The Tsarina's Legacy (21 page)

A waiter in a stiff white shirt came by with a tray of drinks and little cups of black caviar. Veronica accepted champagne and clutched the delicate flute as tightly as she dared.

“Several people from Society are here.” Dmitry pointed to one of the couples lounging against a pastel-blue wall. They were both in their sixties, a red-faced man with a full head of pure white hair and a woman with perfect oval eyes but thin lips. “That is Borya and wife, Zenaida. His family has influence in city back to time of Peter the Great.”

Veronica took a quick sip of the dry champagne and tried to look calm and approachable. The couple wore the same ribbon as Sasha. As her gaze traveled around the room, she noticed it on other guests as well. “What is that?” She gestured to her chest, where she might have pinned one herself.

“Oh. Back in vogue now,” Dmitry said. “Is meant to show loyalty to monarch. To you. Please chat with Borya and Zenaida.” He caught the eye of a woman on the other side of the room and waved in her direction. “Remember Borya's brother is in Duma.”

“How could I forget? Irina wants me to charm him so he'll convince his brother to vote for reparations.”

“Maybe he can do something for Reb as well.” Dmitry looked her square in the eye. “You understand this.”

“Irina has her ideas about the new Russia. I have mine.”

“Excellent. I will check in with you soon.” Dmitry gave a quick bow and headed to the other side of the room, stepping lightly across the slick floor. The pianist concluded the concerto and now the room echoed with animated conversations: skeptical Russian, precise English, and melodic French.

Borya and Zenaida seemed to take Dmitry's leaving as their cue to approach. Veronica rolled her shoulders back. Borya smiled widely at her, but Zenaida only took another sip of champagne. “Hello, Dr. Herrera!” Borya said in Russian. “Such a pleasure to meet you.”

“Lovely,” Zenaida added, a flat, unenthusiastic note to her voice.

Veronica extended her hand. Borya kissed it rather than shook it. There was a time when that might have surprised her, but not anymore. Borya then took a step back, while Zenaida took another drink and looked elsewhere. She smelled strongly of a rose perfume that reminded Veronica of her
abuela
.

“A secret daughter of Tsar Nicholas II,” Borya said. “Who would have thought?”

“All of the other claimants to the throne have been distant relatives,” Zenaida said. “No one took them seriously. Certainly no one took reparations seriously. But your grandmother claims she was Nicholas and Alexandra's daughter. And the Society vetted the evidence?”

Veronica took a moment to translate the last sentence in her mind. Zenaida didn't sound convinced. And had the Society vetted the evidence? A waiter, looking crisp and indifferent, passed by and Veronica set her empty champagne flute down on his tray. “Grand Duchess Charlotte was my grandmother.”

“Another woman on the throne,” Borya said, as delighted as Zenaida was skeptical. “The first since Catherine.”

Veronica nodded as though this would make the conversation speed along.

“We never thought we would see the day.” Zenaida focused on Veronica now. “You're so different than we expected.”

“Really?” Veronica touched her hair. Michael had once told her she looked like Alexandra, only she couldn't see it.
Stop thinking about Michael.

“We weren't sure what to expect,” Borya added diplomatically.

“Who are your parents again?” Zenaida asked.

“My father was—is—Laurent Marchand, Charlotte's only son.” Veronica tried to swallow down the hurt the name summoned. “My mother met him while she was an exchange student. He was a literature professor.”

“Of course,” Zenaida said. “And you were raised in California but speak fluent Russian.”

“I was a historian,” Veronica said. “I learned the language in graduate school so I could work with primary documents.”

“Such a coincidence!” Borya said.

They didn't believe her. Panic descended and she started to babble. “I know it seems like a coincidence. But I was always drawn to Alexandra and Nicholas. My other grandmother had books about the Romanovs lying around the house when I was growing up. That part isn't a coincidence.”

“So your mother knew your father's history?” Borya asked.

