Boris Akunin - The Coronation

Madam Snezhnevskaya had taken an entire wing in the Loskutnaya, which in itself was an adequate demonstration of this amazing woman’s status – just then, at the very height of the coronation celebrations, even the most ordinary hotel room cost five times as much as normal, and it was in any case impossible to find one.

There were numerous baskets of flowers standing in the hallway of the deluxe apartment and I heard the muted sounds of a grand piano coming from somewhere in the maze of rooms. I handed the maid a note and the playing stopped almost immediately. A minute later Izabella Felitsianovna herself came out to me. She was wearing a rich-pink dress of light silk that no other blonde could possibly have presumed to wear, but Snezhnevskaya in this attire did not look vulgar, she looked divine – I cannot find any other word for it. Once again I was astounded by her light porcelain beauty, that most precious kind of beauty, encountered so very rarely, which gives a face that should be familiar the power to take one’s breath away and strike one dumb.

‘Afanasii!’ she said with a smile, looking up atmebut managing in some miraculous manner to hold herself as if shewere standing on a pedestal, not on the ground. ‘Hello, my friend. Is it something from Georgie?’

‘No,’ I replied with a low bow. ‘I have secret business of state importance.’

The clever woman did not ask me a single question. She knew that Afanasii Ziukin would not use such a weighty phrase idly. She knitted her brows in concern for an instant and then beckoned me with her little hand.

I followed her through several communicating rooms to the boudoir. Izabella Felitsianovna closed the door, sat down on the bed, gestured for me to take a seat in an armchair and said just two words: ‘Tell me.’

I expounded the gist of the problem to her, without keeping anything back. My story took quite a long time, because so many events had occurred during the previous few days, but even so it was shorter than might have been expected, for Snezhnevskaya did not gasp or clutch at her heart, and she did not interrupt me even once – she only picked faster and faster at her collar with her elegant fingers.

‘Mikhail Georgievich is in mortal danger, and there is a terrible threat hanging over the entire house of Romanov,’ was how I concluded my extensive account, although I could have dispensed with the dramatic style because my listener had understood everything perfectly well anyway.

Izabella Felitsianovna said nothing for a long time, a very long time. Never had I seen an expression of such agitation on her doll-like face, not even when I took the tsarevich’s letters away from her on Georgii Alexandrovich’s instructions.

Unable to bear such a long pause, I asked: ‘Tell me, is there any solution to this?’

She raised her bright-blue eyes and looked at me sadly and – so I thought – with sympathy. But her voice was firm.

‘There is. Only one. To sacrifice the lesser for the sake of the greater.’

‘“The lesser” – is that His Highness?’ I asked and sobbed in a most shameful fashion.

‘Yes. And I assure you, Afanasii, that such a decision has already been taken, although no one speaks of it out loud. Knick-knacks from the coffret – very well, but no one will give this Doctor Lind the Orlov. Not for anything in the world. This Fandorin of yours is a clever man. The idea of “renting” is brilliant. Stretch things out until the coronation, and after that itwon’t matter any more.’

‘But . . . but that is monstrous!’ I could not help exclaiming.

‘Yes, from the ordinary human point of view, it is monstrous,’ she said and touched me affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Neither you nor I would behave like that with our children. Ah yes, you have no children, I believe?’ Snezhnevskaya sighed and then in her pure ringing voice she expressed an idea that I myself had pondered more than once. ‘To be born into a ruling house is a special destiny. One that brings immense privileges, but also requires the willingness to make immense sacrifices. A disgraceful scandal during the coronation is unacceptable. Under any circumstances whatever. To hand over one of the most important insignia of the empire to criminals is even less acceptable. But to sacrifice the life of one of the eighteen grand dukes is perfectly acceptable. Even Georgie understands that of course. What is a four-year-old boy compared with the fate of an entire dynasty?’

There was a clear hint of bitterness in these last words, but there was also genuine grandeur. The tears that sprang to my eyes did not go on to run down my cheeks. I do not know why, but I felt chastened.

There was a knock at the door, and the English nanny led in a pair of quite delightful twins who looked verymuch like Georgii Alexandrovich – ruddy-cheeked and strong-necked, with lively brown eyes.

‘Good night, Mummy,’ they babbled and ran to fling themselves on Izabella Felitsianovna’s neck.

It seemed to me that she hugged and kissed them rather more passionately than this everyday ritual required.

When the boys had been led away, Snezhnevskaya locked the door and said to me: ‘Afanasii, your eyes are soggy. Stop it immediately or I’ll turn weepy myself. It doesn’t happen to me very often, but once I start it will be a long time before I stop.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ I mumbled, fumbling in my pocket for a handkerchief, but my fingers were not responding very well.

Then she came up to me, took a little lacy handkerchief out of her cuff and dabbed my eyelashes – very cautiously, as if she were afraid of spoiling make-up.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door – loud and insistent.

‘Izabo! Open up, it’s me!’

‘Paulie!’ exclaimed Snezhnevskaya, throwing up her hands. ‘Youmust not meet. Itwould put the boy in an awkward position. In here, quickly!

‘Just a moment!’ she called. ‘I’ll just put my shoes on.’

Meanwhile she opened the door of a large mirror-fronted wardrobe and shoved me inside, prodding me with her sharp little fist.

The interior of the dark and rather spacious oak wardrobe smelled of lavender and eau de cologne. I turned round cautiously, made myself as comfortable as possible and tried not to thinkwhat an embarrassing situationwould result ifmypresence were to be discovered. But a moment later I heard something that made me forget all about my embarrassment.

‘I adore you!’ Pavel Georgievich exclaimed. ‘How very lovely you are, Izabo! I think about you every day!’

‘Stop that! Paulie, you are simply insane! I told you, it was a mistake that will never be repeated. And you gavemeyourword.’

Oh Lord! I clutched at my heart, and the movement set the dresses rustling.

‘You swore that we would be like brother and sister!’ Izabella Felitsianovna declared, raising her voice – evidently in order to mask the incongruous noises from the wardrobe. ‘And anyway your father telephoned. He should be here at any minute.’

‘I rather think not!’ Pavel Georgievich declared triumphantly. ‘He has gone to the opera with the Englishmen. No one will bother us. Izabo, what do you want him for? He’s married, but I’m free. He’s twenty years older than you!’

‘And I’m seven years older than you. That’s a lot more for a woman than twenty years is for a man,’ Snezhnevskaya replied.

I deduced from the rustling of silk that Pavel Georgievich was trying to put his arms round her and she was resisting his embraces.

‘You are like Thumbelina,’ he said passionately. ‘You will always be my tiny little girl . . .’

She gave a short laugh: ‘Oh yes, a little lapdog – a puppy to the end of its days.’