The Fabergé Secret

by Charles Belfoure

  Katya smiled at Shamrayev. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’ He shook his head weakly and did not return the smile. Although Katya was immensely proud she was a female doctor, she secretly wished she was as pretty as Clara Deverenko, who always seemed to get a more positive reaction from the male patients. She checked her timepiece pinned to the lapel of her white smock. She would be off duty in thirty minutes but since she’d finished seeing her patients, she could do a little checking on Mr Shamrayev.

  As she walked down to the basement where the patients’ files were stored, she thought about the ball. In particular, Prince Dimitri. What a charming, intelligent fellow. In addition, he was incredibly handsome; she couldn’t help but be mesmerized by his good looks. But what impressed her most was how easy it was to talk with him. Like they’d been friends for five years. She had never met another man like him, let alone an aristocrat. So unexpectedly unassuming and friendly. She smiled as she thought about her dance with him. It had been so effortless and exhilarating. Then she grimaced; she hoped she hadn’t chattered too much, or come off as too opinionated. Men hated that.

  All the patients’ files were kept in paper folders, which were stored in a recent invention called the ‘filing cabinet.’ Instead of stuffing the papers in pigeonholes, one could store them vertically in stacked wooden drawers, so much easier to find. The files were kept in a long, low basement room lit with bare Edison bulbs. The fronts of the cabinets were marked alphabetically; she opened the drawer ‘S,’ then found Shamrayev’s folder. It held his complete medical history; his prior illnesses, and as she could see, his long history of heart ailments. It also had the ages of his father, mother, and grandparents when they died, an important indicator for his own mortality. Katya then noticed a red dot next to the grandfather’s name, but she didn’t understand what that meant. When she finished, she put the file back in its proper alphabetical place. The red dot came to mind again. Before she closed the drawer, she fanned the rest of the ‘S’ files. Toward the back, a man named Stolypin also had a red dot. She moved over to the ‘T’ files and found threemore marked with the dots.

  Kerensky, a stooped hospital porter who tended to the big room, entered with a sheaf of papers to be filed.

  ‘Kerensky, what does it mean when a name has a red dot next to it?’

  ‘Madame Doctor, in the old days, the government required us to mark the people who had converted from Judaism to the Orthodox Church.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Katya replied. ‘I would have never thought of that.’

  ‘Oh, it’s never done much anymore, Madame Doctor,’ he said shutting a drawer and opening another.

  As Katya walked back upstairs, she thought of what old Kerensky had just said then remembered the pogrom in Kishinev. Being a Jew these days seemed to be a dangerous occupation.

  SEVEN

  The sidewalks along the Nevsky Prospect were empty as Dimitri and Lara’s carriage clip-clopped down its center. It was going on eight, and everyone was sitting down to supper. Or like them, on their way to the ballet. Because it was a warm night, Dimitri had the carriage windows lowered and was looking out onto the street. Lara, on the seat opposite, scanned the society page for mention of her and her friends.

  ‘I can’t believe they’d waste the ink writing about an old hag like Madame Laviska,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Larissa, my sweet. Did you ever think that one day you’ll look like Madame Laviska?’ Dimitri asked contemptuously.

  ‘Promise me to shoot me like a horse if I do.’

  As Dimitri continued gazing out the window, a smile came over his face; he was thinking of the ball at the Catherine Palace. For the first time in ages, he had had fun at a ball. The scores and scores of them he had attended over the years had blurred into one boring routine. But Katya had made it special. What a refreshing change to meet such an intelligent, well-informed woman. He could have talked with her another twelve hours; he was enjoying himself that much. She was so easy to talk to. She was opinionated, but that didn’t bother him at all. He liked her candor, because she knew what she was talking about. He always compared a friendship to a hand fitting into a glove. If two people hit it off, the hand slipped effortlessly into the glove for a perfect fit. That’s how he felt about meeting Katya. The doctor was of course quite plain in comparison with Lara (all women were), but she had such glowing blue eyes, and that warm, comforting smile on her heart-shaped face drew him in. Maybe because they both loved the waltz from Eugene Onegin, they were in their own world on the dance floor. He grimaced; he hoped he didn’t seem like a puffed-up aristocrat to her.

