The Tsarina's Legacy (22 page)

“The way she lives. It is not like she has ever had real job. This is why she is wanting you to be advertisement for companies. But Irina does not represent us all.”

The music began again, the strumming
balalaika
.

“I talk to Anya. You meet with Reb tomorrow morning, do you not? Eleven a.m.?” Dmitry reached in his front shirt pocket. She caught a glimpse of his little ruby, the Potemkin family talisman. “You know his reputation. Reb is great talent. This is privilege.”

“I guess. But I'm nervous, Dmitry. Growing up in Bakersfield didn't exactly prepare me for this role. Being an academic certainly didn't, although I guess both professors and monarchs are guaranteed a job for life.”

“You have people to help.”

“I have a Potemkin at my side,” Veronica said, smiling. “Only please don't erect any fake villages with cardboard peasants for my benefit. I'm as nearsighted as Catherine the Great, but I put my contact lenses in every day. You'll have a hard time fooling me.”

“Now, you are historian, are you not?” Dmitry's baritone added silk to his voice. Then again it may have been the vodka playing tricks on her. “Surely you know the prince had enemies at court who spread rumors about so-called Potemkin villages.”

“Do you have enemies?”

“As I say before, support for Reb will make enemies, I think.” The music grew louder and he raised his voice. “What about your friend Mikhail? How do you see his role? Once you are tsarina.”

“I think he will make a good adviser.”

“That's all there is? When I see him look at you, I think there is more.”

“We were together.”

Dmitry gave a short laugh. “You mean you were lovers?”

“Well, yes. What's so funny?”

“Americans are reluctant to say things as they are. Say what you mean.”

“Fine. We were lovers.”

“And now?”

“I'm not sure.” Veronica took another shot of vodka and felt the slow burn in her throat. She tapped the glass back down on the counter. “Maybe I want a relationship like that, like what I had with Michael, to stay in my head, where it can be perfect. If it's real, something can go wrong. This way, I don't get hurt again.”

Dmitry looked at the vodka and tilted his head curiously. The portrait of Prince Potemkin flashed in her mind. Dmitry leaned forward, cross on his chain dangling. His head hovered over her shoulder and his smooth baritone whispered in her ear. “Nika, give him another chance.”

“Tsarina!” she heard. “Nika!”

Something bright flashed in her eyes. For a moment, she was blinded by blinking gray spots. When she could see again, she made out the startled look on Dmitry's face, and then the figure of a man who had been sitting next to her scurrying off the bar stool, clutching a camera, and hurrying out of the bar and out to the cold street.

Eleven

POTEMKIN'S PALACE
MARCH 1791

Mornings were difficult under the best of circumstances, when his mind played its queer tricks. Perhaps the soul desired to remain forever wrapped in pleasant dreams.

Grisha shielded his eye from the muted light streaming in through the high windows of the master bedroom. All of his muscles were spent. He had hoped to rest his hand on the softness of a feminine hip, or perhaps in a nest of sweet-smelling hair. He lifted himself, wincing at the pain in his shoulders. The silken sheets and pillowcases were still damp. The sable was gone, the fire in the hearth extinguished. He pulled the blankets tighter.

Praskovia had snuck out in the middle of the night. Some women were like men in that respect, good for a quick cuddle but then they disappeared, afraid of opening their carefully guarded hearts. But Praskovia had stayed through the night always; he often awoke to pry her lovely arms from his neck for fear of suffocation. Endless tears spilled as she spoke of the differences between Grisha and her husband, how he made her feel so much better about herself.

He wasn't interested in someone who loved him for how he made her feel. He wanted someone who loved him for his soul.

Grisha grabbed a lavender sachet from the basket stored near his bed and draped the linen over his eye. His thoughts raced so quickly they pained him. With Praskovia gone so soon, in a manner so unlike her, she must have had more in mind last night than simple sensual release. Grisha ran his hands through his hair, perspiration beading on his forehead. Perhaps pleasure remained part of the equation, but Praskovia had a keen and quietly ambitious mind. She had wanted something.

