The Tsarina's Legacy (29 page)

In truth? Veronica now realized she had no idea. This was the historian's curse. She wanted to be transported to an age where beauty and manners and honor were highly prized. It sounded appealing and sexy. The late eighteenth century had been the age of enlightenment. And yet how did the eighteenth century look from modern eyes? Sexist, despite empresses like Catherine of Russia and Maria Theresa in Austria. Racist. The conquered turban beneath Potemkin's foot spoke to that well enough. Certainly homophobic.

On the other hand, people who lived in the present liked to believe that if they lived in the past they would have done things differently than their ancestors. Catherine and her prince were conquerors and expansionists, but they were also intellectually curious, cosmopolitan, open to debate, and tolerant of other religions, remarkably so.

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she believed Catherine and Potemkin would hate what was happening in this new Russia.

Veronica turned to Dmitry. He had taken Reb's hand. Reb scowled but otherwise looked as though he could have been purring. If she had been able to catch Prince Potemkin staring at Catherine, she would have seen the same look in his eyes. Dmitry gazed wistfully at Reb and Veronica knew he wanted to kiss him. But he didn't dare. Not in public.

Guilt barbed Veronica's thoughts as she realized she had violated an intimate moment between them. She remembered Caravaggio's brokenhearted lute player, his lips gently parted and his gaze so tender.

“I'll do whatever I can to help you,” she told them quietly. “I promise.”

*   *   *

At least it was a small event. Veronica was glad for that much. Irina had only asked ten reporters from various Russian news agencies and popular blogs to attend and now they crowded into the foyer of the Hermitage Theater, where Veronica's disturbing conversation with Borya and Zenaida had taken place. The reporters were seated in folding chairs, tacky and anachronistically modern in the rococo fairy tale. A podium was centered in front of one of the windows looking out to the canal and the gray morning.

Sasha hung a banner with the Russian red, white, and blue flag and the Romanov double-headed eagle in front of the podium. In Cyrillic, it declared: “Welcome, Tsarina Nika.” Sasha took a step back and then glanced at Veronica, who was waiting in a corner wearing the suit Irina had chosen for her. “I'm so stoked! I can't wait to hear what you have to say.”

He gave her a thumbs-up and a big smile.

Veronica remembered what he had told her at the party, that she could tweet about Reb. She tried to return the optimistic gesture but even her thumb felt nervous.

Irina stood nearby, trying to smile but looking more like a hyena baring her teeth. Her shoulders kept rising and falling dramatically and her perfume made Veronica's head hurt. She had barely spoken two words since Veronica had bailed on the photo shoot.

“Don't blow this,” Irina said in a low voice. “Don't try to cross me again. Remember why you are here. You don't have anything waiting for you back in California. Get this right.”

Veronica drew in a deep breath, remembering to count to three in English, Spanish, and Russian to calm herself. One of the windows had been left slightly ajar and she heard a bird trill outside. Veronica wondered again what Grigory Potemkin would have made of all of this: the spectacle of a woman from a foreign land staking a claim in Russia. He'd seen it before, of course. A German girl who changed her name to Catherine and ruled an empire, becoming a woman he had loved for so many years. She thought Grigory Potemkin must have been watching her from somewhere, one of the ghosts of the Winter Palace, of St. Petersburg, of all the lost Romanovs and their courts.

Sasha pressed something on his phone and the first grandly thundering notes of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 filled the room. This was one of Veronica's favorite pieces of classical music, one she had known as a child when she first read
Nicholas and Alexandra
and started to dream of palaces dusted with snow.

At the majestic sound of the music, the reporters who had been invited to meet her all swung their heads to look. Veronica followed Irina to the podium as calmly as she could manage, trying not to scramble in her purse for her notes. The reporters snapped pictures as she nodded, trying to look pleasant and approachable and yet fully in charge of the situation.