  There were still a few stragglers on the Nevsky this time of night. Men with their heads down, and hands stuffed in their jacket pockets hurrying home. He saw a woman, probably a governess, pulling along a chain of four nicely dressed children. He grinned; it was way past their bedtime, and she was rushing to get them home. The last child, probably the youngest, was slowing them down.

  ‘Stop dragging me,’ he heard the little one wail.

  Lara looked out the window at the children, then at Dimitri’s face.

  ‘Forget about it, Dimitri,’ Lara said, returning to the society page. ‘Your brother, Ivan, has two sons to carry on the Markhov name,’ she added without looking up from her newspaper. Dimitri glowered at her.

  The carriage slowed, joining a line pulling up to the front of the theater. Dimitri and Lara climbed out.

  ‘Doesn’t General Protopopov look absolutely ancient,’ said Princess Lara with a giggle. ‘Wasn’t he on the general staff of Peter the Great?’

  Dimitri wasn’t listening to her chatter. He was looking up at the main facade of the theater. He always believed the beautiful aqua-green and gold Mariinsky Theater looked more magnificent at night when it was all lit up. Its tall arched front windows glowed with a magic golden light. In the flickering lights of the carriage lamps, footmen in livery were helping guests get down in front of the theater, including the white-side-whiskered General Protopopov in his heavily medaled black-and-gold uniform. He seemed as stiff as a board as he tried to step down to the sidewalk. But no matter how ill or infirm a Russian was, they would make it from their deathbed to the ballet especially if it was a gala performance. The footman in a top hat held Lara’s hand as she got out. She looked splendid in her red evening gown, a silk shawl covering her bare ivory-white shoulders and the diamonds on her tiara and on her Cartier necklace sparkling.

  The vestibule buzzed like a beehive, with men in uniforms of all regiments or formal black evening wear, and women in gowns in a dazzling array of colors. Jewels of every description smothered the necks, chests, and wrists of the female patrons, who sported scandalously low décolletages trimmed with sable, mink, and ermine. Stars made of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies held up hairdos. It was a magnificent blaze of splendor. The ladies of the Court and St Petersburg society were really here to be seen, not to see the ballet. Season-ticket holders exchanged greetings, kisses, and handshakes like old friends before they proceeded through the glass doors to the auditorium. Princess Zagovna wore a gown of light blue dappled all over with tiny diamonds. Around her long slender neck was her famous necklace of square-cut green emeralds and oval-cut diamonds. She walked over to Lara and Dimitri.

  ‘Comment vas-tu, ma chère?’ gushed Princess Zagovna.

  He knew the two women were instinctively eyeing each other’s gowns. Who looks better? They exchanged kisses on the cheeks in the French manner.

  ‘Larissa, ma chère, we’re going to the Restaurant L’Hiver afterwards. But don’t you dare come if you don’t have gobs of malicious gossip.’

  ‘Varya, when have I ever let you down?’ replied Lara with a sly smile. Princess Zagovna shrieked with laughter. Dimitri rolled his eyes, but she was speaking the truth, no one beat Lara when it came to gossip. If the Tsar had a Minister of Gossip, Lara would be the person most qualified for the job. The two women bent their heads together and began their heartless critique, conspirator
ially looking over the other women and whispering about hairstyles and jewelry. The performance began at eight, and an usher in a red-and-gold uniform led Princess Zagovna, Lara, and Dimitri up a short red-carpeted staircase. Their private boxes were down a long curving hallway, its walls covered in purple damask. The ceiling was completely mirrored, making the passage seem bigger than it was. They passed the open doors of the other boxes where patrons were settling in. As they went by the box of Count Trigorin, the Countess standing in the doorway made a slight gesture for Dimitri to stop. Lara and Varya kept walking, chattering away.

  ‘Dimitri, my sweet, try to be at my place by two tonight,’ whispered the Countess. ‘You’re always late.’ She extended her white-gloved hand, and Dimitri gave it a quick squeeze and walked on.

  Before Lara and Varya went into their respective boxes, they paused in an alcove with a mirror, as Dimitri went on ahead. They both attended to their hair one last time. As Lara came out of the alcove, she met Prince Gayev on the way to his box.

  ‘Alexi,’ Lara whispered, ‘come at one tomorrow. I have a fitting at four.’ Prince Gayev smiled conspiratorially and lightly touched Lara’s bare shoulder.

