We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 4: Moscow]
You are a Russian Grand Duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You (kind of) hate each other.
This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)
Song inspiration: “the 1” by Taylor Swift.
Chapter warnings: Sexual tension, tiramisu, cats, bubble baths, a wild chaotic Italian appears!
Word count: 6.5k.
Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.
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“Let’s start over.” Ben offers me his hand. We’re standing with our luggage outside the train station and waiting for someone to unload the livestock so we can collect the mule and her cart. The cobblestone streets are hectic, hustling, littered with scraps of newspapers and crushed cigarettes and slops of horse manure and fallen kaleidoscopic leaves. The entire world seems to smell like autumn: smoke and sky and harvest, the seasons of life closing, winter’s gleaming knife drawing nearer with each dusk. Today it’s sunny outside and fairly warm; Ben’s uncovered, messy blond curls are thrashing in the breeze. His hair is very short on the sides and longer on top, and he doesn’t slick it down the way Papa and Alexei always do. It’s an unconventional style in my experience, but it suits him. It suits him a little too well, actually. I’m having trouble not staring at his hair, his face, his cheeks and lips and large, green, intelligent eyes. I stare at his outstretched hand instead. “Hello, I’m Benjamin Hardy. I am often cantankerous and combustible. I will strive to be a good travel companion regardless. Please refrain from keeping secrets that could get us jailed and/or murdered. Thank you in advance.”
I take his hand. It’s a slightly less awkward gesture now, because we’ve done it before. “Hello, I’m the world’s worst typist. Nevertheless, it is important you remember that I am genetically superior to you in every way.”
Ben is laughing but trying to choke it back, his broad shoulders convulsing. This feels like a great victory. It’s the first time I’ve ever made him laugh on purpose.
“I will endeavor to make minimal complaints and measurable contributions,” I continue. “Please take me somewhere that has a bathtub. Thank you in advance.”
“Running water, for sure,” Ben agrees. “I can’t guarantee a bathtub though.”
“Then I might be going for a swim in the Moskva River.”
He points to a stone bridge a few blocks away from where we stand. It arches over the surging water, carrying pedestrians, horse-drawn carriages, street vendors selling meals and trinkets, soldiers on leave. “Go ahead. Dive right in. You can keep on paddling until you get to the Oka, and then the Volga, and then all the way to the Caspian Sea, and then maybe you can find some nice Kazakhstani man to take you to London and I’ll be rid of you forever.”
“But then how would you obtain the requisite funds and journalistic material to start your heavenly new life in America?”
“Ah yes, the only disadvantages of that plan.” He pops one of his hand-rolled cigarettes into his mouth and ignites it with his new lighter, the one he bought off someone on the train, maybe a farmer or a fisherman or a carpenter, someone travelling for work or pleasure or to visit family, or perhaps someone looking for a way out of Russia just like we are. The lighter is small and steel, tarnished in spots, and has a bear carved into the side. It’s standing on its hind legs and roaring silently, brandishing claws as it paws the air. Bears have been used as a symbol of my country for centuries: massive, fierce, resilient, majestic. And yet I have heard of other connotations as well, things that Papa mentions to Mother with an amused little chuckle, as if he can only bring himself to pity, not resent, those who misunderstand Russia as brutal and clumsy and gluttonous, swallowing down the weak and licking their blood from the dirt. Now those criticisms don’t strike me as funny at all.
“Kroshka!” Ben cries, beaming as a railroad employee leads her over by the bridle. The mule is lugging the cart and looks every bit as unpolished and unflappable as I remember. She’s mulling us over with drowsy black eyes and chomping on a mouthful of hay, her long ears twitching. The employee helps us load the luggage then continues on his way. Ben strokes the white stripe on the mule’s forelock, his cigarette dangling precariously between his lips, exhaling puffs of smoke as he murmurs: “Who’s a lovely mule? Who’s the most wonderful mule in the whole wide world? Is it you, huh? Is it? Or is it some other mule? No, it’s you! It’s Kroshka! Yes it is!”
