Natasha's Dream (24 page)

‘I am not required to make any suggestions, sir, only to present conclusions,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Doubt and confusion, you see, will induce in your government and other governments a lack of confidence in us. If we are to form the vanguard of an attempt to rid Russia and the world of Communism, it’s necessary for all sympathetic governments to give us their backing. If they feel we are not sure who is our rightful and most purposeful leader, they will withhold their support.’

‘I understand perfectly,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘I’m sure you do,’ smiled the bearded gentleman. ‘You were at Oxford, weren’t you?’

‘Cambridge,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Ah, yes. You rowed in the Boat Race?’

‘No, only for my college eight.’

‘At Oxford, I too failed to get my rowing blue, but I was informed by my father that I had managed to turn myself into a gentleman. Thank you, Mr Gibson, for putting up with me. May I wish you good luck and a wise head?’ The gentleman rose, shook Mr Gibson’s hand, gave him a friendly nod and returned to his table.

Princess Malininsky came back a few minutes later, but not to sit down.

‘Alas, my dear Philip,’ she said with a rueful smile, ‘I am in the embrace of what you would call the high and mighty.’

‘You are leaving?’

‘I am commanded, and am therefore compelled. I am suspected, I think, of talking too much. It is quite abominable, to be dragged away from you, but he is one I hesitate to disobey. I am still devoted to Imperial Russia, and to my hopes that St Petersburg will be reborn. However, I should like to think you and I might meet again sometime.’

‘Until further notice,’ said Mr Gibson, on his feet, ‘I’m forbidden to re-enter Germany.’

‘Write to me whenever you wish to come, and perhaps the forbidden will be turned into
the permitted – as long as you aren’t going to make another nuisance of yourself. You have, of course, just been recommended not to make a nuisance of yourself when you deliver your report in England. Am I right?’

‘Yes, quite right.’

‘Well, my friend, you have at least received this recommendation from a Romanov and not a lackey. With regret, I must now say goodbye.’

She looked sincerely sorry, and her splendid figure itself seemed to wear a sigh.

‘Allow me to thank you again for all your help, Irena Sergova, and to declare myself a warm and grateful admirer,’ said Mr Gibson, and she smiled and gave him her hand to kiss.

Left alone, there was really nothing more for him to do than pay the bill and depart. He did not, however, feel disposed to return to the empty apartment. He had already discovered it lacked life and warmth without Natasha. Perhaps, while he was still in Berlin, he ought to take in a cabaret show.

Outside the restaurant, he called a taxi, and asked the driver if he could recommend a quality establishment. The driver suggested
der Papagei
. The Parrot. He took Mr Gibson
to the place, a night spot renowned for its entertainment.

It was dim, hazy with smoke and crowded. Mr Gibson had to tip a scarlet-lipped hostess in order to have a small table brought and wedged into a corner for him. There was no stage, but there was a bright circle of light at the far end, and a pianist was lazily drifting his hands over the keys. Mr Gibson was required to order a drink, and opted for a bottle of red wine, which cost him an exorbitant amount of marks. It was brought by another hostess, who placed it on the table, with two glasses, and sat down beside him. There was a minimal amount of room, and she sat very close to him. Her flame-coloured dress was short and skimpy, her figure slim and boyish, her hair Eton-cropped.

‘You do not wish to drink alone, mein Herr?’ she said.

‘Do join me, Fräulein,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘I am expensive, you understand,’ she said, and poured the wine.

‘Naturally,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘but I have an appointment.’

She drank her glass of wine in one go, smiled at him in brittle indifference, then rose to her feet and disappeared.

Into the cabaret spotlight came a tall, thin man, immaculate in tails. His black hair was slicked, his lips painted red. He gazed into the smoke, and his white teeth showed a radiant smile. Conversation lapsed. He placed a cigarette in a long holder and lit it. He smiled again.

‘My friends,’ he said, ‘you may not believe this, and it isn’t something I tell everybody, but beneath all this I am really Anastasia.’

From the wings a woman in a white silk night-dress rushed on. ‘A lie!’ she cried. ‘Anyone can see you have a moustache.’

‘Ah, so? Who can prove Anastasia did not have one? And your mother has an impressive growth.’ The thin, sleek artiste blew smoke.

