by Evelyn Weiss
“Warm.”
Rasputin’s voice has softened. His eyes, too, look more gentle; they are still wide open, but look dreamily into an unseen distance. And strangely, the lines in his face look less prominent; he appears younger. The professor’s voice continues.
“Warm water. As a boy, growing up in a village by a river, did you ever swim? Did you ever dream of swimming in warm water?”
“That would be heaven. To feel, all over my body, water that is warm. Like I had fallen, not into a river, but into Paradise.”
“You are looking down, at deep water. It’s the river near your village. And someone is holding your hand, aren’t they?”
“Yes. My mother holds my hand, tightly. We are standing on the river bank in the village, looking down into the cold, swirling waters.”
“Is she saying anything? What is she telling you?”
“”She is saying that I am not a lonely, only child – that I do have brothers and sisters, but that God took them away. She tells me about two of them – Dmitri and Maria. I have never known them, my brother and sister, yet I can see them now. A little boy and a little girl. Their faces – they are looking up at us, from the water. Dmitri and Maria are in the river… and the current, cold as ice, carries them away from us.
My mother holds my hand, she says Grigor, Grigor, hold on tight. Your brother and sister are gone, into the river. You must hold onto me, stay with me. You are all I have left.”
The professor’s voice takes up Rasputin’s story. “The river, and your village, are beautiful. The woods, stretching right across Siberia. The hills and valleys of the Ural Mountains. Yet you dream of going far away when you grow up. You are a boy who is full of restless dreams.”
“Yes.”
“You dream of going all the way to Yekatarinburg, the big town. Or even further, to Moscow or St Petersburg. You dream of riding into Moscow, on a horse. You will look so splendid, riding the horse. Crowds of people will look at you.”
Rasputin nods. His wide eyes have a boyish eagerness; his cheeks and forehead look fresher and more youthful. Axelson’s voice goes on.
“There is a very special horse in your village, isn’t there? You would love to ride him. He is so beautiful and strong… every day, you see him and admire him.”
“Yes. Misha the horse. I saved him.”
“How did you save Misha?”
“I have seen Cossacks in the woods. They are camping near our village. Cossacks love horses. And Misha is gone… stolen.
There is a very rich man in our village. But he is a greedy miser, no-one likes him. Everyone calls him ‘tight-fisted Shishkin’. Shishkin says the Cossacks stole Misha.”
“What did you do, Grigor?”
“I spoke up. I said ‘Let’s look in that barn’. And Misha was in the barn – which belonged to Shishkin.
Once Misha was discovered, Shishkin gave the horse back to his owner. But we all knew why Misha was in that barn. Everyone in the village realised that Shishkin had seen his chance to steal Misha. He had taken Misha, and hidden him in his own barn, ready to sell him secretly for a high price to the Cossacks.”
“How did you know Misha was in Shishkin’s barn?”
“God showed me. He came to me in a vision. He showed me a picture of a little boy, just like myself, who felt hot and feverish one summer night, and could not sleep.
The boy sat up in bed, and looked out of his window. He saw a man and a horse going through the village in the moonlight, like shadows. They went into the barn. The boy in my vision had seen Shishkin leading Misha into the barn.”
“Who was that little boy in your vision?”
“It wasn’t me. God showed me the boy in the vision, but I don’t know the boy’s name. Perhaps it was Dmitri, my brother who lives with God.”
“What happened after Misha was found in the barn?”
“I told everyone that God had shown me where Misha was hidden. All the village elders smiled at me, and some said I had a gift from God.”
“How did you feel, years later, when you became friendly with Praskovya Dubrovina?”
“She was a beautiful girl. From the beginning, I wanted to marry her. When our children were born, I was so happy… I named the first Dmitri, the second Maria. I told myself that they were my brother and sister, sent back to Earth by God, so they could live with me again.”
“But were you truly happy? What can you remember of that time, Rasputin?”
