was momentarily at a loss; she was the last person he had expected to see.'What . . . what a . . . pleasant surprise.'
Senda forced a smile. 'The pleasure is mine, Count,' she answered in a civil tone, the irony of her own words not lost on her. She looked questioningly at the burly, short-haired man beside him.
'Ivan, my manservant,' the Count replied to her questioning look.
She nodded and turned to the sign they had affixed to the gate, reading the crudely painted red letters as she slid her hands into her coat pockets:
NO TRESPASSING!
THIS HOUSE IS THE PROPERTY OF THE PETROGRAD SOVIET!
PRINCE VASLAV DANILOV AND PRICESS IRINA HAVE BEEN
REMOVED TO THE FORTRESS OF ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL!
The Count watched her with an inscrutable expression, one hand tucked in the small of his back. To either side of them, the long red cotton banners flapped and sighed like sails in the wind. The Count turned to his servant. 'That will do, Ivan,' he said.
Bowing, his servant picked up the ladder and carried it through the open gate.
The Count turned his full attention to Senda, fixing her with an imperious gaze.
'Monsieur le Comte,' she said softly, 'I have come to see the Prince.'
His eyes were hooded. 'Madame Bora,' he intoned patiently, 'you can undoubtedly read; therefore, the sign should be self-explanatory.'
Senda squared her shoulders. She was determined not to let his haughty superiority intimidate her. She gripped his arm. 'I must see him!' she whispered urgently.
'As you can see for yourself, madame,' he said obliquely, freeing himself from her grasp, 'it is impossible for me to assist you. I am truly sorry.' He gestured elegantly at the sign. 'I suggest you rely on your own, shall we say, somewhat formidable resources. Perhaps you would like to pay him a visit in the fortress?'
'Count Kokovtsov.' She smiled chidingly. 'What do you take me for? I know it's merely a ruse. The sign, the red banners, the shuttered windows. It's a ploy to divert the revolutionaries who would otherwise ransack the palace and surely imprison you.'
He looked surprised. 'Why should we want to do such a thing?'
'To buy time in order to escape.' She nodded. 'Shrewd. Very clever.'
'Believe what you will.' He turned away in irritation and began to head through the gate.
'I watched while you and Ivan hung the banners and the sign.'
He began to shut the gate on her.
Her voice rose. 'Don't you dare lock me out! I demand to speak to Vaslav.'
'Vaslav, is it now?' He smirked. 'My, my, but we are familiar.'
'I'm going to see him.' Her voice took on a knife edge of warning.
'And if you can't?' Kokovtsov's smile was wide but humourless. A death's-head grin, she thought.
She smiled grimly. 'In that case, Count Kokovtsov, I shall be forced to camp out here . . . tear down your precious sign and banners.'
'You are bluffing.'
She raised her chin stubbornly. 'Try me.' Her eyes flashed challenging fire.
His eyes blazed hatred, his cheeks twitched, but she had to say one thing for him. Somehow he managed to salvage his cold pride and keep his voice under control.
'Very well, Madame Bora.' His voice lowered. 'You give me no choice. However, I shall not take the responsibility for having let you in.'
'I am willing to take responsibility for my actions.'
He swung the gate open. 'I see you have brought your daughter and a servant. The three of you will have to wait in the Jasper Vestibule while I inform the Prince that you are here. He is with the Princess. I should think you would not wish to barge in on them.'
'Thank you, Count Kokovtsov.' She was pleased to see that despite the breakdown of society, etiquette and discretion were practiced here. She turned, motioning for Inge and Tamara to follow, and slipped through the gate. Count Kokovtsov locked the gates behind them. Then they hurried along the curving drive to keep up with his swift stride.
As she walked, Senda glanced around. Nothing seemed to have changed in the three years since she had first set foot here. Except for the shuttered windows, everything looked the same. To either side of her, the specimen trees were bare, skeletal, and in front loomed the massive palace, its signature cluster of five onion domes poised pitch black against the deep purple velvet of the night sky. The palace grounds seemed deceptively peaceful, giving her the feeling that the walls could forever keep the world at bay. Overhead, amid the canopy of winking, incandescent stars, the coral strands of the aurora borealis hovered like brilliant necklaces in midair. For the first time since the start of the revolution, she began to feel a measure of peace and tranquillity. The heavy burdens which had weighed her down lifted from her shoulders. Vaslav will help us, she thought.
Count Kokovtsov closed the door on the Jasper Vestibule and smiled at Ivan, but his lips were humourless. 'There. That should keep them out of our hair for a while.'
'You are certain they will wait, master?'
'For a half-hour or more, yes.' The Count's voice was cold. 'The woman is a fool. She believes whatever she is told. Is the car in readiness?'
Ivan bowed his head. 'I have filled it with petrol and warmed up the engine, as you instructed.'
