Empress of the Night (53 page)

The memory surfaces from somewhere far away. Of the wet warmth of the maid’s spit on her back and its lingering sour smell, like rotten cheese. Of roughness in the maid’s cold hands, in the fingers that massage the spit into the skin.

The bed is soft. The feather mattress has been aired and smells of the wind, but the pleasure it could all bring doesn’t last.

“Pull it tighter,” Mother orders, deaf to pleas.

The leather corset has straps that bite deep into the flesh, chafing the
skin. Pus is oozing from blisters; red welts on her shoulders have turned into open wounds.

“Lie still, Sophie.” She hears her mother’s impatient voice. “It’ll only hurt more if you move.”

“Why, Mother?”

“Because, Sophie, no one will marry a cripple.”

Only she must be already married, for Peter, her husband, is standing over her. He is so young, a child almost, his face still free of pockmarks. He fingers the bed curtains, plays with the golden tassels. Braids them together and then lets them unwind. His fingers are long and shapely.

“I’m not a monster, Catherine,” he says. “All I want is my flute, my Blackamoor, and my mistress. Is that too much to ask?”

Who has let you in, Peter?

Where are the guards? Have you bribed them?

“Are you ill, Sophie? Or could it be that you are again with child?” He shrugs and giggles as if his presence at her bedside was a practical joke. A cause of colossal merriment.

Peter’s hands rise, protect his face. His lanky body folds. He is crouching on the floor. “I don’t want to die!” he sobs. “Please, Sophie, let me live!”

Remember, Peter? Remember that crumbling house? Remember how fast you ran away? I could’ve died then
.

“That’s how you want to remember it.”

That’s the truth
.

“The truth? The truth is that you’ve always wanted me dead, Catherine. And that you always got what you wanted.”

They call her a wanton woman.

Insatiable in her greed.

Rumors hound her. Nasty, vicious rumors, meant to humiliate, put her in her place. The rumors of how she debases herself, seduces with power, for there is nothing in her aging body that can be freely desired. How she pays for the flattery that surrounds her, for the forced attention of her lovers.

How she robs the innocent to pay for her sins.

Emperor Peter III is dead.
Batushka
. The good Tsar. The father of his people. Cut down in his prime. Before he could bring happiness and justice to all his children.

This is Peter they speak about. Her foolish husband, who drank himself into a stupor night after night. Who executed rats when they chewed on his doll soldiers.

“You never forget your first kill,” Father said once, after a hunt.

4:05
P
.
M
.

Rogerson, a lock of his reddish hair falling over his forehead, lifts her hand and feels her pulse.

Here lies Duchess Anderson

Who bit Mister Rogerson
.

I ought to tell him something
.

I smell my own breath. It is fetid
.

I see the canopy. Minerva is looking down at me
.

How swiftly the rot sets in. Roses are covered in black spots. Peony blossoms turn into a shapeless mash. Flower beds are trampled with soldiers’ boots. In the palace corridors, someone has gouged eyes from the portraits, slashed the painted faces. Children, lifeless, their bodies torn with bullets, pile up on the filthy floor. The girls’ hair is speckled with blood.

Things are scattered everywhere: a chair with a broken leg, half-burnt candles, stained handkerchiefs. Silver hairbrushes with tangles of gray hair. Books with torn pages. Paper, sheets of paper, smeared with running ink.

“How can you live in such a mess, Sophie? Have you forgotten all I’ve taught you?”

You have to watch the servants. If they don’t fold it carefully, taffeta will crease and split. All folds should be padded with muslin or buffered paper.

Silk doesn’t like sunlight.

“Pick it all up!”

“Yes, Mother!”

But before she has time to begin, flames of fire lick the floor, consuming the carpets. Bursting out of windows. The smell of gunpowder is everywhere. A man’s voice begins a prayer; a woman joins in. Children scream. Rifles click, fire.

Run away, Catherine. Run before it is too late. Run before they steal your soul
.

8:35
P
.
M
.

Her lips are parched.

She longs for simple things. Wetting her fingers with spit to pinch out a candle. Watching the rays of light cavort in the mirrors of her Tsarskoye Selo study. The rich, mellow taste of dark porter, icy, fetched straight from the root cellar. Cucumbers smeared with honey.

A smell that reaches her nostrils is of an overripe apple. Bees circle it, tempted by the sweet drunken aroma of the darkened pulp.

Two bees, one beside the other. Closer and closer, until they seem one.

In the place of Thy rest, O Lord, where all Thy Saints repose, give rest also to the soul of Thy servant, for Thou lovest mankind
.

Her heart still beats, her blood still flows through her body. She can see light and blurry faces. Some weeping, some smirking in triumph.

