Then Ruzsky thought of Michael sitting alone in his room in Millionnaya Street and he began to run. “Hey!” he yelled at a droshky driver on the far side of the street. “Hey!”

46

R uzsky burst through the front door of Millionnaya Street. Ingrid was in the hallway. “Sandro,” she said, alarm on her face.

“Where is he?”

“In his room, but…”

Ruzsky had already reached the stairs.

“She is up there,” Ingrid hissed.

Ruzsky stopped, looking at his brother’s wife for a moment, then turned and pounded up toward the attic.

Michael sat on his bed, looking at a book. Irina was in the center of the room, packing his clothes into a leather case. Ruzsky steadied himself against the door.

Irina stopped what she was doing. Her narrow face softened for the first time in his presence for many years. “I’m so very sorry, Sandro,” she said.

She did not know whether to come to him, so remained where she was, awkwardly folding one of Michael’s white cotton shirts.

They were silent. Michael watched them both.

Irina was wearing an overcoat, her long, slender hands concealed in black leather gloves. A new jewel at her throat sparkled even in the dull light of the single electric lamp. Her hair was glossy and her foxlike face made up with meticulous care. It was a far cry from the radical student he had married and he saw the recognition of that fact in her eyes, also. “What are you doing?” Ruzsky asked.

She did not answer.

Ruzsky felt his son’s eyes boring into him. He kissed his forehead, sat by his side, and draped an arm around his shoulder. “Where did you find this?” he asked, turning to the book’s hand-drawn front cover.

“Uncle Dmitri gave it to me.”

Ruzsky looked at the pictures and the neatly inscribed verse. The story recounted the preparations for the fictional wedding of Tsar Dmitri I. It had been drawn and written in the era before their father and mother had discouraged Dmitri’s precocious artistic talents.

“I’m sorry I was not here,” Irina said.

Ruzsky did not respond. He pulled his son closer to him.

“He was a strong man.”

Strong rode high in Irina’s lexicon of approval. Strong was everything. But her failing was that she drew no distinction between the strength of the hero and the villain. “What are you doing?” he asked again.

“Sandro…”

Ruzsky leaned forward, uncoupling his arm from his son’s shoulder. “Where are you going?”

Irina inclined her head toward the room opposite. She wished to talk to him out of Michael’s earshot.

Ruzsky hugged his son. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he whispered. “It will be all right.”

He followed his wife through to Ilya and Dmitri’s room, their footsteps echoing on the wooden floorboards. Irina shut the door and stood close to him in the half-darkness.

Ruzsky listened to the sound of her breathing.

He wondered if she would take him in her arms and what his own response would be.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Truly sorry.”

Ruzsky did not answer.

“You know how he felt, don’t you?” Irina asked him. “Whatever may have been said?”

Ruzsky wished Irina to take him in her arms now and wondered momentarily if it was too late for them. He thought of Michael sitting alone on his bunk next door.

“Irina-”

“It is not healthy for him here, Sandro, don’t you see that?”

“I can’t be without him.”

“I cannot leave him here, Sandro.”

Ruzsky looked at his wife. Even in the twilight, he could tell that she was shielding something from him. “You’re going away,” he whispered.

“No-”

“You were going to take Michael away from me.”

“This is no place for him, Sandro, don’t you see that?”

“This is his home.”

“It would not be for long. Just for a few months. Until the situation here-”

“You plan to take him from Russia?” Ruzsky shook his head incredulously. “To Nice? To the Grand Duke’s promenade?”

“Sandro-”

“My father’s body is barely cold and you would rob me of our son?”

“Be reasonable. What is left for him here?”

“This is his home.”

“But who will care for him?”

“I-”

“You’re never here. You’re always at work.”

“Ingrid is-”

“Ingrid is not his mother,” she said crisply. “I am.”

They faced each other in silence.

“Think of what happened to your father,” Irina whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think he was alone in feeling that way? Look about you. The tension is in every face. Look in the mirror; you will see it in your own. Old Russia -our Russia -is on the brink of catastrophe. The dogs in the streets know it.”

Ruzsky could not think straight; she was right, but if he let her go, he was certain it would be the last he would ever see of his son. “It’s out of the question.”

“I’m his mother, Sandro. It’s not your right to decide-”

“No. I won’t countenance it.”

“I’m his mother.”

“You’re an adulteress and, unless I am mistaken, society will grant you no rights whatsoever.”

He had uttered harsh words more violently than he meant to. Even in the darkness, he heard her sharp intake of breath.

“Please leave this house,” he said.

Irina did not move. Her silence was meant to admonish him. “It was not just your father’s loss,” she whispered, “that you were not your father’s son.”

“Please leave.”

Irina hesitated a moment more, before turning and retreating rapidly down the stairs. Ruzsky walked across to the far side of the attic. He saw that Michael had heard every word of their exchange.

“Will I be staying with you now?” Michael asked.

Ruzsky hesitated. He could see on his son’s face the answer he wished to hear. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

As soon as Irina had gone, Ruzsky lifted the receiver in the hall and placed a call to Maria’s apartment. It rang and rang, but there was no answer.

He tried the Mariinskiy Theatre.

“I would like to speak to Maria Popova.”

“Not performing tonight.”

“Is she there nevertheless?”

“No.”

“Would you mind going to look for her? It’s important.”

“She’s not here.”

“Could you take a message?”

“Call again in the morning. She will not be in the theater before then.”

The line was cut.

Darkness crept silently through Millionnaya Street. Ruzsky worked alone in his father’s study. In the central drawer of the secretary, he found a single envelope, addressed to their cousin in England but not yet consigned to the mail. He slit open the envelope and moved the letter within beneath the desk lamp. It had been written the previous evening.

My dear William,

I fear it is now almost a year since my last missive, for which please accept my most profound apologies. This war continues to take its toll upon us all.

There has been some good news. Dmitri survived frontline duty in the Brusilov Offensive with nothing worse than a relatively minor injury to his arm, and is back at the barracks in Petrograd. Sandro has, to my great relief, also now returned from Tobolsk, and taken up his former post. He is gloriously unchanged, and my grandson a constant source of joy. In other circumstances, there would be much to celebrate.

But, as I’m sure you will have read in your own newspapers, the conduct of the government, and of the war, remains scandalous. The murder of Rasputin has been greeted with universal celebration, but upon sober reflection, has been shown to have changed nothing at all. The Empress, already domineering, neurotic, and hysterical, has become quite unhinged. All men of competence in the government have been dismissed, and we have been left with men of the caliber of Sturmer and Protopopov who are universally detested and beneath contempt.