Natasha's Dream (6 page)

‘The French gentleman believed you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Natasha proudly, then blushed
because of Mr Gibson’s solemn look. ‘But he wished to, you see. He had heard rumours, and was a romantic gentleman.’

‘And you didn’t want to disappoint him?’

‘I was very hungry,’ confessed Natasha. ‘Are you interested in the poor lady in the Mommsen Clinic because you are a romantic too?’

‘No. I’ve simply been asked to make my own kind of investigation.’

‘It would be much better not to interest yourself in her, or the people who have met her.’ Natasha finished her coffee, then made a study of the little heap of eggshells. ‘She is quite disliked.’

‘Is she?’ Mr Gibson was curious. ‘By whom?’

‘Oh, by those who say she’s a nuisance, and by those who—’ Natasha paused. ‘By those who don’t wish the Grand Duchess Anastasia to be acknowledged.’

Mr Gibson was even more curious. ‘The Grand Duchess Anastasia?’ he queried.

‘I mean the lady,’ said Natasha, and Mr Gibson noted that while everyone else talked about ‘the woman’, this Russian girl referred to ‘the lady’.

‘Why did you just call her the Grand Duchess Anastasia?’ he asked.

‘I did not.’ Natasha became agitated. ‘I think you did.’

‘How should I know who she is?’

‘Yes, how do you?’

‘But I don’t.’ Natasha appealed to him with a gesture of her hands. ‘I only meant that if she were Anastasia, some people would think her a terrible nuisance.’

Mr Gibson’s eyebrows went up. ‘I’m to believe that if one of the Tsar’s daughters was found to have survived the massacre, she’d actually be regarded as a terrible nuisance?’

‘Oh, I’ve only heard whispers,’ said Natasha.

‘I’d like to hear them myself,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. First, until we can find you a decent room somewhere, you can stay here. Secondly—’

‘Stay here?’ Her heart leapt at the comfort she was being offered. Except what would people think? ‘I am to be your servant, after all? I should be very happy, and it’s expected that a servant should lodge with her employer.’

‘You’re to be my assistant, my colleague, not my servant,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘But your friends, your family – what would they think of my being here?’

‘They’d think it was better than your being in
a corner of some cold, draughty passage. Don’t worry, you’ll be quite safe.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Natasha, reflecting on her appearance, which Mr Gibson must plainly think miserably unattractive, realized that to suggest she considered herself unsafe would be laughable. She felt a strangely desperate wish to be clad in silks and satins, and to look beautiful.

‘Now,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘I’m going to give you some money and send you out to buy yourself clothes and shoes, and whatever else you need to make you feel good and look lovely.’

‘Your Excellency?’ said Natasha faintly.

‘Never mind that ridiculous Excellency stuff,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘I’m quite serious. You’re to fit yourself out from head to toe. You’re – by the way, do you know a Madame Zinaida Tolstoy and where she lives?’

The question, unexpected, and put to her while her astonished mind was trying to take in the unimagined delight of a new wardrobe, caught her off guard.

‘Oh, yes,’ she gasped, ‘everyone knows she’s a lovely person.’ And she gave the address. Mr Gibson noted it down. ‘But you can’t truly be serious about giving me money for clothes.’

‘You shall have the money, and I shall send you out to spend it. If you come back, it will be because you’re willing to help me. If you don’t, then I’ll just write the money off and wish you luck. You may need lots of luck, because of what happened last night. Don’t you think you should tell me why someone should want to throw you into the river?’

Natasha shivered. ‘Nothing, I’ve done nothing, you must believe me,’ she said. ‘Oh, how can I refuse to help you when you’ve been so good to me?’

‘I’m not being good, I’m being practical, and it’s more for my benefit than yours.’

‘If you give me the money,’ said Natasha quietly, ‘you will be very trusting.’

‘I believe in you, young lady,’ said Mr Gibson, and her eyes swam.

He sent her out with such a large amount of money that she almost wept. He enjoined her to buy good clothes, including a warm coat and a couple of hats, and a smart handbag. She left the apartment in the middle of the morning. He went out himself not long after, to look for a telephone and a directory. He found Zinaida Tolstoy’s number, and rang her. She was in, and
she took the call. He spoke to her, exercising the kind of persuasive charm that overcame her hesitancy. Her English was good, and that made it easier for him to explain and cajole. She consented to see him tomorrow morning.