Bizarrely, I find myself feeling a stab of envy for this unattractive, threadbare mule. She has no worries. She has no conflictions. She will never know enough to fear for anyone’s life, let alone her own. She will never have to come to terms with the fact that her own people wouldn’t mind seeing her homeless and destitute and perhaps even dispatched via firing squad. She will never have to learn about wars or revolutions. Also, Ben likes the mule. Likes her enough to touch her every chance he gets. Not that I care who Ben touches, no way, not even the teeniest tiniest bit. Except maybe I do.
I distract myself by scanning the bustling street, shielding my eyes from the sun with one hand. This is the same Moscow I have visited before with my family, and yet at the same time it isn’t: it’s dirtier, and louder, and more chaotic in a way that makes me feel edgy and defenseless. The cobblestones seem coarser when I’m standing on them in my ugly borrowed leather boots rather than gliding across them in carriages, peering down at them through palace windows, being swiftly escorted over them by vigilant servants. The chorus of voices around me is gruffer, their Russian uneducated and unrefined. They use words I’ve never heard before in tones I don’t want to decipher. There are beggars, some of them women and children, and wounded veterans and stray dogs and slinking men with hands in their coat pockets and the dodging eyes of thieves. And there is one man in particular, young and slim and angular-faced, staring at us from beside the cart of a vender selling chebureki. He has his wallet out, but seems to have forgotten the prospect of lunch completely. The scent of fried dough and minced lamb is thick and oily in the air.
I step closer to Ben. The young man observes us fixedly, stuffing his wallet back into his wine-red corduroy pants. Then he begins to approach.
I grip Ben’s sleeve and he whirls to me, brow furrowed, startled, alarmed. He knows I hardly ever touch him. “Ben, there’s someone watching us.”
He pushes me behind him with a rough sweep of his arm, follows my eyeline…and bursts into astonished laughter. “Good god, Joe Mazzello?!”
“Beniamino!” the man shouts ecstatically in reply. He has a disorientingly pronounced Italian accent and makes grand gestures with his lithe, energetic hands. He jogs over to us with a grin displaying pointed canine teeth, his auburn hair flopping everywhere, his small dark eyes squinting under an uncommonly glaring Moscow sun.
“What are you doing here, mate?!” Ben asks as Joe seizes his face and smacks a noisy kiss on each cheek. “I thought the Italian embassy was still in Saint Petersburg.”
“Ah, amico, they are moving us constantly!” Joe rolls his eyes and shakes his head and makes some exaggerated hand motions that are meant to signify…exasperation? Lamentation? Exhaustion? It’s difficult to know for sure. “Reports change every day. If it’s not the communists closing in from the east, it’s the Germans from the west. This country has become a nightmare, no? This world has become a nightmare. Mamma mia!” He glances at the train station. “Are you coming back from an audience with the man who was once the tsar?”
I’m not thrilled with this characterization of my father. It’s too impersonal, too dismissive, too illustrative of a captured chess piece plucked off the board and relegated to irrelevance; but perhaps that’s unavoidable. After all, this Joe person doesn’t really know Papa. No one does, it seems.
“We are, yeah. This is, uh…” Ben waves to me and pauses awkwardly. Oh god. He’s forgotten my fake name. Which is odd, because he’s the one who gave it to me. “Lana Brinkley,” he recovers. “She’s a new typist with Sir Buchanan’s office. She came along to assist me, it’s her first assignment.”
“Ah, well it is a fortunate thing that you already went,” Joe tells Ben in a hushed voice. “I heard they’ve relocated the family again.”
“Really?” Ben says.
“Yes, somewhere more isolated. A place called…ah, what was it…? These Russian names, they’re impossible. An insult to the tongue, no? Yekaterinburg, I think.”
And something crosses Ben’s face, something distant and analytical, like he’s trying to solve math problems in his head; it’s the same look he gets when he’s searching for the perfect word to jot down in his leather-bound notebook, tapping his chin with the end of his pen, eyes cast up at the misty cloud-veiled stars. He catches me watching him and clears his expression like a slate wiped clean. “Hmm,” he manages, unforthcoming and noncommittal, stomping on the remains of his cigarette and dragging the ashes around with the heels of his boots.
“How long will you be in Moscow?” Joe asks.
