When Napoleon sacked the Kremlin and the Russian army retreated, she decided to fight the invading troops on her own. She ordered three barrels of vodka loaded onto her carriage and told the driver to go to Moscow. She proceeded through devastated fields, saw skeletal children wearing army overcoats and cutting chunks of meat off dead horses, passed right by drunken French soldiers busy raping peasant women. No one tried to stop her.
She made her way through the great capital city, looking for a neighborhood where the wind was blowing in the right direction. The carriage stopped at a solitary corner. Cristina breathed in the smell of all the wooden houses, she shed many tears, and ordered the coachman to soak as many walls as possible. All she had to do was touch them with a torch. In seconds the entire neighborhood was on fire. The wind made the flames gallop toward the opposite end of the city. No Russian tried to fight the fire. Moscow turned into a rose of flames.
After Napoleon’s defeat, Cristina lost all sense of time. She sewed a military uniform exactly like the one her idol wore and began to speak in a man’s voice. One night, the smiling Czar appeared naked, his pubis streaming blood. He offered her his severed member so she could carry it between her legs. Cristina awoke screaming. Someone was knocking on her bedroom door, a messenger: “Alexander I is dead!”
Foaming with rage, she called the servants and whipped them across the mouth until they cried. Later, in the court, the rumor circulated that the Czar, exhausted by power, had fled to Siberia to live as a holy hermit. The corpse with the rotten face that was seen in the imperial coffin belonged to his syphilitic cousin. To go on living, Cristina forced herself to believe those tales.
Five years after the possibly false death of Alexander I, the murder of sheep began. With each full moon, there appeared on the farms near the imperial forest female sheep, their sex and anus destroyed and showing traces of sperm a doctor identified as human. The animals were raped, their throats bitten through, their stomachs ripped open, and their intestines scattered in an attempt to form letters.
One night, when the moon was at its fullest, Cristina tied up a flock of sheep at the entrance to the forest and waited, hiding in a ditch. After a few hours, a naked man covered with mud and grunting like a savage beast appeared. He raped the animals, pulled off their heads, yanked out their intestines and used them to write, “Forgive me, my God.” Then he fled into the brush.
Cristina, with the skill of a hunter, followed his tracks, which led to an enormous oak. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would break her ribs. The tree was identical to the one in her dreams. How many times, at the top of the old tree, had she given herself to her beloved? She’d lost count. The man, standing under a small waterfall, began to wash himself with a surprising delicacy. Soon the cold stream cleansed him of mud and blood. In the silvery light, Cristina, hidden in the thicket, could make out some details of that firm body, which seemed to be about fifty years of age. By piecing together the shape of his nails, the arc of his eyebrows, his protruding lower lip, his marmoreal skin, the beauty mark on his left ear, his blue eyes, his slight limp, and the horizontal wrinkle that furrowed the nape of his neck, Cristina concluded that the man was His Majesty Alexander I, Emperor of Russia. Holding back a scream, trying to be silent, she knelt in exaltation.
The Czar entered the oak tree through an opening in the trunk and did not come out. Cristina waited for several hours, immobile as a statue. Raucous snoring from within the tree startled her out of her stillness. She walked cautiously through the opening and found seven stairs that led down to a cave. On a straw pallet with neither blankets nor pillow lay Alexander I. Wearing a white cassock and a crippled Christ that hung from a bone necklace, he was deeply asleep, lit up by a candle.
Aside from three dead serpents on a hook and an icon of the Virgin surrounded by sheep, offering her bosom to the Child, the place was empty — movingly so in its voluntary poverty. The Czar, master of immense Russia, was living there, solitary, eating reptiles, transformed into a saint, a degenerate. Cristina bowed over the bridegroom of her nightly dreams, made the sign of the cross, and left without turning her back on the Czar. She galloped back to the manor. A hurricane-like rain soaked her to the skin, but she never noticed; her body and soul were burning.
She shouted to wake the servants. She had the furniture from the grand salon thrown out into the yard and installed a herd of sheep. She lived for a month among the animals with the windows closed, never leaving, not caring that the animals’ dung was staining the sumptuous Turkish rugs. She suffused herself with animals’ odor. When the full moon came, she drove the sheep to the edge of the forest, tied them up at the foot of a tree, and killed one in order to skin it. Then, naked, she covered herself with the still-warm skin and got down on all fours, her backside toward the oak.
She’d chosen a corner covered by a thicket so the moonlight wouldn’t expose her. The bleating of the sheep attracted the Czar who, transformed into a monster, threw himself on top of the most appetizing sheep. Cristina felt the impact, stifling a shout of happy pain. Her hymen, hardened by so many years of waiting, exploded into fragments that cut her like shards of glass. None of this kept her from pushing toward the testicles, squeezing out the longed-for liquor. The hermit ejaculated with monumental spasms and then sank his teeth into the Cristina’s neck, trying to sever her aorta. Cristina had developed masculine muscles in her legs from so much riding: they were as strong as tree trunks. She slipped free and fought her attacker, squeezing his torso between her thighs and cutting off his air. Then she tied him on his back to some roots. Paying no attention to his howls of fury, she sat on top of him, making herself seven times the repository of his sperm. At the end of the final orgasm, the man wept, muttering, “Forgive me, my God!” and fainted.
Cristina carried him in her arms to the great oak and, after bathing him in the cold water, brought him to where her flock was, dressed him in the white cassock, and put him to sleep. Soon fever made the Emperor delirious. He was seeing lascivious sheep coming to devour his testicles, all wearing his mother’s velvet and ermine dresses. At dawn, when his fever dropped and he recovered his senses, he kissed Cristina’s hands to show his gratitude. Nothing had ever been easy for him. Dominated by his family, forced into marrying a woman he did not love, unable to make her pregnant, obliged to be an accomplice to his father’s murderers, overwhelmed by power, unsuccessful in leading his people to freedom, he abandoned everything, trying to become a saint. But his soul was rotten.
As a child, he was often sent to study with his grandmother, Catherine the Great. On her lap, he learned military strategy, politics, and many other things. As she spoke to him about her battles, court intrigue, and the engagement of her granddaughter to King Gustav of Sweden, the old woman slid her arthritic hand into his trousers and played with his penis. Then on her knees before him, with an rapacious, imperious look on her face, she sank her rotten teeth into his foreskin. He didn’t dare move, for he feared amputation. Later, after an interminable moment, she would release him and laugh like a crow, showing the stinking depths of her throat.
He hated his grandmother, his mother, and his wife. Three women but at the same time one woman. He sought refuge in the Virgin Mary. He thought that in the solitude of his arboreal hideaway, he would attain sainthood, but one night, when the moon was full, the nightmare began. Possessed by a bestial desire, he was forced to rape and slaughter herds of sheep. Now, after what Cristina had done for him, he realized that beneath the skin of those animals he was seeing the naked bodies of the women who smothered and perverted his youth: Catherine, Maria Feodorovna, and Isabel.