Rasputin's Daughter Part 2

"I...I-," I began, my trembling fingers reaching up and touching his soft beard. "I was afraid I'd missed you."

"But you didn't."

"I couldn't get away any sooner."

"I would have waited all night," he said, bending forward and kissing me on the cheek.

As much as every bit of me wanted him, I wanted at the same time to run away. Maybe Dunya was right. Maybe he was after just one thing.

"Listen, Sasha, I...I can't stay now. I have to get back," I said, quickly forming a plan. "We arrive in Pokrovskoye in the morning, but will you come visit me later? At our home?"

"Just tell me where, just tell me when."

"Anyone in the village can tell you where we live. Wait outside our gate at five. Papa always goes to the post office late in the afternoon. I'll go with him, and you can greet us when we return. I'll see that Papa invites you to join us for supper."

"That would be a great honor."

"And don't forget your poetry!" I said, as I scurried off.

"Of course."

I should have known better. I should have known his intentions were anything but honorable. Then again, how could I have guessed?

At home the following day, I rehea.r.s.ed in my head how I was going to introduce Papa to Sasha and get him invited to our table. I'd never had a young man call on me. Then again, maybe the moment was lost and Sasha wouldn't keep his word a second time.

Finally, sometime after four, Papa rose to go to the post office, and I leaped at the chance to accompany him. After he had dictated his telegrams to the clerk, we returned home, my arm looped in his. Of course, by then I was nearly faint with antic.i.p.ation. In fact, I couldn't believe it when Papa and I turned the corner past the spinster Petrovna's little hut and there, in a cl.u.s.ter of six or seven people gathered by our gate to beg Papa's blessing, stood Sasha, neatly dressed, his hair combed. Thrilled, my hand came up in a small, impulsive wave. As if in embarra.s.sment, he glanced away.

Nearing our home, the sad group of pet.i.tioners broke into a pathetic chorus.

"Father Grigori!"

"Help me, Father!"

"Lord have mercy!"

At first I noticed no one except Sasha, of course, but then I saw one man on crutches, a woman in mourning dressed entirely in black, and, then, most terribly, a small disfigured woman, her nose ravaged and half eaten away.

"Father Grigori! Father Grigori!" she called pathetically. "Help me, please!"

Sasha, a stern look on his face, came up alongside this poor woman and helped her, pus.h.i.+ng aside the others and nudging her to the front. When she was just steps from my father, Sasha even held back the others, keeping her approach clear and free. But rather than seeking to kiss my father's hand or falling at his knees for his blessing, this poor woman with the hideous nose reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out a long arching knife.

"Death to the Antichrist!" she screamed as she lunged forward, plunging the blade into my father's stomach.

Right before me I saw the long knife disappear completely into Papa, cutting him from navel to sternum, and I screamed so loudly that my own ears were deafened. My father, groaning like a wild animal, jerked back, and blood sprayed from him like a fountain. He stumbled away, and as I reached to grab him I saw a mound of pink entrails boil outward.

Again the attacker charged at Papa, her knife raised high, her voice a scream. "Death to the Antichrist!"

In the pandemonium, I searched for Sasha and saw him falling away as the other supplicants rushed forward to my father's defense. Before the madwoman could strike again, the small crowd of people grabbed her and threw her to the ground, whereupon they immediately began to beat her, mercilessly, their hands and fists and heels and crutches raining down on her.

But still the crazy woman screamed, "I must kill him, kill him!"

And as my father collapsed on the dirt lane, blood and more gus.h.i.+ng from him, I caught a brief glimpse of Sasha, not coming to our aid but das.h.i.+ng away. Dear G.o.d, I thought, he's fleeing!

In the end, it was only the swift actions of Mama and Dunya that saved Papa's life. St.u.r.dy Siberian women, they rushed from our house, my mother already barking orders. Within moments she had commandeered three men to carry Papa inside, whereupon Mama and Dunya threw the dinner dishes from the long table as if they were crumbs. Papa was laid right there, where we should have been eating, and within seconds they were winding him in a wet sheet, which stemmed the flow of blood and kept his entrails from falling out. All of us, however, were convinced that Papa's end had come. Indeed, by the time a wire had been sent to the closest doctor, who was in Tyumen, and by the time that doctor had come racing into town not by steamer but by troika, a trip that took no less than eight hours on Trakt No. 4-a horrible, b.u.mpy road that linked us with the outer world-it was well after midnight and Papa was clinging to the last threads of life. With no other option, an emergency operation was performed right there on our dinner table under the glow of stearin candles, with my father, who refused to breathe the ether, clutching a gold cross. Fortunately for him, and for all of us as well, he fainted after the first incision.

