My Father the Czar
Copyright 1998
Library of Congress number: 98-96138
by AUTHOR22@aol.com
All rights reserved
Chapter Nine
When the Czarina had wired Nicholas and outlined her concerns: their
cold reception in Hamburg, Cousin Willy's surliness, the political
unrest throughout the Balkans and the apparent military preparations
which they had witnessed in the countryside, the Czar had ordered the
Standart to proceed to England as quickly and quietly as possible.
+ + + + +
London England March 1914
by Alex-P the peasant boy
+ + + + +
We have now been moored in London for more than a month. Our
destination was to have been Le Havre with a week in Paris.
The Czarina and her daughters had been eagerly discussing the French
theater. Diaghilev's Ballets-Russes was performing La Legende de
Joseph and La Coq d'Or. At Andr'e Antoine's Theater Libre were
several new comedies. Olga said she'd love to see The Rites of Spring
again.
The German Navy had closed the locks out of Hamburg for several hours.
As we moved further west we saw huge cigar-shaped airships which
Captain Prokoshov told us were named Zeppelins after their designer
Count von Zeppelin. They looked as though they would be fun to ride. I
imagined they could see everything for hundreds of miles. By the time
the Standart had finally broken free of the Elbe River and found
itself at sea it was almost eight at night.
We were eating dinner when the ship made an obvious change in course;
we had been traveling south, but were now headed west. The Captain
interrupted our meal with a message that the Naval Command had radioed
a change; we were to be diverted to London. An encoded message was
being received and, as soon as it was processed, it would be delivered
to the Czarina. The message must have been very long because it still
had not been delivered by the time we retired.
A report by one of the lookouts drew attention to a huge, dark object
bearing lights in the sea ahead. Two lights were seen appearing only
to sink into the water some five or six hundred yards from our port
bow. There was some degree of controversy over the sighting as these
waters were known to be rich with phosphorescent organisms.
Several times that night we heard a commotion out on deck. Everyone
was excited about seeing more of those long vessels that were low in
the water. They were almost invisible unless you were looking for
them.
We were making our way up the Thames when we learned that the
Czarina's cousin, King George Frederick Ernest Albert, had requested
that we visit. It was also suggested that she attempt to visit with
England's Winston Churchill who seemed determined to goad His Majesty
into stronger stances against the Kaiser's general attitude in naval
affairs.
Although the German navy could not match the numerical strength of the
British fleet, German ships were more modern and, in some respects,
tougher, more powerful and more maneuverable than Britain's.
Those low-profile vessels we had seen were submarines and England had
just a few. Many English naval officers considered them experimental;
or worse yet, death traps.
The wharf, to which we had been assigned, lay on the east side of
London, as red and ragged as a cloud at sunset. The buildings beyond
were built of a bright brick throughout; its sky-line was fantastic
and even its ground plan was wild. Our tutor, Mr. Guilliard, explained
that it had been the outburst of a speculative American builder,
faintly tinged with art, who called its architecture sometimes
"Elizabethan" and sometimes "Queen Anne", apparently under the
impression that the two sovereigns were identical. It was described
with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any
definable way produced any art. Although its pretensions to be an
intellectual center were a little vague, its pretensions to be a
pleasant place were quite indisputable. It's main claim to immortality
came from the artist types who choose to live there.
Oscar Wilde was said to have written several of his plays while in
residence, having had friends in the area whom he had visited. Any
stranger who looked for the first time upon the quaint red houses
could only think how very oddly shaped the people must be who could
fit into them. When Wilde met the people, he was not disappointed. The
place was not only pleasant, but perfect, the kind of perfect that
results from following a well thought-out plan. One could regard it
not as a deception but rather as a dream. Even if the people were not
"artists", the whole was nevertheless artistic.
In contrast, we would see that this attractive unreality fell upon it
more so about nightfall, when the extravagant roofs were dark against
the afterglow and the whole insane village seemed as separate as a
drifting cloud. We were told that this was more strongly true on the
many nights of local festivity, when the little gardens would be
illuminated and the big Chinese lanterns which glowed in the dwarfish
trees would look like some fierce and monstrous fruit. Over all, it
seemed strangely out of place in this section of London.
England turned out to be a rather odd place. There was no pomp or
ceremony connected with our arrival; we could just as well have been a
cargo vessel. Eventually a minor dignitary arrived in the company of
our Ambassador to England. His Majesty, the King, was on vacation at
his home in Scotland and should be back within ten days.
The projected ten days turned into more than three weeks. During that
time we reverted to our charades. Posing alternately as Standart
sailor and Catherine, we explored the London theater district.
The Tsarevich and I thoroughly enjoyed Oscar Wilde's "The Importance
of being Earnest". It was a good test of our English language skills.
But we couldn't figure out what was funny about some of the things the
audience laughed at.
We sat next to a strange young man who claimed to be a poet and a
close friend of the playwright. This auburn-haired poet became our
hero of the evening, although we became confused in his ramblings; it
was difficult to separate his stories of Wilde from those about
himself. He claimed to live in that district we had seen when we
first docked. He rattled on about the many nights when those passing
by his little back garden might hear Wilde's high, didactic voice
laying down the law to men and particularly to women. The attitude of
those women in such cases was indeed one of the paradoxes of the
playwright's place. Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called
"emancipated" and professed a degree of protest against male
supremacy; yet these new women would always pay to a man the
extravagant compliment which no ordinary woman ever paid, that of
listening while he was talking.
The man put the old cant of the "lawlessness of art" and "the art of
lawlessness" with a certain impudent freshness, which gave at least a
momentary pleasure. He was helped in some degree by the arresting
oddity of his appearance, which he worked --as the phrase goes, for
all it was worth. His dark red hair, parted in the middle, was
literally like a woman's and curved into the slow curls of some virgin
from a daVinci painting. From within this almost saintly oval,
however, his face projected suddenly broad and brutal, the chin
carried forward with a look of cockney contempt. This combination at
once tickled and terrified the nerves. He seemed like a walking
blasphemy, a blend of the angel and the ape. Again we lost the
continuity; we were not certain if he was describing Wilde, himself,
or still a third person.
