"Rente rente funtritut!" he cried at the top of his voice. he cried at the top of his voice. "Nodir lisentran entrofit!" "Nodir lisentran entrofit!"

I had no idea what he was saying, but I understood what he meant, what he was searching for, for he was seeking nothing more than that which all the narod narod wanted: freedom and love and spirituality, the sense that no man was above another, and the absolute knowledge that every man of every level had the capacity to cast away his sins and become at the very least Christlike. I wanted all that too. As I spun and cried out, as I shook and trembled, my sweat began to fly from my brow and my flaxen gown became soaked with perspiration. Someone in the middle twirled and whirled so fast that he flew to the side, falling on his knees, screaming. wanted: freedom and love and spirituality, the sense that no man was above another, and the absolute knowledge that every man of every level had the capacity to cast away his sins and become at the very least Christlike. I wanted all that too. As I spun and cried out, as I shook and trembled, my sweat began to fly from my brow and my flaxen gown became soaked with perspiration. Someone in the middle twirled and whirled so fast that he flew to the side, falling on his knees, screaming.

"Oh, the Lord! He is close!"

"Oh, Brother! Oh, Brother!"

"Alleluia!" shouted the local Christ, completely drenched with sweat and twirling faster than ever. "I feel it! He is coming!"

I broke loose and started spinning and turning, my gown twirling wide, my hair flying. I felt every dark thought, every doubt, every sin, seeping from my being, emptying through my pores. Sweat gushed from me, washing everything impure from my body and soul. Suddenly a gigantic whoosh-a kind of spiritual beer-poured into me and lifted me up. I raised my hands and felt something divine rain down from the heavens and swim through and around me, a power greater than any I had ever felt. What was it? What G.o.dly force was overtaking us all?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sasha spinning and smiling, his face turned to the heavens. Yes, he was here, we were together, all would be well.

"Oh, Spirit Lord!" sobbed someone.

"Alleluia!"

"Rejoice, for He has come!"

And then Sasha was grabbing me with his one good hand and pulling me along. My body had stopped spinning, but my head could not.

"Oi!" I shouted, tumbling into him. I shouted, tumbling into him.

"Come, my love," he gasped, pulling me along.

I closed my eyes, feeling like a cloud blowing through the sky-yes, a cloud, blowing right into him.

"Brothers! Sisters!" cried the local Christ. "I sense it! The Holy Spirit has come! G.o.d has poured Himself into me!"

A woman screamed. A man collapsed on the floor.

Half running, Sasha led me into the side room. We went there, into that little s.p.a.ce, and while the rest of the congregation spun and sang and cried out, we began kissing. He pressed me against the hard brick wall, and his soft lips flew across my mouth, my ear, my neck. My body flushed with a desire I had never known or even expected, and I wanted him as I never wanted anything else. Every bit of inhibition had been spun away, and I felt nothing but love and desire, heat and want. He dove downward, burrowing his face between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, rubbing, pressing, kissing, and I clasped him and pulled him as hard as I could against me. This was our future, our destiny, and together we were crossing over a bridge of pa.s.sion to everything wonderful. I shoved him back, and without a moment's hesitation I grabbed the length of my flaxen gown and pulled it up and over my head, exposing my naked self as I never had to any man. Pulling at his collar with his good hand, Sasha tore open the entire front of his gown. I clawed at the thatch of hair on his chest, groped his firm stomach, and, for the first time, caressed a man's firm, determined desire.

And as the rest of the congregation collapsed harmlessly on the floor of the main room, Sasha and I fell into each other in joy and love and celebration.

CHAPTER 19.

I woke alone the next morning.

As much as I wished it otherwise, as much as I still sensed his firm body in my dreams, Sasha was not lying by my side. Rather, I was at home and in bed by myself. Opening my eyes to the bright light, I saw neither walls nor ceiling, only this: his naked body pressing into mine. Pulling up my nightdress, I gingerly ran my fingers over my naked belly. His seed was there, within me. A soft smile spread across my lips.

When he'd dropped me at the rear door late last night, Sasha had embraced me, saying, "Take care, sweet one. I'll see you soon."

"When? Tomorrow night?"

"Yes, I'll try."

"Promise?"

"Absolutely," he said, kissing me on the forehead.

Now climbing out of bed, I felt no shame for having given myself to Sasha. Just yesterday I would have been terrified that Papa might find out, but today I didn't care, not a bit. Nevertheless, there was no need for him to find out, was there?

