‘What can I do for you, my child?’ said Rasputin, his arms outstretched magnanimously, playing to the gallery.
‘Do?’ Militza shot him a look as she sat down. ‘Tea is what you can do.’
‘Dunia! Tea!’ Rasputin shouted, throwing his right hand in the air. ‘And some of our finest cakes.’
‘Cakes?’
Dunia came shuffling out from the small, hot, airless kitchen to the right of the salon. She was clearly of peasant stock, with a broad waist, thick wrists, ruddy cheeks and a large bosom that must have suckled at least eight children, not all them her own.
‘I am not sure what cakes you might mean, sir?’ she said, staring at him with her simple grey eyes.
‘Cakes!’ he repeated, smacking her behind so hard and so swiftly that she stumbled. He rested his hand on her large buttocks as he continued to speak. ‘If we have none in the house, we must send out for some. The Grand Duchess has come to see us, she is our guest and we must entertain her.’
Militza glanced around the room. Instead of being shocked by Rasputin’s bawdy behaviour, his entirely female audience looked a little envious. One, a rather pretty young girl, dressed in pale blue silk, bit her bottom lip as she watched. Militza recognized her. Was she the girl from the Yacht Club? The doctor’s wife, with the kind soul? She wasn’t sure. But her presence was disconcerting. What was she doing her? Whatever all these women were doing here, it was obviously not to discuss the intricacies of the Old Testament scriptures.
‘Go!’ he said, hitting Dunia firmly on the backside once more. ‘Go and find some cakes!’
Despite her fifty-something years, Dunia yelped like a schoolgirl as she left the table, collecting her shawl before she closed the apartment door.
‘While we wait for cakes, my Grand Duchess,’ continued Rasputin, as he leant across the table to grab a white tin painted with simple red, yellow and green flowers, ‘we have some eggs. Who would like one?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ said the pretty girl in the blue dress. ‘I’m desperate.’
‘Desperate?’ asked Rasputin, meeting her eye.
‘I haven’t eaten an egg in weeks,’ she replied, returning the stare. ‘Perhaps months.’
Rasputin took five white eggs from the pot and proceeded to peel one on the table. He pierced the shell with his blackened fingernails, tearing it roughly. As soon as he’d finished, he laid the egg in the palm of his hand and looked around. Each of the ladies stretched out their hands.
‘An egg please, Brother Grigory,’ said one.
‘Yes please, an egg,’ added another.
‘Who’s first?’ he smiled, looking at the circle of hands.
The pretty girl in blue smiled. ‘I think I am, Brother.’
He nodded and he placed the egg in her hand. She ate it straight out of her own palm. She did not use her fingers, or bite into it delicately as manners dictated. Instead, she munched at it, wolfing it down in big chunks, like a horse might eat an apple out of its master’s hand. The whole effect was so revolting that Militza had to look away.
‘Tea?’ he asked Militza, wiping his hand on the tablecloth. He picked up a small pot of strong, cold tea, poured it into a glass and pushed a smeared jar of cherry jam towards her. ‘The hot water is in the samovar,’ he continued, nodding towards the fireplace. He picked another egg. ‘Who’s next?’ he asked, tapping the white shell hard on the table. ‘Grand Duchess?’
‘No thank you,’ she replied, taking her glass and walking towards the samovar. ‘I have just been to see Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Vladimir and she had plenty of cakes.’
All the women stared at her genuinely affronted. How could she refuse an egg peeled and served by Brother Grigory’s own hand?
Militza poured hot water into her tea. All she really wanted to do was leave, take a taxicab home, she didn’t know any of these women and what she saw perturbed her.
‘How is the Grand Duchess Vladimir? Old Miechen?’
She turned around and he leered. He was deliberately teasing her, using the familiar nickname in public.
‘Well,’ said Militza, smiling, refusing to rise to the bait. The other women sat incredibly still, listening. ‘We had a delightful tea.’
‘Did she mention she’d seen me?’ he asked.
‘Seen you?’
‘Yes. At the theatre.’
‘You were at the theatre?’
‘She invited me into her box.’
‘What was the play?’
‘The play?’ he laughed. ‘Who goes to the theatre to watch the play! Wouldn’t you agree, ladies? Who cares about the play!’ A few of them tittered in agreement.
Militza put down her tea, untouched and walked towards the door. ‘I am afraid I am late for another appointment,’ she said. ‘Do forgive me… Ladies.’ She smiled.
‘But you have only just arrived,’ he said, quickly getting out of his chair and following her into the little corridor that led to the hall.
Militza’s hands were unsteady as she fumbled her way in the darkness along a row of pegs, looking her coat.
‘There is no need for you to go,’ he said.
‘I must,’ she said, struggling to put her coat on. She really didn’t want to stay here a moment longer.
‘Here,’ he said, helping her in the narrow confines, holding up the coat so she could put her arms in the sleeves. ‘You came to see me.’ With both hands, he slowly raised the fur-lined hood about her face. His touch was surprisingly delicate. ‘What did you want? Did you need help? You only have to ask me, you know, and I will always help you.’
They were standing so close she could feel his warm breath on her face. His clear blue eyes stared into hers and she watched his pupils dilate in the darkness. He leant over and his lips brushed against hers. With one swift movement he pushed her against the coats, his rough tongue probing into her mouth. It was thick and coated and tasted of gherkins and black bread. His right hand grabbed at her bosom and the left pulled her body towards him. Militza squirmed and shoved – there were people in the other room, she did not want a scene – and pushed him away.
The latch on the front door opened and Dunia appeared in the doorway with a bag, she stood blinking into the darkness not quite sure what she could see.
‘I have your cakes, Brother,’ she said.
‘Cakes!’ declared Rasputin, stepping away. ‘Sadly, the Grand Duchess is leaving us.’
‘Oh?’ said Dunia looking from one to the other.
‘Don’t worry, little woman. She won’t be able to resist us for long.’
24
20 October 1906, St Petersburg
He was right of course. Although, the next time they met, it was he who was not able to resist and she who had planned his total, inexorable seduction.
‘George has finally agreed!’ exclaimed Stana as she burst through the double doors to her sister’s private salon to find her horizontal on her divan, taking tea, while leafing through Nightmare Tales by Helena Blavatsky.
‘What has that boring little man finally agreed to now?’ asked Militza, putting down her book and slowly sitting up as she rearranged her robe. Despite it being after midday, she was still not dressed. ‘Death?’ she yawned.
‘Divorce!’
Stana triumphantly sat down on the divan, her black eyes were glowing, her thin white hands quivering with excitement as she turned and looked at her sister.