Papa should not have survived. In fact, the doctor doubted he could. But thanks in great part to his internal strength and great physical vitality-not to mention my constant prayers-he did not pa.s.s from this world. A few days later, when he had recovered enough, we took him by telega telega-a cart without springs-ever so slowly to Tyumen, where Professor von Breden, who'd been sent by the Empress, reopened the wound and made a few things right. After that it took weeks and weeks of convalescing-during which time war broke out, much to Papa's sorrow-but in time my father was back on his feet. Never, however, did he regain his magnificent strength. In fact, from then on my father lost the look of the holy, that drawn hollow-cheeked appearance of one who observes the fasts. So plagued was he from constant pain that he took to drink as never before, which not only dulled his discomfort but undoubtedly his powers. Soon my father's appearance became bloated, even corpulent. I never spoke to anyone of Sasha, and months later I no longer cried at the thought of him and his obvious betrayal. How could he have led that crazy woman, who, it turned out, was suffering from syphilis, right to my father?

When Dunya and I finally accompanied Papa back to the capital, we found a greatly changed world. War against the Kaiser had broken out, and spy fever was raging everywhere. Our glorious city, aflame with patriotism, was no longer known by the German-sounding name of Sankt Peterburg but as Petrograd. Even the thousands of Germans settled along our Volga River were being driven from their farms. All this greatly disturbed my father, for he abhorred bloodshed of any kind, and when he made known his opposition to the war, he not only fell out of the Tsar's favor, he was labeled a traitor by many. In this way, weakened by his wound and demoralized by the defeats our brave soldiers suffered month after month, Papa fell into the greatest depression of his life.

CHAPTER 3.

Even two years later, the memories of Sasha and the murder attempt, fueled by my lingering guilt, now kindled my fears as much as Papa's vision of death. Though my father was under constant police surveillance for his own protection, I knew very well that those who hated him were as clever as they were well connected. Indeed, Gospodin Ministir Gospodin Ministir-Mr. Minister-Protopopov, who headed the Interior Department, had repeatedly warned my father of dangers lurking everywhere.

"Listen to me carefully, Father Grigori," Gospodin Ministir Gospodin Ministir Protopopov had said. "People are openly plotting your death. Be on your guard every moment! These are very difficult times!" Protopopov had said. "People are openly plotting your death. Be on your guard every moment! These are very difficult times!"

As I now rushed out the door, I called to the two secret agents posted on our staircase. Coming to our aid, they each took Papa by an arm, and all of us quickly descended. Once downstairs, we stepped from the small lobby, across the courtyard, through the archway, and onto the frigid street, where a dark blue limousine was already waiting for us. It was a Delaunay-Belleville and certainly from the imperial garage, though it lacked a coat of arms and official markings. When the chauffeur jumped out to open the door for us, I could see by his khaki-colored full-dress uniform and the double-headed eagles stamped on the gold braid around his collar that he was in fact one of the Tsar's personal drivers. That an unmarked motor had been sent was no surprise, for the Tsaritsa always took great pains not to draw attention to my father's visits to the palace.

As we flew off, rus.h.i.+ng down the street and then turning along the embankment of the Fontanka River, I leaned over and lowered Papa's window so the brisk night air might rouse him to his duties. Sitting back in the rich leather seat, I pulled my cloak over my shoulders and buried my hands in my fur m.u.f.f-which the Empress had gifted me just the year before.

It was slightly past midnight, and had this been before the war and these the White Nights of summer, the streets would have been flooded with dusky sunlight, people in search of entertainment, and any number of horse cabs. In December, however, the planned boulevards and prospekti prospekti of the capital-all of which were big and straight and therefore so very foreign, so uncomfortably non-Russian-were dark and freezing and filled now with droves of wounded soldiers and hungry peasants, some huddled around open fires, others sleeping right out on the pavements, with a few marauders roaming about. Not long ago Papa had had a vision that the Tsar needed to bring trainload after trainload of grain into the capital. And he was right. The of the capital-all of which were big and straight and therefore so very foreign, so uncomfortably non-Russian-were dark and freezing and filled now with droves of wounded soldiers and hungry peasants, some huddled around open fires, others sleeping right out on the pavements, with a few marauders roaming about. Not long ago Papa had had a vision that the Tsar needed to bring trainload after trainload of grain into the capital. And he was right. The liodi liodi-common people-needed food. Back home in our village, we had lived through many hard seasons, and my father knew very well what the Tsar did not-that a peasant without bread was a very dangerous man.

