The Last Romanov Read online

  He wonders how Darya acquired this rare ambergris. The harmony of inebriating scents is proof that this ambergris is far superior to any harvested from the irritated stomach or intestinal tracts of dead sperm whales. This ambergris was vomited into the ocean and properly cured for decades. If he applied his expertise to ambergris, born as it is of a pathological condition caused by indigestible marine food—octopus beaks, tough shellfish, squid—he would create an exceptional perfume that would secure his name as the greatest nose in history.

  Darya shuts the Fabergé egg and locks the clasp with a snap.

  “Darya Borisovna, do you have some ambergris to spare?”

  “I wish I had, Rostislav. I’d like to replenish my own necklace, not much left in it. Let me know if you happen to come across any. Will you?”

  Rostislav directs his stare toward the winding road, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. She is hiding the truth from him. The imperceptible catch in her voice, the slight flutter of her eyelids, the nervous tick of her fingers on her purse are proof enough. In fact, she must have stashed some away in a safe place. Among her treasure of jewels, perhaps, which she pawns with him once in a while in exchange for cash to purchase food and other necessities. The jewels, she insists, are placed with him as collateral until she raises money to pay him back. But as far as he is concerned, they are his to keep, since the possibility of her raising cash is nil.

  Darya strokes the rounded opal belly, the splayed hands and bulging ruby eyes of the amulet pinned to her dress. She feels a sudden surge of optimism. There is a good reason why the amulet concealed itself for years to show up only now.

  The Volga rolls past the tropical park of Prymorsky, where the statue of Lenin looks down upon the dark waters below. Darya’s mouth fills with bitter ash at the arrogance of that face. A plaque declares Lenin’s 1920 decree: On the Use of the Crimea for the Medical Treatment of the Working People. “Such nonsense,” she bristles. “The hateful man turned the Crimea into a mass playground, destroying the cultural heart of Russia.”

  “At your left!” Rostislav exclaims. “The Livadia Palace.”

  Her muscles tense at the sight of the Imperial Palace that holds a treasure trove of memories. Once the pride and joy of the Romanovs, it is a museum now. “Why, Rostislav, tell me why they had to turn the palace into a museum. And not even to commemorate them as saints, but to put their life on display as if they were some cheap artifact. Even their dogs were treated better. Tell me, Rostislav Alekseevich Dalevich, do you think the Imperial Family might have predicted their fate? They were saints, after all. Divine.”

  “Yes, they certainly were. Yet I don’t understand. So many turned against them in the end. Yes, there was poverty, of course, but the Tsar was trying to fix things. We are an impatient people, Darya. We expect our demands to be met right away.”

  “No! We didn’t do this. The Bolsheviks did! The Reds! The Liberals! Whatever they called themselves,” Darya shouts, grabbing Rostislav’s arm with one hand, the other pounding on the dashboard.

  Rostislav loses his grip on the steering wheel. The car veers dangerously close to the precipice. Reclaiming control of the car and of his thumping heart, he shouts, “Calm down before you get us both killed!”

  “Calm! How in God’s name? The bloodthirsty fanatics with their ‘Declaration on Liberated Europe’ destroyed everything. Is this a liberated Europe, Rostislav? Look into my eyes and tell me the truth!” Faced with his silence, she digs into her purse and finds two hallucinatory berries hiding under the jewels. She is about to drop them in her mouth but restrains herself. Today, her present is far more important than her past.

  Rostislav pops the dashboard open and retrieves a few balls of chewing gum.

  “When I meet the Tsarevich, I’ll invite you to Massandra for a nice bottle of Madeira. Maybe two. We’ll become drunk, Rostislav, as drunk as Dionysus.”

  “Not when you meet the Tsarevich, Darya. If you meet him. There are too many ifs in the picture. His age, for one. If he survived hemophilia and the ravages of time, he is eighty-seven, not so young. For another, no one said that this contender to the throne is the Tsarevich himself.”

  “The Tsarevich is alive and well, Rostislav. And I don’t like your glum attitude. Focus and drive faster.”

  A dismissive smile on his burnt profile, he steers the car toward a peninsula-like clearing at the bend of the road and brings it to a stop at a viewing point that juts out from the mountainside. His jaws grinding the gum, Rostislav unfolds the map and spreads it out on the steering wheel. He points a finger. “There.”