After the performance our "guide" walked back towards the wharf
district with us; however, we found an excuse to leave him before he
detected that we were passengers on the Russian Imperial yacht. With
his imagination, he probably would have invented a story about meeting
the Tsarevich and Catherine Rusputin.
The Czarina made an appointment to lunch with Churchill but, at the
last minute, he canceled. His apology said that the King was in need
of his services.
The London Times carried a story about the royals' return to
Buckingham two days before we were officially advised of a proposed
audience. When the invitation was received, it was through our
Ambassador and the bid was for a quiet dinner. The request was
specific about who was being invited: The Czarina, the four Grand
Duchesses, the Tsarevich, and Catherine Rasputin.
None of the children had ever met their cousin, King George, so the
impending evening was approached with a mixture of caution and wonder.
The oddest thing of all about this family reunion was its total lack
of warmth. A Russian family, even the Imperial one, would never
suppress their love for one another. Thus, the reserve of the Windsors
was looked upon as being cold and uncaring.
For each Russian guest, there was an English equivalent. Each of the
Grand Duchesses was partnered with an English Prince or Duke. They
dressed and acted like they were at a formal dinner for a visiting
dignitary, while we, on the other hand, dressed and acted like we were
at a family reunion.
Olga was paired with her nineteen year old cousin Edward, Tatiana
enjoyed the company of eighteen year old George. Sixteen year old Mary
sat next to Alex-T which left me, Alex-P as Catherine, with fourteen
year old Henry. The monarch apologized for the absence of his two
younger children and his wife Mary. The queen was seeing Prince George
and Prince John to bed.
King George was anything but a diplomat. He spent the entire evening
inquiring about his cousin's meeting with the Kaiser. It was also
obvious that the niece of Gregori Rasuptin did not live up to his
preconception of her. I think he expected to see serpents in my hair,
while I exhaled fire and brimstone.
The Russian children were not to be contained and attempted
conversations with their cousins. The boys smiled, but said little. I
put my hand on Henry's knee and he froze up as if he had been touched
by a snake.
Even the food was not great; almost tasteless. The evening was soon
over, thankfully. My impression of the English was that they were an
emotionless lot. I wondered how in the world the King had begot six
children. It was impossible to think of his getting that close to his
wife, much less fucking her.
The weather had crossed the line into spring when we finally continued
our voyage. The Czarina was reluctant to undertake the role of
"Ambassador" at large. Each day a lengthy radiogram was received from
St. Petersburg awaiting an equally long one in reply. There had been
reports of political unrest, which spread from the German borders
across the Balkan states and into Russia. It seemed everyone in the
world was blaming the Czar for these riots because the majority of the
participants were from our country. Of course the unrest was at its
worst in the countries that had weak or non-existent police power.
Bosnia was at the top of the list.
One particular Radiogram contained two messages from Uncle Gregori;
one for the Czarina the other for me. He had been quite circumspect in
his message to me; nevertheless, it was quite clear that he expected
me to practice my building of willpower.
His other message contained words of good cheer for Alex-T's mother.
God had told Gregori that the boy would stay in good health as long as
Uncle continued to pray. He also said that if at all possible he would
accompany the Czar on his trip to Yalta.
We had abandoned Paris as a destination. The month's delay in England
had put us well behind our original plan. The Czar would be traveling
to Yalta in late April to join his family. His workload in St.
Petersburg was exhausting. Some of his letters to his wife brought
forth tears of compassion. She missed him, as did his children.
We had crossed the channel and were headed south toward Gibraltar. It
was our third day at sea when the ship suddenly coughed a belch of
black smoke from its stacks, slowed and stopped. The Captain was
speaking into a voice tube. The sounds coming from the engine room
were difficult to understand. Finally he strode off of the bridge en
route to the power plant.
The engineering officer intercepted him just as he reached the hatch
leading to the lower compartments. One of our boilers had failed when
a Safety Valve had opened. An inspection resulted in our shutting down
two of our three boilers. Six hours later we again got underway. Our
speed dropped to just a few knots. A radiogram to the Naval Command in
St. Petersburg resulted in our seeking shipyard repair time in
Portugal. Again we noticed a number of German submarines around us.
As we moved further south the climate became more temperate. It was on
our sixth day that we first saw the coast of Portugal. All along the
bluffs were large homes perched high among low hanging clouds. The
bright silver coast embraced spectacular scenery. Sleepy villages,
rich vineyards, ancient castles and fortresses with fascinating
architecture were interspersed with fishing villages in front of a
background of verdant mountains.
As we neared Lisbon, the Captain pointed out the Sintra Mountains;
they seemed little more than large hills when compared with the Urals.
A 16th century Moorish tower rose high in the sky telling all that
this city had been here for hundreds of years, spanning multiple
religious cultures.
Lisbon is considered to lay on the Tagus River whose mouth was so wide
that, had it not been connected to the river, it would have been
called a bay. The architecture of many red roofed houses showed more
than a trace of Arabic influence. The streets were lined with palm
trees. Lisbon is a waterfront city of sophistication and charm, near
the Sintra Mountains. It is a delightful mixture of beaches, fishing
villages and converted castles. The city's appeal lies in the
magnificent vistas from its many belvederes and in the tree-lined
avenues and squares which sport mosaic pavements.
Even though we had radioed ahead, the shipyard was not ready for us,
so we tied up at one of the harbor's commercial wharves. As we neared
our docking area, the roar of a crowd echoed from a distance. I looked
inquiringly at the Captain. "Probably the Bull Fights." he said.