“We shall have a Tsar at last. Women have ruled Russia long enough.”

“Our old
matushka
has amused herself sufficiently, I think.”

“More than sufficiently.”

I will pour out my prayer unto the Lord, and to Him will I proclaim my sorrows. For my soul is filled with afflictions, and my life has drawn near to Hades. And like Jonah I will pray: Raise me up from corruption, O God
.

She is walking on a snow-covered field. She must find shelter soon. There are lights glittering in the distance. A village, maybe, or a few huts. There will be people there.

She takes a step, but her feet sink into the snow. There are things buried in it. Shoes. Bones. A steel helmet with ostrich feathers. A birch box with quills. A piece of amber with two bees inside, locked in an embrace.

Opening my lips, grant me a word to pray, O kindhearted Savior, for her that has now departed, that she find rest, O Master
.

“A moon child,” someone once called her.

Her skin was luminous then, no wrinkles marred her face, and yet unhappiness was crushing her heart. How clear they can be, the images that lay sunken somewhere in the depth of her mind. A drowned kingdom, distorted by watery films that reflect the light, blinding and teasing at the same time.

She grasps at the sheets, but they recede, leaving her sifting through sand on a beach somewhere by the cold Baltic Sea. The sand is hot on top, cooling as she dips her hand inside it.

The piece of amber she holds in her hand is of a rare beauty. Inside it, two bees lie together. Their bellies touch. Their legs are entangled. Locked in death. Welded. Inseparable.

She had a piece just like this once, she recalls. What happened to it?

Did she give it to someone?

To a friend?

A face that comes to her is fluid, taking on many features. Curly blond locks, a dimple in a plump cheek. A firm hand holding hers as she runs through long and winding corridors, into the street. She is not alone.

Varenka? Are you here?

It is winter. The horses are covered with blankets. Mist rises from their nostrils. The guards stomp their feet on the snowy ground, eye them both. Together they run into the street, past palaces lit with lanterns, past the frozen Neva, on which sentries burn fires for a bit of warmth.

“Come, Catherine,” she hears. “I’ll show you where I used to live.”

Floating through time, over the rivers, the forests. The vast expanses of the steppes where the grass is fragrant and sweet.

They have drawn the curtains, and no light from outside penetrates the room. This is just as well. The sun moves relentlessly forward, and she does not want to think of such movements. She prefers to look at the painted ceiling of her room. The nymphs, the gods, the clouds that do not move or change or demand anything but admiration for their lightness and color and the passions that never fade.

I am of the night
, she thinks.

Inside her, silence gathers. Sweet, warm, deceiving.

8:45
P
.
M
.

Again we pray for the repose of the soul of the servant of God … that she may be pardoned of all her transgressions, both voluntary and involuntary
.

There is death in her granddaughter’s grieving eyes. Hesitation in Alexander’s.

The world she leaves is so soft. It will be swallowed by the night. She imagines the rioting mob coming to get them all. Waving their torches. Light that does not illuminate but burns and destroys.

They do not care for her warnings.

For no matter how deep the loss, how startling the betrayal, doesn’t life always turn away from the dead?

Here they are, ready to repeat the endless deeds of their everyday lives. Until their end. Until emptiness and darkness claims them, too.

9:40
P
.
M
.

Outside, the rain has turned to wet snow, dribbling down the glass like spit, spattering against the windowpanes.

She hears the shuffling of feet. Is it Queenie?

Queenie, who is in love with her. Her love is dark and sticky and suffocating. But it also brings what nothing else will: ultimate loyalty.

In her hands is a velvet cushion, green with a golden trim. Its corners are chewed to the gray stuffing. The dogs have been at it again.

In Paul’s eyes she sees the madness that will bring about his death.

There will be other deaths. Multitudes of them. The walls of her palaces will be stripped of their finery, flames will lick the gold and silver, jewels will melt.

I’ve tried
.

The light, too, can deceive
.

Alexandrine, the sweet, beautiful child, is kneeling by the bed. Her golden hair is tied far too tight; her pearls look dull, as if someone tried to rub them too much. Her hands are clasped in prayer. Her face is white, just like little Olga’s in her coffin.

The smell around her is not jasmine petals but the sweet, heavy scent of
ladan
.

I’ve tried to turn you away from death, but I’ve failed
.

The dog comes with her shoe, drops it at her feet, giving her a look of sad reproach. It is Pani? No, it is Duchess Anderson, her greyhound bitch. But how is this possible? Duchess Anderson is long dead and buried.

The bitch flops over on her side with a sigh and closes her eyes.

How is it possible, Queenie?

But the woman who stands beside her is not Queenie.