“We heard rumors, tales of faraway troubles in the cities, but life in my village was good. But I wanted to feel again how I felt when I found Misha, and the village elders smiled at me.”
“Can you still see the river, Rasputin? The river that took away Dmitri and Maria?”
“Yes.”
“Look down into the water. It’s calm now, the rushing current has gone. The sun is shining, the air is warm. You are on a little island, like a stepping-stone, in a lake. Green grass and silver birch trees line the shore. Tell me about what you see. Tell me about Tri Tsarevny.”
“There is a woman there. Tall and slim, with long dark hair; a strong, resolute face. She is a noblewoman of Sweden. But under her fine white dress, I will find out that she is a woman like every other.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“I spoke to her. I said ‘Your house, on your little island in the lake. It is close to mine. I can come to you, along the causeway, at night.’ But she told me she would not meet me until a man, an English friend of hers, came to Tri Tsarevny. She did not want to meet me alone.”
“It is a warm, sunny afternoon, Rasputin. The woman is in her house on the island, the little house with the silver dome that they call the Second Princess. Where are you?”
“I am in my house – the Third Princess, with its golden dome. I look across to the other islands. I see the woman: she is sitting on the porch, in a wicker chair. I feel the blood running through my body. I look out across the lake, and I ask God for guidance. God speaks to me, as He always does. He says ‘Go to the woman. She dreams of you, Rasputin. She longs for your touch, your embrace.’”
There’s a noise: the door swings open. Rasputin’s eyes swivel in their sockets; his blank gaze is replaced by a shocked stare, as if he has suddenly woken. We all turn to look at our visitor, who peers at us through his pince-nez.
“Esteemed Mr Rasputin – please, excuse me. Professor Axelson, Miss Frocester; I am so sorry to intrude, but I’m afraid that I need to see you both in my office – immediately.”
8 A very large prison
Our little carriage stands on the street outside the Neva Bath House. Bukin gets into a different carriage. It’s as if he doesn’t want any conversation with Axelson and me, until he is in the security of his office. A few minutes later our carriage pulls up outside the familiar neoclassical façade, and an man appears at the door and ushers us into a small, empty wood-panelled room. Then the official leaves us, saying hastily “Mr Bukin will join you a few moments.”
We look around the room. On a table are a bundle of papers and a large book, like a ledger. The professor opens it; it’s full of handwritten entries, with dates and amounts of money. He mutters to me. “This is a record of bribes, paid by Okhrana to their network of informers. With their usual efficiency, they’ve left it lying on a table in full view.”
The other papers on the table draw my attention. There’s a stack of long, brown manilla envelopes, and two piles of leaflets. I can see a piece of paper jutting out of one of envelopes, and part of a heading “Incriminating evidence against Mr –”.
But it’s the leaflets that catch my eye. Some are in a neat stack. They show two bearded men, their chests covered in medals, standing defiantly and facing two other figures: a slouching German soldier in a spiked helmet, and a man in a flat hat carrying a cartoon-style bomb with a burning fuse. The heading is “Tsar Nicholas and King George – the best of cousins! Standing proud against German tyranny, traitors and revolutionaries.” I pick one of the l
eaflets up, and notice tiny print at the foot of the page “Published by the Anglo-Russian Bureau, Department of Information, London.”
But I can’t help my eyes being drawn by the shockingly crude picture on the other pile. There are only a few of these leaflets, and they are crumpled and torn, as if they have been gathered off the streets. The drawing shows two people: I recognise the face of one from photographs, and the other from real life. They are Tsarina Alexandra and Rasputin. They are both stark naked, and Rasputin’s fingers cup Alexandra’s bare breasts.
The door opens, and Bukin comes in. He’s about to speak, but the professor buts in.
“Mr Bukin. Every time I see you, you tell me another piece of bad news. I am beginning to get weary of meeting you. Or do you have something good to tell us this time?”
Bukin ignores the remark, and starts speaking, as if reading from a script.
“Are either of you aware of Shipping Regulation 15A?”
