‘Yes,’ said Militza. ‘What did he die of?’
‘Who? The man? I don’t know. Opium, I think. But I knew you’d be fascinated.’ He threw his head back and ran his hand through his blond hair. ‘Anyway, Munia keeps insisting that I meet Rasputin. She thinks we might have a lot in common. Apart from our backgrounds, of course.’
‘No one has your background,’ agreed Stana.
‘No,’ he smiled. ‘Totally unique, isn’t it? There’s no one in Russia who can claim to be related to the Prophet Muhammad and the Kings of Egypt.’
And with that he walked back into the party.
‘That boy is trouble,’ said Militza as she watched him go.
‘He’s just vain,’ said Stana.
‘He’s powerful, rich and vain,’ corrected Militza. ‘Which is much more dangerous.’
Back in St Petersburg, emboldened by the case against him being dropped, Rasputin’s circle of influence widened.
In little over a year he went from a name mumbled quietly in the hushed corners of the court, to appearing at all sorts of parties, soirées and eventually in articles in newspapers such as the Moscow Gazette. There were pages and pages devoted to his flagrant boasting of his access to the Tsar and Tsarina and the fact that he was back and forth to the palace, up and down the back stairs, in and out of the young Grand Duchesses’ bedrooms which did not sound good.
The truth of the matter was that most of his boasts were true. He was visiting the palace at all hours of the day or night, without an invitation, whenever he was so inclined, quite often sitting up, alone, late into the night with Alix. He did go and see the Grand Duchesses at bedtime and would spend hours, unsupervised, in their bedrooms. And he endlessly talked about them and wave about the letters they’d written to him. Just a bottle or two of Madeira was enough to loosen his already garrulous tongue.
Even his flat, which was only ever frequented by an inner circle of ardent egg-eaters was now a gathering point for up to 200 Rasputinki a day, who would collect and sell everything the man touched or blessed. They’d sew his toenails into their dresses for protection from evil, believing also that human fingernails – especially his – would be useful to claw their way out of the grave. The divan in the back room was subjected to so many ‘healings’ that, apparently, the arms eventually gave way.
‘Your friend is certainly making a lot of noise,’ said Badmaev one afternoon as he arrived at Znamenka, carrying his soft leather case of supplies.
‘I thought he was your friend too?’ replied Militza as she counted the number of phials he was placing on the marble-topped table.
‘No.’ The Tibetan shook his head. ‘He drinks too much and screws too much for my liking and he can’t control his lusts – he’s a liar and a satyr. The reason for that recent trip to the Holy Land?’ He sniffed. ‘Fucking a Finnish ballet dancer, Lisa Tansin.’
‘I heard.’
‘There are photographs, plenty of them. Him, naked with her and a harem of prostitutes.’
‘Mercifully, I have been spared those.’
‘And do you know what the Empress does while he is away? Mourns his absence and writes down her thoughts in the notebook he gave her… Nineteen ….Twenty?’
‘Twenty-five, don’t you think?’
‘If you’re sure?’ he asked, taking another five bottles of elixir out of his bag.
‘I find it helpful,’ she replied.
‘So is the opium,’ he said. ‘And the veronal. Barbiturates are helpful in inducing sleep but…’
‘I’d prefer not to sleep,’ she replied. ‘Sleep is for the weak.’ She smiled, taking a small bottle and pouring its contents slowly across her tongue. She closed her eyes and felt its bitterness trickle down her throat. ‘I have become accustomed to its taste these days.’
‘Do you see much of him, then? Rasputin?’ asked Badmaev, packing up his things. ‘He now only contacts me when the child is ill – has a headache, has fallen over, that sort of thing – and he’s after medicine. I have to say I give it grudgingly. If it weren’t for Alexei I would not do it…’
‘I see him often.’ Militza swallowed hard and inhaled deeply, riding the sudden wave of adrenaline that hit her.
‘That is good,’ he said. ‘I’m very glad. You need to be there. Because I heard the other day that he who controls the mystic controls the Tsar – and therefore Russia.’
‘I control the mystic, I assure you,’ she smiled. ‘I introduced him to the Tsar.’
‘I know you did.’
‘I made him,’ she said, laughing suddenly. Badmaev looked at her strangely. What was she saying? ‘I manifested him,’ she continued. ‘I summoned him. Don’t you worry, I’ll look after him. The mystic is mine.’
30
31 December 1910, St Petersburg
It was past midday and Militza was lying in bed when the telephone rang and the footman knocked on her door.
She was a little tired from the night before. She had been to a dinner and a ball and hadn’t arrived home until 3 a.m. And this was the third time she’d been out this week, not including the ballet. She had also visited fifteen people the day before, handing out her visiting card and drinking endless cup of tea, making polite conversation, enquiring after everyone’s health, hearing the same stories over and over again. Normally she was more abstemious, choosing her parties and refusing invitations but with her daughter, Marina, already eighteen, it was her duty as a mother to escort her to as many parties, teas and occasions as there were hours in the day. Poor Marina was finding it all a little unbearable. An intelligent young woman with dark eyes and pale skin, just like her mother, she enjoyed her own company more than that of others and would have much preferred to spend her evenings sketching or painting, a passion for which she was particularly talented. But Militza’s early years in the city still haunted her, those lonely days at the Smolny Institute and those dreadful parties where she and her sister would sit around, waiting for someone to write their name down on their dance card. Marina was not going to have the same experience.
‘They know!’ came the voice down the receiver.
Militza was now standing in her dressing gown in the hall.
‘Stana?’ She could feel her heart beginning to race. ‘What? Who?’
‘I can’t talk on the telephone,’ continued her sister. ‘You never know who is listening.’
Militza dressed quickly. Her maid, Katya, was taken aback. Normally, when she would be out visiting most of the afternoon, the Grand Duchess would spend a good hour on her toilette, choosing the latest in fashionable day dresses, ironing her hair, picking out the perfect shoes with just the correct amount of heel, coming home to change again before going out to a dinner and a dance and maybe on to one of the more fashionable restaurants late into the night, but today she simply pinned her hair and chose a high-necked white shirt and a dark blue skirt that stopped just short of the floor.