'Good. We will be leaving at once. Wait for us in the garages . . . No!' He poised a finger lightly on his lips, his ruby ring glinting crimson. 'On second thought,' he said slowly, 'hitch up a carriage.'
'A carriage!' The burly Cossack looked at him in surprise. 'But the car will get us to the train so much faster!'
'It will also draw undue attention to us. Haven't you noticed, Ivan? There are no cars on the streets.'
Ivan looked at the Count with glowing respect. 'I hadn't thought of that, master.'
The Count smiled benignly.
'That is why I am your master, and you are my servant. In the meantime, I shall go see the Prince and the Princess. Have the carriage waiting. Five minutes.' The Count held up a hand, splaying his five fingers. Then he strode off. After a few steps he halted and turned around. 'And, Ivan?' he called out.
'Yes, master?'
'Affix one of those infernal red banners to the carriage.'
'Yes, master. It is as good as done.'
The Count hurried to the Danilov suite of apartments in the far wing of the palace. He smiled to himself with satisfaction, congratulating himself on his quick thinking. Despite the initial shock he had felt when that actress had arrived, he had kept his wits about him and gained the upper hand. He hadn't planned to have to deal with her, but matters were under control. He had chosen to have her wait in the Jasper Vestibule for the very reason that it was the public room furthest from the Danilov apartments. There would be no danger of her running into Vaslav.
His lips tightened across his teeth. Infernal woman! Who did she think she was? Damned if he was going to help her and that miserable child of hers escape the country. Not if he could help it. And help it he could. So far, everything was going altogether too smoothly to let her put a crimp in his well-laid plans. Even the revolution was playing right into his hands. Once he and the Danilovs reached Geneva . . .
He found the Prince where he had guessed he would be— in the Chinese Room. His cousin was still feeding sheafs of documents into the roaring flames of the fireplace. The Prince looked up. 'What is it?'
'Are you soon finished?' Mordka asked silkily. 'I thought all the necessary papers had already been transferred to the train.'
The Prince fed another batch of documents into the fire, his face flickering in the light of the dancing flames. 'They have, but I see no reason why these should be left lying about to make things easier for those criminals.'
'I do,' Mordka lied smoothly. 'We had best get to the train immediately. Is the Princess ready?'
The Prince nodded. 'She is in the next room.' He studied the folder in his hand.
'Good. We will leave at once.' The count took the folder out of his cousin's hand and dropped it to the carpet. 'You must forget about burning the rest of the papers. They will be burned more efficiently by others.'
'What do you mean?' Vaslav stared at his cousin.
'I have just received word that a mob is headed this way. With the intention of burning the palace.'
The Prince's face paled, and for a moment he could not speak.
'The train!' the Count urged, grabbing Vaslav's arms and shaking him. 'The train is waiting, cousin! Don't you understand? We can't procrastinate any longer! Do you want us to die at the hands of a mob?'
'Of course not. Have you received word from the messenger I had you send to Madame Bora?'
The Count nodded. 'She has already left her apartment and is headed for the train,' he lied glibly. 'She will meet us there. I have arranged that she and the child travel with our personal servants. The Princess need not be compromised in any way.'
Satisfied, the Prince drew himself up with dignity. 'Then we can go,' he said.
'But quietly.' The Count held up a cautioning finger. 'There is no need to advertise our departure.'
Five minutes later, the Count, Ivan, and the Danilovs drove swiftly off into the night, leaving the palace gates yawning open behind them.
As the minutes torturously dragged by, Senda's impatience increased to the verge of panic. Where was Vaslav? Why was he keeping her waiting so long? Couldn't he get away from the Princess for even a few minutes? He'd always found time for her before. Didn't he want to see her? Had she overstepped the boundaries of propriety by coming? But these tumultuous times certainly required initiative, didn't they? Dread and irritation rose like bitter bile within her, twisting her stomach, stabbing her heart. He owed it to her to help, damn it. She'd shared her bed with him. He'd kept her.
Damn him to hell!
She glared at the steadily ticking lyre clock on the jasper-sheathed console and froze. Thirty-two minutes had passed since they had been ushered into this room! 'Something's wrong', she muttered tightly, tucking her chin into her chest and heading for the door.
'Where are you going?' Inge called out.
'Stay here,' Senda said grimly. 'I'll be back.'
She marched purposefully through the corridors, not beginning to know where to look. She knew only too well how enormous the palace was, how easy it was to get lost in it. Without help it could take hours to find Vaslav, searching from room to room, wing to wing, top to bottom. There were hundreds of rooms. Counting vestibules, anterooms, stairwells, hallways, and bathrooms, the number could easily swell to the thousands.
It was too daunting a search.
