Remembrandt

by Robin King

  I slowly stood. The man with the leather shoes was holding the sign I had seen earlier. He let the sign drop to his left side and said, “Ms. Laxer?” From what I could tell, he wasn’t Russian or American. I couldn’t quite place his accent. I glanced at the sign in his hand again. The letters on the sign were now sideways to me. I almost told the man he had made a mistake when I finally saw it.

  Dana Laxer is me. Alexandra. It’s an anagram for my name!

  The foreign man tapped his fingers on the sign.

  “Y–yes,” I finally replied.

  “I am your driver. Do you have any other luggage?”

  I shook my head.

  “May I take your bag?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I still had no clue what I was doing in St. Petersburg, but the name puzzle got my blood flowing again. I handed him my carry-on bag and we proceeded to his car.

  I almost squealed when he stopped and opened the trunk of a sleek black BMW. With a brother like Tanner, who was obsessed with all things that moved fast, I knew I was about to ride in an M6. I resisted the urge to touch the smooth metal. The driver opened the back door and I slid onto the soft leather seat. The car still smelled new. I had a few seconds to sigh before the driver opened his door and we were on our way.

  I wanted to ask where we were going, but I didn’t want to let on that I didn’t even know what I was doing in St. Petersburg. Finally I asked, “How long before we get there?”

  “We will be at your hotel in about thirty minutes, Ms. Laxer.” His smoothly shaven head did not turn toward me as he proceeded onto the roadway. He was probably in his forties. I could see his piercing blue eyes in the rearview mirror. They never strayed from his task, keeping forward on the road. On his right hand, he wore a thick silver ring with an insignia, but from where I sat I couldn’t make out what it was.

  My attention moved from the driver to St. Petersburg itself. Brick buildings lined the streets—we were entering downtown. I was beginning to think Providence and Russia were very similar until St. Isaac’s Cathedral came into view with its large central dome and four subsidiary hemispheres in a neoclassical design. I could almost see the setting sun reflecting in the gold of the grandest dome. The columns around the outer walls reminded me of the Parthenon, and I recognized the Greek influence in the architecture. History lessons from my father flooded through my mind, but I tried to push them out. I didn’t want facts or dates to overshadow this moment. I wanted to remember how it felt to see these awe-inspiring ancient buildings in person.

  Our car slowed and finally came to a stop at the heart of the city in front of a hotel where I assumed I would stay the night. Though it was only six stories high, the Grand Hotel Europe was one of the largest buildings of its kind on the street, taking up a whole block on one side. The symmetrical stone archways and large, evenly spaced windows of the neo-baroque design differed from the surrounding architecture. It must have been a landmark to the residents of St. Petersburg.

  The driver opened my door, and I stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk. Before he handed me my bag, he spoke for the first time since the airport.

  “Here is your room key.” He handed me a plastic card with a magnetic strip on the back—not what I expected from a historical icon. “Everything should be ready for you. I will return at a quarter to nine. The Mariinsky Theater is only a few minutes from here, but you will need to be in your seat by nine. If you need to reach me at any time, you may use this number.” He placed a white business card in my hand. I turned it over. It was blank on one side and only had a phone number in silver ink on the other. So much for finding out more about the man. Apparently, he didn’t have a name, but he was the only person within thousands of miles with whom I had any acquaintance.

  My nameless driver abruptly turned and got back into the car. Before he shut the door, I caught another glimpse of the ring on his finger. The insignia on its face was round. The impression in the shiny metal was that of a familiar flower.

  5

  in the Tsar's Seat

  A hotel worker escorted me to my room on the top floor of the hotel. It appeared to be a sort of suite, but since I’d never been to a five-star hotel, any room would have made me swoon. Large Victorian-style furniture had been arranged carefully beyond the foyer of the largest hotel room I had ever seen. Blue silk draperies hung from floor-to-ceiling windows. Exotic purple flowers with yellow centers filled a crystal vase in the middle of an oval cherrywood table near the back windows.

