“Yes, Father Grigori. And thank you, Father Grigori. Thank you for seeing and hearing me.”
“It is not I who will hear you but the Lord God.”
“Yes, of course, Father Grigori,” replied Olga Petrovna meekly.
I did it not because I meant to spy on him. I did it not because I wanted to witness how he handled these things. I did it only because I was beginning to understand that my father had no idea how evil this world really was. Papa was always so eager to help people, always so eager to give away money or use his connections, that he rarely thought of the consequences. If he couldn’t protect himself, I would. So, ducking into the small shallow closet on one side of Papa’s study, I pulled the door nearly shut behind me. Hidden in cool darkness, I peered out a crack only a finger wide, realizing that for the first time I was about to witness how my father treated those in need.
From my hiding spot, I watched as my father escorted our unexpected guest into his private room and shut the door securely behind him. As always, the first thing Papa did was turn to the icon in the “beautiful” corner, bow slightly, and cross himself with three fingers-forehead, stomach, right shoulder, left. Then, his clothing and hair more a mess than ever, he half stumbled to the chair by his small wooden desk. Dropping himself into the narrow chair, he reached out and took Olga Petrovna by her small hand and pulled her close to him.
“Come closer, my beautiful one,” he said, peering up at the young beauty standing before him. “What is it you need from me on this cold afternoon?”
“I need your help, Father Grigori. Your intervention. My husband was severely wounded and he needs the best medical care. Unfortunately, they plan to move him from the city, and it scares me. I’m afraid his care will suffer, and I won’t be able to visit him more than once or twice a month during his recovery, and without my presence I don’t think he’ll recover so quickly. And, Father Grigori, I…I-”
Radi boga, I thought, what a groveler. How I hated the way she tiptoed, just like everyone else, around our ugly-sounding last name. People, particularly here in the city, went oddly out of their way to avoid using it, particularly in my father’s presence, for fear of offending the powerful peasant with access to the throne. Didn’t they know that the name Rasputin was not derived from the word rasputnik-a debauched, dissolute, immoral person-but from rasputiye-an intersection of roads? No matter what these learned city people said about the way Russian names were derived, that was where my family name came from. And not only ours, but half the village’s, for little Pokrovskoye was located at the intersection of two major roads, one leading to Tyumen, the other off into the never-ending Siberian wilds.
As the woman rambled through her story, Papa barely paid her any attention. Instead he ran his hand through his hair, tugged at his thatched beard, and started scratching, first his chest and then his lanky thigh. I was wondering if he was even paying any attention to her when he cut her off, waving his hand brusquely through the air.
“Take off your clothes!” he commanded.
“What?”
“Off with them!”
“But…but I have money. I have…”
Papa mumbled something incomprehensible, and then shouted out, “God will not hear your prayers until you humble yourself! Do you hear me? You must humble yourself before the eyes of God! Do as I say, child: Take off your clothes!”
I nearly leaped out of the closet right then and there, but my shame captured me, paralyzing me right where I huddled. No. Please, not this way. Clenching my fist to my mouth lest I cry aloud, I bit my knuckles. Papa was all strictness and propriety with us, his children. He knew where we were and what we were doing every hour of the day. So what was going on here? What in the name of the devil was he doing? This couldn’t be the way he treated all his visitors behind the closed door of his study, could it? Dear God, as my imagined truth collided with the real one now unfolding before me, it was more than I could bear. Peering from the darkness into the light, I stood as still as a rock frozen to the ground.
“Yes, Father Grigori, as you wish.” She pulled her hand free from my father and started unbuttoning the back of her dress. “You see…you see, all I need is a slip of paper, some kind of word from you. People say that you give out such things, a little note with your signature. I would be happy to pay generously for it, one of those pieces of paper.”
“Ach, money! People are always throwing money at me, but what good does it do? Nothing, I tell you! Money is worth nothing!”
“Yes, but”-as she began to strip, the pretty woman struggled to fight back tears-“I’ll do anything…anything for my husband, if only you’ll intervene. What…what is it you’d like from me?”
“Ach, what do I need but love? That’s all. I can have anything, I tell you, anything at all! And yet what do any of us have need of but sweet love?”
And so she went on. Her hands trembling, her voice shaking, young Olga Petrovna began to shed her clothes, piece by piece. She did not stop talking, not for a moment, nor did she stop undressing. Staring blankly at a wall, she unbuttoned the top of her dress, and the bottom, and dropped it to the floor. When she stood in nothing but her plain cotton camisole and tattered petticoat, she stopped. As if she were about to be devoured by a lion, she stood there trembling.
“Why do you hesitate, child? Take it off, all of it!” demanded my father. “Do you think God does not see your doubt? Of course He does! And do you know what doubt signifies to the Lord Almighty? A lack of faith! A lack of belief! That’s what He sees in doubt! Let me warn you, divine acts cannot take place in the presence of doubt!”
As if she were somewhere else, she continued staring at the wall, prattling on and on, her voice quite flat as she mumbled. “My husband is a very fine man. He has beautiful brown eyes, he’s very strong, and he loves his country and his tsar very much. Yes, and he’s anxious to get well so he can return to the army and be of further help…”
Continuing, she pulled off her camisole and then dropped her poor petticoat at the feet of the all-powerful Rasputin. Within moments the last of her garments fell from her body, and she stood there, pale and trembling, totally naked except for long tattered stockings that came up over her knees. Spying her perfect, slightly upturned breasts and full, shapely hips, I realized that whereas her tears failed her, mine did not. My face was awash.
“Oh, what a pretty one you are,” mumbled Papa, as he reached up with one of his big gnarled hands and plucked at one breast, then the other. “I think I like you, my little Olga Petrovna. Kiss me!”
Papa hadn’t moved from his little chair, and as she bent over, he reached up and cupped both her breasts that swung, like pendulums, forward. First he cupped those breasts in both his hands, coddling them like a naughty boy, then giving them a firm squeeze. Next he pawed at her stomach, massaging that buttery skin as if it were a fine piece of meat. And finally he splayed the calloused fingers of his right hand and reached at the patch between her legs, poking there once, twice. Our guest flinched and whimpered, but not with joy, only painful sublimations.
“Just a note, that’s all I need,” Olga Petrovna begged, pulling back slightly from my father. “Something from you saying they must keep my husband here in Petrograd until he’s well. That’s all I…all I need, really. And that’s all I’m asking for, a short note.”
“I have a whole stack of such notes right here on my desk. Make it so!-that’s what they say! Now stop your talking. Just kiss me, little one, and I will give you this note! Yes, I love you, I do!”
She bent over again, her small lips pressing through my father’s greasy hair and planting a hesitant, horrible kiss on the top of his forehead, right above that little bump that was reminiscent of a budding horn.