The Tsarina's Legacy (18 page)

“Is that supposed to be Grand Duchess Charlotte?” Veronica asked the man behind the kiosk, pointing to the postcard. “Who drew this picture?”

“You like our secret grand duchess?” In his bulging white jacket, he resembled a snowman.

“How much?” she asked.

“For you, eighty rubles, or two dollars.” He spoke in heavily accented English. He must have detected her American accent. “Should buy now. Price goes higher tomorrow.”

The wind gusted, stinging Veronica's ears. “This is my grandmother.”

“This secret Romanov?”

Michael peered over Veronica's shoulder at the postcard. “I met Charlotte once. She was older when I met her, but whoever drew this got her right.”

Veronica fumbled in her purse for her crumpled wad of ruble notes and handed them over. Then she tucked the postcard in the side pocket of her purse and started walking again, still struggling with her umbrella. She would just as soon have spent the chilly afternoon inside the Hermitage or another museum, but Michael wanted to see
The Bronze Horseman
.

The little yellow flowers encircling the statue wilted under the rain. Above them, Peter's hand was extended forward while his horse reared up on its hind legs. Personally, Veronica didn't much care for the statue. She had always thought Peter looked awkward and too stiff.

“I can't believe you've never seen him,” Veronica said.

Michael kicked a pebble. “When I was a little boy, my mother read Pushkin's poem to me. A statue coming to life? A wild horse? I had nightmares for weeks.”

Veronica laughed. “So what do you think? Afraid he'll come chasing after you? Drive you crazy and you'll jump in the river?”

Michael's expression remained calm, but his brow furrowed as he gazed up at Peter's stern face. “I can see why Pushkin thought he might come to life.”

Raindrops pounded down on her umbrella and she shivered in her coat. Veronica thought of Reb's painting that featured
The Bronze Horseman
and the exhibit that had gotten him in so much trouble in the first place. “Michael, has my
abuela
been in touch with you?”

He frowned. “About what?”

“My father.”

He drew in a deep breath and watched a trio of soldiers in dark green uniforms pass, all holding paper cups of gelato despite the cold. Michael exhaled, his breath misting in the cold air, and finally met her eyes. “What about him?”

“He wants to talk to me.”

Michael tilted his head. “After all these years? Now?”

“Exactly. I wonder if he regrets not claiming the title for himself.”

“He had his chance. From what I gathered, he never wanted anything to do with it.”

“I know. That's what's I don't understand.” A bulbous street lamp hanging from a thick metal hook flickered on for the evening. Veronica stared at the writing on a small metal trash bin. In the glow she could just make out the Cyrillic letters and roughly translate them in her head.

All gay men should burn.

Veronica felt like someone had put a knife to her throat. “Do you see that?”

Michael turned around to read the graffiti. “God,” he said under his breath.

Veronica had grown interested in Russian history after the collapse of the Soviet Union. She remembered that time: freedom, openness, democracy. “Irina is conservative in so many ways, but she also seems desperate to have me emulate Catherine the Great. What do you think Catherine would do if she were around today?”

“She had her issues, but she was an enlightened empress,” Michael said. “I don't think she would care for this.” He paused. “Veronica, about your father…” Michael stared at the buttery-yellow classical façade of the Senate and Synod Building, half-cloaked in the drizzle. “I don't have any right to tell you what to do. This is your decision.”

“No, go ahead. What do you think?”

Michael leaned forward and dipped his head to look up at her, the way he used to do. “I know you have issues with your father,” he said.

“He's my father in name only.”

“But you decide to come to Russia and then out of the blue he tries to get in touch with you? I don't know. I think we should find out what he wants.”

Abuela had said something similar, that she should give her father a break or at least a chance. “Your mother still has connections. You said so on the plane. Will you try to find out what he wants?”

Veronica felt something warm in her hands. Without thinking, she had taken Michael's hand, her fingers folding over his. Her heart raced and she found herself babbling. “I'll consider talking to Laurent, but I just need to know why he chose to reach out now.”