‘Another lie! My mother shaves every morning, and sometimes at night as well. You are not Anastasia. It is I. Or is it my cousin, Emmy?’

The pianist struck a light chord and the male artiste sang.

‘
Anastasia, who is she
,

If not you, or if not me?

My aunt is also her, my dear
,

So is Stalin, or so I hear
.’

Mr Gibson was unable to catch every word of the ditty, or of more repartee, but he understood enough. The wickedly biting dialogue ridiculed the whole mystery of the woman in the clinic. Mr Gibson thought about her, about her disfiguring jaw, her shattered nerves, her frailty and her incredibly blue eyes. He was unable to join in any of the laughter.

He did not stay long. After drinking two glasses of warm red wine, he left.

Just before she was taken to the railway station the following morning, Natasha, escorted by a policeman and a policewoman, was brought before Inspector Moeller. She asked at once what was to happen to her belongings. They were very precious, her belongings, for they consisted mainly of her new clothes, the clothes she had purchased on a day of pure bliss. That was all she could think of, the clothes that would always remind her of a man kind, protective and generous. Everything else was a darkness in her mind.

Inspector Moeller drew her attention to a new luggage case beside his desk. He informed her that a policewoman had called at the apartment to collect her things, that Herr
Gibson had already packed them and that there they were, in the case. Did she wish to check the contents?

‘No,’ said Natasha in melancholy. It seemed so final, Mr Gibson packing all her belongings and handing them over to the police. His last gesture of generosity, obviously, had been to buy the case. It was a gesture that pained her very much.

‘You will have your papers returned to you at the border,’ said Inspector Moeller. Natasha thought about the other papers, the new papers promised to her by Count Orlov, but said nothing. The inspector eyed her with a slight softening of his expression. ‘The French border,’ he added.

‘French?’ said Natasha, the darkness in her mind causing her to grope.

‘You are being put aboard the train for Paris, Fräulein Alexeiev, but this concession does not affect the order forbidding you to re-enter Germany.’

‘Herr Inspector?’ Natasha suddenly found it difficult to draw breath. Her blood surged and giddiness afflicted her limbs. ‘I – I am to travel with Herr Gibson?’

‘As far as I’m concerned, you are to travel with
these two police officers, Fräulein. Herr Gibson is probably on his way to the station now, with two other officers.’ The inspector glanced at the policewoman. ‘Proceed,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Herr Inspector.’ Natasha’s breathless voice was faint even to her own ears. ‘Thank you.’

‘You owe no thanks to me,’ said Inspector Moeller, who, like so many other people in a world that had become addicted to uniforms, only obeyed orders.

‘Good morning, Miss Alexeiev,’ said Mr Gibson, materializing beside Natasha amid the hustle and bustle of the station. He was smiling at her, and seemed his usual unworried self. Two men were close behind him, and so was a porter, wheeling his luggage.

‘Oh, Mr Gibson.’ Natasha, overwhelmed, could find no other words. Her blood was in tumult, her joy a thing that was rushing and leaping inside her, and her flame of hope burning with reborn radiance.

‘We shall have to travel as far as the French border in company with our escorts,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘but mine are quite civilized and friendly, and I hope yours are too.’

‘We are really going to Paris together?’

‘To Paris, and then to England,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Oh, what can I say?’

Mr Gibson thought about that, then said, ‘You can say, perhaps, that miracles are becoming quite commonplace.’

The light morning fog had lifted, and the January day was crisp, cold and bright. The sun reached in through the windows of an office in a government building close to Admiralty Arch, and tipped the polished mahogany furniture with light. It was a quiet place, that office, and noise did not easily penetrate. The fawn-coloured carpet played its own part, for it muffled the heaviest footsteps. The gentleman seated at the large, handsome desk complemented his surroundings. He was silver-haired, silver-moustached, and impeccably attired in a suit of dark grey.

He extracted a portfolio from a drawer in his desk and regarded it for a moment as if it was something he rarely came across in his measured and stately progress through life.
Then he opened it up and let it lie. He pressed a bell. A secretary entered.

‘Advise Mr Gibson I’ll see him now, would you, Herriott?’

‘Very good, sir.’

Mr Gibson came in a few moments later.