  From their box, Dimitri and Lara took in the five tiers of the horseshoe-shaped balconies faced with beautiful plaster detailing and bright electric globe lights. The great domed ceiling with its enormous crystal chandelier hung above the auditorium like a sun. Their box was on the second tier overlooking the orchestra pit and the stage. This position, Dimitri believed, gave them a much better angle of view than a ground-floor box. Lara was using her new Fabergé opera glasses like a ship’s captain, going up and down every row of the orchestra stalls, inspecting the women and making comments. The opera glasses were finished in a translucent turquoise guilloche enamel and encrusted with tiny diamonds, and came with a matching ostrich-plume fan with silk tassels. The Tsar’s sister, Grand Duchess Xenia, had one in salmon that Lara greatly admired. She wanted one just like it. Every woman in Court adored Xenia’s taste.

  ‘Countess Rodzianko looks as though she has a five-pound bag of flour under her chin,’ Lara announced to Dimitri. ‘How disappointing. Princess Anna’s gown is such a rag. Hardly any diamonds and gold embroidery … Good God! The new wrinkles on Alenya.’

  Dimitri scowled at these observations. ‘You have a sharp tongue, Larissa. Someday, it will cut you.’

  Still peering through her opera glasses, Lara smiled.

  ‘Pfff, mind your own business. Why don’t you wave to your latest lover, Trigorin?’

  People were engaged in animated conversation and waving to friends in the balconies whom they were probably insulting. Lara knew almost every single person in the auditorium tonight, and she could memorize what every woman was wearing including her jewelry. Dimitri was constantly amazed by her memory. She could recall what shoes the Grand Duchess Ella wore at the 1901 performance of Sleeping Beauty, or what ring Princess Orlinka wore on her right hand at a performance of Boris Godinov last spring. In the boxes directly across the auditorium, women wearing elbow-length white gloves and bedecked with jewels twinkling in the chandelier light flirted with their fans. On the second tier directly facing the stage was the Imperial Box with its two-headed eagle emblazoned on its rail. It was empty tonight, which pleased Dimitri. After the assassination attempt, he didn’t like the Tsar and Tsarina to go out too much in public. He now worried for his friends’ lives – and their children’s.

  While Dimitri was scanning the crowd, he suddenly realized that Katya might be in the audience tonight. The possibility filled him with delight.

  ‘Give me those glasses,’ Dimitri said, reaching over and pulling them away Lara’s face. She resisted at first but then gave them up. ‘Be quick about it,’ she snarled, ‘I wasn’t done with them.’

  He slowly checked all the boxes then the orchestra seats below but didn’t see her, which disappointed him. If she had been here, he would have gone over to talk to her at the interval. Maybe he missed her and would bump into her in the lobby as everyone was leaving.

  The orchestra pit was filled with musicians in white tie and tails, adjusting the black metal stands of the musical scores and warming up. The auditorium hummed with conversation, but when the lights dimmed and the conductor came to the rostrum and tapped his baton, a deafening silence enveloped the space. The crimson curtain lit by electric footlights rose.

  Tonight’s performance by the Imperial Ballet was Giselle, the story of the peasant girl who died from a broken heart because her lover was untrue. A group of supernatural women, the ‘Wilis,’ who danced men to death, summoned Giselle from the grave and wanted to kill her lover. They are all virgins who died of broken hearts before they were married and thus carried an insane hatred of men. Dimitri was always amused by the plot of the ballet; the ‘Wilis’ would be busy day and night if they had to deal with the infidelity of the Imperial Court.

  A few minutes into the production, the auditorium erupted in cheers for the ballerina who danced the part of Giselle – Anna Pavlova. She had joined the Imperial Ballet School at age ten in 1891 under the tutelage of the grand master, Marius Petipa, and was now on her way to becoming a legend in her own time. She had become Petipa’s favorite and was selected for many choice roles in his ballets. She was sure to become a prima ballerina ranking with the prima ballerina assoluta, Mathilde Kschessinska, who was also famous for being a special favorite of Nicholas before he met Alexandra.

