Empress of the Night (3 page)

“You are ugly, Sophie.”

Her brother’s eyes flicker with glee. William thinks he has defeated
her. This sickly, crippled brother of hers, the cause of Mother’s panicky whispers, her soothing caresses. Her insistence that nothing should ever be denied to this cherished boy.

“And you are going to die,” Sophie tells her brother. There is no hesitation in her voice, no doubt. “Just like Augusta did,” she adds before he covers his ears. Their sister lived for ten days, and the earth on her tiny grave is still soft.

“Mother!” William screams. “Sophie is scaring me again!”

Her silly brother won’t fight with her. William trusts weakness and pity, oblivious of the price they will exert in the end.

He is a fool. A tittle-tattle. A weakling.

Down the stairs comes the hurried tapping of her mother’s heels.

She, Sophie, can brave Mother’s anger. She can withstand any punishment. She doesn’t care. “You’ll die, William”—her lips mouth the words until Mother’s hand slaps her hard, until blood seeps from a broken lip. Salty and sweet.

I’ve come to Russia from Zerbst, with Mother
.

I was called Sophie
.

From that journey she remembers vast expanses of snow-covered fields, which—the Russian Guards tell her—will be lush with wheat and oats and barley in a few months. Stretches of thick, dark forests where foxes and mink grow the softest of pelts. Towns and roadside villages where onion-domed churches entice the eyes with bright colors and the peal of bells. Carved frames and shutters of peasant huts. Night that comes early, swiftly swallowing what in Zerbst would still be the light of day.

Her feet swell from the long hours of sitting in the carriage and hurt when she steps out of the carriage and tries to walk. Not that much, but enough for Mother to order one of the Russian attendants to carry her daughter to the inn when they stop for the night. They are illustrious visitors, Mother announces to yet another bowing postmaster who may not fully appreciate the honor bestowed on his smoky tavern. The Princess of Zerbst is traveling on a personal invitation from Her Majesty
Empress Elizabeth Petrovna. Who—if sudden death didn’t intervene—would now be her sister-in-law.

Mother’s much-repeated statement elicits vigorous nods from their German maid and polite ones from the Russian servants. It’s hard to fathom what the subsequent tavernkeepers make of it. Russian words flow fast. Even the few she has already learned elude her.

It’s best to start from the beginning.

Da
means
yes
.

Nyet
means
no
.

Mozhet byt
means
maybe
.

“Isn’t Sophie charming, Peter?” Empress Elizabeth asks when they arrive. Excitement tints her cheeks the color of ripe apricots. Or is it a new shade of rouge?

Peter, Sophie’s second cousin, now Russia’s Crown Prince in need of a wife, lifts his head. His eyes—slightly bulging—dart from her to his aunt and back to her.

Here in Moscow, Peter looks thinner than he was in his home in Eutin, where Sophie first saw him. Like a starving man, if an heir to the throne could lack nourishment.

The cold of the long winter journey still lingers in her bones. Ice gardens blooming on the carriage windows. The chill of moldy roadside inns, numbing toes and fingers. The foggy cloud of her own breath. The endless expanses of frozen fields, thick forests blanketed with powdery snow. The fear, persistent and unyielding, that if—by whatever mishap—the carriage that was speeding toward Russia stopped, the frost would creep up inside and kill her.

And what does Peter see when he looks at her? Her clear white complexion? Her strong teeth? The budding breasts, held up by tight stays? Her hazel eyes, flecked with blue? Where do his thoughts race? To Eutin, where she assured him he was so very smart? Where he whispered in her ear: “If they make me the King of Sweden, I’ll run away with the Gypsies and they’ll never find me.”

“Do you like Princess Sophie, Peter?”

Around them—in this sprawling Moscow palace with creaking floors
and empty anterooms—everyone catches their breath. She, a mere princess of Anhalt-Zerbst, notes the curve of her cousin’s thin throat and a frown of his eyebrows.

A long moment of waiting, and then Peter nods.