‘Ah, there you are, Mr Gibson.’

‘Good morning, Sir Douglas.’

Sir Douglas nodded, and Mr Gibson sat down. Sir Douglas leaned back in his chair, giving the impression of a man in a relaxed and agreeable mood.

‘Delighted to see you again,’ he said. He lightly tapped the open portfolio. ‘Are you now able to add to your report?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Mr Gibson, who had presented his report to Sir Douglas a little over two weeks ago. ‘I spent only a short time in Copenhagen, for it became all too obvious that Grand Duchess Olga was not going to see me. I did, as you know, precede my visit with a letter I wrote to her after my return from Germany, but it failed to open any doors. I advised her secretary I was willing to remain in Copenhagen for a week, in the hope that the Grand Duchess would be able to receive me at some time or
other, but there was no response to this. I left for Switzerland after three days. I spent a week in Lausanne, and drew a blank there too. I tried repeatedly to secure an interview with Pierre Gilliard, without any success at all. He simply refused to see me, despite my several calls. I arrived back late last night, and here I am, with nothing to offer you. Except a feeling that people who should have nothing to hide are doing themselves an injustice by remaining out of sight.’

‘A pity, a great pity,’ said Sir Douglas, a quiet-spoken gentleman. ‘But for all that, your report constitutes an excellent piece of work.’

‘Its length did not deter you, Sir Douglas?’

‘Since I found it an absorbing read from beginning to end, I was quite untroubled by its length. In your wealth of detail you have constructed a mine of information. Very absorbing indeed, and very intriguing. Even fascinating. Such a pity that it’s incomplete.’

‘Incomplete?’ Mr Gibson raised an eyebrow.

‘It doesn’t include the comments and opinions of the Tsar’s sister, Grand Duchess Olga, or those of his daughters’ tutor, Pierre Gilliard.’

‘They were to be presented as addenda,’
said Mr Gibson. ‘Unfortunately, as I’ve just explained, I could get no interviews.’

‘Yes, quite so.’

‘Had I carried appropriate credentials,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘instead of presenting myself as a private individual, those interviews might have been conceded.’

Sir Douglas was not too happy with that comment.

‘You understood, I’m sure, that credentials of the kind you had in mind were – ah – unavailable. The point is, Grand Duchess Olga and Pierre Gilliard, because of their day-to-day contact with the Tsar’s family, represent two of the most important figures relevant to the matter. Without their comments and opinions, the report must be considered incomplete. I note you’ve said they were favourably disposed towards the claimant at first, and that they changed their minds later. You are quoting what other people said about them, which is in the nature of hearsay evidence.’

‘You consider Princess Malininsky’s observations to be hearsay?’ Mr Gibson seemed to be in mild disagreement with his principal.

‘There’s a difference, of course, between hearsay and opinions,’ said Sir Douglas.

‘Might I suggest there’s an obvious conclusion to be drawn from the fact that Grand Duchess Olga and Pierre Gilliard refused to talk to me?’

‘Can one draw conclusions from blank pages?’ asked Sir Douglas.

‘A reluctance to talk and answer questions makes their impartiality a little suspect – that’s one conclusion,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Both, in my opinion, have been reduced to silence by the Dowager Empress.’

Sir Douglas leaned back again and put the tips of his fingers together. ‘I noted your assumption that Madame Tolstoy was persuaded to recant,’ he said.

‘I did not record that as an assumption, Sir Douglas.’

‘But since she was another you were unable to talk to, one might suggest you could do no more than assume. But perhaps I’m carping. Let’s say you recorded an opinion.’

‘A conclusion,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘You did, you remember, specifically request me to draw conclusions.’

‘You have a clear and analytical mind. It was felt you were capable of providing very helpful guidelines with your conclusions.’

‘It was impossible to ignore the suspicious nature of several recantations. It was also impossible to ignore the obvious – that Madame Tolstoy was prevented from giving me an interview. She agreed to over the telephone. When I arrived the following morning, as my report makes clear, she was unavailable. She was, undoubtedly, under coercion.’

‘That is definitely an assumption,’ said Sir Douglas gently.

‘Again, a conclusion,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘based on Count Orlov’s attitude and Princess Malininsky’s observations.’