Tatiana suddenly looked eager. "Bull Fights? Oh! I have always wanted
to see one." Without pausing for a breath she rushed on, "Mr.
Gilliard has told us about them. It sounds like a real adventure."
Alex-T interrupted his sister with a sarcastic remark, "If you had
been a Roman you would have been rooting for the lions."
Shortly after docking we were greeted by the son of the President. The
hospitality was informal. We did not have an Ambassador in Portugal;
our Ambassador to Madrid assumed that responsiblity also. A local
Russian citizen who imported furs from Siberia also served as our
local Council; however, he was on a trip to Kiel and was not expected
back for at least another month. The recent coup that had replaced the
monarchy with a republic had not been well thought out in advance, so
the existing government was neither stable nor steeped in tradition as
were those of England and Germany.
The President's son was a tall dark man in his late twenties with a
ready smile. A thin mustache decorated his upper lip. It was so thin,
yet so dark that it looked more like it had been drawn by an eyebrow
pencil. He spoke no Russian and we did not speak Portuguese so we
settled into French. Conversation did not flow. It was stilted and to
the point as each person who communicated first formed their messages
in their native tongue, then translated them into French.
Despite the difficulty of the meeting, we were invited to occupy the
Presidential summer palace located a short distance north of the city
while the Standart underwent repairs. Pena Palace was an 18th-century
building with golden turrets, tiled doorways and romantic gardens. The
mountain top site provided a stunning view of the valley and the sea.
We arrived in a large black touring car with no top. The Czarina and
her daughters occupied the passenger compartment while Alex-T and I
crowded in next to the driver.
The driveway was a long winding road that snaked its way up to a peak
of the Sintra Mountains where the Palace was perched. A wide flight of
stairs led up to the entryway. We were met by the housekeeper and her
staff and were then led to our rooms. The accommodations were quite
opulent. We were each assigned an apartment consisting of a large
bedroom with bath. At each entryway were two smaller rooms. One was a
pantry, the other a bedroom.
The girl who led me into my space could not have been more than
sixteen. She pointed at my bed, then at herself, and then at the
smaller bedroom. I wondered if the Tsarevich had the same facilities.
It was then that I noticed another door on the right wall. I pointed,
and the girl stepped to it and knocked. I heard a key being turned,
then the door opened. The boy that had opened it was as handsome as
was my girl. Beyond the boy I could see Alex-T sitting on his bed. He
waved at me, then his eyes shifted to the girl. His jaw opened in
surprise. Alex said in Russian, "You know the servants expect to be
our bed companions as well as attending to our other needs? Mine has
already offered to bring your girl to my chambers. He probably expects
to swap places with his sister. How are you going to handle that,
Catherine?"
"And what makes you think that your mother will allow it?"
Alex replied: "She will be too occupied with keeping Olga's virginity
intact to have thoughts about me. At least she doesn't have to worry
about Tatiana with poor Piotr stuck onboard the ship."
"Do you have any idea how long we will be here?" "Captain Prokoshov
told mother that they won't know for several days. It depends on how
good the shipyard's boilermakers are."
"I wonder how much of Portugal we will be able to visit. It looks like
a beautiful country. And I know Tatiana is going to be hounding
everyone about seeing the Bull Fights," I commented.
Alex-T had walked into my room. His eyes scanned the servant girl from
head to toe in obvious appreciation. At first the girl blushed; but,
as he drew nearer, she extended her hand and allowed him to kiss her.
I glanced at Alex's servant boy and noticed a rather lustful grin on
his face and a growing bulge in his trousers. Quickly he turned away
from us as he attempted to get himself under control.
A knock on the Tsareviche's door drew the boy servant to open it. It
was Tatiana. "Aren't these rooms delightful? My goodness mine is three
times larger than the one at home, and I DON'T have to share it. Have
you seen your bathroom yet? Mine has a sunken bath tub so big that we
could all get into it."
Alex replied, "Does that include Piotr?"
"Oh be quiet. I think sex is all that boys have on their mind."
Again, Alex's comment was: "And does THAT include Piotr?"
"Mama says that we cannot plan any sightseeing until we talk with our
host. Security is more of a problem here than anywhere else we have
been. According to Captain Prokoshov there are more foreigners in
Lisbon than there are citizens; but, as a result, the nightlife is
supposed to be very adventuresome. I hope we won't be stuck up here on
the mountain top."
"Well, it's better than being restricted to the Standart. Maybe we can
sneak out dressed as sailors like we did in Finland and London." I
knew damned well that the Tsarevich intended to switch roles with me,
and go out as Catherine.
We had hardly unpacked and bathed when we were summoned to a sitting
room. The Czarina was seated in an upholstered chair facing the
President's son. Seated next to him was a well-dressed gray haired
man. The conversation was flowing smoothly as the older man translated
Russian and Portuguese.
The Czarina turned toward us as we entered. "Children we are in for a
treat. The president wishes for us to attend a ball in our honor. It
will be held here at the Palace. Does tomorrow night seem too soon?"
Before anyone else could reply, Tatiana asked: "Oh Mama can Piotr
come?"
Alexandra turned toward her daughter, "We will see. But I do think you
are paying far to much attention to him. And then there is the matter
of dress. I doubt if a seaman's uniform would be appropriate at such
an affair." The translator whispered something into his employer's
ear. The young man smiled and replied. Then the older one told the
Czarina that, by her leave, he would attend to the matter.
Alex-T had been wrong about his mother's being too busy with her
daughters to be concerned about him. After dinner she inspected his
rooms. When she saw the interconnecting door, she tested to see that
it was locked, removed the key and put it in her pocket. "Alex I know
you and Catherine are very close. But when we are someone's guest we
must stress propriety."
So that night our servants slept in their own beds and we fantasized
about what might have been.
+ + + + +
The Standart.