It is a slight nod and it doesn’t seem like much, but there is a whole world behind it. A world of what is now possible. Of not being sent back to Zerbst, not having to hide her thoughts behind pliant smiles. A world of bold strides. Of sweeping vistas. Of spring that will melt the snow.

A world she craves so much that her hand clenches on the folds of her skirt. A world that makes her think of a stallion dancing around before a race, tail raised, taut muscles quivering under the skin. Just awaiting the sign to sprint forward, knock everyone out of its way.

The courtiers crane their necks. Behind her, Mother fails to stifle a gasp.

Keep your eyes down, Sophie!

Don’t spoil it! Not now, not when you are so close!

The Empress of Russia rises from her throne. Elizabeth’s glittering gown must be heavy and stiff, but she moves like a dancer, head high, spine straight, steps light and graceful. Scarlet silk embroidered with gold thread displays intricate flowers in bloom. Her mantle is lined with ermine. On her neck rests a triple string of black pearls. “Garish … ostentatious … so very Russian” have become Mother’s favorite words.

Imperial arms, soft but strong, encircle “the beloved moon children,” press them to a heaving chest. The silken embrace is tight. “My Sophie. You’ll never disappoint me.”

Her forehead is pressed against something pointed and hard, which will leave an imprint on her skin. Sophie breathes in the scents: attar of roses, bitter almond, and the sharp foxy smell of sweat.

“Wipe that stupid smile off your face, Sophie. You are not his wife yet.”

Mother’s lips curve in a forced grin as she licks her finger and smooths
her daughter’s brows. Or tucks a strand of her hair under the new velvet hood.

“Listen to me, girl!”

Sophie is still. She does listen. She doesn’t stare, especially not at the Empress of Russia, who has just announced to the whole court that this snippet of a princess from Prussia will soon turn Peter into a proper man.

She, Sophie, makes sure she walks one step behind her mother, and never speaks first. Mostly she listens. When a question is asked, her reply is always brief. “I love what I’ve seen of Russia … no, I haven’t seen this much snow ever … yes, the Empress is most kind and generous … the Crown Prince is very handsome.”

Her voice is velvety soft. Her eyes stay lowered, taking in the frayed hems of dresses and scuffed shoes. But an imperial promise, however fleeting, however vague, cannot be erased. It’s an ancient wisdom. One cannot step twice into the same river.

Here in Moscow, houses are mostly wooden. Streets meander, dissolve into impossibly narrow lanes. Sleighs must make long detours to reach their destinations. Outside the butcher shops, the snow is stained red, spattered with fresh blood. By a tannery, the air is so acrid it makes her gag.

In St. Petersburg, which she saw only briefly on her way to Moscow, palace façades were made of stone. Streets were wide and straight. A giant ice mountain stood on the frozen river. Painted carts sped down its steep slope, faster than a galloping horse, faster than the gust of northern wind. “Too dangerous, Sophie. I won’t let you do it,” Mother had said.

But Mother couldn’t stop her from seeing the elephants. Their folds of gray skin, curled trunks, the yellow sabers of their tusks. Ears like giant sails folded against their domed heads.

On that dark afternoon lit by flaming torches and barrels of burning tar, these gray, swaying giants balanced on hind legs and waved their feet in the air. They played ball, threw rings into the air and caught them in mid-flight.

She had laughed and clapped her hands so hard that they hurt. Beside her, Prince Naryshkin, her host for the evening, whispered his warnings:
An elephant can crush a raging bear, bend the bars of an iron cage
.

Beware the wild beast, Sophie
.

But don’t stop looking!

The trumpet had sounded, the elephants lined up, fell on their front knees, and lowered their giant heads. In front of
her
, a princess of Zerbst.

This is the memory she clings to at the end of each Moscow day, curled up in bed, burying her face in the soft fur blanket. It makes her forget that there is humiliation in wanting. That gifts from Zerbst are too meager to impress even the palace servants. That smiles and kind words don’t go far.