  I walked toward the table to take in the view. Oranges and reds from the setting sun poured over the pearl-colored carpet. The sun disappeared behind the breathtaking view of the Kazan Cathedral. The pictures I had in my head from online were nothing compared to what I saw now.

  I opened the balcony door and stepped outside. With my hands on the railing, I breathed in the cool St. Petersburg air and absorbed the scene. I would be happy to replay this moment in my mind over and over again after I left.

  Returning to my room, I discovered two glass French doors off to the side that led to a bedroom. Through the glass I noticed something lying on the top of a large four-poster bed. I crossed the living room and opened the doors. On top of the gold damask duvet lay a black, silky evening gown. It had a simple classic style with cap sleeves. An inch-wide band embedded with tiny diamonds wrapped around the drop waist, glistening in the soft light streaming through the windows. A slit ran from the hem of the long flowing skirt to slightly above the knee. It wasn’t exactly a dress I would have chosen for prom, but it was gorgeous and what I would be wearing to the Mariinsky Theater that night.

  I looked at the time on my cell phone, which had automatically changed to Russian time. I had about an hour and a half before my driver would arrive. My eyes and tired body longed for the softness of the bed in front of me, but I knew I should start to get ready.

  A spacious bathroom was attached to my bedroom. When I saw the jetted tub, I decided to relax a bit. I filled the large tub with steaming hot water and lowered my body into its depths. The jets swirled the water around me—it was mesmerizing. My eyes began to droop, and the soothing swoosh of the water lulled me to sleep.

  I stood outside Tanner’s bedroom about to knock, until I heard voices inside. The softness of the hallway carpet prevented my bare feet from giving me away as I took a step back toward my room. I stopped when I recognized the other voice in his room. Mom.

  “Tanner, you don’t understand.” Her voice carried through the hollow wood of the door.

  “Do they know?” Tanner spoke quietly. I tried to walk away. I really did. Unfortunately, curiosity was my downfall. My brother and I told each other everything. Eavesdropping was not something I had ever done, but something about his tone of voice worried me.

  My mom responded so quietly I could barely hear her words. “No one knows, Tanner. You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to share, to confide, but I can’t. It would change everything.” Her voice was shaking, and I was tempted to open the door and comfort her. My feet remained nailed to the floor. I couldn’t move.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I understand.” His voice faltered and I heard him move across his bedroom. I quietly stumbled away from his door. I could no longer hear them. I waited in my bedroom until I heard my mom’s footsteps move down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Tanner was my big brother and my best friend. I had to talk to him. I quietly made my way back to his bedroom. The door was open just a crack. He sat on his bed facing the wall away from me. There were papers strewn across his bed, and clothes in piles around his room. He definitely wasn’t known for his tidiness.

  Once again I raised my hand to knock on the door. Before my knuckle hit the wood, I saw Tanner’s shoulders slump and his head fall into his hands. My brother was the toughest person I knew, physically and mentally. He had never cried in his life. I didn’t know what to do. A few moments passed and he fell onto his pillows, turning his face into one of them.

  I headed back to my
room. He wouldn’t want me to see him like that, and he obviously needed to be alone. I sat at my computer trying to read and do homework, but I couldn’t concentrate. Horrible thoughts raced through my mind. Divorce, affairs, lies . . . I couldn’t make sense of what I had heard and seen. Tanner would come to me when he was ready.

  Again I turned back to my reading. I only made it a few unprocessed sentences before I halted. Through my bedroom wall I could hear the muffled sounds of Tanner’s sobs.

  My eyes fluttered open as the tepid bath water made me shiver. I jumped out of the tub and wrapped myself in a robe to warm up. What time is it? I found my phone and started to panic. I’m meeting my driver in twenty minutes! I had barely slipped into the evening gown when I heard a knock at the door. Nervous about who it might be, I faltered before I finally peered through the peephole and saw a petite woman in a light peach uniform. She appeared harmless enough, so I opened the door.

  “I’m here to help you get ready,” she said in Russian, eyeing my damp hair and my face with no makeup. “And it seems I am just in time.”