When we turned onto Nevsky Prospekt I saw only a small handful of sleighs and just one place that looked lively and warm, the Sergeeivski Palace, which had been home to Grand d.u.c.h.ess Elizabeth, the Tsaritsa's sister, before she'd taken to the cloth. Now it was inhabited by the young Grand Duke Dmitri, and the second-floor windows of the stunning red building were ablaze with electric lights and some sort of revelry, for of course there were not and never would be any shortages among the n.o.bility. After that, all was depressingly quiet, the streets filled with litter and lost souls, who, I began to realize, looked increasingly less like wounded soldiers and more like deserters.

Within a short time we left the edge of the city and were speeding through the countryside. Father and I sat silent in the rear seat, he gazing out his window, I staring out mine. The moon was surprisingly bright, and as my eyes followed the snow-laden landscape, I saw flat white fields, then a strand of birch, next a cl.u.s.ter of small huts with smoke curling from the chimneys and a tiny church with a gold onion dome, then again dormant fields tucked under a pale blanket.

There was little doubt in my mind that by morning all good society and then some would know of tonight's events. I was sure that by sunrise the drunken princess, the half-naked countess, and the balalaika player, even the secret agents, would start spreading the word that the Empress had called Rasputin to the palace yet again-and at such an unG.o.dly hour, no less. By teatime tomorrow afternoon, all the court would probably be gossiping about how a late-night call had been placed for the Tsaritsa, a call begging the besotted Rasputin to rush to her private rooms and soothe her desperate needs. Yes, the tongues would wag, for we Russians were the most vicious of gossips, and there were sure to be nasty rumors of the wild peasant romping in bed with the Empress Aleksandra Fyodorovna-that German b.i.t.c.h-and even with her devoted friend, that s.l.u.t Anna Vyrubova, perhaps all three of them together. There might even be gossip of a Khlyst Khlyst act, a "rejoicing." After all, didn't the name Rasputin come from the word act, a "rejoicing." After all, didn't the name Rasputin come from the word rasputa rasputa-a debauched, depraved good-for-nothing? The counts and dukes and princes might even hold an emergency meeting at the Yacht Club, where they would smoke and drink and mutter that something had to be done about that filthy monk who was ruining the prestige of the Tsar, the peasant who was nothing but a stain on the entire House of Romanov. After all, wasn't he more than likely spying for the Germans, even quite possibly drugging the Tsar himself? Gospodi Gospodi-good heavens-for the sake of Holy Mother Russia, shouldn't he be eliminated?

Yes, I thought with a shudder, Papa's visions of his own end were not so hard to believe.

The closer we came to Tsarskoye Selo, the more I could see that the bite of cold night air was invigorating Papa like a dip in the Gulf of Finland. Indeed, as the wintry countryside gave way to villas and small palaces tucked in parks, I was relieved to see that my father appeared in complete control of himself.

Within minutes of entering the royal village, we came to the long iron fence surrounding the vast palace grounds. Staring across a plain of snow and into the deep night, I caught a distant glimpse of the b.u.t.tery-yellow walls and white columns of the home Catherine the Great had built more than a century earlier for her favorite grandson, Aleksander I. When we reached the entrance itself, the guards hurriedly swung open the gates without so much as a single question, and the limousine followed the drive up a slight hill. I couldn't hide my surprise, because for years my father hadn't been allowed to approach the home of the tsars so directly. Because of an uproar of protest from, among others, nearly the entire Romanov clan, the infamous Rasputin had been forced to sneak into the imperial home via a pretend meeting with a maid in the right wing of the palace. In fact, the outrage against him had grown so vocal recently that the only place he could meet their Imperial Highnesses was down the road at Madame Vyrubova's tiny house. All this because the chamberlain's staff listed any visitor to the palace in the Kammerfurier Kammerfurier-the court log-available to many officials. Needless to say, whenever the name Rasputin appeared, it sparked another wave of protest about his dark influence on the throne.