  Perched on a cliff ahead of them is the Sheremetev Estate. There, awaiting her is the contender to the throne, the same Tsarevich with whom she had formed an emotional bond long before his mother became aware of her pregnancy.

  Chapter Eight

  The Volga sputters across the broad circular driveway of the Sheremetev Estate. Ornate double gates crowned with the Sheremetev crest—two lions, one holding a scepter in its paw and a laurel branch in its mouth, the other brandishing an olive branch—swing shut behind them.

  The European-style masterpiece of architecture created by the Italian Bartolomeo Rastrelli overlooks the warm shores of the Ukraine, one side sloping down toward the sea without so much as a fence to mark its boundaries. The estate is notorious for having changed hands twenty times in the span of two centuries, lost in drinking bouts and card games, mortgaged repeatedly, yet managing to remain in the possession of one or another member of the Sheremetev family.

  This is home, Darya sighs. This is how one should live, without shame and in full view. She is familiar with the Sheremetevs, one of the wealthiest families during her youth. Unlike other distinguished families that rose and fell with the change of Emperors, this dynasty remained in favor to the very end. The Sheremetevs had served the Imperial Court as companions to the Tsarevich, chamberlain to the Tsarina, and diplomats and military commanders to the Tsar. Nicholas II granted the Sheremetevs parcels of fertile land in south Russia and the Ukraine, in addition to vast tracts of forest land, which enabled them to multiply their wealth by erecting paper mills and factories.

  Although a number of family members were murdered during the Bolshevik Revolution and others fled the country, the current owner, the Grand Duchess Sophia, remained in Russia by bribing her way into anonymity and then back to a resurrected lifestyle few imagined in a postrevolutionary world. Rumor has it that the estate sought and finally found the grand duchess when she emerged from anonymity after the revolution to reclaim her property, brandishing her endless charm and a wealth of loose diamonds.

  Guards at the main door descend the broad marble stairs, striding to each side of the Volga to welcome Darya and Rostislav and whisk their suitcases away.

  Darya ignores the offered arm of a servant whose saucer eyes become rounder at the sight of this woman who seems to have stepped out of a sepia photograph of the Romanov era.

  The double doors of polished oak are flung open, and they are led into the grand foyer that once boasted one of the largest collections of European art but, having been pillaged during the revolution, has been restocked with modern masterpieces by Chagall and Kandinsky and a portrait of wide-eyed Byzantine saints with pale locks and miniature arms and faces. Jewel-encrusted Fabergé cigarette boxes and malachite ashtrays are scattered on tables—part of a cache of inherited treasures brought back from exile. It is rumored that the duchess is in possession of thirty-six diamonds, ranging in size from eight to sixteen carats of such unparalleled color, cut, and clarity that it’s impossible to set a price on them.

  A flicker of hope flares in the perfumer’s dark eyes. If he plays his hand right, it would not matter much to the grand duchess to reward him with one of the jewel-encrusted ashtrays strewn around the foyer like pebbles. The bankrupt government lacks the resources to import high-grade essences for his perfumes, let alone expensive fixatives such as ambergris, yet one of these ashtrays might fulfill his amb
itions.

  Darya checks the surroundings with delight and reverence, as if she has set foot into one of the Romanov Palaces again, as if the Tsarina would walk in at any moment and ask Darya how her charge is faring. She combs her hair with her fingers, smooths her skirt, and slides her tongue over perfectly healthy teeth as the steady tap of heels on parquet floors announces the imminent arrival of the grand duchess.

  She emerges from one of the many branching halls, ushering in the scent of Rose Blanche, the Empress Alexandra’s favorite fragrance. A wide-brimmed hat with an ornamental feather casts a shadow across her face. An enamel cigarette holder stands out from between her blood-red lips. She toys with a strand of pearls the likes of which Darya had only seen on the Empress, freshwater pearls shimmering like iridescent peacock fans. A fleck of cigarette ash falls on the perfect gloss of the duchess’s red nail polish, and she blows it off with an expression of annoyance.

  Behind her is a handsome man clad in uniform, leather belt cinching his massive girth, an ashtray balanced on his palm. His gaze shoots this way and that, then lands on Darya and Rostislav as if their mere presence is an affront to his mistress.