“Only a day,” says Ben. “Then we’re continuing on to Saint Petersburg. We have to set sail while the weather’s still good.”
“A ship, eh?!” Joe’s eyes light up. “A ship going where?”
Ben has become distracted and shared too much; he smirks, almost grimaces, annoyed with himself. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Bastardo!” Joe teases lightly. “Very well. Being a generous man, I will forgive you. Where are you staying tonight? You and this bella donna?” He takes my right hand and presses his lips to my knuckles, grinning beneath a playful wink. It’s like something straight out of a fairytale, out of a poem, out of all the written fantasies I love to escape into; and it’s perfectly pleasant, but I don’t feel much of anything besides amusement.
“E un piacere conoscerla, signore,” I reply in practically flawless Italian. Meaning: It’s nice to meet you, sir.
“Ah!” Joe gasps, still grinning, still holding my hand. “She’s wonderful, no?”
“I figured we’d just try to find an inn somewhere,” Ben tells Joe. He doesn’t seem bothered at all that Joe is touching me, doesn’t even seem to notice. Maybe he’d care if Joe tried to seduce the mule. “It’s only for a night, we don’t need anything fancy. We’ve slept in plenty of austere settings before. Nothing here will be less accommodating than the Siberian wilderness.”
Joe shakes his head. “No, no, no, I cannot allow this. You will stay with me and the other Italians, capire?”
“We couldn’t possibly impose on you like that—”
“Ah, Beniamino, you are breaking my heart!” Joe exclaims with some more erratic rolls of his eyes. “You must stay with us. I cannot leave a friend out in the cold. Please, I beg you.”
“If you insist,” Ben replies, but he’s smiling.
“Fantastico! Follow me, my friends. The embassy has set up in a bellissimo old townhouse, very nice, very big, has a courtyard out back, a stable for the mule, some rooms with a view of the river. And more cats than you could ever find time to make the acquaintance of, eh?”
“Cats?” I inquire uneasily. Mother has a terrible dislike of cats, I think she was attacked by one as a child. Or maybe she’s just allergic to them. We’ve always had dogs: Anastasia’s Russian Toy, Papa’s huskies and shepherds, straightforward and perhaps even stupid animals that come when they’re called and present themselves unconditionally for whatever new torment their humans have thought up. I’ve rarely been around cats, and have always found them peculiar, almost unnerving, with their unpredictable movements and lofty indifference and changeable moods, as if they spend their whole lives just waiting for excuses to sink their claws into you.
“The Italian ambassador is rather obsessed with cats,” Ben informs me, wearing a smug half-smile, enjoying my discomfort.
Joe is apologetic. “You don’t like cats, signora Lana? Lana bella donna?”
“I’ll be alright. We’re very grateful for your hospitality, I’m sure the house is lovely. I’ve just always found cats to be rather…” I hunt for the right words. “Arrogant. Undomesticated.”
“Yes, you have so much in common,” Ben says. He climbs into the front of the cart and picks up the reins. The mule’s ears swivel as she awaits his commands. “Which way are we headed, Joe?”
Joe follows me into the back of the cart and gives Ben directions: muddled, half-English directions, and he keeps mixing up right and left, but directions nonetheless. He makes polite conversation with me as we bump along over the cobblestones: complimenting my Italian, asking about our journey thus far, guessing which part of Great Britain I hail from.
“It must be somewhere in the north, no?” Joe theorizes, peering at me thoughtfully. “York or Lancaster, maybe? I cannot quite place your accent. You don’t sound the same as Ben, that’s for sure. You are no London girl.” He wags a finger at me.
“Yes, it’s somewhere up north,” I agree, hoping he’ll change the subject.
We pass a number of street vendors selling everything from pierogis to handmade swords, and I watch paper and coins exchange hands with consuming fascination, the way I imagine some people watch bullfighting or card-wielding magicians. I have never bought anything. Once, years ago, Tati and Anastasia and I crept out of the Winter Palace unnoticed and skipped through the streets of Saint Petersburg pretending to be ordinary girls. We gave ourselves new names, wore the plainest dresses we had, giggled at how we were going to do all those mysterious things that normal people did: inhale the powdery sugar of the bakeries, browse through bookstores, haggle for cabbages and beets. But we quickly realized that we had no idea about money: how much things should cost, how to use it, how to get it. We didn’t have a cent between us. And then the Russian Imperial Guards found us and corralled us back to the palace to be interrogated by our decidedly hysterical mother.