It hadn't occurred to me just how late I'd slept, and I couldn't tell from the low dark clouds in the December sky, but when I looked at a clock I saw that it was nearly one in the afternoon. Given the healing at the palace and then my late-night adventures, it wasn't really a surprise. What did astonish me, however, was to learn that Papa had already risen and had been seeing pet.i.tioners, one after the other, since nine that morning.

Stepping out of my room was like stepping into a bazaar. No wonder, I thought. It was Sat.u.r.day, and Sat.u.r.days were always Papa's busiest. Today, December sixteenth, would be no different. Women of every age and fashion were buzzing through our apartment, some of them old and dressed in black, others young with abundant curves, some made up with Parisian rouge, and others pale and homely. Our dining room table was strewn with today's gifts-candies and flowers, fruits and nuts-while the samovar was steaming before a near-continual line of supplicants in search of winter's antidote, tea. The telephone seemed to ring nonstop.

Making my way into the washroom for my morning toilet, I noticed right away a sense of nervousness, of desperation.

"In the Duma there's talk of nothing but revolutsiya, revolutsiya," said one woman quietly, standing in the hall, eating a biscuit and sipping tea.

Her friend pressed close to her and muttered, "Just terrible.... Did you hear what Maklakov, the Duma deputy, has been saying around town? He's saying it won't be a political revolutsiya revolutsiya but one of rage and revenge of the ignorant ma.s.ses! He keeps shouting, 'Beware the peasant with the ax!'" but one of rage and revenge of the ignorant ma.s.ses! He keeps shouting, 'Beware the peasant with the ax!'"

"Bozhe moi!" gasped the first, crossing herself, biscuit in hand.

Frightened, I hurried past the two women. Once I'd washed and brushed my hair, I peered into the salon, searching for my father. And there he was, standing before a very proper lady with a feather boa and another woman in a worn cardigan, the first holding his right hand, the second kissing his left. Why, I couldn't help but wonder, were these women-not just these two, but all of them here today-so willing, so eager, to give up control and submit to my father? Were they that needy, that scared, that desperate? On the other hand, Papa, his eyes settling on nothing and no one, seemed not to notice any of the attention. In fact, he looked frightful, his hair more disheveled than ever, his blouse wrinkled, and the sash around his waist loose and sagging. Spotting me, Papa pulled away from the two women and started across the salon. Never had I seen such dark rings beneath his eyes.

"h.e.l.lo, my little bee," Papa said softly, kissing me on the forehead. "Did you rest well?"

Averting my eyes, I nodded. Did he have any idea that I'd spied him in bed with Dunya? Better yet, did he even suspect that I'd sneaked out last night? Amazingly, the answer to both was, I knew, no.

"Papa, I'm worried."

He shrugged and looked past me. "Faith has been lost."

"But people are saying the worst things. People right here in our apartment are talking, and...and..."

"You think I don't know it will soon come to an end? There are enemies everywhere-yes, even here within our home."

His pa.s.sivity shocked me. Never had I heard or seen my father so demoralized. Had he had a vision during the night, or had he simply come face-to-face with common sense? Then again, was he beyond the brink of exhaustion?

No matter my anger and disappointment in him, I knew at least that I had to warn him, so I said, "Do you remember Elena Borisovna, the one whose grandson you healed?"

"Certainly."

"Well, she said-"

He pressed the long hard index finger of his right hand to my lips. "Shh, my sweet little bee. I hear and follow the words of G.o.d and no one else."

"But-"

Again he kissed me on the forehead. "Go and eat a bowl of steaming hot kasha-don't forget the crispy onions!-and then some fish. Clear your soul of worries. Eat, and then prepare to go out. You and your sister must meet your cousin Anna this afternoon."

"But, Papa, I..."

He walked away with all the authority of a tsar who'd just muttered the imperial bit-po-semo bit-po-semo-so be it. For a moment I was tempted to run after him and grab him by the sleeve. I wanted to hit him and yell at him, even to confess my adventures. Instead, guarding my secrets and my pa.s.sion, I turned and slowly made my way through the handful of pet.i.tioners. For the first time, I sadly realized that my father and I were not only traveling separate and divergent paths but our paths were destined never to cross again.