8 AM the next morning.
+ + + + +
Piotr Veliky had returned to the crew's quarters to change into his
working uniform when the on duty quarter-deck messenger yelled out his
name, "Veliky! Capt'n wants you in his cabin. Your Chlen is probably
needed up at the castle."
"Fuck you ass hole," was the good-natured response. Then he asked,
"You have any idea what's up?" "You mean besides your Hui (Cock)?"
"Well at least I don't have to Drochoo (Jerk off). Come on. Enough is
enough." "There is some foreigner in the Captain's cabin. So you had
better get a move on."
Instead of putting on his work uniform he switched into the one he
usually wore ashore, then hurried up the ship's ladder to the main
deck and down to the Captain's Cabin.
The dark foreigner who had welcomed the Czarina was sitting along side
of the Captain as Piotr entered. "Veliky, this is the honorable Jose
Carvalho. His French is about as good as mine. Do you speak anything
other than Russian?"
Piotr shook his head "No."
"Well, anyway you are to go with him. It has something to do with a
party they are giving the Imperial family." The foreigner beckoned the
sailor to follow him, leading the way off the ship and into the black
touring car that was parked along side the Standart.
His host said something to the driver, who in turn said in Russian:
"You are being taken to a tailor shop to be fitted with a uniform
suitable for a ball being given at Pena Palace." As they drove along
the boulevard in silence, Piotr had visions of the fine tailor-made
uniform he had seen in St. Petersburg. He presumed the tailor could
use the one he was wearing as a basic pattern. Mostly it would be
improved by being made of better cloth as well as tailored to fit his
body.
The tailor shop they entered was not like the one in St. Petersburg
that specialized in military uniforms. The garments on display were
obviously very expensive civilian suits. His host chatted with the
tailor for a few minutes and then left. The driver told him that the
tailor knew what they wanted. Senior Carvalho had other matters to
attend to but would be back in two hours.
He was escorted to a workroom in the back of the shop. Four women sat
at sewing machines. The tailor said something in Portuguese to Piotr.
He did not understand and so did not respond. The man grasped the
bottom of his uniform jumper and tugged it upward, motioning for him
to remove it.
After taking a few measurements of his upper torso, the man pointed to
Piotr's pants. The boy blushed, but the man reached over and began to
unbutton the top of the pants. Piotr turned to face away from the
women and lowered his pants, then handed them to the tailor. There was
no expression on the man's face that would have suggested any concern
that the sailor now stood there as naked as the day he was born.
The man's measurements were detailed. He kept repeating the
measurements of both the length of the inside leg as well as the girth
of the entire leg. The constant attention as well as the proximity of
the man's face caused Piotr's petooshock to begin to inflate. As
Piotr's face reddened in embarrassment, the man winked at him.
The sailor quickly glanced around to see if the women were watching
what was going on and, while he did so, the man stood and left the
room, taking Piotr's uniform with him.
One of the seamstresses came over to him. His hands tried to cover his
chlen, but it had become throbbingly rigid. She took him by the elbow
and directed him to a small closed sitting room. Before leaving she
pointed to a stack of books and magazine. Unfortunately they were all
in Portuguese or Spanish.
An hour later the Tailor returned carrying a pair of black trousers,
and motioned for Piotr to put them on. The tailor pulled, and tucked,
and marked, then took the pants away with him. In dismay the boy
realized that the new pants did not look at all like the tailor-made
ones in the shop window in St. Petersburg.
A few minutes later the man again returned carrying a coat. Again the
garment was buttoned, pulled, tucked and marked, then taken away.
Again the boy realized that his new apparel was not to be a tailor-
made Russian naval uniform.
Another hour passed. The tailor entered, handed Pitor the garments and
motioned for him to put them on. He couldn't believe his eyes, the
coat had epaulets bearing gold stripes. On the front of the jacket
were a ton of medals and ribbons.
Senior Carvalho entered accompanied by the driver. "Sir, I cannot wear
this uniform. I am not an officer." The interpreter said, "Senior
Carvalho is chief of our department of naval affairs. He has appointed
you as a temporary commander in the Portuguese Navy. Thus, the uniform
is correct."
The young sailor was embarrassed by this turn of events; although the
new uniform was a beautiful fit, he hoped that none of his shipmates
would see him dressed like this.
Piotr started to change back into his Russian uniform but Senior
Carvalho spoke rapidly and the translator told Piotr that, since
guests were already assembling at Pena Palace, he should remain in the
new Portuguese uniform for his arrival there. The tailor placed the
Russian uniform on a hanger and handed it to Piotr who then followed
his host out of the shop. As they moved on, he looked around, hoping
to find something suitable for underpants. Then he realized that
anything worn under his uniform would draw more attention to him; it
too would look foreign and out of place. It became a matter of modesty
versus style.
Their car was heading toward the extreme western part of the city.
Silhouetted in the darkening sky was the tall, Arabic-style tower that
they had first seen when they entered Lisbon harbor. It struck Piotr
as odd, that this symbol of Arabic religion should be almost next door
to a Catholic monastery.
The road made an abrupt turn north, higher into the hills, then again
turned west. They passed a large arena that looked very old. Senior
Carvalho said something to the driver who translated, "That is where
we fight the bulls." Carvalho followed with a volley of Portuguese.
The driver hesitated a moment, then responded, "We mount the full
Corrida, with strong, agile and feisty adult bulls who are at least
four years old. We have invited the Imperial family to the one that is
being held on Saturday. Perhaps you would care to attend?"
Piotr looked dazed wondering why such hospitality was being offered to
a simple seaman on the Imperial Yacht. It had taken months to adjust
to the interest of the Imperial family. Somehow the presence of
Catherine had made the mutation easier.
Again a burst of language from Carvalho. Then, "Tonight you will meet
our most famous matador. He is highly skilled as was his father and
his father before him." Piotr, who had only heard and, to some degree,
wondered about this foreign sport, asked why it was so popular. Beef
was a staple in most European's diet and cows were slaughtered every
day.