“Can we stop?” I ask Ben when I see a tiny, crooked old woman selling handmade scarves. He sighs but—to my surprise—concedes and stops the cart without a struggle. “And, also, could I have some money, please?”
He groans. “Seriously?”
“I’ve never bought anything here.” The here I add for Joe, because it is reasonable that as a new employee in Sir Buchanan’s office I would have never purchased Russian goods on my own before. But Ben knows what I mean: that I have never purchased anything, ever. He roots around in his pockets before presenting me with a handful of coins. “Is that enough?” I ask, skeptical.
“It better be. Those are scarves, not sapphires. And hurry up.”
I hop out of the cart and peruse the old woman’s wares as Ben and Joe chat about embassy business, troop movements, their families, their friends. It occurs to me that Ben probably has a woman he’s courting back home, maybe even a fiancée, maybe even a wife, although he doesn’t wear a ring; it seems impossible that he would not have a woman waiting for him. I shouldn’t care about that, because in all likelihood I have someone waiting on me too, even if he doesn’t know it yet: David Windsor, the Prince of Wales, future ruler of the British Empire, tall and svelte and disciplined and refined and probably the greatest catch of my generation. I envision the prince as I last saw him two years ago at Christmas: charming and silk-smooth, ever-smiling, eloquent and blond. I find myself increasingly preferring blonds.
I sift through scarves until I find the perfect one: deep forest-like green with a bear stitched into it with silver thread. I hand my money to the old woman—nearly bent in half by her crooked back—and when she tries to give me half of the coins back I tell her in Russian to keep them. She needs money more than we do. I can see that in the cavernous lines of her wind-swept face, in the trembling knobs of her fingers that can somehow still yield beautiful things.
“We match,” I tell Ben as I clamber back into the cart, slinging the scarf around my neck, vaulting my eyebrows triumphantly. See? I can learn to do things for myself. I can buy a scarf just like anyone else. I can be someone besides an impractical, impassive royal waiting for the puppet strings of men to drop her onto the stage of their choosing.
Ben looks at me, the corners of his lips pulling into a strange smile I can’t quite read, and then urges the mule onwards.
~~~~~~~~~~
The makeshift, ever-in-flux Italian embassy is only a few blocks from the train station. The townhouse is brick and soaring and casts a long shadow over the afternoon street. And as Joe foretold, it is crawling with cats: Persians swishing their tails on the dining room table, Birmans curled up on couches, Himalayans glowering judgmentally from where they perch on staircase banisters, Norwegian Forest Cats stalking pigeons out in the courtyard. The townhouse is also crawling with Italians. They scuttle from room to room carrying stacks of papers and placing telephone calls and making those same amplified, unrelenting hand gestures that Joe has, speaking in those same loud and shameless voices. It must be in their bones. Habits that old are hard to pry out; the Italians have been quarreling with each other and aiming for targets farther than their legs can carry them since Rome had an empire of its own.
Joe has the luggage brought upstairs and shows me and Ben to a bedroom that is slathered in pink everything—paint, pillows, chairs, sheets—before he’s called away by another embassy employee. He makes a hurried apology, complete with hand flailing, and says he’ll see us in the dining room for dinner in an hour. I hope they’ve removed some of the cats by then.
When Joe is gone, I turn to Ben. “I’d like to wash my dress, the one I was wearing the day we left Tobolsk. The one that’s actually mine. I’m very grateful that you had the foresight to obtain clothes for me, truthfully, but with all due respect if I have to wear another pair of trousers or scratchy wool skirt I’m going to drown myself. I want to feel like me again. At least a little bit like me. Can you teach me how to wash a dress? I assume that’s something you know how to do.”
“It is, but we can find someone to do that for you,” Ben replies. “The Italian embassy has servants. Obnoxious, chatty servants, probably, but still servants.”
