Natasha's Dream (23 page)

‘You have asked. Philip, you are a man of impudence and I am a woman with a soft heart. I will see what I can do. Where are you?’

‘In a telephone booth in the Hotel Bristol.’

‘What is the telephone number?’ she asked.

Mr Gibson gave it to her. ‘Shall I wait for you to call me back?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I’ll do that as soon as I can.’

‘I shall be very grateful.’

‘I shall expect a little more than gratitude, I shall expect you to ask me to dine out with you tonight.’

‘A pleasure,’ said Mr Gibson warmly, and she rang off.

He spent the next thirty minutes waiting for the booth telephone to ring. When it did, the princess was back on the line.

‘It took a little time,’ she said, ‘he is an elusive man to reach by telephone. However, we spoke. I’m afraid the deportation orders must stand.’

‘I didn’t expect you would be able to get them revoked.’

‘Oh, one must ask for the whole moon, my dear man, in order to be given a small piece of it. When he conceded the small piece, he thought he had won a little victory. When you are put aboard the Paris train tomorrow, you will find the young lady there too.’

‘Princess, you are a woman of wonders. Natasha will think you’ve fashioned a miracle.’

‘Miracles are a little harder to fashion than favours, Philip, and cost more.’

‘So they should. Natasha is still to be detained overnight?’

‘Be reasonable, dear man. Was I expected to turn dinner for two into dinner for three? Where shall we dine?’

‘It shall be your choice’

‘The Stadtler, then. Please call for me at eight. I shall do my best to look chic but ravishing.’

Just at this time, Natasha was brought up from a detention cell to an interview room. There, Count Orlov awaited her, and the policewoman left her alone with him.

‘Be seated,’ said the count, as austere as ever. Natasha sat down at the bare table. The count seated himself opposite her.

‘What is it you want?’ asked Natasha, eyes dark.

‘You are leaving us tomorrow,’ said the count. ‘So is your lover.’

‘He is not my lover. I do not take lovers. Mr Gibson is my kind friend.’

‘Of course.’ The aloof countenance showed a faint, ironic smile. ‘I can arrange, if you are reasonable, to let you have papers permitting you to leave the train at Warsaw and to live
in Poland. You would prefer Poland to Soviet Russia?’

‘What is it you want?’ asked Natasha again. She was still numb, still in grief at the prospect of being permanently separated from Mr Gibson. The count, studying her, found that a starveling had become a lovely young lady. No, no, she was still a peasant.

‘It’s possible that your kind friend may never reach Paris,’ he said.

‘Oh, you are wicked and unspeakable!’

‘He should not have entered a game in which the stakes were so high. There is, however, a chance that he may survive. Do you know what this is?’ The count, placing a hand on his hat, which lay on the table, lifted it and disclosed a thick book, with a dark-brown leather cover embossed in gold.

‘It is a Russian Bible,’ said Natasha.

‘If you will take an oath, if you will swear on the Bible of our Orthodox Church that you will never appear at any inquiry, private or public, to tell what you say was a true event at Ekaterinburg, or speak in support of anyone else telling a similar story, then I will promise you will not end up in the hands of Moscow’s Bolsheviks and that your English friend’s life
will be spared. If you refuse, then I can promise nothing.’

‘Oh, but you will still be able to promise one thing,’ said Natasha fiercely, ‘and that is that my friend will meet with an accident on the train.’

‘I have been a little harsh, yes,’ said Count Orlov, ‘but I am less in favour of violence than you think, and regret moments when I’ve condoned it. But there are other people who consider any act justifiable if it advances the cause of Holy and Imperial Russia. Millions of Russians, having come to know the true face of Bolshevism, would support a restoration of the Romanov dynasty, but the successor to Nicholas must be seen to be a strong, determined and stabilizing Tsar. His stature as the potential leader of a reborn Empire must not be diminished by controversy, and least of all by any suggestion that he’s not the rightful heir. Despite their hatred of the Bolsheviks, those millions of Russians will not fight for or support a controversial figurehead. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, I understand. I understand the Grand Duchess Anastasia is to be discredited and rejected, and I know why.’ Natasha was tired
and desolate. The flame of faith and hope was dying. It was almost out.

