The Romanov succession

The bald man appeared in the doorway, slipping past the edge of the crowd. It disturbed her: she couldn’t place him but there was something in the back of her mind, a sense that made her glide to one side in order to interpose herself between the bald man and the stairs. He tried to sidestep but a fat woman was in the way. She couldn’t explain it to herself. But she was sure the bald man’s eyes flashed bitterly-so briefly it might never have happened at all.

Very likely her imagination was betraying her. She went on along the gallery, greeting a few people-the ones who didn’t bore her. In the ballroom she accepted an old Kiev duke’s invitation to dance because he was her father’s cousin and had a good laugh which he hadn’t forgotten how to use. She whirled onto the floor holding the skirt of her long red gown.

6

Heavy drapes were looped back from the long gallery of windows. The inner wall of the upstairs corridor was hung museumlike with pictures darkened by age from which several generations of Romanovs brooded upon the scene. Vassily Devenko strode past them without a glance.

Alex kept pace with him, recognizing the dark formal portraits: Alexander II, Alexander III, Vladimir, Alexis, Serge, Paul, Cyril, Boris, Andrei, Dimitri; then the late Grand Dukes George and Michael and finally Nicholas II and Alexandra Fedorovna… The physical strength and magnetism of the family was evident in them all.

No one was in sight in the long wide hall. Vassily stopped abruptly. “A word with you.”

Through the bank of high windows the setting sun fanned the cloud bellies with marbled streaks of crimson and pink. A warm hint of cologne and tobacco smoke drifted under the tall arch-buttressed ceiling. Alex said, “Go on,” reserving a great deal.

Vassily shook his head. It emphasized the weary cast of his deep-lined features. “Doesn’t it strike you the way they all go on as if nothing’s changed? Living on the international scale, perpetuating this idiotic love affair with deluxe pleasures and genteel pastimes. And half the world’s blowing up just over the horizon.”

“You can’t change them.”

“I am not condemning them for it. If they gave it all up and put on sackcloth and ashes it would not make a bit of difference to the world. But the unreality of the way they can just go on and on like this-how hard it will be to persuade them to set aside their illusions.”

In jodhpurs and belted grey jacket Vassily had the look of a Prussian martinet; it struck Alex that all it would take to complete the image would be a riding crop slapping into his open palm.

Vassily said, “I asked them to bring you into this.” He put the emphasis on the first person pronoun and it startled Alex as it had been meant to. “I did it for several reasons. First because you are patently the best for the job-best qualified and best situated. Second because you once forced me to make a very careful reexamination of my own impetuosity-and it may be useful to have you in a position where you can do that again if the events call for it.”

Vassily was offering an olive branch but it didn’t have a pure color of truth.

Alex didn’t answer. Vassily nodded as if Alex’s silence confirmed a suspicion. “It is important we find some way to reconcile our quarrel.”

“I don’t carry grudges.”

“No. But you are certain I cannot be trusted. I must find a way to earn your trust back. If you cannot have confidence in my judgment none of this is going to work.”

Alex put it bluntly. “I don’t see how you’re going to do that.”

The weariness seemed ground into Vassily like grit. He glanced out the windows, his squint far-eyed with his visions; his face picked up the reddish reflection of the sunset and seemed very bitter. “They have tried twice to kill me. They will go on trying until they succeed. At first I thought it was an old enemy but it is not likely-too coincidental. Someone has learned of the scheme. They think by killing me they can prevent it happening. They cannot-they are fools. It is a historical turning, one of those events whose time has come. A thousand assassinations would not stop it.”

As if to shake off his premonitions he drew himself up to a parade-ground posture, hands behind him. “When they reach me there must be someone to pick up the baton.”

His face came around swiftly. “It is not a favor to you. It may make you their next target. But you are the best choice to succeed me.”

“Why?”

“Because I trust you. ”

“How can you know that when I haven’t even heard the plan yet? I may think it’s drivel.”

“You will not.”

“Once before you thought I’d go along with your plans.”

“It was different. You must believe me.”

It was the closest he’d ever seen Vassily to begging.

Vassily said, “Do not fight me in there, Alexsander. It is too big a thing for personal quarrels. And the decisions may be yours soon enough-you would be a fool to shoot it down before you’ve had a chance at it yourself.”

“You’re talking as if they’ve already killed you.”

“I won’t make it easy for them.”

“Kill them first.”