Irina was slated to speak first and introduce Veronica. As they waited for the murmuring to die down, Veronica scanned the room. She spotted Anya in the back row and then, to her great pleasure, Elena's fiery hair. Elena stood against the back wall and wiggled her fingers at Veronica, who smiled in return. Other than that, everyone's faces seemed fuzzy.

She looked around the room one more time but didn't see Michael. Her heart sank.

Veronica adjusted her purse at her side, feeling stiff and stuffy in the lilac skirt and blazer. Her phone buzzed and she reached inside to peek, hoping it was Michael. It was a voice message from her
abuela
but she didn't have time to listen. She put the phone back.

Dmitry cleared his throat and the reporters' murmuring died down. Sasha pressed his phone again and Tchaikovsky's epic concerto came to an abrupt halt.

“Thank you for joining us,” Irina said, trim and self-assured in an ivory-colored pantsuit. “This is truly a momentous occasion, a day for celebration. As most of you know, the Monarchist Society has been engaged in the most important project in our history. We searched a hundred years for an heir to the Romanov family and have been disappointed time and time again. But now…” She paused for dramatic effect. “Our prayers have been answered.”

Veronica shifted her weight, thinking of Reb's painting. She saw Dmitry reach for something near his collar and caught a quick glimpse of his cross.

She touched her own cross, at the base of her throat, a gift from the Dowager Empress Marie to Grand Duchess Charlotte.

“The woman before you now is the true heir and representative of the House of Romanov,” Irina continued, her affected British accent growing more pronounced even though she spoke in elegant Russian. “The granddaughter of a grand duchess, a secret fifth daughter of the tsar, removed from Russia by the saintly Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna before the Bolsheviks came to power.”

Veronica rolled her neck. Marie had removed her granddaughter from Russia before the Revolution. But Irina made it sound like a heroic act, as though somehow Marie had foreseen a revolution fifteen years later and had known that if the girl remained in the country, she would be murdered along with the rest of her family. In truth, Marie had merely been trying to protect her son's throne from the political fallout of yet again failing to produce an heir.

“This true grand duchess, named Charlotte, took the married name Marchand. The fifth daughter of the tsar, unrevealed for nearly a century. We are proud to introduce her granddaughter and Nicholas and Alexandra's great-granddaughter, the woman who is the true claimant to the Russian throne, Dr. Veronica Herrera. Our honorary tsarina. Nika.”

Veronica hadn't expected excited applause. Or had she? An obligatory smattering of claps acknowledged it was her turn to speak.

She traded places with Irina and scanned the notes before her on the podium. For such a simple piece of furniture, the podium was intimidating. “Thank you,” she said in Russian. “Thank you all for coming.” Her voice was high and she made a conscious effort to lower her register. “I am not pursuing an official title, of course, but I am honored to accept this symbolic position with the Society.”

Someone cleared their throat. Anya crossed her legs.

“I have always believed a ceremonial monarch can effect positive change in the modern world.” Veronica struggled to convey complex ideas in Russian. “A monarch can act as a force for good in a country and a cultural diplomat to other nations. I am honored to serve.” She straightened her back, tried to seem regal. Had she really just said all of that? At her first press conference? She scanned the crowd. Some of the reporters were looking at her with a fixed and almost hostile lack of interest. Others typed furiously on their electronic tablets.

“If it's what the people want, that is,” she added quickly. “I hope it's something people might be open to considering. I understand people probably have mixed feelings. It's complicated.”

She looked again at the paper, imagining Dmitry and Irina huddling over the speech, diagramming every last word. And yet those words felt so artificial right now, so canned. More branding of Tsarina Nika. Veronica steadied her trembling hands. She crumpled the paper, folded her palms on top of one another, and looked directly at the reporters.

“I think having another voice in Russian politics is a good thing. These are troubled times. I know, times are always troubled. And I can't say that I am in the mood to celebrate, given what is happening in this country. The suppression of free expression.”