Tonight, however, none of that apparently mattered, for the Delaunay-Belleville limousine pulled up not to the main entrance at the rotunda, or even the right wing, but directly to the left wing, which contained the private apartments of the Tsar and Tsaritsa. And there, dressed in a huge fur coat and perched on the fountain of steps, was plump Madame Vyrubova herself.

"Come this way at once, Father Grigori," she pleaded anxiously, leaning heavily on a cane.

The Empress's confidante led my father into the palace, and I, ignored, scurried after them. Madame Vyrubova limped horribly, for several years earlier she had nearly been killed in a train accident. When she'd been pulled from beneath a steam radiator and steel girder, no one thought she would live, let alone walk. Taken to the hospital, she received the last rites as the Emperor and Empress, who had been quickly summoned, wept by her side. It was then that Papa had appeared, pus.h.i.+ng everyone aside as he rushed to the wounded woman. Taking her limp hand in his, Papa used all his forces, commanding her back to us, the living.

"a.n.u.shka! a.n.u.shka!" he called, as the Tsar and Tsaritsa watched in amazement.

She stirred and opened her eyes for the first time.

"Speak to me!"

Her lips trembled and she barely spoke. "Pray for me, Father...."

"Wake up and rise!"

Her eyes opened wider but she did not move.

Father dropped her hand and stumbled in exhaustion from the room, muttering, "She will be a cripple, but she will live."

Now, wasting no time, Madame Vyrubova hobbled along, steering us through the large doors and into a reception area, forgetting the registry-where our presence was, nevertheless, duly noted by an official who had worked for this tsar's father and even the one before that. We pa.s.sed some silent guards in magnificent uniforms, moved through a double door, and went down the long center corridor with its magnificent roll of carpet from the Caucasus. The Tsaritsa's private chambers were here, in the rooms on the left, and the stories to be told about tonight, I was sure, would place Rasputin there, probably in Aleksandra Fyodorovna's favorite room, her mauve boudoir. Adding to the tales of Rasputin was a national obsession; I'd just heard of a fas.h.i.+onable hostess who'd tacked up a sign in her salon that read NO TALK OF RASPUTIN NO TALK OF RASPUTIN. Mention of my father in the press was strictly forbidden, so "supposed" eyewitnesses were always cropping up, conveying "supposed" information about Papa in the time-honored Russian mode: gossip. In this way, endless nasty stories were spread, both at court and at the market and as far away as the front. Not long ago I had heard Dunya ranting in the kitchen, complaining that the stories had traveled as far as Berlin, where the Kaiser's propagandists not only expounded on them but made sure their spies returned and planted them again in Petrograd, creating yet more uproar.

"Mark my word, there are German spies doing their dirty work everywhere," Dunya had said, furiously stirring a pot. "Gossip heard once is t.i.tillating, heard twice and it's interesting, but when it's heard three times people take it as fact. And the Germans are cleverer than we are. They know the best way to topple the Tsar is to attack his consort, who of course is one of them, a German princess by birth."

When I saw no trace of stockings beneath Madame Vyrubova's thick sable coat, I could only imagine what would be going around tomorrow. Someone would claim, no doubt, that she had been waiting for Rasputin naked beneath her resplendent fur.

I heard a door open at the far end of the long corridor, and a tall elegant woman stepped through. It was the Empress Aleksandra Fyodorovna herself, one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen, tall and thin, her face finely carved, her hair thick and long, though tonight, much to my surprise, it was let down as if for bed. Along with her ever-present strands of freshwater pearls hanging from her alabaster neck, she wore a long white silk robe, nothing more. Her eyes, usually clear blue, were swollen and red.

Upon seeing me, the Empress couldn't hide her surprise and froze, shaking her head ever so slightly. Madame Vyrubova, who maintained her coveted spot by her keen ability to read her mistress's wants, immediately stopped and caught me by the arm. Papa, however, continued on, marching right up to Her Imperial Highness. And, no, he did not fall to his knees before her, nor did he bow and seek the bizmyen bizmyen-the opportunity to kiss his sovereign's hand. Rather, he strode up to the Empress as if he were her equal, even her superior, and kissed her Siberian style, three times on the cheek. Then, much to even my surprise, the Empress muttered something ever so quietly and swooned like a lost lover into Papa's arms.

"Come, my child," said Madame Vyrubova, spinning me around lest I see more. "The driver will take you home."

"Please may I visit Maria Nikolaevna?" I begged, referring to the Tsar's number three daughter, with whom I had become quite friendly.

