Robert Alexander: Rasputin's Daughter

“Just keep your arm raised,” I said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Before I could escape, however, Sasha grabbed my hand and raised it to his lips. “Spasibo.” Thank you, he said, kissing me just as tenderly as he had done two years ago. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.”

I had believed him before. I had trusted him before. Did I dare do so again?

“Just don’t move,” I said, frightened of the softness in my voice.

“I don’t think I can.”

I stroked his brow. “I don’t either.”

I wanted to stay right there, on the edge of the cot, and hold his hand and talk as we had done on the boat. But I didn’t dare, not on this strange night. Stepping away, I shut the curtain and started out of the kitchen. No sooner had I passed into the hall than I heard it again, a faint noise emanating, I realized, from one of the bedrooms.

I poked my head into my room first, only to see Varya still sleeping soundly. Moving on, I approached Papa’s bedroom. As I neared the partially opened door, I saw the faint light of a lamp leaking out, and for a bizarre moment everything seemed normal. It was almost as if my father were home, studying the Scriptures or on his knees, praying in the corner before his favorite icon, the Kazanskaya, the Virgin of Kazan. It was almost as if he were right there in that room, ever so slowly scrawling the little notes to hand out the following day to his devotees, little notes that would open doors all over the country: My friend, see that this gets done. Grigori. Plus the little cross, always the little cross, at the bottom. But of course Papa wasn’t home, and I wasn’t coming to bid him good night.

Someone, I realized, was in my father’s bedroom who shouldn’t be there. It could be someone harmless like Countess Olga or someone as dangerous as an assassin.

I should have rushed right then and there to the telephone. But I wasn’t scared, not really, for exhaustion was taking over now, drugging my mind and body like a narcotic. Quite determined, I brazenly pushed open the door. But instead of finding someone with a gun pointed at me, or even someone rifling through Papa’s belongings, there was no one carousing about. Instead my eyes traveled through warm, reddish light emanating from an oil lamp hanging before Papa’s icon. And eventually my eyes fell upon a heap of unfamiliar clothes thrown on a chair. Turning to the narrow bed, I saw that someone was curled up beneath the bright patchwork quilt.

I wasn’t that surprised, not really, for women were always throwing themselves at Papa. Last year I had been in my room when I heard a terrible scream coming from the salon.

“Chri-i-ist is ri-i-isen!”

When I went running in, I had found Madame Lokhtina, wearing a bizarre white dress decorated all over with little ribbons, lunging at Papa. The force of this woman, a former society lioness who had abandoned her family and become Father’s most rabid devotee, was so great, her determination so devilish, that she had ripped open Papa’s pants and was hanging on to his member.

“You are Christ, I am your ewe, take me!” the woman screamed. “Take me, dear Chri-i-ist!”

“Off, you skunk!” Papa was beating on her head, trying to fend her off, and when he saw me, he shouted, “Help me, Maria! She’s demanding sin and won’t leave me alone!”

Now, approaching the bed, I realized in a second that it wasn’t Madame Lokhtina, some anxious devotee, or even Countess Olga lying there peacefully. So who in the name of the Lord was it? I stepped closer and saw something familiar.

Oh, my God…

The body shifted like a languid lover awaiting some kind touch and tender kiss. Taking note of the short hair, I realized this was no woman. Instead it was perhaps the most beautiful and definitely the richest young man in all of Russia.

“Fedya?” I said.

For the past several months, Prince Felix Yusupov, or Fedya, as he warmly asked my sister and me to call him, had been visiting Papa nearly every day. Tall and fine-boned, with a narrow face, small mustache, and beautiful narrow eyes, the prince was particularly effeminate in both looks and manner, taking after the famed beauty of his mother, Princess Zinaida. He rolled over and smiled sweetly up at me.

“Oh, it’s you, Maria. I was hoping for Father Grigori.”

Speechless, I stared down at this scandalous creature now lolling in Papa’s bed. Lurid stories of him abounded-everyone in the capital knew that on a number of occasions he’d dressed up in his mother’s finest dresses and jewels and then visited the most expensive restaurants. There was even a story floating about that the King of England, upon spying the young prince in a diamond-studded dress in London, had made suggestive inquiries via one of his footmen. And even though Prince Yusupov, nearly thirty years of age, was now married to the Tsar’s niece, Princess Irina, it was widely believed he still suffered from “grammatical errors.” This, I had quietly assumed, was why the young man had become such a frequent visitor to our household: Surely Papa, who had treated a number of women for lust, was likewise treating Prince Felix.

“So do tell me, child, where is your father?” said Prince Felix, lifting his bare arms from beneath the blanket and stretching.

Good God, I realized, quickly averting my eyes, he’s not only in Papa’s bed, he’s lying there in nothing but his undergarments. Glancing over at a chair, I saw that the clothes so casually strewn there were actually Prince Felix’s military shirt and pants and that his tall leather boots stood nearby on the floor.

“Has he gone out to hear some Gypsy music?” pressed the prince.

“I don’t know,” I replied, my voice faint.

“Really? You don’t know if he’s off at the Villa Rode? The Bear? If I knew where he was, perhaps I could catch up with him.”

“I said I don’t know.”

“Well, if he’s not at some restaurant, perhaps he’s off with some princess, hmm? Or who else? What is it, my dear, why the silence? Why aren’t you talking to your Fedya?”

Usually, I was quite friendly with the prince. Usually, we would talk for hours. Tonight, however, I kept my silence.

“I can see you’re hiding something, Maria, my sweet. What is it? Is your papa off at the Palace in Tsarskoye?” He laughed and, with a devious twinkle in those slim delicate eyes, said, “Perhaps the better question is, where have you been? That’s why you’re so quiet, isn’t it? Have you been off on a little affair of your own? Tell me everything. Have you a lover?”

“Fedya!”

“You do, don’t you! Well, is he your first? Handsome? A soldier? I promise not to tell your father!”

“Please, Fedya, that’s not it at all. It’s just terribly late and-” I went to the window and looked down on the street; the motorcar was gone. “Did you see any of the security agents when you came?”

“Of course not. That’s why I always come up the rear staircase into the kitchen-just to avoid them. Of course, my dear, you know it’s best if I’m not seen coming here.”

Actually, I didn’t understand, for I agreed with those of my father’s followers who thought it shameful that Prince Yusupov would only sneak into our home through the back way under the cover of night. What was wrong with sunlight and the front door?

“Now don’t change the subject, my sweet Maria. Tell me about yourself and where you’ve-”

“What about Dunya? Was she here when you came? I’m quite worried-she’s not here now, and-”

“Calm down, little one. Everything’s all right. Dunya was here when I came. In fact, she was the one who let me in. But she was so tired, I sent her up to bed and told her I’d personally wait until Father Grigori returned.”