‘The Grand Duchess Anastasia is dead. She died at Ekaterinburg. The person you are talking about is a sick woman who is out of her mind. Even if she were remotely credible, who could possibly accept her as the leader of a resurrected cause?’ The count was stern, but almost in a fatherly way. ‘Natasha Petrovna, I know you’re intelligent enough to see that for the sake of Russia, the Russia I think you loved, for all its faults, sentiment must be set aside. So must pity. Pity has softened too many hearts. You have a choice, and by it your friend will either live or die. If you make the wrong choice, I could not save him, however much I disapproved his execution.’

‘But would you disapprove? I cannot believe you would.’

‘I should regard his death as pointless. I have managed to convince some people that the stability of the Romanov cause is more likely to be wrecked by your disclosures than by any report your Englishman might present in respect of the sick madwoman. But that would still not save him unless you do as I would like you to.’

‘Whatever I do,’ said Natasha, ‘I am just as likely to meet with a fatal accident as he is.’

The count frowned. ‘You are not,’ he said.

‘That is the easiest solution for you, to kill me. You have already tried to.’

‘I assure you, that is not going to happen.’ For once, Count Orlov spoke gently and with feeling. ‘I have called you a peasant, yes, and a few moments ago I told myself that despite what the Englishman has done for your looks and your pride, you are still a peasant. I was wrong. You have survived Bolsheviks and here you have endured hardship and dangers, and I should exist in self-contempt if I did not acknowledge your spirit and courage. During these last two days – since, in fact, the moment when you escaped me at the Mommsen Clinic – I have fought for you, Natasha Petrovna. I will tell you now that whatever choice you make, you shall have the papers permitting you to leave the train at Warsaw and to live there. I am against delivering you to the Bolsheviks. I have won some arguments, and shall win another. Yes, I have fought for you. But I can do nothing for your English friend – unless you do as I ask.’

‘It is a cruel thing, to make me responsible
for whether he lives or dies,’ said Natasha bitterly.

‘There are millions suffering far worse cruelty at the hands of Stalin’s butchers,’ said the count.

Natasha, dark eyes desperate, said, ‘If I swear the oath, could you not put me on the same train as my friend?’

‘I could lie to you and say yes.’ The count was remarkably gentle. ‘But because of what you are, Natasha Petrovna, I can only give you truth. It is beyond my influence to have you put aboard your friend’s train. But once in Poland, what is to stop you applying for a permit to go to England?’

‘You swear I will be safe from you in Poland?’

Count Orlov placed his hand on the Bible. ‘The papers you receive at the station tomorrow will entitle you to reside in Poland in perfect safety, I swear,’ he said.

‘Then I will do what you ask,’ said Natasha, knowing her choice had to come from her heart, not her conscience.

She took the Bible from Count Orlov, and she spoke the words he required of her, although she was in grief and anguish for the
tragic woman in the clinic. Count Orlov showed neither satisfaction nor triumph as she finalized her oath by kissing the Bible.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly, and rose to his feet.

‘I am heartbroken,’ said Natasha, eyes wet.

‘Yes. I know. I’m sorry.’

‘There is still the Austrian,’ she said.

‘Yes, if he survived.’ The count was sombre. ‘Natasha Petrovna, you have suffered in Berlin. Russians would not employ you because they were told not to. It was thought you would starve and die. But you endured. In Warsaw, it will be better for you. Go to the headquarters of the Russian Émigrés Organization. They will find you well-paid work.’

‘I will only be one more émigré.’

‘You will not. Wherever you are, you will always be far more than just another émigré. In any event, I have not fought for you in order to have you starve in Warsaw. You will be given work and lodging. You have my word.’ Count Orlov took her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘I salute you, Natasha Petrovna.’

Back in the detention cell a few minutes later, Natasha sat with her tears streaming.

The Stadtler was a restaurant of an expensive and exclusive kind, and considered very chic. The food was superb, the chef and his assistants all French. The place had nothing in common with the Russian-owned or Russian-run establishments. Its white and gilt decor, circa 1880, actually had a faded look, and for illumination it still used gaslight. Brightly glowing gas mantles were covered by pearly globes. It was accordingly labelled modishly chic.

Princess Malininsky had thought about a modish look that would be in keeping, but had elected in the end for a gown of deep crimson. With her handsome, full-bosomed figure and her dark, Slavonic colouring, she always looked her sultry best in red.