"All good children are asleep at this hour, as well you should be. I don't know what I was doing, I should never have let you in. And I wouldn't have if it weren't so cold."

"But-"

With her hand firmly planted in the small of my back, Madame Vyrubova steered me quickly down the hall, through the double doors, and to the reception hall, where several guards snapped to attention.

"See that she is returned at once to the city," Anna Aleksandrovna commanded imperiously. "Make sure the driver escorts her not just to her building but right up to her apartment."

"What about-," I started to say.

But there was nothing I could do. For all intents and purposes, I was being returned to the city by imperial order. I could not protest, just as there was no question but that the orders would be obeyed.

Madame Vyrubova stepped to a side table and scooped up a handful of candies wrapped in wax paper. They were my favorite, b.u.t.terscotch b.a.l.l.s made right here in the palace confectionary. She then grabbed my m.u.f.f from me, pinched one end of it shut, and stuffed the candies inside. Pressing the m.u.f.f back into my hands, she whispered in my ear.

"You must not talk about tonight to anyone, no matter their position. Am I clear, my child?"

"Most certainly, Anna Aleksandrovna."

"Good," she said, kissing me on my forehead. "Now hurry off, my dear!"

One of the guards, a burly man with a dark mustache, took me gently by the arm and escorted me to the main door. Just before I stepped into the frigid night air, I turned. Rus.h.i.+ng like a jealous lover, Madame Vyrubova had pulled up her magnificent fur coat and was hobbling as fast as she could back into the palace.

Not only were her ankles completely naked, so were her legs.

You ask when did I myself first make Rasputin's acquaintance? Well, the first time I ever laid eyes upon him was four winters ago. I had heard he was in town, and, since I was eager to see him for myself, I stopped by my friend's house, where Rasputin was apparently residing for the week. I knocked on the door, but my friend was not home. I was just about to leave when I heard screaming. Quite worried, I ran around back to the kitchen...and what did I find but that monster on top of a young scullery maid, ripping away her clothing. He was quite drunk even though it was still morning, and he was having his way with her, this young girl, can you imagine! I reached for a large iron pan and hit him. I hit him so hard, he fell to the floor and didn't move. When I saw the blood flowing from his mouth and nose, I feared I had killed him, but after a moment he started to stir.

Do you know how many times since then I have wished I had hit that devil a second time or stabbed him with a knife? If only I had killed him back then! Just think how much pain I would have spared the Motherland.

CHAPTER 4.

Tucked into the warm brown leather seats of the same Delaunay-Belleville limousine, I ate one b.u.t.terscotch ball and then another and another. As I was whisked back into town at nearly the same speed with which we had been taken to the royal village, I consumed a total of six candies. It was approaching two in the morning, and I should have been lulled into a quick, comfortable sleep. Instead, my mind whirled faster and faster. If Papa was sure someone was plotting his death, why wasn't he doing anything to prevent it?

As we turned onto Goroxhovaya, I looked behind us and saw the looming Tsarskoye Selo train station. Staring ahead, I saw the golden spire of the Admiralty pointing into the gray-black sky. And yet there wasn't a single soul to be seen scurrying along the slippery sidewalks. The snowy street itself was completely empty of sleighs and troikas, and there was only one motorcar, a plain black one I had never noticed, parked across the street from our building. Smoke bellowed from its tailpipe, but I couldn't see who, let alone how many, were sitting inside.

When the limousine came to a stop in front of our building, the chauffeur jumped out and scurried around the side. As if I were a princess, he opened my door with great grace-so silent, so powerful, so majestic-and offered me his hand. Accepting his firm grasp, I wondered if I could ever become accustomed to such royal treatment. There were 870 n.o.ble families that dominated Russia, and we Rasputins were definitely not among them. But it was not inconceivable that we would be elevated, perhaps soon. Throughout history, the rulers of Russia-including Catherine the Great, who had a habit of turning her numerous lovers into princes and counts-always granted vast estates and t.i.tles to their favorites, and Papa was definitely Aleksandra Fyodorovna's. So as his elder daughter, would I one day soon become, say, Countess Matryona Grigorevna? Or, taking the name of our own village, would I become Baronessa Pokrovskaya?