The driver said, "The essence of bullfighting is danger. --And grace.
The measure of a great matador is his willingness to expose himself to
death, even to the point of recklessness. The Bullfight is the bravest
of arts. It is not always the great accomplishment, for not every
canvas is a masterpiece. The matador must uphold, demonstrate, and
proclaim the honor and dignity of the toro. Any who belittles toro's
dignity is a degradation that all true followers find distasteful.
"We see the brave bull, the noble bull, and yet we condemn him to
death in the ring and we applaud his executioner. The more noble the
bull, the braver the matador, the greater the tragedy, for the bull
will surely die. Yes! This is what it is - it is a great tragedy. As
great as that depicted in the Opera but with more authenticity as
Bullfighting is not mere mimicry."
Then the driver asked an odd question, a question not preceded by a
question from his employer. "You have visited both Germany and
England?" Piotr told him "Yes". Then the driver asked, "Were you
docked at the Naval Base in London?" Piotr told him "No". The driver
stated: "I heard you had dinner with the King."
Carvalho interrupted, then the driver grew silent. Clearly he wanted
to talk more; and just as clearly, his employer had put a stop to it.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
The road became steeper as they climbed a winding route toward a
distant building perched on a mountain peak. Carvalho said something,
and the driver translated, "That is Pena Palace. That is where the
Imperial family will be staying while your ship is repaired. We have
arranged a room where you can change and spend the night. The ball
will most probably continue until at least four in the morning so
returning you to your ship would not be practical."
Piotr smiled to himself in anticipation.
+ + + + +
At first it seemed as though there was a great turmoil as Piotr
approached the grand ball room. Upon entering, he discovered that it
was an enthusiastic anticipation of the performance of a single
guitarist seated at the far end of the room. Some of the din was
conversation between members of the audience, but a great deal of the
clamor was caused by people asking that the musician perform some
particular song.
At the first strum of the guitar the young Russian sailor realized
that is was the Flamenco. There is more than one Flamenco. Gypsies
dance a solemn, suffering Flamenco. Danced by the Portuguese it is
more 'allegro', happy, occasionally accompanied by castanets. It is
also music, songs, 'palmas' - the clapping of hands, and 'jaleos' -
encouraging shouts to dancers. It was frenzied, rhythmic, cascading,
relentless and hypnotic.
Suddenly the sound of driven nails dominated the strings. But there
was no hammer. It was the sound of a lone dancer whose feet moved so
fast that they appeared as a blur, a glance upward showed a similar
haze with the lightning-fast strumming hand of the guitarist. The two
performers melded into a solitary performance; twins merging into a
oneness. Yet the eye could not be content with that solidarity as the
two dynamic forces each demanded attention.
There erupted from the cacophony repeated explosions mimicking fire
crackers. It was the sound of air exploding from palms as hands
slammed together in perfect synchronism with the feet. Again the eye
was drawn to this new sound. The dancer's hands now competed with his
feet in the blurring, driving, exhibition.
His skintight trousers blackened, but did not alter, the form of his
buttocks. His cheeks rippled as the muscles raised and lowered the
legs. His thigh muscles could have been sculpted by Michelangelo. But
the body was too dynamic to be contained within an inanimate piece of
art. The brilliant white shirt that he wore was loose and moved with
the breeze. It did not hide the well-developed shoulders, the solid
chest, or the firm abdomen.
The overall picture was not that of a dancer, but that of an athlete.
And just as suddenly as it had started it came to a climactic
conclusion. The dancer's foot came down in a crack of finality. His
body leaned backward in an attitude of virility. His breathing ceased.
He had become a living statue of passion and fired emotion, yet purely
human.
Piotr stood less than three feet from the man. His eyes were riveted
on the intense hot-blooded face. They were staring at each other, eyes
locked in a sudden exchange of almost torrid emotion.
The silence was deafening. Then, like the roar of a fountaining
volcano, the applause saturated the ears in appreciation, breaking the
trance-like bonding between the dancer and the sailor. The frozen
tableau dissolved into reality. The man extended his hand and said, "I
am Pedro Sabicas. You are?"
The handshake was firm, almost to the point of pain. Pitor replied,
"My name is Veliky. Piotr Veliky. I am from the Russian ship
Standart." The dancer's eyes moved slowly down Piotr's face and body
not pausing for a moment until they reached the floor. "Ah. You are
the Grand Duchess Tatiana's friend that I have heard so much about."
Piotr blushed as he began to realize that he was the subject of gossip
in this foreign city.
The man's eyes paused momentarily looking at the medals on Piotr's
chest. "And I must welcome you to the Portuguese Navy. It is a proud
heritage that you share. Magellan, Columbus, Cabrilho and da Gama were
Portuguese you know."
+ + + + +
The evening was a hectic one for "Commander" Piotr Veliky temporarily
of the Portuguese Navy, permanently a Seaman aboard the Czar's
imperial yacht the Standart. Somehow the officer uniform made a
difference. It was not only that others treated him differently, he
felt different about himself.
Pedro Sabicas seemed to be in friendly competition for the attention
of Tatiana.
Unlike every other ball that Piotr had attended, this one featured
only the music of the lone guitarist. He learned that Sabicas was not
part of the entertainment, but rather an enthusiastic guest. He also
learned that the man was the most famous Matador in all of Portugal.
It was almost four in the morning when guests began to depart. The sun
had lightened the morning sky when Piotr said good night and followed
Tatiana out of the ballroom and up the staircase to their sleeping
quarters. "Piotr, tomorrow we are to attend the Bull Fights. You are
joining us are you not?" "I do not know. Are you certain it will be
all right with your mother?" "I don't think she has much choice,
Pedro Sabicas asked if you would be there."
They had reached their quarters. Tatiana raised her chin and pursed
her lips in an invitation for a goodnight kiss, then entered her room.