  Needing all the help I could get, I let her in.

  “I knocked earlier, but there was no answer,” she explained.

  “Sorry. I was in the bath.”

  “There will not be enough time for the curls, but I think we can work with these wet locks,” she said confidently.

  In the bathroom, I sat on a cushioned bench facing an antique white vanity. I stared at myself in the mirror. My gray eyes stared back at me. Tanner and I used to joke that we had the same colorless eyes. I smiled at the memory. The woman proceeded to brush out my long blond hair and tie it back at the base of my neck. Her hands worked so quickly that I was amazed I felt no pain on my scalp.

  “Done,” she announced a few minutes later. I turned my head to the side. She had arranged my hair in an elegant, loose chignon, with several diamond bobby pins holding it in place. “Now, for the makeup,” she said, and I turned to face her. She had fair skin and light blue eyes. Though she was probably about my father’s age, I could tell she knew about current fashion by how she had styled her hair and applied her makeup. I closed my eyes while she carefully added liner and shadow to my eyelids. Soon, she was finished.

  I turned around and stared in the mirror. I looked . . . different, even beautiful. Not that I thought I was entirely unattractive, but I had always felt somewhat out of place growing up. Somehow, this woman had transformed my Russian heritage into something exotic. My eyes looked larger than they were, my lips fuller, and my cheekbones higher. I could have passed for my mid-twenties.

  “You are magical,” I said to her, still gazing into the mirror. “I look like a different person.” I turned my face from side to side again, admiring her work.

  “That is part of my job, but I had a nice canvas to begin with.” She smiled and grabbed something black out of her case and handed it to me. It was a small clutch with a diamond-studded closure. “This should be all you’ll need for tonight.” She closed her case. As she bent over, I noticed something silver hanging from a short chain around her neck. A ring. I didn’t have to look at the symbol to know what the piece of jewelry had on its face.

  My mind recalled the symbol from the wax seal and the driver’s ring. I searched my brain again, trying to identify the flower symbol and its meaning. But none of the pictures and movies in my head helped. All I knew was that the symbol somehow tied these people together.

  The woman headed for the hotel room door, then turned to look back at me. “Be careful,” she advised. I could see concern in her eyes and something else I couldn’t put my finger on. As I opened my mouth to ask her why I was here and what I needed to be careful about, she slipped out and shut the door.

  I slid on the four-inch heels I’d found on the floor near the bed. They weren’t the most comfortable shoes, but the black-satin-and-diamond straps matched the dress perfectly. I found my room key, slid it inside the clutch, and hurried out into the hallway to catch the elevator.

  In the lobby stood the driver with no name. “Your car awaits, Ms. Laxer.” His Russian sounded so proper. I had to cover my mouth to hold back the giggles of excitement. Once I was seated in the back of the car, we started toward the theater.

  I had never been to the Mariinsky Theater, but my love of music had once led me to an article of its history. My mind flipped through magazine pages. I saw the photos, the captions describing the original theater built in 1860, along with the modern concert hall and second theater recently added. I read about Tchaikovsky’s popular Swan Lake, The Nutcracker and The Sleeping Beauty, all part of the theater’s repertoire of masterpieces. Performances from famous ballet geniuses such as Anna Pavlova and later, Mikhail Baryshnikov, had graced the stage. Petrov’s operatic voice had been heard in its halls in the nineteenth century. I wished I had been there. More than two centuries of great artists had performed there, and now I was about to experience it for myself.

  “The opera will begin shortly,” my driver said, cutting into my mental page turning. We had just pulled in front of the majestic building. It was already dark outside, and the lights from the theater reflected onto the car’s shiny black hood.

  The Mariinsky Theater stood boldly on the street as if quietly proving its importance over the other grandiose architecture of the city. Seeing it in person outdid any picture I had in my head. The exterior façade had a colonial feel to it with its pale green paint and white trim, but the scale of the building was beyond that of any colonial home I had seen.