“She had an idea,” Veronica said. “She didn't know everything, but apparently my father had hinted about his background. When she came home to California, she grew interested in Russian history, particularly the last Romanovs. And then after my mother died … my
abuela
—my other grandmother—took an interest in it as well. I think it was a way for her to stay close to my mother even after she passed away.”

“But now you know,” Zenaida said. “And you have grand plans.”

“I don't know about ‘grand plans.'”

“A strange situation,” Zenaida said. “I didn't expect the Romanov heiress to be…”

Veronica shook her head. “What?”

“You don't look like we expected a Romanov to look.” Borya cleared his throat in warning, but Zenaida would not be deterred. “No, no, you are very lovely. Only different than what I expected a Romanov would look like, that's all.”

“What do you mean?” Veronica had a bad feeling she already knew what Zenaida meant.

Zenaida gave a dismissive shrug. “I think many of our members have been raised on the tale of the Snow Maiden and other traditions. You don't look Russian.”

A rough knot chafed the back of Veronica's throat, as likely to turn into angry words as tears. Zenaida hadn't really said anything wrong. But wasn't that always how it worked? No one said anything overtly offensive—
you're a little brown for a Romanov, aren't you?
—only offensive enough to make you feel uncomfortable and awkward. In many ways that was worse. She wished she was the type to put it all out there, hashtag Russian racism on Twitter. Instead she wanted nothing more than to escape.

“Excuse me.” Veronica slunk away.

As she looked around the room once more, it dawned on her how silly the couples looked with their outdated gowns and little ribbons, prancing around as though they still lived in the world of the tsars. These people were racist, homophobic liars. They only wanted to use her to sell their stupid restaurants and wine and key chains and whatever other nonsense they invented to make a buck, to get their family's property back and make even more money.

Forget it. She wasn't helping them. She wanted out of this place now.

She spotted Dmitry on the other side of the room, head bobbing as he spoke with a petite older woman.

Veronica was heading in Dmitry's direction when she bumped into a man with close-cropped gray hair, a thick black turtleneck sweater, and a deep tan. He was so tall she had to look up to see his face. He didn't wear the monarchist ribbon. He did wear small glasses with what looked like transition lenses. Veronica assumed he was a museum curator or an artist.

“Excuse me.” She had no quarrel with the curators, but she didn't want to talk to anyone right now.

“You are the guest of honor,” he said in Russian. “Where are you going?”

“To see my friend.”

“You are Veronica Herrera, the heiress apparent?” His eyes, barely visible under the lenses, flickered with interest. His sonorous voice sounded familiar. “You are here to celebrate the exhibit? This is only appropriate.”

“Yes,” she said. “But I'm on my way out … I … I have another engagement.”

“Can I have a picture at least?”

“Of course.” Veronica only wanted out of there as quickly as possible. The man extended his arm and held his phone in front of them. She smiled.

He held the phone so she could see the picture and she nodded. It wasn't the greatest shot, but at least her eyes were open. “That's fine.”

He started typing on his phone. “I will be the envy of all my friends.”

“Okay.” Dmitry was now sampling bruschetta and chatting with the server. She approached, tapped his back, and he jumped before he could take one.

“I need to go,” she said.

“You are not having fun?” He said it like an accusation.

“I'm not feeling well. I think I need some air.”

“What is wrong?”

She shook her head, feeling the pressure behind her eyes.

“We go somewhere else,” he said, more gently now. “I know a place. Maybe relaxation is what you need tonight.”

*   *   *

Veronica sat close to Dmitry behind the crowded bar. On a low stage, a raven-haired woman in a tight red dress sang a folk melody, mournful and frenetic at once. Veronica couldn't follow all the words but caught something about a
troika
lost in the snow. A bald man with intense eyes accompanied her on a
balalaika
. Every so often, he left the stage to serenade a table of laughing young women.

She had been skeptical when Dmitry suggested they head to Dumskaya Street. Despite the elegant arches, the nearby metro reminded her of Sunset Boulevard on a Saturday night: leggy blondes with spray tans, tight dresses, and outlandish heels that looked like ankle fractures waiting to happen. She had been afraid they might end up in one of the seedy karaoke bars, already crowded with drunken teens.

