She sighed. While Katya finished heating and placing the last few curls around her face, Militza called Brana to her room. Her collection from Badmaev was growing on her dressing table, but what she really needed was a little cocaine elixir. A couple of drops should do the trick before she went out. If it had not been a soirée at the Countess Ignatiev’s, she would surely have sent her excuses. A few minutes later and there was knock at the door and the crone arrived with a small red bottle on a tray. She drank the entire contents of the bottle and felt significantly better: her thoughts were clear; her brain was focussed. She thanked Brana and then picked up her Marseille cards from out of the top drawer of her dresser.
Should she? Why not? Just three cards before she went out. She normally didn’t turn cards for herself. In her early teens, she’d turn cards every day and live her life exactly according to them. But her mother had warned her against it and she’d broken the habit. But now, having drunk Badmaev’s elixir, she felt her self-control weakening.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Brana, tray in hand, as she watched Militza shuffle the cards.
‘It’s fine,’ snapped Militza. Sometimes the woman really was too much. She closed her eyes and held the pack close to her chest. She inhaled deeply before she chose three from the deck. ‘Le Diable,’ she said, staring straight at the Devil. ‘Chaos, anarchy… Le Pendu, the hangman, suspended from one leg, unable to do anything… helpless…’ Her heart was racing; she felt a little sick. The cocaine was surely a bit strong. She paused before she turned the final card. She’d asked about the future. This was not what she had anticipated.
‘What’s the last one?’ asked Brana.
‘Le Judgement,’ said Militza looking down as the black eyes on the card stared directly back at her. ‘So the dead shall rise and we shall all be judged, not by our words, but by our actions and our deeds.’
‘The cards are never wrong,’ said Brana. ‘Maybe the question you asked was incorrect?’
It was late by the time she arrived at Countess Ignatiev’s apartment on the French Embankment. Even the stairs outside were littered with people: some were talking, others were intertwined, embracing like young lovers; all were in quite an intoxicated state. Inside, the air was thick with conversation and the smell of cigarette smoke and hashish; the low light was crepuscular and it was almost impossible to see the faces of the guests or to distinguish one person from another.
‘Goodness,’ exclaimed Sophia Ignatiev when Militza finally discovered her seated at a small card table in the corner. ‘There are so many people! I swear half the clergy are here.’ She puffed her face as she exhaled and waved a pretty peacock and ivory fan. ‘But I am so glad you are here. I have been having these dreams, proclamations, really.’ She inhaled heavily on a small pipe. ‘Father Seraphim keeps appearing to me and we discuss the fact that there is a prophet here amongst us whose purpose is to reveal the will of Providence to the Tsar and lead him on the path of glory.’ She exhaled a small curl of blue smoke. ‘And that person,’ she whispered, leaning forward. ‘And that person is – Rasputin. Absolutely it’s him. I am sure of it.’
‘Right,’ said Militza.
‘My dreams are actually prophetic. I have told everyone.’ She waved her hand about her to indicate she had told the whole room. ‘Everyone.’ She smiled. ‘He’s here, you know, Rasputin. In the other room. Talking to some journalists.’
‘Journalists?’ Militza looked towards the door.
‘Yes,’ she said, nodding vigorously. ‘You should see them! Eating out of the palm of his hand.’
Sure enough, as she walked into the next-door room, there was Rasputin surrounded by an attentive group of acolytes. There was the actress with the plunging décolletage; there was the weak-willed general and the British journalist with the bad breath who always insisted on pinning you in a corner and asking the most impertinent of questions. Tonight, he was right next to Rasputin, asking him all sorts of things that didn’t seem remotely polite, but Grigory was loving the attention and gorging himself on red wine. He glanced over at Militza as she walked into the room and a smile briefly floated across his lips before the actress thrust herself a little closer to him and took his attention.
How different he is outside of the company of the Tsarina, thought Militza, staring at him as he leant over and kissed the actress’s plump bosom. I wonder what Alix would think if she knew exactly how her dear Friend behaved without her? Perhaps someone should tell her?
She turned and walked back into the slightly quieter room, encountering Dr Badmaev as she did so.
‘I was hoping you’d be here!’ she exclaimed, moving to kiss him on the cheek.
‘Will you sit and have a glass of wine with me?’ he asked, indicating two chairs.
‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘Do you have any of your elixir with you?’
‘The cocaine?’ She nodded. ‘Here,’ he said, pulling a small red bottle from out of the pocket of his loose trousers. ‘The Tsar goes through about three of those a week,’ he said, handing over the bottle.
‘It’s a good way to start the day,’ said Militza. ‘Poured into sweet tea to take away the taste. Thank you,’ she added, immediately pouring some into her wine. ‘It’s so crowded in here these days.’ She looked around the room, before taking a sip.
‘I remember when it was simply Stana, you and me and the Countess plus a few divorcees!’ chuckled Badmaev.
‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s the boredom, I suppose. In these gilded drawing-rooms, life becomes weary much faster. When money can get you whatever life offers, even the most fantastic possibilities fail to satisfy.’ He paused to take in the crowded room before him. ‘Everyone is tired, everyone is jaded; and in such times people gravitate to what lies beyond human comprehension. Talking to Spirit. Table tipping. Tarot. Even your Martinism.’ Militza raised her eyebrows. ‘People tell me everything,’ he smiled. ‘Even Rasputin.’
‘What of him?’
‘The Tsarina talks of little else. When I am summoned to prescribe herbs for her heart or her sciatica, she always talks of him. The man of God, who is no priest, the miracle worker from Siberia.’
‘She says that?’
‘But both you and I know there are no miracles, only science.’
‘And faith.’
‘But where will your faith get you when your son is bleeding to death?’ he asked.
‘Hush!’ she shot him a look. ‘Maybe that is all she has?’
‘And what of all of my medicines and my expertise and all that I have done?’ he replied sharply, placing another bottle of cocaine elixir down on the table. ‘For you,’ he said standing up, as if to leave. ‘Don’t take it all at once!’
‘Well, well, if it isn’t my old friend from Tibet!’ Rasputin placed a large hand on Badmaev’s shoulder. ‘Don’t trust him!’ he said to Militza. ‘He’d sooner betray you and sell your soul for a kopek!’ He roared with laughter, rocking back and forth as he slapped the doctor hard on the back. ‘What?’ he declared. ‘Have you lost your sense of humour? Come on, friend!’
‘Go to hell,’ hissed Badmaev.
‘Me?’ said Rasputin, taking a step back and flinging his arms open, as he laughed even louder. ‘I’m already there! Come,’ he added with a chuckle, putting his arm around Militza, ‘what on earth is wrong with him?’ He yawned. ‘Must be terribly upsetting, losing one’s position at court! Take me home!’