Fenek Solère: Rising

‘300,000 people visit the palace every year.’ Her arm extended as if to embrace the entrance. ‘It is renowned for its furnishings, art, and of course the assassination of Father Gregory, more commonly known as Rasputin, confidante of the Tsarina in the last years before the Revolution.’

They were taken through drawing rooms, bedrooms, and a ballroom with shining mirrors and classical motifs. Ekaterina lingered over the pastoral scenes in the glass-plated long gallery, while Tom was captivated by the waxwork representations of the conspirators on that fateful night of December 29. He tried to picture Madeira cakes laced with potassium cyanide. The sound of ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ spinning out of the gramophone in a desperate attempt to make it sound like a party was going on in the rooms above. Meanwhile Rasputin, the Starets, was led like Isaac by his father Abraham into the basement room below, ready for slaughter.

Just before eleven, the tourists descended a flight of stairs into a private theatre. The walls were decorated in a sumptuous mixture of orange, white, and gold. On the ceiling was a gaudy fresco, and over Tom’s left shoulder a private box from where the Romanovs and Yusupovs sat in the dying days of the Empire.

Tom looked out onto a derelict garden veiled in smog, a small metal gate lying at the southern entrance. He tried to picture the scene. Rasputin staggering out of a side door, bleeding from a bullet in his chest. His executioners rushing out into the moonlight after him. Revolvers sparking in the dark before a single bullet struck him in the back. Then, the British secret serviceman stepping out of the shadows to deliver the coup de grace at point-blank range.

The guide’s words rang loudly in Tom’s mind. ‘Quoting Gregory Yemfimovich Rasputin’, she declaimed, ‘“If I am killed by common assassins… especially peasants, the Tsar and his children would have nothing to fear and would reign for hundreds of years. But if I am murdered by nobles, then none of the Tsar’s children or relations will remain alive for more than two years, they will be killed by the Russian people…”’

How prophetic, he thought. Perhaps there was more to this dark force of nature who could cure haemophiliacs and seduce society ladies. The British were right to kill him before he persuaded the Tsarina to advise her husband to withdraw the Imperial forces from the Eastern Front, freeing the Germans to sweep both the French and His Britannic Majesty’s armies into the Channel.

What these conspirators could not have known was the seventy years of Communist rule that would fill the power vacuum, after the bayonets and bullets had done their work in Ekaterinburg. Now that was ironic. In killing off a troublesome priest, they had stirred up a whirlwind that led to Stalin’s purges, mud-filled gulags, and the partition of the European continent.

Tom felt the death shroud fall over his face, smelling burning flesh and tasting the gunpowder caked at the back of his throat.

‘Are you OK?’ Ekaterina asked, bending close to his ear, arm curling affectionately around his shoulder. ‘You look troubled.’

‘I’m fine, can we get a drink somewhere?’ She took his hand and led him down the staircase, out onto the water’s edge. An amplified voice from a tour bus that was driving along the embankment chafed the stillness like an electronic cheese grater. ‘St Petersburg is called the Venice of the north. Home to…’ And there the sound trailed out, the back of the bus disappearing behind vaporous curtains of speckled grey.

They were pressed together, arms entwined. Tom let his mind drift. He was telling himself that this could be love, and scorned himself for thinking it. He could not recall being so moved by a woman. That drunken weekend in Singapore with the Aussie radical did not count. He had put that down to the humidity rather than loneliness.

Cars swirled around them as they strolled past a man selling fake Rolex watches from a blanket spread on the side of the road. A doe-eyed bitch snivelled and whelped, rolling onto her back, revealing milky tits to five mewling puppies. Ekaterina bent down to stroke them. The street-seller cornered Tom, opening his coat to reveal contraband Seiko, Hugo Boss, and Cartier.

‘Come on’, Tom said, pulling Ekaterina to her feet, ‘let’s get something to eat. The merchant swore as his dog chased them down the canal bank, barking madly at their heels.

Climbing some steps to a small café, they took seats at a table with a vase of fresh-cut daisies and asters. The waitress smiled indulgently while they studied the menu. Ekaterina ordered a coffee; Tom, a dark beer, before they both decided on ukha , traditional fish soup. He could not be sure what music was playing in the background. Folk music, maybe. He could not tell. There was something familiar about it, a sort of militaristic nostalgia. ‘Of course, Svoi , “Our People”, sung by Lyube’, he mumbled, remembering that the lacklustre middle-of-the road band was the former President’s favourite group.

‘You like?’ she asked, pointing to the brown bottle he raised to his lips.

‘Yeah’, he assured her. ‘It is early for me to start drinking, but I need it.’

‘Problems?’

‘Sort of.’ Then he added, ‘Sometimes people will do anything to stop the truth.’

‘For some people, the truth hurts!’

Tom shrugged. ‘Look, Grigori’s going to raise an army to confront the Bloc.’

‘I have heard the rumours.’

‘Can he do it?’

Ekaterina thought carefully. ‘Yes, there are many sympathisers.’

‘But it will lead to a pitched battle.’

‘It is the natural consequence of what you are doing.’

‘What I’m doing?’

‘Thinkers like you talk. Others fight!’

• The EU, UN, and USA declare the exiled Alexander Dugin a public enemy and move to seize any assets he holds in countries where they have legal jurisdiction;

• Plans to develop industrial-scale food production in the liberated zones of Ukraine are announced;

• The Qahal, the Assembly of God, meet in the reconstituted all-Jewish town of Budaniv on the banks of the Seret River in Ukraine;

• All traces of Ruthenian culture are deemed anti-Semitic and draconian sentences are imposed to end politically incorrect activities in the Carpathians.

Stepping out as a dark cowl of cloud slipped over the Cathedral’s cupola, Tom was in an exuberant mood. He was telling Ekaterina about London, his life and work. They turned a blind corner, hurrying back to the Astoria, when by pure chance he caught sight of Arkady’s face in a crowded black limousine on the blue bridge. Revving its engine impatiently, the occupants were locked in earnest debate, deciding who to intimidate next. Tom lowered his voice, raised his collar, and slipped his arm around Ekaterina’s waist, walking on stiffly, turning his head away, trying to blend in with other pedestrians.

Despite his best efforts, Arkady spotted them, lowering the window to shout.

‘English’, he called. ‘English!’

‘Keep walking’, Tom advised.

‘What is it?’ she asked, hearing his name being called, surprised by the force he used to guide her away. Arkady kept calling as Tom led her across the square, twisting his neck just in time to catch sight of shaven-headed Bogdan opening the passenger door, while Arkady sped off, intending to cut them off before they could reach the Astoria.

‘Keep going’, Tom insisted.

‘Where?’

‘Away from the hotel.’

‘What is wrong?’

‘Those people don’t like to hear the truth!’

‘Our truth, you mean?’

Tom smiled confirmation.

They rushed towards Nevsky, bouncing along wood planking that had been built for commuters to bypass the construction work. Behind, moving stiffly, but with quiet determination, Bogdan followed, reaching into his pocket, ready to call Arkady on his mobile. Traffic was congested. Arkady was struggling to turn the car onto Bolshaya Morskaya when his mobile rang.