‘Olga?’ said Militza. ‘Wife of Vladimir Lokhtin! What are you doing here?’
Rasputin opened his eyes suddenly at the sound of her voice.
‘Mamma!’ he said, pushing Olga’s head out of the way as he pulled his trousers up. ‘You catch me a little busy.’
‘You are my GOD and I am your LAMB!’ yelled Olga, clinging on to his leg, as he buckled up his trousers and tried to walk away.
‘Olga! My child,’ he said looking down at the middle-aged woman still crouched on the floor. ‘You are saved!’ He placed his hand on the top of her head in a form of a blessing. ‘Now go inside with the others and get back into the bath.’
‘Bath?’ Militza questioned.
‘Akilina, Khionia and Olga were bathing,’ he declared. ‘I have been helping, Mamma,’ he smiled.
As he talked, Olga gathered up her nightgown and crawled away from him. Militza slowly shook her head as she remembered first meeting Olga, the beautiful, if dull, wife of an engineer named Vladimir Lokhtin, a few years before. Rasputin followed Militza’s gaze.
‘I have been curing her of hysteria,’ he said.
‘It seems you have been very successful,’ replied Militza.
‘Would you care for some tea?’ he asked, opening the door.
How Militza maintained her composure that morning, she couldn’t quite recall. But the memory of the lunatic woman hanging on to his member and the leery pleasure etched on his face as he thrust himself into her open mouth was something that would haunt her dreams. Why she didn’t turn and leave immediately, she didn’t know. Why she wasn’t horrified or totally revolted, she could not explain. Or more importantly, why she didn’t put a stop to him and his behaviour by screaming loudly and calling for witnesses, denouncing him as a member of the Khylsty, again, was something she would ask herself over and over. But perhaps she was intrigued? Fascinated? What on earth could induce a woman of that class to let herself go like that?
Militza spent the rest of the morning sitting next to a steaming hot samovar drinking strong, jam-sweetened tea.
Inside, his house was considerably grander than the outside suggested. She looked around, taking in all the luxuries that she had paid for. There were comfortable chairs, a thick carpet on the floor, icons on the walls, as well as mirrors, a chandelier and other finery. There was a large floor-standing clock and, of course, the Offenbach piano. It was absolutely not the usual home of a man of God.
The three bathers dressed and took their seats by the fire, where they proceeded to conduct themselves as veritable visions of piety and decorum. They enquired after Militza’s journey, asked how inclement the weather was, how things were in St Petersburg and all the while, the party was waited on by Rasputin’s wife, the diminutive and sturdy Praskovya, who scurried back and forth with small bowls of conserved fruits, or pickled cucumbers and tomatoes. Rasputin barely acknowledged her presence, let alone thanked her, while he dug into the bowls with his large hands, helping himself to everything, eating ravenously, pausing only to turn for a moment towards Olga.
‘Humble yourself,’ he said, offering up his filthy fingers, which she proceeded slowly and sensuously to suck clean.
Militza was transfixed. Revolted. Repulsed. Horrified. And yet she was suddenly engulfed by a terrible wave of jealousy. How much would she too like to lick his fingers. Or feel the strength of his shaft. Hear his bellowing orgasm in her ear? How much did she want to straddle that filthy chair once more?
‘So, Brother Grisha,’ she asked, banishing such thoughts from her head, ‘when will you be returning to St Petersburg?’
‘When Mamma apologizes,’ he replied.
‘Me?’
‘Last time we spoke you were not very kind,’ he said. ‘You raised your voice.’
‘For which I apologize,’ said Militza, watching Olga slide her tongue up and down the side of his index finger.
‘Also when the charges have been dropped,’ he said and shrugged.
‘I would not worry about those.’ She smiled briefly. ‘And anyway, it is only an investigation; no charges have been brought and the Ecclesiastical Court in Tobolsk have not accused you of anything.’
‘They could just as easily denounce me as a Skopets!’ he laughed. ‘It would have as little meaning! But I am fortunate enough to have too much use for my cock to want to cut it off in the name of the Lord!’ He laughed with such gusto that his chair shook. ‘Don’t you think?’ He stared at her. ‘Who would want to castrate themselves for God?’
‘Ridiculous accusations,’ she agreed enthusiastically. ‘I think you should show how unafraid you are of them; how foolish they actually are and come back to the city.’
‘What use have I of the city, when I have all I need around me here?’ He removed his hand from Olga’s lips. ‘God has seen fit to reward me well.’
‘You are his humble servant,’ said Militza. ‘But I wonder if the rewards aren’t greater in St Petersburg.’
‘Why do I have need of more rewards?’ He appeared a little entertained at such a suggestion.
‘No one needs rewards,’ replied Militza. ‘But they can make life a little more pleasurable, can’t they? Fine wine? Madeira? The beauty of the ballet and gypsy song?’
‘You reap what you sow.’
‘And you have sown, Brother Grigory,’ she said sweetly and smiled.
Over the course of the day Grisha’s house began to fill with people. A long line of acolytes gathered, forming an orderly queue in the courtyard outside. Some were mad, some were ill, some just wanted reassurance that something they feared would never happen – the death of a cow, the failure of a crop, a well turning sour. There were mewling children and sniffing adults and a labourer whose arm had been scythed off at the last harvest. Where they’d come from, how they knew he was there, or what time they should arrive, Militza was never told. But they queued up, shuffling in, dressed in their peasant garb. The combination of the heat of the room, the boiling hot samovar, the fire and their unwashed clothes made for an intense, heady smell, a cocktail of sweat, vodka and pickled garlic. The poor light and the continuous low mumble of prayer, combined with incense and the intoxicating bodily perfumes, made Militza feel quite sick and faint.
She stumbled out onto the porch. In comparison to the fetid, febrile atmosphere inside the house, the sharp Siberian afternoon air was something of a shock. It burnt the back of her throat as she inhaled. Holding on to a wooden railing for support, she breathed deeply. The oxygen made her feel better – anything to be out of the heat and the smell. She should be getting back to Tyumen. It was an arduous journey and much more dangerous in the dark. Who knew who’d be out there in the pitch-black wilderness? How many escaped convicts on the road? The rules were changing and respect for the aristocracy was ebbing. She was a woman on her own and she did not want to be out after dark. Anyway, she’d got what she’d come for. He had no idea she was behind the allegations. But what she really wanted was to be able to announce his return to St Petersburg to the Tsarina. She’d surely done enough to tempt him back, reminding him of the riches he enjoyed there. After all, there was nothing Rasputin liked more than temptation.
‘Leaving so soon?’
‘Grisha?’ She was a little startled when he appeared at the other end of the porch. ‘I thought you were inside.’
‘I have been asking myself all day, why have you come?’ He stared at her, his eyes narrow. ‘Why would my Mamma come all this way to see me, Grisha, out here?’ He gestured slowly around his courtyard with an outstretched hand. ‘Curiosity?’ He paused. ‘Self-interest? Contrition? Or guilt?’