Toward three in the afternoon, Varya and I were indeed forced into an excursion with our cousin Anna, who was newly arrived in the capital. Much to Anna's delight, we went straight to Nevsky Prospekt, where we visited the numerous shops of Gostiny Dvor and then, crossing the street, the tall arcade of Pa.s.sazh. Much to my dismay, we took dinner at the small apartment of Anna's close friends, who had moved to the capital some five years earlier. We didn't return home until after ten that evening, and when Dunya greeted us at the door I couldn't even look her in the eye.

My back to her as I hung up my cloak, I asked, "Where's Papa?"

"He has a visitor."

"Still?" said Varya as she slipped off her boots.

"Your father has had a very busy day," our housekeeper replied as she handed us our tapochki, tapochki, for she would not allow us to go about in our stocking feet in such cold weather. for she would not allow us to go about in our stocking feet in such cold weather.

When I peered into the salon, I saw that it was empty, meaning, of course, that Papa had escorted his guest to his small room with the sofa. This in turn told me not only that my father's visitor was surely a woman but probably a blonde-and almost certainly buxom as well.

Irritated, I demanded, "Who's visiting Papa at this hour? What's her name?"

As if she thought nothing of it, Dunya said lightly, "Sister Vera."

Shaking my head in disappointment, I headed off toward the kitchen. Her name might be Vera, and she was probably someone's sister, but I doubted if she was a sister of truth.

"Maria," called Dunya, "where are you going at this hour?"

"To make some tea. I need to stay up so I can talk with Papa."

"Nyet, nyet, nyet. It's much too late already." It's much too late already."

"But it's important!"

"Whatever you have to say can wait till morning."

"But-"

"Off to bed, the two of you-scoot!"

Freezing there in the hall, part of me was ready to explode at her-didn't she know I understood what was going on between Papa and her?-while the other part wanted to fall into her arms and tell her not only about Elena Borisovna's warnings but about Sasha as well. Instead, I went off to bed, sure of only one thing-that it would be best for all of us to quit Petrograd by the light of tomorrow's sun. Perhaps Sasha could follow, but Papa, for his own safety, needed to leave the capital as soon as possible. I was sure that if he lived for a while in the distant woods he could find what he had lost, the very thing the depravity of the city had stolen from him: his hunger for true spirituality. In the past several years, Papa's face and body had become so fleshy and full, sated by bottomless winegla.s.ses and endless feasting.

Oh, G.o.d, I thought as I stood in my room, unb.u.t.toning my dress and letting it fall to the floor. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to be observing my stupid father and his ridiculous actions. And I certainly didn't want to be under the sharp eye of our fat housekeeper. I didn't belong here anymore. I wanted to be with Sasha. I wanted to tell him my worries. I wanted his advice. I yearned for his arms around my shoulders, his tender caress, his sweet kiss.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed in my underlinens, I realized that my mind and body were numb. I wanted nothing more than sleep...and yet how could I dare to close my eyes at a time like this? If I drifted away, how could I warn my father about the grand dukes? Better yet, how could I keep Papa from hurting himself, from doing something stupid and dangerous, like going to the Gypsies to drink and dance? It occurred to me that I should take a blanket and sleep on the floor in front of the main door. No, I thought, Papa could still slip out the back. Perhaps I should nail both doors shut. Or perhaps I should telephone the palace and beg to speak with the Emperor himself and plead for his help. Oi, Oi, finding myself lost between three doors, I didn't know where to turn or what to do. finding myself lost between three doors, I didn't know where to turn or what to do.

As she crawled into the other side of the bed, Varya said, "You've been crying a lot lately. What's the matter?"

"I'm just a little worried, that's all," I replied, blotting my eyes. "I...I need to talk to Papa, and yet I can't bother him. But if I go to sleep, I'm afraid I'll miss him."

"You mean you're worried he'll go out and you don't want him to?"

"Exactly."

"Oh, that's easy," said Varya, clambering back out of bed.

"Wait!"

"Hush, I'll be right back."

"You can't disturb Papa in his study!"

"Don't worry, I won't. What do you think I am, some kind of durachka? durachka?" Cute little idiot?

There wasn't much I could control in the world, so few things over which I had any influence, my sister being one of the very few exceptions. Just then, however, I was so exhausted I was practically helpless. I should have hurried after Varya to make sure she wouldn't do something stupid like walk in on Papa and the supposed Sister Vera, but as the seconds ticked by, my energy trickled away. Fortunately, I heard Varya's light steps returning a few short minutes later. In her arms were Papa's tall black boots-nothing fancy and only slightly polished, the leather creased and softened from near-endless wear. They were the kind a peasant would wear for years and years, not in the fields but on Sundays or into town to trade grain. Even though Papa had been given fancy velvet breeches and hand-embroidered blouses and wore them often, his tall country boots were the one thing he had never abandoned for big-city footwear and never would.