When he first returned to St. Petersburg, he had hoped to once again warm Catherine's bed. Now that seemed a faraway dream. He was old, broken, and Catherine was done with him in that way. She saw him only as an aging friend in need of small physical comforts. For all he knew, Catherine had sent Praskovia to him.

Grisha could not summon the name of one person who still loved him for who he was and not what he could do for them. How agreeable it must feel, to be loved for oneself and not for what one might offer to others, to have a family of one's own. But it seemed it was a happiness not meant for him.

He tugged on the top layer of bedding, a quilt Catherine had embroidered for him, with a makeshift design of curving arabesques in honor of his victories in the south. She had found the pattern during her tour of New Russia, in one of the old Islamic cities where they sat still to listen to the long musical call to prayer.

An image of Catherine astride her stallion flashed. Her shining eyes met his before she tied the gold tassel to the hilt of her sword. He had remembered that day when he read her letters insisting he take Ochakov.
Delay is death.

After the siege, after his men had run the place into the ground, the leader still refused to surrender. He should have surrendered beforehand, should have known what was to come and set his pride to the side. That part was between the man and Allah. Grisha had delayed as long as possible, despite all good military sense. He could not lose his men to starvation and disease in the unrelenting winter. The death and destruction were the fault of the Ottoman leaders. Grisha had convinced himself of this truth and told the captured vizier as much.

Not a trace of guilt marred the vizier's expression as he bowed before him and praised his superior leadership. Gray wisps of hair encircled a round patch of baldness at the center of his head. This was no great leader before him but a broken old man. In an instant, he saw how easily their places might have been switched. Grisha may not have surrendered either. He wouldn't have wanted to look weak in Catherine's eyes. He'd ordered a pair of his officers to search for the man's jeweled turban among the rubble of his palace. He wanted to allow the man that small measure of dignity at least.

“And my lion,” the pasha said softly. “Bring him for me,
giaour
.”

Grisha made him repeat it, unsure he had heard correctly. He seemed to rise above himself for a moment and no longer saw the vizier at Ochakov, but Ghazi Hassan-Pasha himself. His mind was playing tricks on him again and the waking dream continued undeterred.

He saw the lion, lean and mangy with age, but still fierce as his master. The animal's golden eyes locked on Grisha's one good eye. One of the soldiers lifted his rifle.

“Halt!” Grisha had shouted. And the man turned, confused. Grisha strode over to him and lowered the rifle himself. “Have a damn heart,” he'd muttered.

Grisha approached the lion. The beast sat back on its haunches, like one of the wolfhounds back at his own camp. A gold chain attached to its collar served as a leash. He thought the beast might pounce and avenge his master's humiliation by tearing him to pieces. Grisha hesitated and then tentatively grabbed the rope knotted at the end of the chain. The animal let out a sharp growl from the back of its throat. Grisha snatched his hand back. He tried again, more gingerly this time, and then they walked back to the pasha together. The lion tried to avoid stepping on bodies, but they were too thick and the bones crunched under paw and foot.

Grisha fingered the embroidered arabesques. His stomach turned violently and he feared he would be sick.

The point of war was to conquer in the name of their enlightened empress. He tried to focus on the cities he had constructed, the plans for the botanical gardens and concert halls and universities. Instead, he visualized the minarets of a mosque, crescent moons alongside the crosses of Moscow churches. Perhaps that would begin to make things right between himself and God. And Allah. And the pasha. Perhaps then the man would know some peace. Would cease visiting this world and be content in the next.

Grisha felt the sachet move and then damp roughness and the bracing impact of cold water on his hot skin as Anton pressed a cloth to his forehead. Anton had forgotten never to approach him from that side, where his vision was compromised and he could not see when someone was coming at him.

“What did you hear?”

Anton's boyish face entered his field of vision. Lines of concern marred his youthful expression and his eyes seemed watchful. Grisha saw fear in them as well. Anton had never observed the worst of either the malaria or the melancholy.

“That is not my concern, Your Highness,” Anton said. “I sleep deeply.”

Grisha laughed gently and let his hands rest on his stomach, as though he were a sarcophagus. “I meant after Praskovia left. I take it you did not watch us make love?”

