Ruzsky was silent. “Did you go down to the Astoria?”
“Give me a chance. I’ll go first thing. Come on,” Pavel spoke with feeling, “I need a drink.”
“I can’t afford it.”
“Neither can I, but there is a place nearby. I’ve threatened it with closure. They’re very cooperative.”
Pavel led the way down the darkened stairwell.
Outside, the snow was thick on the ground. The wind had dropped, but the air was still crisp and the night cloudy. Ruzsky’s feet were instantly cold again.
“Tell me what happened at Tsarskoe Selo,” Pavel said.
“You won’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
Ruzsky smiled to himself. It was hard to believe the episode had not been a figment of his imagination-and yet it had been so ordinary.
“I went to see Vyrubova, but the Tsarina arrived.”
“You’re not serious.”
“On my honor.”
Pavel shook his head and Ruzsky did not press it.
“She had horns growing from her head?” Pavel asked.
“Mmm. And she carried a flaming pitchfork.”
“No, really, what happened?”
“I went to see Vyrubova.”
“She received you?”
“Not exactly. I saw the Tsar depart in his car and then I was taken to her house. We walked past the imperial children, or some of them, playing in the snow. And then the Tsarina arrived.”
“Just like that?”
“More or less.”
“On her own?”
“Yes.”
“No staff, no officials, no fanfare?”
“It was very ordinary.”
“No strange priests?”
Ruzsky did not answer.
“And?” Pavel went on.
“Have you ever seen her close up?”
“Of course not.”
“She looks very tired.”
“Don’t tell me she answered questions?”
“The girl’s name was Ella and she worked in the imperial nursery. She was originally from the Crimea. Yalta or Sevastopol.” Ruzsky watched his feet in the snow. “Vyrubova insisted she’d taken pity on the girl and given her an old dress, but if she cared for her enough to do that, she seemed to me strangely indifferent to news of her demise. The Tsarina forgot herself and began to answer some questions, but they were both evasive and… cold. I didn’t know what to do; should I ask the Empress of the Russias questions?” Ruzsky shrugged. “And they didn’t seem to know whether or not to dismiss me out of hand.” Ruzsky thought about the episode for a few paces more. “Vyrubova was obviously lying, or at least not telling much of the truth, but I found it difficult to guess at why.”
“What did they say?”
“The girl was close, or so they said, to the imperial children. She was dismissed for stealing. That’s as far as I got.”
“For stealing?”
“Yes.”
“Stealing what?”
“They said money, but I’m fairly certain it was something else.”
Ruzsky and Pavel waited as a Finnish sled was driven past, its bells jangling, then crossed the street. This side was darker, with no light from the houses and the gas lamps unevenly spaced. Ruzsky’s hand closed instinctively on the butt of the Sauvage revolver in his pocket.
“So we know her name, but nothing more,” Pavel said.
“I’ll telephone the household staff tomorrow and find out who she was and exactly why she was dismissed.”
“What about the man?”
“They said they’d never seen him before.”
“Were they lying about that as well?”
“I don’t know.”
“So what do you think did happen with the girl?”
Ruzsky thought about this for a few moments. “I don’t know.”
Ruzsky and Pavel passed a tall brick building that looked like a warehouse and came to a small door with a white sign above it. Pavel knocked once and it was opened by an enormous man with a round face and a long beard. He nodded at each of them and stepped back to allow them inside. Light, warmth, and music spilled down the stairs.
In the center of the wooden floor of the room above, an old man played a violin with manic energy, two men and two women sweating as they danced before him.
A young gypsy girl led them to a table, returning a moment later with an unmarked bottle and two glasses. She was pretty, Ruzsky noticed, with serious eyes and curly, dark hair that spilled over her shoulders. She smiled at him, then laughed as she leaned forward to touch his arm.
The restaurant was packed. All the tables were full, and a crowd lurked in the shadows behind them. Everyone was drinking from the same unmarked bottles. Prohibition had been introduced at the start of the war, to reduce drunkenness and boost national effectiveness, but had instead robbed the treasury of substantial revenue, reduced the quality of the vodka, and contributed to rampant alcoholism. The fact that expensive wines and champagnes were exempt from the ban didn’t do much for social equanimity either.
Ruzsky had heard about these illegal cafés and speakeasies, where people danced and drank to forget the world around them, but this was the first time he had been into one. They’d not existed before his departure.
“They keep this table for you,” Ruzsky said.
“A man must have somewhere to relax.”
Pavel filled the glasses and they looked at each other over the rim. “‘Sante,’ as you would say,” Pavel said, before they both drank.
Ruzsky shook his head with the force of it. Pavel smiled and refilled. They drank again.
Ruzsky watched the dancers. The women were voluptuous and fully aware of the hungry eyes upon them. Their dancing was sensual and provocative. Ruzsky dragged his eyes away from the floor, took out a cigarette, and leaned forward to light it in the candle’s flame, before pushing the case across to Pavel, who shook his head.
“You’re going to go back to Irina?” Pavel asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She won’t entertain the notion.”
“Does she know that you know about her affair?”
“No.” Ruzsky had confided in Pavel during a moment of weakness before his departure to Tobolsk.
Pavel sighed. “Isn’t that a little perverse?”
Ruzsky didn’t answer. His eyes were on the prettier of the two gypsy girls, who was dancing with her back arched, her chest thrust high and forward, her forehead glistening with sweat.
Ruzsky thought of Maria on the stage in the last performance he had seen before his exile, and of her long, sinewy body and graceful movement.
“Why haven’t you told her?” Pavel asked.
“Who?”
“Irina.”
“About what?”
“That you know about her affairs. That you have known for years.”
“I don’t know.”
“You want to occupy the moral high ground.” Pavel was annoyed. “Even if it costs you your boy.”
“I want to leave Michael out of it.”
“That’s not possible and you know it. It’s killing you, not seeing him, so tell her, tell your father.”
“I don’t want her, I’ve no desire to see my father, and it’s not going to cost me Michael. I’m determined that it won’t.”
“If you say so.”
“How is Tonya?” Ruzsky asked. “And your boy?”
“You won’t want to know that they couldn’t be better.”
“I don’t begrudge anyone happiness, and especially you.” Ruzsky looked at his friend. “I mean that.”
“I just want to be at home. All the time. With them.” Pavel looked as if he would burst with longing. Ruzsky reached forward and patted his bunched fist.
“The little fellow must be what, four?” Ruzsky always avoided calling the boy Sandro, because, although it was flattering, Pavel’s decision to name his son after him had always felt uncomfortable.