To Piotr's surprise the man servant he had met in his chambers that
afternoon had been replaced with a most attractive young lady. Her
hair was jet black, her eyes were a deep brown, and her smile showed
rows of beautifully white teeth outlined by soft pink lips.
Without asking, she unbuttoned the uniform jacket and hung it on a
hanger. "Would you like to bathe before retiring?" she asked in
perfect Russian. The ball had been rigorous exercise and, even though
he was ready to collapse, the idea of immersing himself in hot water
was too tempting to refuse.
"I thought you might, so the bath has already been drawn." She reached
over and began removing Piotr's belt; it appeared she was intent on
undressing him. Unaccustomed as he was to such service, he still
relaxed and let her do as she pleased. He was surprised that his chlen
had not become erect in the process.
She then led him by the hand through a doorway at the back of the
apartment. To his utter amazement, the bath was a large, tiled, sunken
tub. Water vapor was rising from the surface.
The girl removed her own dress and then stepped into the water,
carrying a brush, a wash cloth and a bar of soap. She applied the
soap and vigorously brushed his skin. "Did you enjoy the dance?"
Piotr nodded his head "yes" and lay back in the water. His body
floated to the surface as the girl continued brushing his chest, and
abdomen. His chlen began to inflate. The change in his condition did
not cause the girl to hesitate in her task as she brushed lower and
lower. "How long have you been in the Russian Navy?" "Almost three
years."
The brush was now sudsing his pubic forest and his chlen stood proudly
at attention. "I have a cousin who lives in Hamburg. Have you ever
been there?" Piotr again nodded his head. The bristles of the brush
were now being applied to his shaft. It was a most unique feeling. It
did not exactly hurt, but it was a vigorous feeling that stimulated
him. If she continued to work on his chlen he would soon climax. He
was in a quandary. He definitely wanted to cum, but he would like to
delay it. The feelings were too good to let end so quickly.
"I hear the Germans have giant air-ships, hundreds of feet long. Did
you see any of them?" "Yes, there were several along the Elbe Canal.
They closed the locks for several hours. I think they were moving
submarines out to sea and didn't want us to see them."
She moved the brush under the base of his chlen, took his Ya-y-tsa-a
(testicles) into her hands and gently began scrubbing them. The
sensation could not be ignored. It was almost painful but not quite.
Tremors shot from her hands extending into his gut. It seemed that his
entire body wanted to be enveloped in the act of climaxing. "Are you
and the Grand Duchess lovers?" He shook his head, "No."
"She doesn't know what she is missing." The girl began blowing hot air
on his Chlen as she tightened her grip on his Yaytsaa. Her tongue
lashed out and made two laps along the seam of his cock head. He was
ahead of her in time as he suddenly imagined her lips around his
instrument. His hips rose up in anticipation, but she backed off. "How
did you come to be assigned to the Standart. Someone told me that your
father works for the Czar in Poland. Is that how you became close to
the Imperial family?" She moved her face back towards Piotr's mast,
but watched his face carefully.
"No. I was on a different ship and met the Tsarevich. It was he who
introduced me to his sister." His hips again moved upward hoping to be
rewarded for his truthful answer. However his compensation was several
repeated squeezes of his Yaytsaa which further increased his desire to
be immersed in this exercise of pleasure.
"The Standart was supposed to be en route to the Mediterranean, why
did you spend a month in England. That is such a cold, almost
unhealthy place." Her lips lay across the head of his Chlen while she
was waiting for his reply.
Piotr pushed her head down on his shaft while projecting his chlen all
the way up. He climaxed, filling the girl's mouth with his seed, then
relaxed, sinking into the water. In the aftermath he realized the girl
was attempting to pump him for information.
Thus it was, that Piotr Veliky, son of a Polish game keeper, seaman in
the Russian Navy, friend of the next Czar lost his virginity and was
first exposed to the world of intrigue, spies and espionage.
+ + + + +
The Imperial party, including Catherine and Piotr had been driven to a
four story building one block west of the Bull Ring. To the Czarina,
seven thirty in the morning was a ridiculous time to be anywhere other
than her bed chamber. A dozen soft upholstered chairs had been
arranged on a second floor balcony which provided an unrestricted view
of the street leading to the arena. A table laden with sweet rolls,
tea and fresh fruit provided their first sustenance of the day.
Thousands of spectators lined the street protected by a thin wooden
fence. Small boys would rush into the center; one playing the bull,
the other the brave matador. Most often the children were ignored
until a concerned mother realized that it was her child that was in
the center of the bulls' path. The "Encierro" or running of the bulls
was the predecessor to the day's activities. There was nothing in all
of Russia that was similar to this Portuguese festival.
A stirring below caused everyone in the balcony to look to the west
where one could hear the sounds of people running on the cobble stone
pavement. Twenty or thirty teenage boys suddenly came into view being
chased by other boys on bicycles. The crowd sighed in disappointment.
It was a false alarm.
Alex-T had insisted that he switch roles, so it was he as Catherine
that sat on one side of Piotr Veliky, while his Sister Tatiana
occupied the chair between the sailor and her mother. Veliky handed
the Grand Duchess a cup of tea that he had poured from the side table.
He was about to sit down again when he realized Catherine was empty
handed. So he passed his cup to her.
A rocket rose high in the air and burst. Again the crowd clamored in
response to the sound of running. This time there was no doubt of the
source. A crowd of close to a hundred men came into view, running like
the devil was behind them. Close on their heels were a herd of angry,
snorting bulls whose intent was the overtaking of their tormentors.
The lead bull, a critter of at least two thousand pounds, was within a
few feet of a slow runner. The mob shouted in warning. The man looked
over his shoulder. In a sudden burst of speed he turned to his right
and leapt over the wooden barrier, felling a half dozen onlookers.