  Diamond bangles circling a slender wrist, the grand duchess reaches out a hand to her guests. “I expected you earlier. He is here, you know. The contender to the throne. Quite a day around here, very unusual. His presence has stirred a commotion. Do follow me to the salon.” She traverses the Persian carpet and hardwood floors, past a silk-paneled cloakroom with scented candles flickering on mahogany shelves and through a vestibule leading into a salon.

  She settles in a chair at the head of the salon and gestures for Darya and Rostislav to take the two opposite seats. Having established them in their respective places, an expression of ennui descends on her soft-powdered face.

  Every jarring note of the expensive imitation perfume the duchess wears is an affront to Rostislav’s olfactory senses. He clicks his briefcase open, removes a Baccarat bottle, twists the stopper off, and waves it under his nose. “Your favorite perfume, Madame. Rose Blanche. The exact formula without a single missing or added note.”

  The grand duchess pats the transparent shell of each earlobe with a dab of perfume. The shadow of a smile appears on her scarlet lips.

  “A gift for you too.” Rostislav addresses the handsome man, who hovers over his mistress as if to shield her from some imminent danger. “The Tsar’s favorite eau de cologne of aromatic cedar and eucalyptus leaves.”

  “Thank you,” he booms in a voice even more intimidating than his stature.

  The duchess tips her chin toward the ceiling and blows out a puff of smoke. She grinds the cigarette in an ashtray with remnants of lipstick-smeared butts and addresses Darya, “You are a living legend, Darya Borisovna, and as legends go, some surrounding accounts are true and others pure fabrications. Tell me about your relationship to the Romanovs, especially to my grandmother, Tamara.”

  “God bless her soul. She was far too young and talented to die, and from grief no less.” Darya unlocks her purse to search for remnants of a berry, a sliver of ambergris, anything to temper the assailing memories, but she takes a deep breath and quickly snaps her purse shut. “The Tsarevich was fond of her miniatures, so much so that I am not surprised he would feel safe here with Your Majesty.”

  “No need to address me in this manner,” the grand duchess replies with an intimacy uncommon to her breeding. “Duchess will suffice. And it is premature to conclude that the contender to the throne awaiting your arrival is indeed the Tsarevich.” Her gaze suddenly falls on the amulet pinned to Darya’s dress. “Where have I seen this before? Was it in a photograph? Yes, I believe so.”

  “On the Tsarevich’s lapel,” Darya offers. “I made certain it was always there.”

  “Yes, yes. But how did it come into your possession?”

  Searching the wide-set, sable eyes of the duchess and encountering no threat, a smile breaks over Darya’s face. “It is a long and unbelievable story. It was my gift to the Tsarevich, and it somehow found its way back to me.”

  The grand duchess taps a gold-tipped cigarette on the tabletop. The warden hurries to light her cigarette. “So tell me everything, Darya. Do not leave anything out, not even the executions. Is it true that you were there? And if so, how in our Lord’s name did you survive?”

  “My story does not begin at the end, but at the beginning, when the Romanovs invited me into the court.”

  “Then start from the beginning. I know you’re impatient to see the claimant to the throne, but it’s important for our future monarchy that I separate fact from fiction about you and the Romanovs. There’s so much myth surrounding your life, Darya. You need to tell me the truth.”

  Chapter Nine

  — 1904 —

  The Belovezh Estate is aflame with giant candles and Baccarat candelabras. A vast tent is set up on the clearing in front of the lodges, and the melodic notes of “The Blue Danube” float out and echo around the forest. The Empress has sent man-sized urns of lilacs from the imperial greenhouse in the Alexander Palace. The scent of roasted mutton, partridge, and truffled whitefish caviar rises from makeshift kitchens and ceramic heating stoves, mingling with the perfume of mead and pine and anticipation. It is Darya’s seventeenth birthday.

  Wearing a white shirt, loose tie, and unbuttoned vest, his hair sprinkled with silver, Boris Spiridov trots his stallion about the grounds, giving last-minute orders, making certain the tables are set with starched linen and silver stamped with the family emblem, libations plenty, and the cooks vigilant.

  Boots crunching on the pine needles underfoot, sapphire blue skirt sweeping the ground, Sabrina Josephine advises Darya regarding the nuances of court protocol, the dangers and joys of carrying royal blood, and the art of seduction.