Mr Gibson had ordered champagne with the
meal, in acknowledgement of her successful intervention on Natasha’s behalf. He thought, in any case, that champagne was what the princess would naturally expect from any man privileged to dine with her. It brought life and light to her eyes, and gave her the vivacious air of a courtesan whose forte was to be all things to a man. She was delightfully talkative, and considered Mr Gibson to be quite the perfect escort, for he not only contributed entertaining comments, but lent his ears willingly to the sound of her facile tongue. One did so appreciate a good listener.

There was no orchestra, no music, no dancing. One went to the Stadtler to dine in unequalled style and to make conversation. Afterwards, if desired, one could repair to a club to take in late-night cabaret. The Stadtler was for the connoisseur, or the rich, or the noble, of course. Prussian aristocrats, left high and dry by the sunken Hohenzollern monarchy, recaptured some of the atmosphere of the old days here. There was also an element of civilized culture.

‘It is doomed, of course,’ said Princess Malininsky. ‘It is an artificiality existing in the greyness of republicanism. Republicanism is
so practical, and so boring. This place cannot survive, not as it is. In a year or two, tradesmen and profiteers will be using it. They’ll demand sausage, boiled potatoes and sauerkraut. A floor show, a cabaret. So we must make what we can of it, while it still exists.’

‘Once, I suppose, aristocrats used to be able to keep their temples of light to themselves,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘And why not?’ said the princess, her bosom a splendid picture of health and abundance in her low-necked gown. ‘The bourgeoisie like to keep their own temples to themselves, while clamouring to enter ours. But immediately they enter, they demand change. And so, all too soon, each temple of light is turned into a dance hall or a café, each similar to the one next door. The bourgeoisie win pyrrhic victories in their struggle against the privileged. You agree, Philip?’

‘Being bourgeois myself, I ought to argue, but won’t,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘No, no,’ said the princess, ‘you do not have the character of a bourgeois person. Bourgeoisie exist in all classes. It is an attitude of mind, you see. There are bourgeois grand dukes just as there are bourgeois kulaks. They
would not thank you for telling them so, but then few of us are grateful for hearing the truth about ourselves.’

‘I agree there,’ said Mr Gibson, who, although apparently giving the princess his undivided attention, had his mind much of the time on how Natasha was feeling in her lonely detention cell. She would probably not know until tomorrow that she was to join him aboard the Paris train.

‘I am becoming very attached to you,’ said the princess. ‘I dislike the fact that you have to leave tomorrow. However.’ Her eyes seemed slumbrous. ‘However, the night is still in front of us. I do not think we need to go to a cabaret show, do you? I think we should go back to my apartment.’ She looked up as the head waiter approached. He bent and whispered in her ear. She frowned. ‘You will excuse me a moment?’ she said to Mr Gibson.

‘Of course,’ said Mr Gibson.

She picked up her jewel-studded evening bag, rose to her feet and made her way to a table on the other side of the restaurant. A bearded gentleman stood up to greet her with a bow and a kiss on either cheek. He gestured, and she seated herself in his chair. At the table, two
ladies and a second gentleman at once engaged her in conversation.

The bearded gentleman arrived at Mr Gibson’s table.

‘Good evening,’ he said in English.

‘Good evening,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘May I?’ said the gentleman, and sat down. He smiled at Mr Gibson. A man of about forty, his dark-brown beard was neatly trimmed, his tails immaculate, his hair parted down the centre. ‘Forgive the intrusion,’ he said, ‘but you have just been pointed out to me. I have heard of your interest in a certain matter. How is my cousin three times removed?’

‘I’m afraid you have the advantage,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘I don’t know your cousin.’

‘Not intimately, perhaps, but you know him.’ The gentleman’s smile was friendly. ‘You are Gibson, I believe, with a position in His Britannic Majesty’s Foreign Office that is somewhat obscure. I am Smith. Ivan Smith, shall we say?’

‘Might I suggest, Mr Smith, that you are well connected?’ said Mr Gibson.

‘We have come down in the world, due to an inability to see what was in front of our noses, but we have hopes, Mr Gibson, of rising again.
We need, of course, to rid ourselves of family divisiveness, to be seen as a strong and united collective behind a leader who can wear a crown with majesty and sit on a horse without falling off it. I hope, therefore, that when you return to England you will emphasize the importance of this, and not arouse doubt and confusion in the minds of my cousin and his government by suggesting we should advance on the Bolshevik hierarchy led by a person subject to headaches, visions and fainting fits.’