“No.”
“It’s a wartime requirement. Any foreign national who wishes to embark on any ship at St Petersburg must hold, in addition to their passport, a boarding permit issued by the harbor authorities. I regret to inform you that my office has written to the St Petersburg harbormaster to request that boarding permits should not be granted to either of you, Professor Axelson and Miss Frocester.”
“‘Your office’ has written? You mean, you have written! In God’s name, why?” The professor’s face is purple.
“It was not my personal decision. My superior, General Aristarkhov, oversees all decisions here. You are refused permits to leave Russia because intelligence has been received.”
The professor points at the book on the table and replies, a harsh emphasis in every syllable.
“I’ve seen what’s written in this ledger of yours, Bukin. The ink is still wet on this entry – ‘Twenty roubles monthly war pension bonus for family allowance and maintenance, paid to Boris Mikhailov, war veteran and doorman at Neva Bath House, for information received by Okhrana Security Service. August 21, 1916: Mr Rasputin arrived at the bath house at 5.00pm; two foreign visitors, a man and a woman, arrived to visit him at 6.50pm.’”
The professor stares at Bukin, then carries on. “I do not blame a poor blind man for supporting his family. After all, it is easy money for him. He is paid for recognising Rasputin’s voice at the door, and reporting dates and times back to you. Your informers follow Rasputin everywhere they can. But they are not allowed, of course, to follow him into the ladies’ rooms at the bath house, which is very frustrating for you. So Mikhailov’s reports of Rasputin’s comings and goings are most useful for your dossier.”
Bukin’s manner has changed from our previous meeting with him. He seems to have thrown off a veil of politeness; his voice is clear and sharp-edged.
“I advised you, Professor, that Miss Frocester should not visit the bath house. Under Shipping Regulation 15A, boarding permits may not be granted to suspected criminals. That includes people guilty of indecent activity. One interpretation of you both visiting the bath house is that you went there to offer Rasputin – or someone – sexual services. I would not be so impolite as to say it – but some might say, Professor, that you acted like a pimp, and you, Miss Frocester, like a whore.”
Bukin’s final word feels like a punch in my face. I’m so shocked that I can’t defend my own actions. But I think of the other women at the bath house.
“There are many respectable women at the bath house, Mr Bukin! They go there to meet each other, to chat and relax. Going to the bath house is not wrong.”
Weirdly, Bukin returns to his usual fawning manner. “Of course, Miss Frocester! Despite what Westerners believe, Okhrana are not secret police. Our job is to solve problems, not create them.”
I speak between clenched teeth. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Miss Frocester, our trained officers will look very carefully into the whole matter. Quite soon, they will probably inform you that you are both cleared of all suspicion. But while they are carrying out their investigation, neither of you may board any ship. And, may I suggest that you both behave with decorum from now on, while you are in this city? After all – you are an older unmarried man and a young unmarried woman, travelling together. You can see how irregular it looks.”
Another night has passed; morning dawns over St Petersburg. I go to the Jewish bakery again. While sitting with my bagel, I open the novel I’ve brought with me: Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov. I hope it will give me some insights into this country. I think of Rasputin, and words jump off the page at me.
“A holy man is one who takes your soul, your will, into his soul and will. When you choose a holy man, you renounce your own will and yield it to him, in complete submission.”
I close the book, and just like yesterday, I go back to the hotel’s reading room. The professor is not there. I go up to his room and knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The professor sits in a corner, gazing out of the window.
“I am surprised that you have come to see me, Miss Agnes. My bad mood means I am not pleasant company for you at present. But also, Mr Bukin may have paid the hotel porters to spy on you. They will write a report for Okhrana, to say that you are visiting a man’s hotel room, like a common prostitute.” He smiles at his bleak little joke, then shakes his head and speaks bitterly.
“Bukin’s claptrap about boarding permits… it is like he has thrown us into prison, Miss Agnes. Russia is our prison.”