  Her many admirers, gentlemen callers of all ages, young and old aristocrats, noblemen, and grand dukes, come from near and far, bearing all types of lavish gifts and promises of endless devotion. She, like Sabrina, believes in meeting the educated young men who might have potential. She is curious, wants to measure them for herself, gauge their first reaction. She is different, after all. That first moment of an encounter is what matters, whether they gape at her like dumbstruck adolescents or possess the wisdom and self-containment that comes with maturity and a healthy imagination. For now, no one has passed her scrutiny.

  So she would rather wade the brooks, attempt to decipher her dreams, or search for yet another healing miracle sprouting from the ground. Or, most of all, she would like to take the train with Boris to Bialystok, the nearest big town, and bid by his side in auctions as he teaches her how to differentiate between an original painting and an imitation, how to bid without creating a frenzy and raising the value. She would like to visit one art gallery or another, hear his philosophy on different mediums, one work of art or another. Or discuss the miracle of imagination with artists of all persuasions, aesthetically adventurous men riveted to her translucent opal gaze.

  The imperial entourage arrives bearing gifts and compliments and storks to let loose for good luck. Empress Alexandra wishes Darya a happy birthday and many more years of health and happiness.

  Wild hair tamed back with one of her mother’s sheer scarves, Darya is radiant in a silver brocaded dress, high-collared and long-sleeved to please the Empress’s sense of decorum. She had spent hours in her dressing room, an amalgam of feathery hats, gossamer veils, rhinestone-encrusted evening gowns and gloves, lace and satin corsets, and high-heeled shoes resplendent with bright crystals, purchased from antique shops and back-alley stores. A rack is designated for hand-me-downs the Empress sends her, which a seamstress in town shortens and takes in to fit Darya. Clothing and accessories that other people throw away become precious eye-catchers on her.

  The Empress hands Darya an enamel icon studded with diamonds and pearls, a copy of Feodorovskaya, Mother of God, pressing her cheek to Christ’s face.

  Darya curtsies. “Thank you, Your Majesty, I’ll always c
herish it.” The icon is a far more valuable gift than any she has ever received, but she wants nothing more than to turn away from the gloomy features of the Feodorovskaya, the hollow eyes, the grief-struck lips.

  The Empress gestures with two fingers. “Come closer, Darya Borisovna, this is for your ears only. I would not have made this trip in my condition if it were not for wanting to thank you in person, my dear. You were right that day at Yalta. I am with child, after all. And taking your words to heart, I’m hoping this one is a boy.”

  “My heartfelt congratulations,” Darya whispers back. “I cannot wait to meet the little one.”

  “Then you must visit us when the time comes. I will send for you. The girls, too, would love to see you. Now, go, enjoy your day. I shall not keep you any longer.”

  The Tsar is pleased to be here, away from endless court formalities and responsibilities that leave little time for leisure. He claps Boris on the back. “Hard to believe, my friend, that seventeen years have passed since Sunny introduced you to Sabrina Josephine. You did well that day,” the Emperor teases. “You added to your own family while reducing the aurochs population. Are the animals under control?”

  “So much so,” Boris grins back, “they seem to have altogether stopped breeding.”

  “We don’t want that either, not at all. A controlled number is necessary for our hunting pleasure.”

  “Understood, Your Imperial Majesty,” Boris replies with a playful salute and the click of boots. “Shall we join the ladies?”

  The tender notes of a dulcimer float outside from the tent, where Jasmine the Persian Dancer is joining three drummers seated on a carpet-covered dais. She sweeps her arms up, anchors her long hair on top of her head, folds her legs under, and settles on her knees in front of a low, mahogany stool that holds her santour, a Persian hammered dulcimer. Her index fingers hooked into the loops of the santour’s mallets, she sends them skipping on the taut stings, raising notes that travel to faraway places and transport the perfume of Persian roses and visions of turquoise domes, the plight of torn-apart lovers and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. A lot has changed since she was last here, at the Belovezh Forest, seventeen years back, but not her feelings toward the Emperor, who, in her heart, remains the sweet, insecure Tsarevich who once clung to her every word. She drops her mallets on the dulcimer, massages her fingers, shakes her dark mane of curls, and raises herself to her full striking height.