“We must hold our heads high, Sophie,” Mother scolds her. “Our line is far more ancient.” Mother does what she has always done, consults a tree of descent, which she has committed to memory. Family connections are sturdy ropes along a shaky footbridge of prestige. Aunts, cousins, brothers, wives, husbands. Prince of Brunswick. Prince-Bishop of Lübeck. Good blood has many tributaries.

Zerbst, Mother brags, bustles with magnificent balls and military parades. A rickety drawbridge takes on the luster of a thoroughfare. A statue of a butter maiden becomes a landmark talked about in Berlin itself.

Mother doesn’t hear the snickers at her boasting. Whispers that die as soon as she comes near. The looks that remind Sophie how uncertain their future is.

And Peter?

Every morning, Peter comes to their rooms to announce his plans for the day. Plans that make no mention of the world outside the palace doors.

“Look at my drawings, Sophie,” he says. “These are the uniforms I want my soldiers to wear.”

Or: “Have you really spoken to King Frederick, Sophie? What does he look like? What did he say to you?”

There is brightness in Peter’s blue eyes when he talks of Berlin or Holstein, brightness that dies out when she asks him anything about Russia. If she persists, he snaps at her with impatience, or anger. Why would Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst want to know what a Russian chancellor does? Or which of the maids sleep in the Empress’s inner rooms?

“But you’ll be a Tsar one day, Peter. Don’t you want to know?”

“I won’t be a Tsar for a long time,” he replies, which could’ve been
a wise answer, but it isn’t. For Sophie knows it is not a prince’s wish for his Empress aunt to rule as long as she can, but a desire to escape his destiny.

The past, which cannot be changed, is far away. The future, which can be altered, is uncertain. For now, both need to be pushed into some far-flung crevice of her heart.

The present is the puzzle she needs to crack.

S volkami zhit’, po-volch’i vyt’
. If you want to live with wolves, howl like them.

Russian doesn’t easily yield to fourteen-year-old lips, already set in their ways. “Once again, Your Highness. Only softer. Russians do not like foreigners!”

Monsieur Abadurov is her tutor, and he teaches her that Russian nouns acquire new endings depending on their position in a sentence: “
Bolshoy chleb,
” he says, “but
chleba net
.”

In Russian, names turn into other names. Alexander becomes Sasha. But Alexandrine can also become Sasha, so there is no way of telling from the name alone if Sasha is a girl or a boy. Sasha can also turn into Sashenka. Just like Grigory turns into Grisha or Grishenka or Grishenok.

Puzzling? Yes, but easy enough to learn by heart. It’s harder to understand the meaning of Russian tales. In a German story, a man is a fool when he screams in fear at the sight of a hammer hanging on the wall because, one day, it might fall down and kill a child standing underneath. In Russian
skazkas
, a fool understands the language of birds and beasts. He may be slow and covered in grime, but the fool is the one who marries a Tsar’s daughter and becomes the wisest of rulers.

S kem povedyoshsya, ot togo i naberyoshsya
. You become like those you spend time with.

Up close, Empress Elizabeth’s skin resembles a fresh painting. Caked powder masks the redness of her nose, the scratches on her neck, the livid patches of bruises. Dark, moist circles gather under her arms, but perfume is stronger than sweat. Beauty is made of layers, each protecting some secret of the night. In the palace corridors, handsome young men eat the Empress with hungry eyes when she passes by. If she drops a fan, a feather, a ribbon from her hair, they squabble for it like wild dogs.

“Don’t displease me, Sophie, and Our Lady of Kazan will protect you.”

For Elizabeth, the murky, incense-infused silence of the chapel is the only place where thoughts of death and eternity trump earthly pleasures. There, under the soulful eyes of icon saints, the Empress speaks of mercy and settles her accounts with God.

This, too, is Russia. Wrapped in the sweet scent of frankincense. Lit by the votive lamps that illuminate the long, gaunt faces of the saints. Lost in the contemplation of that other, true world. Russia doubts knowledge. Mistrusts reason, for all evil comes from opinions. Embraces suffering and acceptance of God’s will. Russia is like a cipher, forever changing. When you crack one pattern, another takes its place.