I joke in my turn. “It’s a very large prison.”
The professor manages a thin smile. I change the subject. “Bukin interrupted your hypnosis of Rasputin half way through, Professor.”
“On the contrary. I was just finishing the session. I was about to bring Rasputin out of the Hypnotic-Forensic state of consciousness.”
“Really? But… he was about to tell us what had happened between him and Svea Håkansson.”
“Oh, that! Nothing, of course.”
I look at the professor in surprise. He carries on, for a moment forgetful of our troubles. “Nothing. Nothing at all happened between Rasputin and Miss Håkansson. They hardly even spoke to each other.”
“But he was watching her, and –”
“I have a slightly embarrassing confession, Miss Frocester. But it may help me explain to you what took place between Rasputin and Svea at Tri Tsarevny.
When I was around fifteen years old, I developed a silly fancy – a ‘crush’ on a lady in Stockholm; she lived in the apartment opposite us. Felicia Nilsson… I could think of nothing but her. But of course, she was twice my age.” He smiles in reminiscence. “It is funny that perhaps I have never married, Miss Agnes, because when I see women’s faces, I am always, somehow, looking for Felicia Nilsson.
Anyway, it was summer in Stockholm. A hot night. I looked out of my window – and there she was, the drapes of her room open, standing in the lamplight. She was completely unaware of me. She started to undress.”
I look at the professor. I have known him for years, but I’m surprised at his frankness. He smiles wistfully. “I pulled my drapes closed. I didn’t watch, like some Peeping Tom, as you would say in English. But I sensed what it would have felt like – to watch an object of desire, from a distance. That is exactly how Rasputin felt, seeing Svea on her island across the lake.”
“He can have his pick of women –”
“Can he? Let me ask you a personal question, Miss Agnes. You are an unattached young woman. Would you be interested in meeting Rasputin… privately?”
“Of course not!”
“Exactly. Your own answer proves that Rasputin does not have ‘his pick of women’ as you put it. He can have only those who are vulnerable and gullible enough to be taken in by him. He is idolised by needy women. But he is needy too: his emotional life is like a bottomless pit. Human worship is poured into it, but it remains empty and unsatisfied.”
The professor pauses, then goes on, as if gi
ving a lecture in psychology. “The root of Mr Rasputin’s character is this. Think of a little boy who tells tall stories – lies, really. His stories get people’s attention, and he enjoys that. As he grows up, he becomes addicted to seeking attention. But he also has a childlike searching soul, a desire for what is real and true – like an artist, an explorer or a scientist. How does a peasant boy from Siberia deal with all that in his head? I don’t blame him. He simply started to believe his own lies.”
“So did he kill Svea Håkansson?”
“Of course not! He’s not capable of murder. Like I said, in his heart Rasputin is still a little boy who tells lies. Then he discovers that gullible people – and needy but occasionally attractive women – hang on his every word. He comes to St Petersburg, and finds that even the imperial family are desperate enough to believe his lies…” The professor sighs. “In fact, I feel sorry for Rasputin. Far from being the plotting spider that King Gustaf spoke of, Rasputin is a simple, boyish man. A man who has swum into deep waters, far beyond his depth – and is terrified of drowning.”
“So who did kill Svea then?”
“We need to go back to your – or Captain Sirko’s – piece of paper. You and I saw the islands on the lake. According to the Tsarina’s list, Sirko, Aristarkhov and Bukin were in the First Princess house. The islands, and the porches of the three houses, line up; a shot fired from the First Princess could have hit Miss Håkansson in the side of the head as she sat on her porch, looking out at the lake.”
“You mean Okhrana killed her? And then they tried to kill us, when we investigated?”
“Okhrana have no scruples about killing inconvenient people – even foreign citizens. So, what you suggest would be the obvious explanation. But there is something else in this matter… a deeper, hidden pattern we can’t yet see. A question keeps nagging me, and won’t go away. That question is: if Okhrana killed Svea, what was their motive for murder?”