“I can do it,” I insist. “I can wash my own clothes. I’m not above that.” I do want to prove to Ben that I’m willing to do things for myself, that’s true; but I also can’t let anybody else handle the dress. They might feel the weight and edges of the Romanov jewels hidden inside it. And if Ben lost his mind over a photograph, I can’t imagine what he’d do if he found out about them.
“You’re going to tear your hands up. They’re not used to physical labor.”
“Then they’ll just have to learn to adjust like the rest of us.”
“Alright. Fine. But I don’t want to hear a single complaint out of you about blisters or raw spots or whatever else.”
“You won’t,” I fling back, chin raised haughtily.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, snickering. “You are exactly like a cat.”
He finds a metal wash tub, washboard, and box of powdered soap—or, more accurately, he follows my instructions concerning where to find them after I consult with an employee in Italian—and we go out into the courtyard together. He squats with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped, inspecting every move as I fill the tub with sudsy water, kneel beside it, and scrub the soaked dress against the washboard until my hands and shoulders ache, and then burn, and then go so numb and lifeless they feel like they must belong to someone else entirely. But each time Ben asks if I need help, I adamantly refuse; and if later he tells me to just admit it was a task more arduous than I was prepared for, I’ll refuse that too.
Between exhausted gulps of breath, I huff: “I’d like to go to church tomorrow morning. Somewhere nice, maybe even Saint Basil’s Cathedral. Before our train leaves for Saint Petersburg. I never thought much of church growing up, but now it might be my last chance to go.” Not thinking much of it is a bit of an understatement; I was always feigning coughs or headaches to avoid having to accompany my family to church, and Mother—being as frail as she is and having a particular empathy for the ill—would reliably implore me to hurry back into bed where I would be left to read in peace until mid-afternoon, when I’d miraculously recover; and when I rejoined the family, Tati and Anastasia would cast me viperous scowls of jealousy for being spared as Papa chuckled affectionately, knowingly, never divulging a word to Mother.
“No, no way,” Ben replies with an arrogant toss of his head, an accusatory wag of the cigarette gripped between his fingers. His blond hair flips from one side to the other, which I try not to pay any attention to. “Absolutely not. I’m not going to one of your freakish churches with all the colorful candles and the robes and the long grey beards and the gold everything and the swinging incense balls, all those absurd superstitions and rituals, it’s practically pagan. Priests stalking around like dodgy Santa Clauses. No thank you.”
“What are you, Anglican?”
“Naturally.”
“Well now I know I’ll certainly never see you again after this trip.”
Ben laughs, deep and rumbling. I’m getting better at making him laugh, which feels like an accomplishment. “What, because I’ll be on the wrong side of the afterlife?”
“I don’t make the rules. Just astute observations.”
“Do you really believe in all that? In good people floating up into some weightless, blissful paradise made of clouds and the bad ones going, where? Straight down to swim for eternity in the lake of fire?”
I begin wringing out the dress. Ropes of sudsy water patter down into the tub. I’m sure I’d be able to feel the lace-muffled edges of the jewels cushioned in the fabric if my hands weren’t so traumatized. I keep talking to distract Ben, to be sure he doesn’t notice anything: a snag, a bump, a telltale vestige that I have once again hidden something from him. “To be entirely honest, I’m not sure what I believe yet. I’ll end up joining whatever church my husband belongs to in any case. But if any religion is true, it’s probably the Russian one.”
“That’s rather egocentric of you.” Ben sounds disappointed now, like I’ve suffered a setback.
“Eastern Orthodoxy is far older than Anglicanism,” I point out.
“And? I’m older than you. Does that make me more trustworthy?”
“We didn’t just invent a new religion because our king wanted to get a divorce and impregnate some impertinent commoner.”
“So now you have a problem with impertinent commoners? Even the ones that hold your life in their unsophisticated hands?”
“Your hands aren’t so unsophisticated,” I mumble as I straighten my aching back, shake out the dress, and throw it over a clothesline strung across the courtyard. I’m not really sure what I mean by that, and Ben isn’t either; his pensive green eyes track me as I walk across the brick pathways that crisscross the gardens of autumn crocuses and viola incisa and Siberian fawn lilies, plants that can battle the descending winter’s cold and win, at least for a while. I struggle with the clothespins for a minute or two, but eventually I figure them out and secure the dress to dry overnight. I beam at Ben. See? I am useful. I am practical. I am capable.