Anton's gaze focused intently on the taffeta curtains and crystal candelabra, anywhere but the bed. Grisha thought that he needed to have his room redecorated completely, to reflect a simpler life of contemplation. Perhaps an icon of St. George slaying his dragon and a cross or two above the headboard.

“I only meant my dreams are often unpleasant,” Grisha told him.

“You're delirious,” Anton said weakly.

“I fear I may have shouted something disturbing.”

“The illness is back. The servants say your visions of the past are at their worst then.”

“You heard something that bothered you. I can tell.”

“It sounds as though the last campaign was horrifying.” Anton lowered the towel into the basin near the bed stand once more and then patted it on the sides of Grisha's face until his ears tickled. “I pray I never see war.”

“I pray the same.”

Grisha started to shake. It was a terrifying thing to shake so hard, helpless as an infant. Anton held him down gently until the tremors passed. “We should call a doctor.”

The chill was an illusion, a mere fancy, same as the visions of the pasha and his lion, a reaction to his body's elevated temperature. And yet he craved warmth. Grisha pulled Catherine's quilt tighter over his shoulders. “A doctor can do nothing I can't do for myself.”

“With all respect, I don't believe this is so, Your Highness.”

Grisha tried to remain stern, but he was proud of the boy for daring to contradict him. “Doctors do more harm than good with their potions and talk. A doctor ruined my eye.”

“I thought the Orlov brothers caused the injury.”

“When Grigory Orlov realized I had won the empress's heart, he threw a punch or two in my direction, but those were mere scratches.” Grisha tapped underneath his dead eye. “A quack did this. Afterward, I vowed always to be master of my own fate.”

Melancholy began its descent. To fend off the darkness, he indulged in an image of Zubov manacled and marched off in chains. He couldn't think of anyone who would weep if the empress turned on her new favorite. Catherine might spend a night or two crying over the boy, but plenty of handsome men came to her court.

“Only last night you mentioned your ball. A masquerade. You seemed so happy. I hate to see you stuck abed now.”

He remembered. He had spoken to the empress of a ball in her honor. He repositioned the sachet on his forehead. “Perhaps some music might help.” The pace of his voice quickened. “I brought in new sheets of music for the orchestra. Perhaps we can hire a few of them to play here. I might like a tune or two, before I face the day. Summon the musicians to the hall.”

Anton scuttled off and returned within a quarter of an hour. Grisha's orchestra had assembled in the hall. Their sheet music rustled and then he heard the notes he had found so charming at Catherine's supper, the overture to
Così
fan tutti
.

The notes soared, punctuated with grand flourishes so lovely and visceral they took shape around him. Grisha lost himself in the music. His thoughts floated alongside the notes, bright strokes of energy. He envisioned streams and fountains meant to call to mind Catherine's cities in the south, a life-size statue of her, wall hangings of great female leaders of the past, perhaps a giant elephant.

Through the exquisite musical notes, a bell tolled to announce a visitor. Grisha could not wait for a servant to announce the guest. He grabbed a thrashed silk dressing gown and a long pink scarf from the floor, shooing Anton with his other hand. “See who it is. I have much to do.”

Anton stepped back. “You need to rest.”

“Go see, boy! Time is of the essence.”

He watched as though through a gauzy curtain as Anton left the room. Grisha's heart raced in time to the music. Catherine had come. She wanted to see how he fared through the illness. She wanted to speak to him of the ball. Perhaps she had ideas of her own she wished him to incorporate. Her mind was not as completely occupied with Zubov as he thought. A renewed sense of purpose invigorated him, as though he might conquer the world once more.

Anton returned a few minutes later, muttering to himself like an old man. He kneeled at the side of the bed, voice low. “Platon Alexandrovich is here. Should I send him away?”

Grisha's joy collapsed in on him like a flimsy tent. Catherine had not come after all. And his palace was too far afield for Zubov to have stopped by for a casual visit. “I can see him. It's not the first time I've received in a dressing gown.” Grisha used his elbows to heave his body upright. “Let him in…”