Instead, Dmitry led her to a café that reminded her of the little coffee shops and bars tucked away in Hollywood. Framed photographs of St. Petersburg landmarks were priced for sale on the forest-green walls. Patrons in the back of the café lounged on oversized armchairs with coffee and wine, sketch pads, laptops, and textbooks. Strings of orange lights like tiny fireflies looped along the walls.

Dmitry had loosened up a bit, removing his jacket and draping it carefully over the back of his chair before he sat down. He had unbuttoned the top of his shirt, perhaps one button too many, showing off a thick gold chain and a cross inscribed with Old Church Slavonic. On most Russian men, it would have seemed tacky, even thuggish. But on Dmitry she found it strangely charming. She had to admit she felt more relaxed now, although the vision of boarding a plane back to California, Michael in tow, still ran through her mind periodically.

“Are you religious?” she asked, gesturing to the cross after the singer had finished the last song in the set and the applause died.

“I am a believer.”

“Reb's art—the way he portrays the church—doesn't bother you?”

Dmitry's jaw went rigid. “I do not believe everything Reb creates is respectful of church, but I defend his right to express freely. Besides, you and I agree government's issues with Reb have more to do with his … sexuality.” He stumbled on the last word. “You know laws that Duma passed. Banning gay ‘propaganda.' They want to make example of him.”

Veronica adjusted her position so she could take a bite of her sweet cheese
blini
without jostling the man on her other side, huddled over his phone. “And what about Anya. The reporter? It seems as though the two of you might know one another.”

Dmitry didn't answer, instead picking up a chopstick and poking at his plate of pink sushi. It looked dubious, but she had to admire the eclectic nature of Russian menus.

“Is there some history between you?” Veronica asked. “Does that make sense?”

He regarded her with a coy smile. “We have something far more important to discuss. What happened at Hermitage?”

Veronica took a sip of the wild strawberry soup she had ordered with her blini. The guy with the
balalaika
strummed the instrument again, warming up for the next set. He caught Veronica's gaze with his crazy eyes and she lifted her shot glass in his direction. The food was delicious and the vodka had loosened her tongue. She told Dmitry about her conversation with Borya and Zenaida.

When she finished, Dmitry remained silent for a moment, poking at his salmon roll. “I am sorry,” he said at last. “I didn't realize they would say this, but I am not surprised either.”

“I don't get it, Dmitry. I really don't. Alexander Pushkin is Russia's greatest poet, right? Beloved of all Russians.”

Dmitry straightened his back. “Of course!”

“And Pushkin was proud of his African heritage. He spoke of it all the time.”

“And he was admirer of my ancestor Grisha Potemkin,” Dmitry added.

“Sure.” Veronica raised her glass again. Now that she had gotten the incident with Borya and Zenaida out in the open she felt chatty, her mind buzzing and thoughts flowing. “So why is this country so damn racist and homophobic? I mean, these old, ultraconservative, überorthodox, xenophobic mentalities still abound.”

“I am not sure what all of this means.” Dmitry frowned.

“It seems like people have medieval attitudes,” Veronica said.

“Not in Petersburg.”

“In St. Petersburg too. I've seen the graffiti. I hate it.”

“But I am Russian and even Christian. Do you think I am racist?”

“No, but that doesn't mean—”

“Do you think that I am … against gay people?”

“Obviously not when you're doing so much for Reb. But I feel as though these attitudes are so prevalent here that anything I do to try to change people's minds is pointless.”

“Is not pointless. You will encounter people who think these ways, certainly within the Society. And for that…” He put a hand over his heart. “I am truly sorry. But you can do good here, provide strong voice. People will appreciate.”

“Not Irina.”

“Irina does have great influence, it is true. She knows enough people in Petersburg to help her acquire things she desires. But she needs money. And for money? For true security? She needs support from conservative Duma.”

“Wait.” Veronica narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean she
needs
money?”