Ben stands and rest his hands on his waist, those scarred and sturdy hands. There’s a lull before he speaks, a quiet threaded with brisk golden air and fading afternoon sunlight. “You win,” he says softly, smiling.
The back door of the townhouse squeaks open and Joe Mazzello steps outside to join us, wiping his forehead with the back of one hand and his shoulders slumped, looking flustered and depleted. He flips over an empty flowerpot and plops down on it with a great exhale.
“You alright there, mate?” Ben asks.
“Ah, it is a disastro, Beniamino.” They exchange a glance of two men who have known each other for years, who have invented a wordless language—nods, sighs, twitches of eyebrows—that only they can speak. The silence is long and heavy, and I feel like an intruder. Then Joe perks up and says: “So, you are travelling to Saint Petersburg to catch a ship.”
“Yes,” Ben admits.
“A ship that will take you far, far away from Russia.”
Ben hesitates. “Well…”
“To London?” Joe ventures. “The British ambassador is ailing, I have heard this. His retirement is imminent. Sir Buchanan will not need staff in this country much longer. He is going home soon, if he is not there already. And how fortunate for you, to escape all this ruin!”
Ben shows the palms of his hands, a helpless gesture. I can’t tell you anything about it, that gesture says. His lips are a tight, rueful line.
“Wherever you are going, it does not matter to me,” Joe says. “I do not need to know. But I do have a favor to ask, Beniamino.”
“Anything,” Ben replies. “You’ve been a true friend to me. And I’m not a man who acquires friends easily.”
I frown at him. I don’t like when Ben speaks ill of himself, when he underestimates his charm. Because he does have some, I’ve learned; it could use some sanding down around the serrated edges, sure, but it’s there.
Joe grins craftily. “When you travel to Saint Petersburg, when you board this ship…you will take me with you.”
“But…but…” Ben sputters, not understanding. “Joe, mate…you’ll lose your job. Everything you’ve built here. The Italian ambassador won’t give you permission to leave.”
“I don’t care,” he declares with a flippant wave of his hand. “I don’t need this job. I’m going to America anyway. I’ve made up my mind. Half my family’s already there. I’m through with Europe and all its endless squabbling, I’m through with Italy, and I’m definitely through with Russia. The ambassador can stay here with his cats until these beasts eat him alive.”
“Joe…” Ben looks over at me like he wishes I would disappear. I stare back, impudent, unmovable, too slighted to give him what he wants.
“Beniamino, this country is done for,” Joe says gravely. “The Provisional Government will not hold. The communists are gaining support, gaining territory, every day their numbers grow. When the wheel turns, it will happen like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Overnight. No warning. I don’t want to be here when that materializes. Revolutions are a hideous thing, no matter what they might accomplish in the end. Bleeding and purging and guillotines in the streets. You learned about France in school, yes? It will be like that here, but worse, because the Russians are beasts and always have been. That fate is not for me. My head is too beautiful to end up on a spike.”
“I didn’t spend much time in school,” Ben mutters, distracted. He shakes his head, rubs his face with his hands. I watch him, questions burning in my eyes. He told me this wouldn’t happen. He told me not to worry. But Ben is too shellshocked to notice me. “I thought we had more time.”
Joe makes some more of his elaborate hand movements. “It could happen in a month, it could happen in a day. Only God could tell you, and I don’t happen to have his phone number or last known address, do you?”
Ben smiles wanly. “No, I don’t.”
“Then you will take me with you, and we will leave this miserable country behind together.”
Ben turns to me. I probably look like I’m offended, like I’m furious at Joe, but I’m not; my thoughts are back in Tobolsk with my family. No, not Tobolsk anymore; somewhere else, somewhere even more remote, more lonely, more powerless. What had Joe called the town? Yekaterinburg. A place I have never heard of before. In my mind, I see trees and stones and gaping wilderness. I see Papa chopping wood in the mist-cloaked early morning. I see Mother gazing vacantly out the window, her eyes rheumy with misfortune, calamity eating weakness into her bones.