Michael raised her hand, still resting in his, and lifted the edge of her glove. He kissed the inside of her wrist. She felt the slow melting inside, her desire still so close to the surface.

“I'll do whatever you need me to do,” he told her. “I'm here for you.”

“And I'm glad…” She couldn't manage more and began fussing with her umbrella. Michael didn't say anything further. The figure of Peter and his horse loomed above them, not exactly in judgment, but killing the mood—at least for her. She had her own goals to accomplish in a week here and all the time in the world to worry about her feelings.

Nine

CATHERINE'S HERMITAGE
MARCH 1791

“So now we find ourselves in agreement, Your Majesty.” Zubov paused to take another shot of cherry-flavored vodka. “And couldn't wait to share the good news.”

“I see,” Catherine said flatly. She slapped a Jack of Clubs in the center of the table and rearranged the cards remaining in her hand. “Prince Potemkin is that convincing, is he?”

“Most persuasive.” Zubov sat directly across from Grisha and gave one of his languid smiles before fanning his cards out and choosing one to play. He looked to the monkey perched on his shoulder for approval.

Grisha took another bite of his radish. Despite this show of affability, he sensed Zubov merely tolerated the game, another of Grisha's tricks to be endured and laughed at later behind his back. He had not expected to see Catherine again so soon, but apparently there had been an opening in her daily routine when the envoy from England took ill with the grippe, or so Zubov claimed. Why didn't they all gather in Her Majesty's Hermitage for a few friendly tricks of whist? He couldn't shake the feeling that the boy had anticipated this entire adventure, even before Grisha had approached him yesterday.

That suspicion was lent greater weight whenever Grisha stole a glance to his right, at Catherine's partner for the game: her own son, the Grand Duke Paul.

For the most part, Paul remained silent. Grisha supposed this was a blessing and he did not wish to question it. Paul's squishy face and low sloping brow underneath his powdered wig were offensive enough. Worse yet, he had insisted on joining them dressed in full military regalia: dark jacket, gold braiding around his waist, bright blue sash draped over his chest, the color seemingly chosen for its ability to reflect the gold medals affixed to his coat, medals Paul had so generously awarded himself.

“You even convinced the prince to play as your partner this evening!” Catherine returned the cards to their original places in her hand. “Now, that truly is a miracle.”

“A convenience only,
matushka
.” Grisha tried to wink, a useless gesture with only one good eye, but he made a diligent effort. “You know I play to win.”

The monkey let out an approving bray and then clasped his little hands together and looked all around the room. Grisha patted his head, hoping his wig, so carelessly tossed atop his head this morning, was safe around the beast.

Catherine lowered her cards, her blue eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “So, what is your secret, Prince? How did you find the right words to turn my stingiest adviser into such a spendthrift? I assume he has not become a convert to Islam.”

Grisha managed a small smile and eased back into his uncomfortable chair. Catherine's dog, the old Thomassin, had risen from his favorite spot by the hearth to greet him, placing his silky smooth head in his lap.

“Can we get to it?” Paul asked in a voice that reminded Grisha how much the impatient child the grand duke still was, even at midlife. Paul tossed a card on the table without even looking at his hand and Catherine scowled. “I told you, Mother, I'm to review the troops in an hour.”

“Tell me of the mosque,” Catherine said to Grisha, ignoring her son. “Platon Alexandrovich can now speak of nothing else.” She set a gentle hand on Zubov's arm and Grisha tried not to wince. “He claims it will be a sight to behold, that it will put the mosques I commissioned to shame and rival the most elaborate shrines to Allah in the Arab world. Surely that can't be true, Prince. And yet…” She gestured toward the scarf around his neck. It had been a gift from the grateful wife of a Tatar khan, once Grisha assured the woman's husband of a high appointment in the New Russian administration. “Has your heart been so enraptured by the place that you fashion yourself a pasha?”

“I believe it's the pasha's turn.” Zubov fed his monkey a peanut. “Perhaps he could play a card and then tell us of his grand vision.”