With a big huff, Varya blew her bangs upward. "I hid his special fur coat once when I didn't want him to go out, but it didn't work. He just took his old wool one. But he always wears these boots, and he'd never go out without them."

"Molodets." Smart girl, I said.

"And he always shouts when he can't find them."

Of course he does, I thought with a smile. Whether he got up in the middle of the night, determined to search out some entertainment, or rose in the early morning and wanted to go to the banya, banya, I'd certainly hear him pacing around and shouting for his boots. I'd certainly hear him pacing around and shouting for his boots.

Appeased, I took the boots from Varya and tucked them just under my side of the bed. With the last of my strength, I shed the remainder of my clothes and slipped on my nightdress. As I crawled into bed, I leaned over the lumpy mattress and kissed my sister on the forehead, then turned off the light and snuggled under the covers. Rolling onto my stomach, I reached under the edge of the bed and brushed my hand over the soft leather. Like the mighty River Tura that flowed through our village, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief flood my body. Tonight at least we were all safe. Within an instant, sleep carried me away.

CHAPTER 20.

Oddly, I didn't dream of Sasha but of my mother's pelmeni pelmeni-meat-filled dumplings-that were a staple of any Siberian diet. Mama always made them with not just two but three types of meat-beef, pork, and lamb-ground together with garlic and salt and pepper. She made them by the hundreds and kept them frozen in a bank of snow just outside our rear door. Throughout the long winter she would pluck them like dill weed, dropping a dinner's worth into the large kettle of boiling water that roared nearly every night on the fire. I loved mine slathered with our home-churned b.u.t.ter and a dollop of sour cream so fresh it was still silky sweet. More recently, even though it wasn't at all Siberian, I'd taken to following the aristocrats and sprinkling them with a bit of that French import, vinegar.

I dreamed, too, of the last time all of us Rasputins were home and gathered around the dinner table as one. Our parents had drunk vodka, while we children, as a very special treat, sipped the birch-tree juice we had gathered that afternoon in containers of bark. And honoring the joy of being all together, Mama had dropped two special pelmeni pelmeni into the pot, one filled with salt, the other hiding a one-kopeck piece. With delight Varya had bitten into the coin, thrilled by the omen, certain it meant her grades would be good. I was glad to spy my mother secretly slipping the salt-filled dumpling to my brother, for when simple Dmitri bit into it, he hooted with delight. into the pot, one filled with salt, the other hiding a one-kopeck piece. With delight Varya had bitten into the coin, thrilled by the omen, certain it meant her grades would be good. I was glad to spy my mother secretly slipping the salt-filled dumpling to my brother, for when simple Dmitri bit into it, he hooted with delight.

"Good luck for one year!" he shouted, a smile spread across his wide, pimply face. "Good luck will follow me for one year!"

And when I woke with sweet memories, I wasn't at all surprised to open my eyes to darkness. I had no idea what time it was-night or day-but when I rolled over and groped for Papa's tall boots, my hand came up empty. With a gust of panic, my hand slapped everywhere and found nothing. When I'd gone to bed, I'd tucked the boots right there on the herring-board parquet floor, hadn't I? A horrible premonition swept through my soul.

From somewhere in the flat I heard movement, and through our cracked door I saw a sliver of light. Mother of G.o.d, I realized, Papa had sneaked in here and found his boots, and now he was getting ready to go out. In the flash of a second, I was completely awake, throwing aside the thick covers, leaping out of bed, and rushing barefoot from our room. What time was it? Where was Papa going?

I blew down the hall as fast as a fearful wind. Papa's door was half open, the room glowing a soft red from the icon lamp, but he wasn't there. Where in the name of the devil had my father got to? And where was Dunya? Turning, I moved on, poking my head into my father's study and finding it empty, then hurrying through the dark and abandoned main salon. Holding up the edges of my nightgown, I dashed to the front door, which was shut tight. Looking at the hooks lining the wall, I saw Papa's fancy fur was gone.

From the kitchen came sounds of shuffling. Perhaps Papa was avoiding the security agents by sneaking out the back? Wasting no time, I pa.s.sed through the dining room and into the kitchen, where the single overhead bulb was burning. But there was no one. And then, from behind the curtain, I heard subtle rustling.

"Dunya?" I called.