Veronica could just kill the time with platitudes: national unity, pride, good works, and blah, blah, blah. The reporters would jot down a few notes. It would be good enough. Russia was scary. The leaders of this country had proven they would do whatever they needed to do to shut down dissent. They didn't care who got hurt. They didn't care if they offended other countries. They still had all of the old Soviet weaponry at their disposal. Why should they care?

And she was about to piss them off.

But she had promised Reb and Dmitry. She had promised herself. She would never be able to live with herself if she backed down. Now was the time to fight.

“I wish to address the arrest and conviction of Reb Volkov. I was immensely sorry to hear of it.”

“So what of the picture with Vasily Turgekov?” a reporter called out. “Vasily says Reb is getting exactly what he deserves.”

That stopped Veronica, but only for a second.

“I am sorry to have inadvertently posed for a picture with a man, a celebrity, who has expressed social views I find repugnant. Vasily is a fine actor but he is a homophobe.”

“You didn't recognize him when you took the picture?” Anya clarified.

“I did not,” Veronica said, voice still clear and even authoritative. “That was a mistake. I want to focus on Reb's situation now. I know some people think because I'm an American I should stay out of Russian affairs. But I understand many Russians feel Reb's punishment was inappropriate. I intend to start a petition to reverse his sentence and ask the Duma to reconsider the so-called gay propaganda legislation. It is discriminatory. It is hateful. It must stop.”

A pin could have dropped. So when the door handle turned with a loud squeak, everyone heard. Michael came in as quietly and unobtrusively as he could, but he was so tall he couldn't help but draw attention. He caught Veronica's eye and once again she thought of the sad-eyed lute player from the picture. She and Michael kept hurting one another. They were breaking each other's hearts. What was the point? She wanted him at her side. She didn't want to turn him away any longer.

Veronica removed her blazer. Underneath she wore a T-shirt with a Siberian wolf on it. The same image that Reb used on his website. “I stand with Reb Volkov. But I also stand with the communities in this country who have been marginalized at the hands of the current leadership.” The reporters' faces were a blur, but Veronica caught Dmitry's eye. “As a show of support, I understand that bars in several cities around the world are declining to purchase or serve Russian vodka. I call on the bars to stick to this boycott until Reb's sentence is reversed.”

A flurry of Russian questions from the audience, all at the same time, impossible to distinguish and understand. Anya was beaming. Dmitry stepped up to the podium and blurted: “Wait! Please! One question at a time. Once we can hear you, then we will take the questions in a fair order. We'll get to as many as we can.”

Head spinning, Veronica looked once more to the back of the room. Michael's features were serious, but he nodded and then flashed a smile.

Irina made a dash for the podium, sidestepping Dmitry. “Actually, your questions will need to wait. We will reschedule questions for another time. Thank you.”

The questions died, but one of the reporters in the back, a small man with a bowl-shaped haircut and intense expression, approached Veronica. “Do you have a moment now?”

“She does.” Dmitry took one of Veronica's arms gently and quickly steered her to the door, away from Irina.

“What are you planning to do next? Once the protest is made, are you going to deliver the petition of signatures directly to the Kremlin?” the reporter asked.

Veronica realized she hadn't thought this out yet. “This is under consideration.”

“I have sources that say the government is considering reversing the decision. This could be a tipping point.”

Veronica heard the clomping of heels. Irina approached, the sides of her neck flushed red. “The tsarina will move along now,” she said, cutting between Veronica and the reporter.

“I only want to answer his question.”

“It's done,” Irina told the reporter. “Go.” He scuttled off, joining the rest of the hive.

“What is your problem?” Veronica cried.

“You're making a fool of yourself,” Irina hissed, “and worse yet, you're making a mockery of the Society and everything we have stood for all these years.”

“This is my prerogative,” Veronica said, louder than she intended.

Irina tapped her hips. “We discussed Reb Volkov. I made my feelings clear.”

“You made your opinion clear,” Veronica said. “But I don't share your opinion and this is my platform. I get to decide who and what I support.”

“Your actions have implications beyond yourself. Reb Volkov is a homosexual. We need the church to support our cause. To support you. We need parliament.”