Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (44 page)

'But you're not so certain.'

'No, I'm not.'

'I hope to God you're wrong, Vaslav.'

'Believe me, so do I. Meanwhile, don't wait for me. I'll call
you back in a few hours. But it is safe to say we probably will
not meet today.'

She slowly replaced the earphone. For a moment she just
stood there gazing through the French doors at the sparkling, deceptively peaceful sea. It was June 28, a calm, sunny day all
over Europe, but beyond the blue horizon, invisible storm
clouds were gathering.

The long summer of 1914 had begun.

Few people in Europe and Russia believed the Archduke's
assassination could trigger war.

In Paris, the respected newspaper
Le Figaro
confidently
declared: 'Nothing to cause anxiety'.

The German Kaiser, Wilhelm II, was shocked by the news
and thundered against what he thought was the most heinous
of all crimes—regicide. He did not, however, believe it to be
a preamble to war.

Neither did King George V of England. With the typical
British penchant for understatement, he confided in his diary:
'Terrible shock for the dear old Emperor.'

Aboard the Russian Imperial yacht,
Standart,
another tragedy hit far closer to home, taking precedence over the events
in Europe. The day before, news had reached the Empress that Rasputin, the monk, had been stabbed in the stomach,
and the doctors' contention was that he could not possibly
survive: the slash had exposed his entrails. Empress
Alexandra, who had long believed that Rasputin was the sole
hope for her haemophiliac son, was frantic with worry. While
almost everyone on board the yacht secretly prayed that the
mad monk would indeed die, the Empress prayed constantly
for his life and received daily cables informing her of Raspu
tin's condition.

In Livadia on the afternoon of June 30, after Senda and Vaslav
both came to orgasm, they lay quietly in bed, catching their
breaths. It was two days after the Archduke's assassination.
The shutters were closed against the bright afternoon sun, and
the bulky furniture lurked like murky purple shadows in the
corners of the room. A hornet, trapped behind the open win
dow, buzzed angrily, trying to escape its prison of glass.

Vaslav lit a cigarette and smoked silently beside her, his
eyes thoughtful, as though studying the ceiling. Senda reached
for her champagne glass on the bedside cabinet and took a sip.
She grimaced. It had stood there untouched for the last hour
or so, and the fine smooth taste had gone flat. She was just
pushing the glass away when Vaslav casually announced, 'I
will be leaving for St. Petersburg in the morning.'

'What!' Senda sat up straight and stared at him, the sheet
falling away from her breasts. 'Vaslav, we've only just arrived
here!'

He looked at her strangely. 'Summer holidays are all very
well,' he said, his voice assuming a brisk, businesslike tone,
'but my interests, and especially Russia's welfare, must take
priority.'

'Of course.
'
She looked at him steadily, not certain what
else she should say.

'There is little choice. The way I see it, if the Czar is as blind
as those useless ministers of his, then I'll be forced to take it
upon myself to try to convince him otherwise.'

'Then he's returned to St. Petersburg?' she asked.

He barked a low laugh, a plume of blue smoke escaping his
nostrils. 'No, our revered "Father of all the Russias" and his
family are still enjoying their cruise.' His voice was tinged with
an acidity she had never heard him use before. 'Apparently the events in Europe aren't of consequence enough to justify
his cutting their vacation short.'

She was shocked. 'But he's the Czar! Surely, as our leader,
if it's as serious as you fear—'

'The Czar is weak, obstinate, incompetent, and misinfor
med,' Vaslav interrupted derisively. 'And his ministers are
useless, puffed-up ostriches.'

She stared at him. This was all startling news to her. She
was not usually privy to this kind of information, and it was the first time she had ever heard a member of the nobility speaking less than favourably about the ruler. It did little to
inspire confidence, and she was becoming quite alarmed.

'So you understand,' he said, stubbing out his cigarette in a
crystal ashtray, 'why we really have no choice but to return to
St. Petersburg.'

And Senda thought: We. Why do
we
have to return? Why
not just you? What's this got to do with me? If war came,
surely it wouldn't touch Livadia.