The diversion was only momentary as the gap between the men and the
bulls narrowed. The roadway had broadened at an intersection and the
beasts now had room to move in even closer. It was difficult to tell
if the bulls were chasing the men to the Arena, or if the men were
running the animals.
Most of the spectators had chosen their viewpoint in the wee early
hours of the morning after a night-long binge. They yelled excitedly,
rooting for their favorite participant. The adventure passed them by
in a matter of seconds.
Bottles of beer were passed around. The smell of the crowd reached the
balcony. The Czarina put her hand to her nose and started to rise.
Senior Carvalho stood and escorted the Imperial party inside. Servants
quickly moved the chairs and side table then closed the doors.
Piotr asked the interpreter why the matador, Pedro Sabicas, had not
been present. The man replied, "He does not watch the running of the
bulls. He spends the morning preparing for his confrontation, but he
will be at the lottery."
One o'clock in the afternoon is an incredibly early hour of the day if
you have been dancing all night. And this was the most inconvenient
thing about the visit to the enclosure. The entrance they used was the
one through which the bulls were herded by their keepers.
A drawing was held to assign two bulls to each of the three matadors
who would fight in the afternoon. At this point the bulls, who had
been sharing a common corral since the morning run, were separated
into their individual stalls. The event attracted not only the
bullfighters, but also many "important people" --local politicians and
personalities. It was an important social occasions.
Each bull was assigned a number that was written on a small piece of
paper and then placed in a hat. Each bullfighter would draw twice in
order of seniority. The bulls were then put into their separate
stalls. Each fighter examined the animals which luck had chosen for
him --looking for both their qualities and their defects.
The Imperial party was led by their host to a small bar immediately
adjacent to the pens. While they were ordering something to drink,
Pedro Sabicas entered the room and immediately became the center of
everyone's attention. He patted a few men on the back and even hugged
a few, but he did not hesitate in joining the Imperial family. He
smiled at Tatiana while he bowed to her mother. But it was Piotr to
whom he spoke with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, "Did you sleep
well?"
Piotr blushed, suspecting that the matador knew about the girl who had
bathed him. He wondered if it was he who wanted the information the
girl was willing to trade her body for.
"I think you have need of some sustenance to replace what you spent
last night." The man raised his arm waving to the bar man. "Port, and
two orders of Ostra de montana." Guiltily, the sailor looked around,
wondering if anyone interpreted Sabicas' "you spent last night" as had
he. It seemed not. Maybe he was just being too sensitive.
Moments later two bowls were set on the bar together with two aperitif
glasses containing the Port. Pedro Sabicas handed Piotr one glass,
then toasted, "To the Bulls! May life always be full of risk; without
it there is no spice to the day." They sipped at the wine.
"Now this you will enjoy. The wine is good for a man's soul, and this
is good for a man's body." He handed Piotr one of the bowls. The
contents were hot. It looked like a slightly oblong piece of meat,
cooked in a steaming brown sauce. The matador speared his with a fork,
put half of it between his teeth and bit down. The expression on the
man's face was one of gastronomic delight. Piotr speared his and
placed the piece between his teeth. To his surprise it was soft. In
fact it reminded him of a piece of cooked goose kidney, although much
larger. There was not much in the way of flavor other than that
carried by the sauce.
After chewing and swallowing his first half he washed it down with
more than a sip of the Port, then ate the other half. It was then that
the interpreter said, "You are an unusual Russian. Most foreigners do
not care for bull's balls." Piotr turned white, then purple, in an
attempt to keep his food down, then rushed from the room to throw up.
It took the sailor quite sometime to recover. When he returned to the
bar everyone was gone. The bar man gave him directions to where the
Imperial family would be seated. The instructions were in Portuguese
accompanied by many arm and hand motions. The word "Solear" was
repeated several times combined with a shaking of the head.
At first he was confused until he emerged into the main arena. There
were two sides to the arena, the sunny or "Solear", side and that
without sun. The Imperial family was seated in the shade.
The seating on the sunny side of the Bullring was totally dominated by
the atmosphere of "horse" people. They have a distinctive air about
them regardless of nationality or race. That entire side of the
Bullring was pure spectacle and pandemonium. Even at first glance
there was obviously a spirit of friendly competition among groups.
Several brass bands ignored eachother's presence, producing a din of
dissonant noise.
Most of the sunny side spectators wore distinctively colored smocks
and straw hats. A minor disagreement erupted between two neighboring
groups. It started as a debate regarding the merits of one of the
matadors but soon escalated into the throwing of small bags of flour.
The reason for the smocks became apparent. An overweight woman whose
badgering voice was reaching the far corners of the arena was stopped
in mid sentence by a puff of white powder. As the dust dissipated
everyone could see her clown like face. The entire audience broke into
fits of good-natured laughter.
The chaos had its own order and logic as the flour-fights were
replicated across the 'horsy' set. The fights were subsiding as Piotr
made his way around to the shady side. He noticed that everyone seemed
to have a bottle of wine, beer, or something suspiciously more
alcoholic.
Tatiana moved over and motioned him to sit beside her. "Are you
feeling all right?"
"Yes. My stomach has settled down."
"I shouldn't have laughed, but the expression on your face when you
heard what you had eaten was classic. Almost like something out of a
movie."
The din suddenly ceased as two spectacularly costumed horsemen burst
into the ring at a gallop. They turned aside in opposite directions
and galloped around the arena. When their paths crossed the crowd gave
a loud "Ooh" as though they nearly missed a collision.
The blare of a solitary trumpet filled the air as three bull-fighters
with their entourage of picadores and peones paraded into the ring,
then circled around until they faced the balcony of the President just
above the Imperial family. They saluted in a ritual request for
permission to begin the contest. Then all but one of the contestants
disappeared through a passageway. Pedro Sabicas strode to the center
of the arena and bowed, first to the President, then turned to the
sunny side and bowed again.
