‘What a charlatan,’ said Stana quietly. ‘His house is crammed with gold and precious things.’
‘I know!’ nodded Militza. ‘And it will only get worse. I need you to see him. I need you to see him – it – in the flesh. I need you to understand the gravity of the situation. Please, please stay.’
Stana nodded and slowly sat back down in silence. She remembered the kiss and how her sister had always stood by her; she remembered the sacrifices, the sordid sacrifices Militza had made for her and she realized it was time she did something in return. It was time to pay back.
‘Ha ha ha!’ A weird chortling noise came from outside the room. The door opened and in walked Rasputin, his hair dramatically unkempt. His gait was lurching and his gaze swivelled around the room; it was as if he’d been exhumed or pulled out of a party by his legs. ‘Two… little… witches… in… one… room!’ he sang, trotting around on the spot, holding up the edges of his loose black kaftan. ‘Two little witches in one room.’ He leered at the sisters, his smile wolfish as he danced towards them. ‘Two little witches! One!’ He pointed at Stana. ‘Two!’ He jabbed his finger at Militza. ‘In one room!’ He laughed loudly, throwing his blackened mouth back in the air, before collapsing with a loud sigh on to the divan closest to the unlit fire. ‘It’s cold!’ he declared loudly.
‘Grisha, it is August, not even the Tsarina has a fire in August,’ replied Militza.
‘Grisha, how delightful to see you,’ began Stana, in a singsong voice she reserved for dull society parties or other people’s children. ‘How are you?’
‘How am I?’ he asked, as he rolled around on the divan, attempting to sit up a little straighter. He was clearly in a lot of pain. ‘Death is near me, she is crawling towards me on her hands and knees like a whore.’ He gestured loosely towards the door. ‘And when I die, what no one knows is that Russia will perish along with me.’ He inhaled and belched loudly. ‘The country will be tormented, it will tear itself apart, limb from limb and the river Neva will flow with the blood of Grand Dukes!’
Stana looked across at Militza; how much had the man drunk to reach this level of morbidity?
He continued on until they sat down for dinner, bemoaning his fate and the fact that both his and Russia’s demise were inextricably linked. He sat at the head of the table and monopolized bottle after bottle of his favourite Madeira. Rasputin would normally not have eaten any of the meat on offer, but that night, he couldn’t avail himself of enough flesh; he gnawed at the bones of his partridge and sliced slither after slither off the haunch of venison placed next to him. And all the while he talked about his approaching death. They, the people, were all lining up to kill to him, women with guns in their dresses, young men with knives in their breeches – it was not hard to imagine a revolutionary hurling a bomb through his window at any minute.
‘And then there’s poison!’ he said, his knife raised in the air. ‘But I have protected myself against that.’
‘How does anyone protect themselves from poisoning?’ asked Stana, still using the singsong voice.
‘Taking little drops at a time,’ he said, waving his knife from side to side.
‘Mithridatization,’ said Militza.
‘Eat apple pips,’ he added. ‘Stones of peaches and apricots. All day, every day. Ground up in water. Cyanide can’t touch me!’ He coughed. ‘But it is dangerous out there – and now I no longer have the icon.’
‘The icon?’ asked Militza, suddenly feeling nervous.
‘The one you kindly gave.’ He smiled briefly.
‘St John the Baptist?’
‘I lost it long ago,’ he sighed, wearily, slumping a little at the table. ‘Long, long ago…’
‘You lost it?’ Militza feigned surprise well.
‘I don’t know where or when. I was travelling and I mislaid it. I try and see it in my mind, picture it hiding in the long grass by the side of the road. How I feel its loss greatly. How I need it now. Without it, I shall surely die. For death is near me, she crawls towards me…’
‘Yes, yes,’ smiled Militza. ‘Enough!’
He paused, his eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe it was stolen from me?’ He looked wildly around the room.
‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Stana.
‘I have trophy hunters in my house all the time; they steal the hair off my head and the nails off my toes as I sleep.’ He laughed wryly. ‘And now She’s given me bodyguards because She fears for my safety.’
There was no need to ask who She was.
‘She needs me, you see.’ His face changed to one of mocking sympathy. ‘She ne-e-e-e-ds me!’ He laughed. ‘She needs her Friend. Our Friend.’ He looked down the table at the two sisters. ‘I’m the only one she’s got!’ He laughed.
‘How about Anna and Lily?’ enquired Stana.
‘Anna? That old cripple! I am worth a thousand of her,’ he replied, digging his fork into his venison and eating another slice. ‘No one can satisfy her like I can!’ He laughed again.
‘I am not sure I understand you,’ said Stana.
‘You’re a woman of the world, little witch!’ he replied. ‘But I am a man of God. And the poor woman has little left but her faith.’
‘We should all have faith,’ confirmed Stana.
‘I am living a quiet life,’ he declared. ‘I visit the Little Mother and the Kazan and St Isaac’s Cathedrals each day, that is all.’
And the Makaev wine shop on 23 Nevsky, thought Militza, and the Villa Rhode and the Yacht Club and the banya up the road from Gorokhovaya and Madame Sonya’s whorehouse not far from the Fontanka. He was a man of God with an exemplary record.
‘But I feel the hand of God above me,’ he continued.
‘His hand is above us all,’ said Militza.
‘No.’ He turned to stare at her, his pale eyes suddenly finding focus. ‘You will live, my little witch. You will escape. You will breathe the fresh air of freedom. But God will come to gather me!’
He stared mournfully at his glass for a second, swilling its blood-red contents around. It was as if he could see nothing but misery, torment and writhing pain within the spinning liquid.
‘But one must not be sad!’ he said suddenly.
‘Indeed not,’ agreed Militza.
‘We should have a party! Let’s invite some gypsies.’ He looked around the room as if expecting it to be full of people. ‘We need music! Parties always need music. Do you have a gramophone?’
The footmen were called; a gramophone was found as well as some records and the sisters watched as Rasputin started to dance. They knew of the all-night parties that he hosted in his apartment, where the telephone was always ringing, the door was always open and the wine never ran out. Munia once told Militza about a party where everyone had stayed over because they were all too drunk to leave, only for two husbands to arrive the next morning, each with a revolver, on the hunt for their wives. The secret police delayed the husbands long enough for the wives to dress and disappear down the back stairs, but Munia had been horrified and said she would never attend one of his parties again.
Rasputin moved slowly; his stomach was still clearly giving him some pain, but the more he drank, the less he cared. He held his arms outstretched and waved his hips from side to side, swaying along with the music.
‘Oh this!’ he announced, closing his eyes, listening to the soaring sound of the violins. ‘This reminds me of Siberia. The space. The skies. And the plump peasant girls!’ He laughed again, as if he were transported back there. ‘Dance with me!’ he demanded, looking from one sister to the other.?‘Dance!’
‘No thank you,’ smiled Militza, taking a sip of her champagne.
‘You!’ He pointed at Stana. Stana shook her head. ‘I am the most powerful man in Russia and I command you to dance.’