“But be quick about it,” Paul added. “This whole Mohammedan project strikes me as odd anyway after your triumph in Ochakov.” Paul's voice changed at the mention of Ochakov, suddenly drenched with admiration. “You are a hero from folklore to the troops after that siege. I often hear my soldiers speak of it.”

Despite the fire crackling in the hearth, Grisha felt chilled. Zubov's monkey began to bray again, only now a high-pitched wail. The creature's teeth chattered and he hopped from Zubov's shoulders to Paul's, where he immediately began to pick at a brilliant medal shaped like a sunburst on Paul's chest.

“Can't you control this beast?” Paul sniped.

“He does as he pleases,” Zubov said, taking another swig of vodka. “Don't you appreciate a fiery spirit, Grand Duke? Life isn't all military parades and sword rattling.”

“But a mosque in Moscow is a most singular project, Your Highness,” Paul blathered on, squinting at Grisha while batting his fat little hand at the monkey. “I understand you refuse the care of physicians, but perhaps you might consider a consultation.”

Despite the shivering, Grisha assumed the blasé tone he always took with Paul. “And why would I want to visit some quack?”

“Why, because some would say you must be out of your mind! Staking so much importance on this project, testing my mother's patience.”

Zubov managed a halfhearted laugh, but Catherine glared at her son. Grisha made a mental note to speak with enthusiasm of her grandson Alexander next time he saw Catherine alone. With some luck, she would finally tire of her son altogether and name Alexander her successor, leaving Paul to permanently wallow in his own fussiness. Grisha fumbled in his pocket, past the little rubies he carried for luck and a few of Catherine's old letters, until he located a handkerchief. He patted the linen on his face, breathing in the calming fragrance.

Grand Duke Paul pursed his pouty lips. “I agree with Platon Alexandrovich's first decision on the matter. Why expend your energies on this nonsense? We need to prepare for war, not dither with phony idols. England and Prussia want to challenge us? Let them try.”

Zubov shuffled his cards aimlessly. “And hesitation is death … didn't you say something to this effect, my darling?”

Catherine was still looking at Grisha, barely paying any attention to her cards. “It was Peter the Great's maxim,” she said, “but I trust it has merit.”

“For God's sake, Prince, your delay at Ochakov is infamous,” Paul jabbered. “Look what happened once you acted. Triumph! Why delay again when we face enemies from the West?”

One of the wax candles on the table went out, as though caught in a sudden breeze. Under the table, the greyhound emitted a low growl.

Grisha could scarcely see the cards in front of his face. He struggled to catch his breath. He heard the sounds of battle, as though in a distant dream and yet right here, in the room, pounding in his ears. The sick squelching sound of a sword running through a man's chest. The strangled animal screams.

Beads of perspiration slipped down the sides of his face. He was fat and out of breath and now he was perspiring in front of Catherine. He wanted to sink into a hole and disappear.

“Besides, you don't seem quite yourself,” Paul continued, “so perhaps your recommendations are suspect. Wouldn't you agree, Platon Alexandrovich?”

Zubov, engaged with his neckpiece, looked up and shrugged.

“Not that I know much about the troubles of older men,” Paul said. “As you know my father was taken from me while I was still a boy.”

“We all know,” Catherine said with a crisp slap of her cards to the table. “You have mentioned it often enough.”

Zubov clicked his teeth and made an attempt to cross himself and fiddle with his cravat at the same time. “Such a tragedy.”

“Some would argue otherwise,” Grisha muttered.

“What was that, Prince?” Paul said. “I'm sorry, but you see I am accustomed to my soldiers answering in full voices like good honest men.”

Grisha waved a card in front of his face to get some air, wondering how he might best ask the empress to open a window without worrying her. “I understand you take a whip to your men when they displease you,” he told Paul. “You truly are your father's son after all. And the way you treat them, I wouldn't be surprised if you miss much whispering behind your back.”

“How dare you!” Paul rose to his feet. He was slight of stature and far from intimidating, but out of habit Grisha worked his large frame to his feet as well.

“Oh no,” Zubov said disinterestedly, searching his pocket for another peanut for the monkey. “What have you done now, Prince?”