Nyet, nyet, I thought, with a smirk on my face, as I scurried through the frigid air. Papa would never stand for such nonsense, and he would slap me on the head for such vain thoughts. Not only was he far too proud of our Siberian heritage-her freedoms, her sense of equality, not to mention her reliance on nature and her seasons-but I was sure his religious beliefs would preclude accepting a n.o.ble rank. On the other hand, a position in the Most Holy Synod would be for him a totally different matter. Then again, that surely wouldn't happen, for the likes of Bishops Hermogen, Sergius, and Illiodor would never allow it. They were totally opposed to Papa, calling him dyavol dyavol-the devil incarnate.

The chauffeur escorted me through the archway, through the courtyard, and as far as the front door, which he opened for my benefit. When he began to follow me in, my countryside good sense returned, and I a.s.sured him it was not necessary to accompany me all the way up. He insisted, gently but firmly, saying he had orders to escort me to the apartment door. Quite sure of myself, I declined.

"Really, it's not necessary." Nodding to the motorcar parked on the street, I said, "As you can see yourself, we have security outside as well as inside. I'm sure there are at least two men in that motor, not to mention another two or three men posted on the staircase."

"Very well, mademoiselle," he replied, with a submissive nod of his head.

Escaping the cold, I quickly ducked inside. When I entered the dark lobby of our building, however, I found no one, neither doorman nor guard. Even the fire in the little iron stove had burned out. At first I thought nothing of it, a.s.suming that the agents had slipped off, perhaps either to warm themselves with a gla.s.s of tea or to catch some sleep. Or could they all be warming themselves in the motorcar?

But then, in the faint light of a single sconce, I saw a dark puddle on the white marble floor. Stepping closer, I could see that the puddle was not simply dark but red, and that in fact it was not a puddle at all but a viscous pool of blood.

The words of Gospodin Ministir Gospodin Ministir Protopopov came screaming through my mind: "Be on your guard every moment!" Protopopov came screaming through my mind: "Be on your guard every moment!"

Immediately, my terrified eyes scanned the lobby. I didn't see anyone waiting to club me or drag me away, but for the first time there were no security guards either. Dreadfully aware of how alone I was, I hurried back to the front door to call out for the chauffeur; his offer of an escort all the way to our apartment now seemed imperative. No sooner did I open the door, however, than the Tsar's beautiful, safe limousine sped off and disappeared around the corner.

Standing half outside, my breath billowing in short quick puffs, I glanced across the street at the dark motorcar. In one sure, steady movement, a man, big and stout, climbed out. I knew most of the security men by sight, but this one in a black leather jacket and black Persian lamb hat didn't look familiar. And when I saw the pistol gripped so firmly in his right hand, I knew my only course of action.

Darting back inside, I pulled the outer door tight. I fumbled for a key, something, anything, but there was no way to lock it. Taking one last look out a side window, I saw that the strange man in the leather coat was trotting directly toward the building.

I turned. Suddenly I wanted Papa, who was always there for me, caring, soothing, blessing. I wanted to be in our apartment, safe asleep in the bed I shared with my sister. No, I wanted to be out there with Papa, locked within the gilded walls of the Aleksander Palace and surrounded by a thousand armed guards. I wanted to be anywhere but in this dark, dank lobby.

Clutching the m.u.f.f with the candies and gathering up the length of my cloak, I turned and made for the staircase. Just as I reached the first step, however, the thin sole of my right shoe slapped into that wet and sticky spot. I skidded a tiny bit, nearly fell, and screamed. The beautiful fur m.u.f.f, the only royal gift I'd ever received, nearly went flying from my hands. Instead, the candies spilled out, shooting through the air into that grotesque puddle. Horrified, I rushed on, running up the marble steps, one shoe stamping every other tread: red...red...red.

Don't panic, I told myself as I climbed. It could be blood from something else. Sugar has been rationed. b.u.t.ter too. There's talk of meat next. People are getting food anywhere they can, any way they can. One of the neighbors could have made the mess. Someone could have bought a ma.s.s of fresh meat and dragged it home, perhaps a whole hindquarter. Hadn't I seen a farmer with an entire sledge of drippy meat just yesterday on Litieny Prospekt? Or maybe Ivanov, the factory manager who lived above us, had slipped off to his dacha and shot a bear, just like he did last year, and then made a horrible mess as he dragged the carca.s.s up to his flat.

Or had something happened to one of the agents posted for our protection?

As faint as the rustle of a leaf but as clear as the call of a crow, I heard the door open down below. And then the stranger's steps, fast and heavy, hurrying across the marble floor and through the puddle.