Everything will be okay, I tell myself, because Ben can’t, not while Joe’s sitting here thinking I’m just some British typist who has no exceptional affection for the disgraced tsar and his wife and children. Soon we’ll be in Saint Petersburg, and then London, and then I’ll be safe with Uncle George and my family will be rescued within weeks.
“What do you think?” Ben asks me. A hollow courtesy; I’m in no position to say who accompanies us on this expedition.
“I have no objection to Joe as a travel companion. At least I’d have someone to speak Italian with.”
“Fantastico!” Joe rejoices, and rushes over to embrace me. It’s a new experience, brash and unbalanced, but strangely enough I don’t find this informal affection alarming. It’s not so bad, actually. “She’s wonderful, no?” Joe asks Ben for the second time today.
“She’s alright,” Ben replies with a shrug, looking at the ground, and Joe narrows his eyes at him.
We are beckoned inside for dinner, and we sit with all the Italians around a long wooden table laden with pastas and breads and glass bottles of olive oil, platters of cured meats and sharp cheeses, chalices of wine the color of blood. Rosemary and basil are in the air. Cats weave through our legs beneath the tablecloth, their spines arching, meowing for scraps of salami. I follow our hosts’ conversations, but I don’t say much; my thoughts are too preoccupied, my heart pulled towards an anonymous town too far away. I eat too little and drink too much. But I am cognizant that I am grateful to be seated beside Ben, a familiar face, a rare non-stranger in a world that seems so hopelessly strange. Each time he gets up to grab himself another hunk of bread or some salami to toss to the cats, I feel his absence like a fire snuffed out, like a patch of coldness in a drafty room.
Right as dessert is being served—generous slices of tiramisu being laid onto our plates by servants—and I’m good and distracted, Ben reaches out to turn over my left hand and grazes his fingertips across the angry red rawness that scours my palm. I snatch my hand away and glare at him, but Ben doesn’t look self-righteous or taunting. He just looks sorry.
“I told you you’d tear them up,” he murmurs, then digs into his tiramisu.
I may not entirely approve of the Italians’ abundance of cats, but I do approve of the bathroom adjoining my bedroom: it’s clean and roomy and pink and features a freestanding bathtub deep enough to soak in. As I draw the water—hot! steaming! a miracle!—and add soap to make bubbles, Ben appears in the doorway.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.
“Taking a bath. Obviously.” My words slur; I stagger when I cross the bathroom to fetch a towel from the closet beside the sink. Oh no. This is why Ben has been restricting my wine consumption.
“You seem a little…” Ben considers me. “Impaired.”
“I’m celebrating having hot running water.”
“Taking a bath right now is probably not a good idea.”
“Au contraire, I think it is an excellent idea. Now leave so I can take my clothes off.”
“What if you fall asleep and slip beneath the water and drown or something?”
“Then I guess you’ll have to start over and rescue Tatiana and write your article about her. She’d make for better material, anyway. So graceful. So feminine. She’ll look lovely in the photographs. She’s the most beautiful Romanov daughter, you know.”
“Beauty is rather subjective.”
“I’m not in the proper condition to discuss philosophy with you.” I turn off the water. The tub is full and waiting. “Now please leave. That’s an order.”
“I’m not your subject, princess.”
“Grand duchess,” I correct, twirling on my bare feet, swishing my towel like the train of a ballgown.
“Dear lord,” Ben grumbles.
“Wait outside the door,” I offer. “I’ll talk to you so you’ll know I’m alright. I won’t be long, but if you don’t let me take this bath I’m going to go mad and probably murder everyone in this house, starting with the cats.”
Ben agrees. He shuts the bathroom door and sits just on the other side; I know how close he is because his cigarette smoke begins to seep under the door and into the bathroom, mingling with the steam, and now the foggy room matches the state of my mind. He asks me trivial things—what was the tastiest dish at dinner, which language is my favorite to speak, which variety of cat do I find the most off-putting—and I dutifully answer as I lather soap down my arms and legs, across my chest and belly, between my thighs, dimly aware of the impropriety of conversing with a man while I’m lying naked just a few meters away. Some might even call it erotic. My cheeks are flushed, and not just from the wine; but any nerves have evaporated. I splash around like a fish, blessedly careless, relishing the thought of Mother’s shock and horror when I tell her about this later.
