“They could well be playing in here,” she said.
“Playing? How old are they?”
“Twelve. Twins, you see.”
“And their mother? Your mother?”
“She died in childbirth. The boys barely made it. We were lucky they survived.”
“I’m so sorry, Asia. I’d no idea.”
THEY ENTERED THE great Hall, where the ceremonial feast clearly had just taken place. Guests and servants had long since departed, but the enormous baroque room was still full of wonders. The barrel-vaulted hall was stunning in its abundance of mirrors and glittering gold. An unbounded sea of mirrors in gilded frames were reflected in other mirrors, creating a magical, endless space in which hundreds of wax candles still burning in the spaces between the windows and the mirrors gleamed.
“Perhaps they’ve escaped to the kitchens,” Anastasia said. “Wait here for a moment, and I’ll go and fetch them.”
Hawke paused at the table, picking up a spotless crystal goblet and deciding to fill it with blood-red wine from one of the many silver carafes. He sipped and found it delicious. So, too, was the leg of roast duck he removed from a half-eaten carcass and began to gnaw at ravenously.
The table, which stretched to shadowy infinity down the hall, had not been completely cleared. The white linen tablecloths were hung with ribbons of many colors and glorious rosettes. In the center of the table towered a massive construction resplendent with symbolic sculptures, monograms and crowns of various ancient courts of Europe.
The massive carved silver candelabras, which marched down the table into the shadows, were all still blazing with candles. Around the bases were woven Christmas holly and berries, artificial flowers made of red silk. Fresh flowers covered the branches of tiny potted trees or were woven into garlands that hung above miniature fountains, the waters still playing right there on the table.
Candlelight gleamed, reflected in the gold and silver tableware and on the great tureens, whose lids took the shapes of boars’ heads, stags, or pheasants. This magnificent table, Hawke decided, was itself a work of art. And perhaps a political statement as well. Such grandeur would surely reignite for Count Korsakov’s guests the dreams and glories of an ancient Russia that no longer existed but had once reigned triumphant.
This was the table, Hawke decided, not of a mere billionaire nor of a wizard, a genius of science, art, and music.
This was the table of a Tsar.
Did Count Korsakov dream of Tsardom? Is that what Anastasia had been trying to tell him in the sleigh? The restoration of the Tsars was not wildly implausible, Hawke knew. There was vast nostalgia in the country for the power and glory that the times of the Tsars represented.
The last of the Tsars, the Romanovs, were feeble, weak, and wholly incapable of ruling this huge country. But the Korsakovs, based on what he knew and had seen, were clearly powerful enough to do just about anything they damn well pleased.
C had been correct, he mused. He had needed to come here, needed to see all of this for himself. He could sense enormous changes coming in this country, a seismic shift in the balance of-
“Look out!” he heard Anastasia shout.
Something, some fat silver missile, was headed directly for his head.
He ducked and watched the thing go by. It was a flying model of an airship. About three feet long, it had Nazi swastikas emblazoned on the tail, and the red lights on the fuselage were blinking. You could even hear the faint whirr of its multiple propellers as it sailed away.
“What the hell?” Hawke said.
“It’s a race,” Anastasia said, suddenly at his side. “Watch out, Hawke, here comes the Hindenburg.”
Now a second radio-controlled miniature airship came weaving its way between two of the flaming candelabras, the ill-fated zeppelin in hot pursuit of ZR-1, the German airship that had caused such destruction in London.
“Sergei, Maxim, please land your craft and come down and introduce yourselves to Alexander Hawke. He’s our guest, so be polite.”
“Where the hell are they?” Hawke asked, peering into the gloom. He couldn’t see another soul in the cavernous candlelit room.
“Up there,” Anastasia said, pointing to a balcony high above them. It was clearly where the choir and the dinner musicians had entertained during dinner.
Two identical boys leaned over the railing and waved down at Hawke. They were both good-looking, and both had shoulder-length blond hair.
“How do you do, sir?” the twins said in unison and in very good English. “Sorry, we’re racing!” one added.
“Very well, indeed,” Hawke called up to them. “Don’t mind me. Keep racing. Who’s winning?”
“The Hindenburg,” one excited boy said. “She’s about to lap ZR-1! For the third time,” he added, laughing.
Hawke laughed, too, and said, “Come on, now, ZR-1, don’t humiliate yourself!”
Anastasia took his arm, saying, “I’ve located Father by telephone. He’s finished his concert, sadly, but is having brandy in his study. He’s most anxious to meet you.”
And off they went.
44
“Lord Alexander Hawke,” Count Ivan Korsakov said, striding across the Persian carpet, his smile as warm and radiant as the fire in the hearth. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to meet you. My daughter has told me so much about you, I feel we’ve known each other for years.”
“Count Korsakov,” Hawke said, shaking the man’s hand. “The reverse is also true, sir. I’m honored. Most kind of you to invite me.”
“Has Anastasia shown you around? The two-ruble tour?”
“I haven’t had time, Papa,” she said, moving to her father and putting her arm around his waist. “We’re so sorry to have missed your concert.”
He glanced lovingly at her, and Hawke had a split second to appraise the man. Impossibly good-looking, mid-fifties, the light in his pale blue eyes otherworldly. In this man, the blood of the Golden Horde, the Tatar and the Boyar had mixed to good effect. He was broad-shouldered, tall, and lean, with shoulder-length snow-white hair. He was elegantly dressed for the evening in a nineteenth-century suit of dark blue velvet, with breeches and white stockings. His command of English was flawless, the Russian accent lightly applied.
“Were you brilliant at the keyboard, Papa? Incandescent?”
Korsakov kissed Anastasia’s brow. “I may have missed one or two complete passages, I suppose, but the audience feigned appreciation throughout. Brevity being the soul of after-dinner concertos, eh, Lord Hawke?”
“Alex will do, please, sir, if you don’t mind. I don’t use the title.”
“Those who stand on ceremony seldom deserve the platform.”
“Well said, Count Korsakov,” Hawke said, with a slight nod of the head.
“All right, Alex, what can I get you to drink?”
“Rum would be lovely. Gosling’s if you have it.”
“Gosling’s, of course. Spoken like a true Bermudian.”
He went to the drinks table, poured Hawke a beaker of black rum, and filled his own snifter with brandy from a heavy crystal decanter. “And you, my dear girl?” he asked his daughter.
“Just water, please. I’m not staying. I’ll let you two rivals for my affection battle it out in private. And may the best man win.” Hawke tried to smile at his lover’s father but could not catch his eye.
Hawke had spied a large painting over the mantel and wandered over to inspect it. It was similar to the one in Bermuda, same subject, but the setting was a fox hunt. Count Korsakov sat astride a splendid mount, dressed in a pink jacket, surrounded by his baying hounds. He squinted at the signature in the lower right corner and saw Anastasia’s distinctive swirling initials.