‘What are they talking about?’ mused Stana, as they drove past.
‘Defending our Slavic brethren over the Ottoman infidels?’ suggested Militza.
‘Or the cost of bread?’ Stana turned to her sister. ‘Nikolasha says it is quite bad out there in the countryside.’
‘It is always bad in the countryside,’ replied Militza. ‘That’s why the towns are so full.’
As they drew up outside Rasputin’s apartment, the true extent of his popularity became clear. There were at least 200 people waiting patiently in an orderly line on the pavement; meanwhile there was another group of men standing across the road. They were dressed in thick coats and warm fur hats, their hands firmly in their pockets as they walked around, scuffing their shoes in the mud, with apparently little else to do.
‘Is that…?’ Stana peered through the window.
‘The Okhrana.’
‘They don’t look terribly secret for secret police.’
‘They monitor his every move.’
‘Why?’
‘Everyone wants to know everything, I suppose.’
‘Look at the queue,’ sighed Stana. ‘Does he know we are coming?’
‘I’m told so,’ said Militza. ‘I am glad you are with me – I am not sure I could face this on my own.’
The sisters made their way up the back stairs, as instructed, bypassing the slumbering queue of women who squatted on the main steps. The back stairs were reserved for Rasputin’s private visitors: aristocrats or certain ladies who’d taken his fancy the night before. They were steep and narrow and smelt strongly of spilt vodka and stray cats. It was not the sort of place anyone would want to spend any time in and yet, as the sisters came to the top of the stairs and the door into his apartment, there were three women waiting on the small landing.
‘Excuse me,’ announced Militza, holding her skirts up with both hands for fear of them dragging along the filthy floor.
‘Ssshhhh,’ replied one of the women. ‘He’s praying.’
They all stood, ears cocked against the closed door, listening intently to the noises emanating from the other side. First, there was the scraping sound of furniture being moved around and then a woman shrieked, only once, before she laughed and there was silence. And then after a minute there came the rhythmical shunting, grunting sound of sex. It started slowly, like a train leaving the station, then gathered pace as it rattled along the track. It went quicker and quicker and was accompanied by the sound of a hand slapping against the wall. Finally there was a loud groan – from her or him, it was impossible to say. And then it stopped as suddenly as it had started.
‘He is finished,’ nodded the woman, her tone and expression entirely matter of fact. ‘You may enter.’
Walking into his apartment, Militza was immediately struck by how little it had changed since she’d last been there. The corridor with the coat pegs and the sitting room with the round table were just as they’d been. What was surprising, though, given the sounds they had just heard from the back room, was that the seats around the table were full of women, waiting, about fifteen in total. Some were drinking tea, others were knitting, or sewing, or reading religious texts or sitting on their hands, their backs straight, their eyes focussed on the closed door.
‘Militza and Anastasia Nikolaeyvichi?’
The sisters looked around the room. There in one corner, eating boiled eggs dipped in salt, was Anna Vyrubova – and sitting next to her was another of the Tsarina’s closet confidantes, Lily Dehn. Lily Dehn was new to the Rasputinki but she was one of his more fervent supporters. She had recently very publicly taken against the governess to the imperial Family, who’d also, very publicly, complained about Grisha’s unsupervised, late night visits to the Grand Duchesses in their rooms. And while most of Moscow and St Petersburg was up in arms at such a transgression of protocol, Lily let it be known that the governess was simply mad with jealousy and was constantly throwing herself like some lovelorn schoolgirl at Grisha herself. The poor governess was relieved of her post, while Lily Dehn continued to destroy her reputation.
‘Have you come to join our little club?’ she asked, eyeing the sisters up and down with deep suspicion. What on earth did the ‘Montenegrin Sibyls’ want with their man?
‘Your club?’ questioned Stana, looking around the room at the eclectic collection of women. Granted, some were young; and some were young and beautiful, while some were clearly with their mothers, but the majority were middle-aged and matronly, or, like Anna, neither blessed with looks, charm or any figure to speak of.
‘Yes,’ said a large woman who had a thicker moustache than the young officer who’d hammered at Militza’s door in the dead of night all those months ago. ‘We’re the ten o’clock club. We meet here every morning at ten and wait for a meeting with Our Father.’
‘Your father?’ Militza frowned.
‘Our Father Grisha. We wait to speak to him, hear his words, be blessed by him. Sometimes he is pleased with us and sometimes he is not.’
‘And what happens when he is not pleased with you?’ asked Stana.
‘Grisha strikes whoever doesn’t please him,’ she replied.
‘And the harder he strikes, the closer we become to God,’ added another.
‘For it is only through punishment that you can reach salvation,’ said a third.
Stana looked across at her sister.
‘Sometimes we come and ask to be beaten,’ said the large woman, smiling. ‘Our Father always says, “If you mean to do wrong, first come and tell me.” And if he can, he will beat the wrong out of you.’ She nodded and picked up an egg, dipping it into the small saucer of salt in front of her before popping it into her mouth.
‘Shall I tell him you are here?’ suggested Anna, her round eyes constantly moving between the two sisters. ‘I am normally the person who does the introductions. I supervise who goes in and out…’
‘Mamma!’ declared Rasputin, as he strode out of the back room, his shirt hanging loose over his trousers. He held his left hand placed across his stomach, his right hand aloft as if blessing the sisters. ‘I heard you were here!’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘Bless you, for coming! Tea? Or wine?’
His arrival sent a current of electricity through the group. The women sat up, tweaked their white shirts, adjusted their plumed hats, straightened their silk skirts – and they all smiled. It was as if they were debutantes at a ball, all trying to catch a suitor’s eye. His warm embrace of the two sisters sent a frisson of jealousy around the room.
‘Come,’ he said, ignoring the expectant, up-turned faces. ‘Come through here so we can talk.’
‘Shall I come and help?’ asked Anna, getting authoritatively out of her chair.
‘No,’ replied Rasputin, waving his hand, without a backward glance.
Militza and Stana followed him through to the back room, which even in the dying light of the day, appeared to be in terrible disarray. The sheets on the divan were crumpled, there were half-drunk glasses of wine and Madeira on the table and the stuffy air reeked of sweat and sex. Militza glanced at the divan, expecting to see some exhausted well-ridden woman gathering up her skirts, but the room was empty. The healed acolyte must have fled down the back stairs.
‘Now,’ he said, patting the still-warm patch on the divan. ‘Sit and tell me why it has taken you both so long to come and see me?’