I had no idea how to respond to that, so I gave up, went back to my room, and slept surprisingly well for twelve hours. This morning, I couldn’t face the hotel’s breakfast, but round the corner I found a nice Jewish bakery. Munching on a bagel reminded me of my visits to New York. Then I saw a sign opposite the bakery: “English Shop”. Inside, it was like a draper’s store in London. I felt as if I was in some sort of sanctuary. I spent an hour there, and bought new clothes, imagining myself travelling back to Sweden in them. And now, I can post the other clothes back to the Sepp family.
I’ve washed and changed, hoping to feel fresher. But the bathroom of my room is grimy, and dark blooms of mold cover the ceiling and walls. Even the water seems gritty. I go back to the hotel’s reading room, a wood-panelled cavern, murky with cigarette smoke. It’s full of serious-faced middle-aged men. Some are in small groups, talking in low voices; others sit alone and stare glumly into space.
I recognise the professor from the way he holds a large newspaper in front of his face. He folds it, sighing.
“The foreign news in this paper is hopelessly out of date: some of these articles I read back in Stockholm, months ago. The paper tells that me that the Mexican Pancho Villa has attacked Columbus, New Mexico, which I recall happened last March.”
“When is the meeting with Rasputin?”
“At seven this evening. A carriage will call for me at six and take me to a place called the Neva Bath House. There will be no Mr Bukin, and no Captain Sirko, to accompany me. Mr Bukin said that security is unnecessary now we are in St Petersburg. He also advised against you attending this interview, Miss Agnes – he muttered something about ‘reputation’.”
“Obviously, I’m coming with you.”
It’s a warm, sultry evening. Our carriage looks more like a pony and trap; the professor and I perch on a narrow bench. Every face in the street turns to watch us pass; I feel like we’re being paraded through the streets shoulder-high, like a religious icon.
We turn a corner into the main thoroughfare, the Nevsky Prospect. It’s a current of moving people; entering it feels like being pulled into a huge river. The Prospect is a deep channel, lined on either side with ornate stucco facades. It’s filled with a surging stream; crowds on foot, carriages and trams. Our carriage shifts along with the multitude, passing the endless colonnades of the Kazan Cathedral. But then we turn off into a side street, also full of people.
Skeletal beggars stand everywhere like statues, each with a string round his neck holding a cardboard tray on his chest. Some trays hold a few pennies; others nothing. The headscarves of women weave their way through the beggars, going briskly about their daily business. There are boys and girls, too: they also have trays, carrying sunflower seeds, pastry triangles and pancakes for sale. All of them are shouting their wares: the professor leans to my ear to speak.
“The pastries are called chebureki; they are a savoury snack, originally from the Crimea. The pancakes are blini: they can be savoury, or there are sweet jam and honey ones too. I’ll treat you to some, before we leave Russia.”
“Have you visited Russia before, Professor?”
“The Saint Petersburg Imperial University offered me an honorary degree in 1905, on condition that I gave some lectures for them. So I travelled here, but it was a frustrating experience. The entire university was closed, due to violent student protests against the Tsar.”
The carriage stops beside a heavy oak doorway, flanked by two oversized statues of naked, muscular men. The door is opened for us, and a young man in an embroidered Russian waistcoat ushers us inside. I notice his closed eyes, and the professor presses a coin into his hand. I see a little basket at the man’s feet, labelled “I am a brave defender of Mother Russia. I was blinded at the Battle of Masurian Lakes. I have a wife and three children.” I put all the money I can spare in the basket, and look around me.
It’s almost like a church. Marble pillars support a high, domed cupola, and gilded scrollwork is everywhere. But the paintings that adorn the walls are not religious icons; instead, they are oil paintings in mock-classical style, and show nude people cavorting in lush countryside. Directly ahead of us a sour-faced man sits at a desk; we pay him our entrance fees. Tonelessly, he says “Mr Rasputin is unexpectedly busy. He will be exactly one hour late for the interview. Wait in the changing room.”
The next room is low-ceilinged and lined with salt-glazed yellow tiles. In the centre of the room are wooden benches, and on the right and left-hand walls are cubicles for the bathers to change in. A woman comes out of one of them. She’s swaddled in towels, and she wears a felt hat that makes her look like an elf. She walks through a door marked “Ladies”.
The professor whispers to me. “The hats are to protect the head from the high temperatures in the steam rooms. Fortunately, we can wait in this changing room for Rasputin, so we don’t have to go into the baths themselves. I tried a place like this once in Stockholm; the heat gave me a headache.”
“We have an hour to wait, Professor, and we’ve paid. I’m going to try it.” I step over to a cubicle. As I undress, I say to myself “So far, Agnes, you’ve shied away from Russia. All you think about is getting away. Let’s try this: you’ll never get the chance again.”
I pass through the door; instantly the steam room blankets me in white mist. Women’s voices are chattering and laughing. I can make out a cluster of vague pink shapes filling a large alcove, so I sit in the opposite corner, swathed in my towels and wearing the absurd hat. There’s another burst of giggling.
“So? What would you say, Elizaveta, if the mad monk asked you?”
“He won’t ask me. I’m too fat. He likes them young and thin.”
“Wait until winter, when there’s no bread in the shops. You’ll get skinny enough for him then.”
Through the steam I see the shapes of faces, turning to look towards me. “Hello! Come here, sit with us!”
“Thank you. I’m a visitor to Russia…”
“Every woman in here is a friend. Come, sit!” I go over, and a naked woman pats the wooden seat next to her. “Take your towel off and sit on it. The wooden bench will be too hot for your bare bottom.”
I hesitate: then I let the towel drop onto bench, and sit on it. I’m surrounded by a circle of smiling women’s faces. They are all around thirty years old.
“You are English?”
“I’m American.”
Several voices speak at once. “My sister, she lives in America!” “New York, are you from New York?”
I explain that I’m called Agnes, and that I’m from Putnam, Connecticut, a tiny town they won’t have heard of. But they still want to know all about me, like excited children. Then one of them grabs both my hands.
“Vodka! Agnes, you must drink vodka with us. We will drink a toast to our new friend Agnes, from Putnam, America.”
“I’ve never tried it. I’ve drunk brandy—”
“Ha! You will never touch brandy again, once you have tried the true spirit of Russia.”
Through the mist, a bottle appears, and glasses. We all toast together, and I tip the glass to my lips. A fiery warmth hits the back of my throat, and I cough.
“Come, Agnes! We are to be massaged. You come with us…” Wrapping our towels around us, we step into another room.
It’s like a scene of ancient Rome. A rectangular pool, tiled in azure blue, is surrounded by a colonnade of pillars. In the dim spaces among the pillars, naked women lie face down on benches, while other towel-clad women massage them, or – strangest of all – beat them with twigs and dry leaves. But a bigger surprise is in store.