Sashenka

Zeitlin closed his eyes and kissed Andronnikov on the rouged lips. Anything for Sashenka, he thought. “Lovely party, my Prince.”

“Too hot, too hot,” said the Prince gravely—adding “too hot for clothes, eh?” to the youth next to him, who chortled. The red silk walls were crammed with signed photographs of ministers and generals and grand dukes: was there anyone who did not owe Andronnikov something? Entrepreneur of influence, gutter journalist, friend of the powerful and poisonous gossip, Andronnikov helped set the prices in the bourse of influence, and had just brought down the War Minister.

“My Prince, it’s about my daughter…,” Zeitlin began—but a more aggressive petitioner, a skinny ginger-haired woman with freckles and an ostrich feather rising out of a peacock brooch on a silk turban, interrupted him. Her son needed a job at the Justice Ministry but was already on a train out to the Galician front. Protopopov, the Interior Minister, could see the price for this favor dangling before him and rose, taking the lady’s hand. Zeitlin saw his chance and moved into the vacated seat next to Andronnikov, who inclined his head and put his hand on his famous white briefcase, a mannerism that meant: let us deal.

“Dear Prince, my daughter Sashenka…”

Andronnikov waved a spongy jeweled hand. “I know…your daughter at Smolny…arrested this afternoon—and guilty by all accounts. Well, I don’t know. What do you suggest?”

“She’s at the Kresty Temporary House of Detention right now: can we get her out tonight?”

“Easy now, dearie! It’s a bit late for tonight, sweetheart. But we wouldn’t want her to get three years in Yeniseisk on the Arctic Circle, would we?”

Zeitlin had palpitations at the thought: his darling Sashenka would never survive that! Andronnikov sank into an open-mouthed kiss with the youth next to him. When he came up for air, his lips still wet, Zeitlin pointed at the ceiling.

“My Prince, I’d like to buy your…chandelier,” he suggested. “I’ve always admired it…”

“It’s very close to my heart, Baron. A present from the Empress herself.”

“Really? Well, let me make you an offer for it. Shall we say at least…”

12

Ariadna’s companion for her nocturnal voyage from Baroness Rozen’s salon and on to dinner was Countess Missy Loris, a cheerful blonde born in America but married to a Russian. Missy had begged Ariadna to introduce her to Rasputin, who, it was said, was virtually ruling Russia.

Holding Missy’s hand, Ariadna dismounted from the Russo-Balt limousine and passed through the shadowy archway of 64 Gorokhovaya Street, across an asphalt courtyard and up the steps of a red three-story building. The door opened as if by magic. A doorman—unmistakably ex-military, surely an agent of the Okhrana—bowed. “Second floor.”

The women walked up the stairs toward an open doorway lined in scarlet silk. A red-faced man in blue serge trousers and suspenders, clearly a policeman, pointed them inside brusquely. “Ladies, this way!”

A squat peasant woman in a floral dress took their coats and showed them into a room where a tall silver samovar bubbled and steamed. Beside it, and toying with handfuls of silks, chinchilla and sable furs, diamonds and egret feathers, sat the Elder Grigory, known as Rasputin, in a lilac silk shirt tucked into a crimson sash, striped trousers, and kid leather boots. His face was weathered, moley and wrinkled, his nose pockmarked, his hair center-parted into greasy bangs that formed arches on his forehead, and his beard was reddish brown. Yellow eyes gazed up at Ariadna without blinking, the glazed pupils flickering from side to side as if they saw nothing.

“Ah, my Little Bee,” he said. “Here!” He offered his hand to the women. Ariadna tipsily fell on one knee and kissed the hand, which moved on to Missy. “I know what you’ve come about. Go into my reception room. My little doves are all here, dear Bee. And you’re new.” He squeezed Missy’s waist, which tickled her, and she squealed. “Show her round, Little Bee.”

“Little Bee,” whispered Ariadna to Missy, “is his special name for me. We all have nicknames.”

“Don’t forget to mention Sashenka.”

“Sashenka, Sashenka. There, I’m remembering.”

The pair entered the main room, where ten or so guests, mostly women, sat round a table covered in their offerings—a heap of black Beluga caviar, half a sturgeon in aspic, piles of peppermint gingersnaps, boiled eggs, a coffee cake and a bottle of Cahors.

Rasputin was right behind them. He put his arm around Ariadna’s waist and swung her round, steering her to a seat at the table. He greeted them separately. “Wild Dove, meet Little Bee, Pretty Dandy, the Calm One…”