Suddenly she stopped, cocking her head to listen. Then she swiftly continued down the endless corridor. She scowled. How many doors were there in this palace? She'd never had to open so many. And where had the footmen gone? She thought she heard something again, and now, as she was inexorably drawn to the source of the sound, it increased in volume. She tightened her lips in annoyance. Music? she thought in disgust. So many, many voices? Singing? It sounded like a party. And in the midst of all the violence and turmoil! It was unthinkable! Unbelievable!
But the fiendish sight which greeted her when she flung open the doors of the Music Chamber was even more incredible. She could only gasp and take a staggering backward step.
A party was in progress. A drunken, celebratory bacchanalia of servants who at long last could savour for themselves, however fleetingly, the good life they had spent their lifetimes helping provide their masters. Champagne corks popped and flew across the room; Cristal and Dom Perignon gushed lavishly out of foil-wrapped bottlenecks and spewed, unheeded, onto the priceless parquet floors and Savonnerie rug. In front of a mirror, a cluster of maids preened in finery that obviously belonged to the Princess. In a corner, a footman sang mournfully, strumming the large gilt harp between glassfuls of champagne. Dirty boots and shoes rested on marquetry tables, oblivious of the treasures they marred; behind a sofa a gardener and a maid necked, and a lively parlour maid was stretched out atop the Bösendorfer grand piano on her belly, kicking downward with the tips of her bare toes to produce teeth-gnashing chords. A fat female cook, still in her grease-splattered kitchen whites, was wrapped in a lynx stole, and puffed teary-eyed on a cigar, laughing and coughing intermittently. All the while, the gramophone blared raucous American jazz from its speaker horn.
One of the footmen spied Senda. 'Wellllcome!' He laughed drunkenly, throwing her a noisy wet kiss. He swigged from a bottle of Cristal and spat it out, weaving happily around the room. 'Join the parrrrty! Pa-arrrty, everyboddddy!'
Senda stared, her face putty-coloured, and then she hurried after him. 'Wh-where is the Prince?' she managed to stutter.
'Parrrrty! It's a parrrrty!'
Senda clenched her fists and shook them in frustration. With everyone drunk, who was able to tell her where Vaslav was? She gazed around in desperation, her eyes searching for help. Then the maid slid off the piano, nearly fell, and somehow managed to regain herequilibrium. Scooping up two champagne glasses, she traipsed carefully toward Senda, walking with that concentrated, overly cautious poise of the inebriated. 'Have champagne,' she slurred, thrusting a glass at Senda and burping noisily.
'No, thank you,' Senda declined politely. 'But I'd appreciate it if you could tell me where I might find the Prince.'
'Who cares?' The maid's tawny eyes gleamed drunkenly. "There's food, cham . . .' She paused to burp again. '. . . pagne, clothes, and cigars for the taking!' She tossed her head back, drained one glass in a single draft, and tossed it against the wall, where it shattered, showering the floor with crystal shards. 'No money, though,' she said with a pout. 'They took all that. But you can't 'spect everything. Can you?' She leered and giggled.
Drawing the maid aside, Senda lowered her voice confidentially. 'You see, I'm supposed to bring the Prince some
thing. I have to get it to him.' A lie, but what did lies matter, now?
The maid's face wiggled toward her, the tawny eyes open in perfect twin O's. 'In Shwisheland?'
'Switzerland!' The very word made Senda's knees go weak. 'But I was told he is here!'
'Was here. Left. Over half an hour ago. To Ge-ne-va! Been drinking ever since!'
'Left? For Geneva?' Shivers of cold dread passed through Senda, chilling her to the very marrow of her bones.
'Left.' The maid was nodding emphatically again. 'To their train. Overheard 'em. It's been waitin' for 'em.'
Senda clutched the maid's arm and shook it. 'Do you know where the train is?'
The maid shook her head.
'If you know, you must tell me!'
'Ouch! You're hurtin' me!' The maid pouted and stared down at the deep red impressions Senda's fingers were gouging in her forearm.
'I'm sorry,' Senda apologized quickly. She withdrew her hand. 'But you see, it's urgent. If I reach the Prince in time . . .' Lies born of desperation were beginning to coast glibly off her tongue, coating the untruths with promises. 'He'll give whoever brings it to him five . . . thousand . . . roubles.'
Tawny eyes blinked, bulged. 'F-five th-thousand?'
Senda heard the sharp intake of breath and nodded. 'Five thousand,' she repeated shamelessly.
'Vladimir! Vladimir knows!' the maid cried triumphantly. 'He took some stuff to the t-train.'
'Which one's Vladimir? You must tell me.'
Now it was the maid who clutched Senda's arm. 'I gets half!' she slurred, greed glittering like diamonds in her eyes. 'Two thousand, five hundred roubles.'
'Yes!' Senda promised. 'Yes! You get half! And Vladimir gets a thousand!'