Zinaida Tolstoy had been a friend of the Tsar and his family at Tsarskoe Selo, and knew his daughters as well as anybody. She had befriended the sick woman here in Berlin, had suspected she was indeed Anastasia and been utterly convinced on an occasion when the woman recognized a waltz composed by Madame Tolstoy’s brother. It was a waltz Madame Tolstoy often played in the presence of the Tsar’s daughters. In a weeping and emotional scene, Madame Tolstoy fell on her knees before the woman and kissed her hands.

Madame Tolstoy subsequently withdrew from all contact with the claimant whom she had acknowledged so emotionally as Anastasia.

Mr Gibson returned to his apartment to wait for Natasha’s return. He read the extensive notes he had made about the woman – whom Natasha called a lady – and the apparently inexplicable recantations of people who had originally favoured her cause, people like Madame Tolstoy.

He had told Natasha to take her time. Young ladies, he knew, always took their time when shopping for clothes. He waited all day for Natasha. When darkness fell, she was still not back. He waited another couple of hours, then, resigned, took himself off just after seven o’clock to a Russian-owned restaurant patronized by the more affluent exiles and by Berliners who enjoyed the boisterous Russian atmosphere. Above the sound of the ubiquitous balalaikas, he conducted a limited conversation with his Russian waiter, who spoke some elementary German, and smiled wryly to himself when he began to understand what was being offered to him – an interview with a leading member of the Supreme Monarchist Council. It would cost a little money, of course, for the right door to be opened, and just a little more when the door was open. Mr Gibson said he would think about it.

He left the restaurant eventually, to return to his apartment. On his mind was the fact that Natasha had gone off with his money. He accepted that it might have represented a small fortune to her, and with her background of cruel heartache and misfortune, such an amount had been an irresistible temptation to her to buy a railway ticket and put Berlin behind her.
There would be enough for her to rent a little room in a small German country town, where circumstances might be kinder for her.

Then he began to feel concern for her. She might indeed have decided to put Berlin behind her, for last night’s incident must mean she was in danger here. Why? She had not wanted to say.

On the second floor of the apartment block, Natasha awaited him. She was sitting against the door, parcels and boxes on either side of her. She scrambled to her feet, giving a little gasp of relief.

‘Oh, I thought you had gone, I thought I had had a dream, that I had imagined you,’ she said in a rush. ‘But then there was all the money, and all these things I bought – they are all real—’

‘And then there was the time you took,’ said Mr Gibson gently.

‘But I have been here over an hour,’ she protested.

‘It’s after nine o’clock,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘But one cannot buy a wardrobe in five minutes. It takes—’ Natasha’s thin face suffused with colour. Her eyes flashed. ‘Oh, you did not think I had run off with your money – you could not – oh, but you did!’

‘I confess I did have one or two doubting moments,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Oh, Your Excellency, how could you?’ cried Natasha, emotional Russian tears swamping her eyes.

‘I apologize, profusely,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Disgraceful of me. Well, let’s take these things in, shall we?’ He opened the door, and together they gathered up the multitude of purchases and carried them in, placing them on the sofa.

Natasha, still flushed and upset, said, ‘Never, never, would I have taken your money and run off with it.’

‘I do apologize,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘I am miserably poor,’ said Natasha proudly, ‘but I am not a thief.’

‘Shame on me,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘Oh, you see,’ she said, suddenly excited, ‘it was such bliss to go into shops with money to buy things. I did not care that I looked shabby. When one has money, one feels very superior, don’t you think so? I haven’t bought new clothes for many years, really I haven’t. You cannot imagine what bliss it was. The day flew away from me, Mr Gibson, dear sir. It takes such a long time to decide, to go into every shop, to try
things on. Oh, I was so glad I had such a lovely bath last night, with lots of soap. Of course, what I did first was to make myself presentable underneath.’ Natasha turned a little pink.

‘Entirely sensible,’ said Mr Gibson, noting the hint of colour. ‘You were then able to try clothes on without feeling – ah – er—?’

‘Yes. How understanding you are.’

‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I was so hungry long before I had finished shopping that I spent some of the money at a little restaurant where my awful clothes did not matter. But I will make it up to you, yes. I also spent some on a taxi, because I had all these things to carry, but I will make that up to you too. I will tidy the apartment for you and not ask any wage.’

‘Would you like some coffee or tea?’ he asked, smiling at her animation.

‘I will make coffee, yes?’ she said eagerly. ‘It will be good coffee. Please be seated, Your Excellency, and I will prepare it and bring it at the speed of lightning.’

She vanished. It took her a little longer than the speed of lightning, but when she reappeared, she set the tray down on an octagonal table with an air of self-satisfaction. From the
pot, she filled two cups. The coffee steamed. She watched him taste it, just a hint of anxiety in her eyes.

‘Excellent,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘It is nothing, nothing at all,’ said Natasha, ‘I am very good at many things.’

‘What clothes have you bought?’

That was the question she had been waiting for. She rushed to the sofa and began opening long boxes. So much money for clothes had enriched her whole being, and her day had been an excursion into heaven. She had bought two dresses, a costume, three blouses, two hats, a winter coat, three pairs of shoes, a smart handbag, cosmetics, and an array of silk and satin underwear. Mr Gibson had insisted she was to buy nothing cheap or inferior, and she had gladly refrained from disobeying him. Eager for his approval of her purchases, she displayed them one after the other, and could not hide her pleasure each time he complimented her on her excellent taste. She did not, however, reveal everything she had bought, and Mr Gibson asked her what was in the unopened boxes.

‘Oh, they are just for myself,’ she said.

‘I wasn’t assuming they were for me,’ he said.

‘Goodness gracious, no,’ she said, which he thought very English.

‘I see. Did you buy a nightgown?’

‘Yes. You said to. It is a pretty one, I think. I cannot tell you how grateful I am, I shall remember your kindness to my dying day. So many things, so many clothes.’ Natasha was still in bliss, and because her excursion into heaven had been wonderful, the dark rims around her eyes had lightened, and her starved look was not so haunting. ‘A young boy helped me. He had a little home-made wooden cart to put the things in, and he came round many shops with me, waiting outside each one with such shining honesty that – oh, you don’t mind I gave him a little money?’

‘I’m glad you did.’

‘Oh, and I still have some money left.’

‘Well, hold on to it. Consider all of it earned for the help you’re going to give me. Tomorrow, you’ll be a well-dressed young lady. Together, we’ll call on Madame Tolstoy. I’ve made an appointment to see her in the morning.’

‘Madame Tolstoy?’ Natasha quivered. ‘Is it about what she thinks of that lady?’

‘Yes. I have a note that she knew Anastasia intimately in the old days.’

‘But she has said she wants nothing more to do with her,’ said Natasha.

‘Do you mean nothing more to do with Anastasia?’

‘No. No. I mean with the lady who says she is.’

‘According to my information,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘Madame Tolstoy had much to do with her in the first place, and she’s consented to see me.’

‘You are sure?’ said Natasha.

‘Quite sure.’

‘It’s because you’re English, I expect, and she’s interested in meeting you. Yes, I expect so.’ Natasha seemed to reassure herself with that. ‘Now I must put all these things away, and tidy everything up. Your Excellency, you really should have a servant—’

‘It’s not going to be you,’ said Mr Gibson firmly.

‘But I shan’t ask you to pay me much, truly.’

‘We are friends, Natasha, don’t you understand?’

Russian emotionalism took hold of her again, and her eyes flooded with tears.

It was a dull morning, with the air a little damp, but the rain was holding off and the streets were peaceful. For once, there were no political demonstrations abroad. Demonstrations by political extremists frequently turned the streets noisy and riotous. The extremists posed a major threat to the stabilizing policies of the Weimar Republic.

‘Pardon me.’

A café waiter, polishing pavement tables, looked up. A man was smiling at him, and another man stood at his elbow. The first man was not the most handsome in the city, his face being darkly ascetic and scarred, but his smile was very polite. The second man was pale-eyed and wooden-faced.

‘Mein Herr?’ said the waiter.

‘We’re looking for a lost relative,’ said the
man with the scarred, swarthy countenance, in thickly accented German. ‘No, to be frank, not lost. Run off.’