But deep down inside, she knew that it had everything to
do with her. She should have guessed his intentions the
moment he had decided to cut the summer short and return
to St. Petersburg. Wherever Vaslav went, she was to follow. It
had never been put into words, but that was what he expected
her to do.

She, Tamara, and Inge were supposed to drop everything
and pack.

She had easily adapted to life in the sun-drenched villa by
the sea, just as she had quickly grown accustomed to the ador
ing crowds, the abundance of luxuries, and a way of life few
people in the world could sustain. Now the perfect summer
was shattered.

She thought savagely: I'm not his toy. I'm not his plaything.
He can't order me around like one of his servants.

But she knew he could, and that was what filled her with a
sudden burst of anger and self-disgust. In many ways, she had
less freedom than his servants.

They returned to St. Petersburg within a day of each other, Vaslav and the Princess on the Danilovs' private train, and
Senda, Inge, and Tamara in a first-class compartment on the
regular express train.

For the first time since their affair had begun, Senda was
truly miserable. She knew she was being selfish, but she
couldn't help herself. Didn't he realize that her first responsi
bility had to be to Tamara? That she had promised her
daughter a vacation, had sent her to Livadia, and that, because
of him, something she could not possibly explain to the young
girl, they had been forced to cut the summer short? He was too
self-important, altogether too autocratic to think of anyone's
needs but his own. He was the same way in bed.

The world revolved around Vaslav Danilov.

It was the nineteenth of July before the Imperial yacht
steamed into its home port. Even then, the Czar refused to
heed the Prince's warnings. However, the Imperial household
had calmed down; the Empress's prayers had been answered,
for Rasputin, who she believed was blessed with miraculous healing powers, proved to his countless enemies that this was
indeed so. Despite his massive injuries, he rallied and pulled
through, and the Empress was convinced he was more sainted
than ever.

Ten days later, the Austro-Hungarian artillery sent the first
salvos of shells across the Danube, disregarding the white flags
of truce fluttering from the rooftops of Serbia's capital.

The shelling had begun.

And with it, war.

Chapter 19

The instant Senda stepped out onto the balcony to join Inge and Tamara, the sweltering heat hit her with the intensity of
a blast furnace. Inside, the heavy drawn curtains and the lofty
ceilings kept the rooms cool, but outside, the summer sun
broiled the city and baked its buildings. It was the afternoon
of August 2, and below, the quay along the Neva was wall-to-wall people; she could see that the crowd of tens of thousands
was packed even more densely around the Palace Bridge.
Everyone waved banners and shouted and cheered. Strangers
kissed strangers. People danced little jigs with partners they
had never seen before. Vendors, attracted by the crowds, sold
iced lemonade and fruit drinks. Excitement was at its most
feverish pitch.

Horns blasted and tooted on the Neva. The river swarmed
with a flotilla of steamers, yachts, sailboats, rowboats. Any
thing, it seemed, that could possibly float had been launched, and each craft was dangerously overloaded with spectators
and flew at least one Russian Imperial banner.

It was as if there were an impromptu festival and all of St. Petersburg
had joined in the celebration.

Suddenly a ripple of excitement swept the crowd; the banners waved and dipped with renewed vigour. Unbidden, a
massive tidal wave of cheers rolled through the spectators and
echoed up to the hot midsummer sky.

Inge reached down and lifted Tamara high so that she could
get an unobstructed view above the balustrade. Senda drew up beside them. 'It's the Czar and the Czarina, I think,' she
said, squinting into the distance.

'See, child?' Inge told Tamara.
'
There is the father of your
country. See how people love him?'

Tamara wiggled in Inge's arms until she faced her mother.
'It's exciting, Mama! Is it Easter again? Does it mean we're
going to colour eggs?'

Senda couldn't help laughing. 'No, angel cake, it's not Easter.' She tousled the youngster's hair and then her eyes
and voice took on an implacable sadness. 'It means war, I
think.'

'It looks a lot more exciting than Easter!' Tamara breathed,
bobbing her head. Her eyes were shining.

Now the crowd began to chant as one: 'Father! Father! Lead
us to victory, Father!'

'I wish we were closer,' Tamara said with a frown. 'I can't
see much. They're so far away.'