  The audience sat transfixed by Pavlova’s sensational performance tonight. It wasn’t just her incredible physical dancing talent; she had the unique ability to throw her entire soul into a role. Pavlova was Giselle. Spellbound, Lara did not once use her glasses to spy on another woman, although she did the whole time during the interval, ignoring the champagne and chocolates that were served in their box.

  ‘Anya is having her way with the son of Prince Zablotsky – age sixteen,’ announced Lara after draining her wine glass. A waiter immediately refilled her glass without her asking.

  Around the great table in a private room at the Restaurant L’Hiver sat a group of their friends, enjoying three different types of caviar that accompanied the eight courses of French cuisine and iced champagne. The room had a tall bay window where traditional Russian singers with balalaikas stood singing.

  ‘Well, I don’t blame her,’ exclaimed Princess Maria. ‘Mikhail is gorgeous, why wouldn’t he be? His mother and father are gorgeous! He must look like a Greek god naked! He’s getting a marvelous sexual initiation.’

  Dimitri looked over at Maria and frowned. She was such a silly woman. He did not approve of dalliances with such young boys. It was beneath contempt. He believed that such affairs should be strictly forbidden, as was sex with servants.

  ‘I believe that the Moscow dancers sacrifice tradition to facile effects,’ announced Dimitri.

  Lara threw down her forkful of lobster a la crème and gave her husband a slit-eyed look.

  ‘Damn you, Dimitri, don’t you dare try to change the subject. We’re exchanging delicious gossip here. If you don’t like it, then get the likatch to drive you home,’ she snarled. ‘No one wants to discuss the differences between dancers in Moscow and St Petersburg.’

  The table erupted in laughter, but Dimitri knew his wife was dead serious.

  ‘Oui, ma chère.’

  ‘Varya, tell us something spiteful but très amusant,’ commanded Lara, glaring at her husband.

  ‘Madame Tushkevich knows about the Muscovite actress,’ Varya said, with a wink of the eye.

  The comment ignited heaps of ridicule and scorn for Madame Tushkevich, whom Dimitri liked. True, she had become an old hag tarted up with rouge and powder, but she had a jolly nature. He remembered as a boy how beautiful she was. Lara didn’t realize that she could end up looking like that in old age.

  ‘And she ordered a gown in tangerine orange. Can you believe it?’ added Varya.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ cried Madame Grabbe. ‘She always had a sense
of style so à la mode.’

  ‘Now, this is all very indiscreet,’ said Lara, ‘so I won’t mention any names. When Count Petrisky took off his trousers and …’

  ‘I thought you weren’t going to mention any names,’ interrupted Dimitri.

  ‘Ooops,’ gasped Lara putting her hand over her grinning mouth causing others to convulse with laughter.

  For the next two hours, the conversation sizzled and popped. Every word was pure evil gossip, maligning man and woman equally. If they didn’t like a particular person, they set about destroying him or her with their most effective weapons: lies and vicious rumors. They even made fun of Baron Saroka’s dog. Dimitri hated it, but it was part of his existence. Russian high society never had the guts to say what they thought to a person’s face; it was always praise to their face then knives to their back. He had seen people driven out of Court by Lara’s malicious rumors. His wife was correct when she said the Tsar and Tsarina never gossiped or cruelly ridiculed anyone. Maybe that was why Dimitri liked being with them.

  An orchestra in the main room played Viennese waltzes, and Dimitri danced with everyone but his wife, which was the correct thing to do. A group of officers in dark green tunics with epaulettes dined at a table, and every one of them danced with Lara, some twice. As usual with after-theater suppers, most people did not leave before 4 a.m. Dimitri had to leave early. Lara was the last to leave, with General Dolgorousky.

  EIGHT

  ‘Dimitri, you’re magnificent,’ purred Baroness Ekaterina Moncransky. ‘You know how to treat a lady like a tart.’

  Dimitri, who was smoking a cigarette, turned and smiled at Ekaterina, who snuggled against him.

  They were in Ekaterina’s brother’s house. He had just left for the south of France, so the place was empty, with white dust covers on the furniture. Dimitri stroked Ekaterina’s sandy blonde hair, which was undone. He loved to see the hairdos of Court women unpinned and tumbling down onto their shoulders. It made them so much more alluring and seductive. It was ironic, he thought, because the ladies of the Court took immense pride in their hairstyles, and had a hairdresser come in every morning to get their hair piled up with pads for the day.