  The driver exited the car and opened my door. With my purse in hand, I walked alone to the entrance of the theater. Chills ran through my body, and I wasn’t sure if it was because of the cool fall air on my exposed skin, the magnificent mausoleum in front of me, or the unsettling feeling that I wasn’t just there to attend an opera.

  The interior of the theater was stunning. Marble, chandeliers, coffered ceilings, wood moldings—I felt like I’d gone back in time over a hundred years and entered a royal palace. Many of the other patrons were heading to their seats.

  I found the ticket counter, told them my pseudo name, and was escorted up a staircase. “Not many people are lucky enough to be seated where tsars of the past have sat,” the usher told me. He led me to a balcony with thick draperies hanging from the opening, which faced the left side of the stage. The tsar’s box was adjacent to the stage but about ten or fifteen feet above it. From my position, I saw most of the audience already seated in their deep blue velvet chairs.

  My eyes scanned the boxes on the opposite side of the theater, all trimmed in ornate gold woodwork. A three-tiered chandelier hanging from the fresco ceiling caught my eye before I noticed the amazingly unique blue-and-gold luxury curtain at the stage. Left to myself, I wondered if anyone would be seated in the empty seat next to me. It was only about a minute until curtain call, and opera waited for no one.

  As if in answer to my question, footsteps sounded behind me. I thought it would be rude not to acknowledge the guest who might be sharing the box with me, so I turned around. A man in a black tuxedo headed to the seat next to mine. His licorice-colored hair was cut short, and he looked as though he was probably in his mid-twenties. He set a thin leather briefcase near his feet.

  “A nice night for the theater,” he commented, his deep, velvety voice rumbling in his chest. It was the first time I had thought of Russian as a romantic language. I tried not to blush or stare at him as he spoke. “Maria Alexandrovna would be proud of how her theater has been preserved,” he continued. I knew the Mariinsky had been named after the empress, wife of Tsar Alexander II, because I had seen the plaque on the bust sculpture of her in the theater lobby. It impressed me that this man cared about the theater too.

  I replied, “This building is definitely a piece of history. The architecture still has me in awe.”

  He raised his thick eyebrows, which looked almost like they had been drawn on his face with a black crayon. “Ahhh, someone else who appreciates the
history of this place. I think most of the audience members—” he motioned to the seats below us with his hand “—don’t understand how places like this make Russia the great cultural icon that it is.”

  I was about to ask him if he had seen this opera before when the lights began to dim and a hush fell over the room. I faced the stage and soon became engrossed in Le Nozze di Figaro. Although I was not fluent in Italian, I was familiar with the opera and found I could understand a good bit of it. Filled with affairs, blackmail, and scandal, the tale of the day of Figaro’s marriage was not the most wholesome entertainment I’d ever seen. But Mozart’s musical genius overshadowed the soap-opera feel of the story, and I found that I was enjoying myself.

  The presence to the right of me had not been forgotten, but the orchestra, singers, and scenery had me distracted. A few times I heard the man laugh at just the right moments. It wasn’t until the comical depiction of Cherubino, who sings of his amorous associations with many members of the female sex, that I heard the man next to me move. The highest final note of “Non So Più Cosa Son” filled the room, but did not completely cover the muffled grunt coming from the seat next to me.

  I turned to face the young man. He was slouched down in his chair in a deep sleep. So much for meeting someone who appreciated the arts as much as I did. As the first act continued I ignored the insult of the man next to me. And to think I thought he was good-looking!

  When the curtains closed for intermission, the lights in the theater came on. I stood and noticed the man still sleeping. I almost tapped his shoulder to wake him, but something stopped me. His jacket looked wet on the left side. I almost gagged when I thought it might be his drool, but as I stepped closer I realized it was not saliva. Where his jacket parted to show his crisp white shirt, crimson red was slowly soaking through.

  I gasped and glanced around. No one else was in the opera box, and the patrons below were either up from their seats or chatting happily. I slowly reached my middle and index finger to feel at the man’s neck. To my relief, I found a pulse.