“What do you think you’d be?” Ben asks through the door. “You know, in another lifetime, if you weren’t…the sort of person that you are.”
This puzzles me. I’ve never seriously considered a non-royal existence. “I’m not really sure. There are only so many options for women. I don’t care for blood and vomit, so I wouldn’t make a very good nurse. I am a terrible seamstress, and perhaps an even worse typist. And I can’t cook anything, not even an egg. I’m not elegant enough to be a ballerina. I’m not pious enough to be a nun. I suppose I could be a translator or something like that. I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to serve my own people in some way…even if they think they don’t want my help.”
“You could work in a settlement house,” Ben suggests.
“What’s that?” I crinkle my nose, even though he can’t see me. I’ve never heard of settlement houses in my life.
“They have them in cities. There’re some in London, and a lot in New York and Chicago. They’re places where immigrants can go to learn English and skills to get jobs. They provide medicine, childcare, meals, hope. You’d be quite the asset, speaking as many languages as you do. Think of all the Russian immigrants you could help.”
“Hm.” I sink deep into the hot water, washing the last of the soap from my skin. And then I can picture it with jarring, unpredictable clarity: leaning over some young mother’s shoulder as she practices her English alphabet, showing her just where to cross her Fs and her Is and her Js, gifting slivers of chocolate to her timid children. It fills me with an odd sensation of fullness, of a door opening. And then I let it float away like steam. My future is not to be surrounded by the fleeing and the impoverished and the lost. My future is castles and crowns, and—above all, the greatest joy of any royal wife—sons. I yank the chain of the bathtub plug and the water recedes with a guttural roar.
Ben takes his own bath as I towel myself off, slip into the nightgown that the Italians left on the bed for me, fluff the pillows, nestle beneath the blankets, inhale the scents of clean cotton and soap and (regrettably) cats. When Ben comes into the bedroom, he’s wearing dark blue pajamas and an aura of apprehension. He wrings his hands and peers around the room nervously.
“I think I should sleep with you,” he says.
“What?”
“In the room with you, I mean,” he amends quickly. “I don’t think anything would happen, but I don’t really know any of these people besides Joe. Someone could pick the lock, and there’s the window as well. I don’t feel right about leaving you alone.”
“That makes sense. I am extremely valuable cargo.”
“Yes,” Ben says, quietly and unsmiling.
“Well then.” I stack up frilly pink pillows to make a barrier between the two sides of the bed, like the Great Wall of China or the zigzag of the Moskva River. “Please, make yourself at home.”
Ben climbs into his side of the bed, his weight shifting the mattress. It’s a comforting feeling; it reminds me of my siblings creeping into my bed on early mornings to share harmless gossip and mischievous plans, of Tati, Anastasia, Olga, Maria, Alexei, my old life, the life I’ll have again when we’re reunited. Ben shuts off the lamp and we lay side by side in silence until I speak.
“So…tomorrow are you going to take me to what might be my last-ever chance to practice authentic Eastern Orthodoxy?”
Ben groans very dramatically. “We’ll see.”
And then I know—intrinsically, in my bones, all the way down to the marrow—that in the morning Ben will take me to Saint Basil’s Cathedral, towering and vibrant and busy enough that we can slip in and out invisibly, like ghosts flitting between shadowy rooms. He might complain, he might roll his eyes, he might annoy me, he might spend the whole time whispering jibes about the priests and all their intricate, impractical rites older than anyone can remember. But he’s going to do it.
“Thank you, Ben,” I tell him, meaning it more than I can recall meaning anything.
“Oh shut up,” he snaps, but I can tell he’s smiling. He rolls over and buries his head beneath the blankets until only the unruly tuft of his blond hair is still visible.
I spend a long time staring at the ceiling, and I spend even longer with my eyes closed trying to find unconsciousness like a dark, profound, soundless lake I can dive into. And at last I tumble into sleep imagining Ben’s lips feigning the shapes of ancient chants and candlelight flickering on his cheekbones like wildfire.
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