A groan from the crowd signaled that the first bull had been released
into the ring.
Immediately Sabicas' peons appeared, prancing playfully toward the
startled animal, tempting him with their capes so that the quality of
the bull charges could be appreciated. At first the animal just stood
there ignoring the presence of all. But the peons proceeded to goad
him into some form of action. As one more adventuresome peon dashed
head on toward him, he tossed his head, lowered it and rushed directly
toward his taunting distracter. The pink cape whisked from in front of
the peon to the side as the two thousand pounds of beef followed his
colorful target. At the last second a twist of the cape deprived the
beast of even that quarry.
Having over run his prey, he lumbered to a stop, turned back toward
the peone and appraised the matter. Again the peon approached and the
exercise was repeated. After the third escape the bull turned and
walked away from the man. The peon clowned around, made rude noises
and attempted to regain the animal's attention --all to no avail.
At this point, the crowd was deriding the animal's lack of spirit so
loudly that nothing the peon could do would regain the bull's
attention. A horseman entered the arena bearing a steel lance. This
got the bull's attention and the peon exited the arena.
The rider circled the bull displaying his ability to control his steed
in the minutest detail. The man and horse joined together in something
deeply primeval, almost like a centaur. It was as though the man and
his horse had become one; the lives of both depended upon that
oneness.
The circling continued in a inward spiral, drawing tighter and
tighter. When he was in the most dangerous position of all, directly
in front of the snorting creature, he shoved his lance into the soft
muscles just behind the animal's shoulders. The bull's back legs bent
slightly and he lunged forward, horns aimed at the flanks of the
horse. In a lightning turn to the left, the Picador was now along side
the now very angry bull.
This exercise was repeated several times until the animal was
thoroughly provoked.
The second "tercio" began when three "banderilleros" took up their
running positions with a dart in each hand. Each dart ended with a
small steel hook. The first man was very young and quite agile. He
ran at the bull and nonchalantly stopped as though he had been out for
a Sunday morning stroll. The youth leaned to his right lifting his
left foot from the ground. The bull watched for a moment, then dug his
hoofs into the ground and charged toward the banderillero. A split
second before the horns would have tossed the man into the air he
leaned back, out of the path of the animal. Lightning fast, two darted
sticks were placed high up on top of the shoulders, well back behind
the bull's neck where they dangled and annoyed the beast as it came to
a halt. The youth spun as might a dancer and walked toward the side
of the ring to the applause of the spectators.
The other two banderilleros were not youthful. To the contrary, one of
them was well passed middle age, but he moved with an air of mastery.
He must have had 30 years experience within his art. The other man was
a little portly. They performed as a team. Their movements were the
sole object of the bull's attention. In a somewhat comedic fashion the
two men clowned while taunting the animal.
The two men took up positions close to each other, each standing on
one foot, leaning toward each other. Again the bull charged. Its head
was lowered, its horns a deadly weapon intended to destroy its
bedevilers. The two men did as had their youthful predecessor, deftly
moving back away from the passing bull and sinking in the banderillas
on each side, high on the shoulders.
It was then that the matador became the center of attention as he
moved to the center of the ring with the grace of a ballet dancer but,
with the air of a courageous protagonist.
The crowd roared its welcome.
Sabicas unfurled his yellow, red lined, cape as he bore down upon the
animal. The beast lowered his rear haunches, snorted in warning. Its
eyes focused on the red target and the man directly behind it, then
the one ton of anger bore down upon the still motionless matador.
Within a fraction of a second, the yellow cape whisked to the side,
and the horns engaged nothing but thin air.
Again the animal turned, surveying the target of his anger in
confusion not realizing the sleight of hand that had deprived him of
his victory. Again the exercise was repeated.
The animal had reached its peak of enragement. Foamy saliva was
dripping from its mouth. Its snorting breath was so loud that it could
be heard in the last row of seats. Its hoofs loosened the earth
creating a low cloud of dust.
Fear gripped the hearts of the onlookers. They shared in the danger
displayed before them. Then, in an almost undetectable movement, the
Matador replaced the wooden sword which held the cape with one of
sharp steel for the final "estocada".
The bull had calmed. He was no longer pawing the earth. The cloud of
dust had settled. The arena was silent in anticipation.
In a sudden charge of furry his hoofs engage the earth propelling him
toward the matador whose stance had not changed in the least. As
though besieged by a great calm, the man awaited his death. Then, at
the last second, with a lightning move to his left he buried the sword
in a small area of the animal's back, his own body cradled squarely
between the beasts horns, bringing the contest to an end.
The crowd was on its feet. The roar of approval was deafening.
The matador stood proudly, marched a few feet toward the Pegas people
and bowed, then turned toward the shady side, strode toward the
Presidential section, bent at the waist while moving his hat in a
flourishing wave from left to right. Slowly he straightened
expectantly looking for a sign of approval.
The President was startled to note that his approval was being usurped
by one of his guests. The young vivacious Tatiana had jumped to her
feet shouting, "Bravo, Bravo Senior Pedro. You were magnificent."
Graciously the politician deferred to the Grand Duchess and awarded
the Matador two ears.
One of the Picadores performed the surgery and handed the winner his
trophy.
Again the Matador bowed and saluted the Imperial family, then the
President, after which he exited the ring.
The last group of the entourage, the "Mulillas", rode into the
stadium, lassoed the dead bull and dragged it from the arena.
Immediately there was a great clamor as the crowd purchased drinks and
food from touting vendors. Most had brought their own lunch. Several
large wicker baskets containing quantities of fresh fruit, pickled
peppers, port wine and a variety of cheeses and breads were brought
into the Imperial box.
The arena turned into a huge picnic. No longer were the patrons
attempting to antagonize one another. Tatiana and Piotr both stood to
investigate the contents of one of the baskets. In doing so they faced
each other in an inadvertent head to head bump. At that moment a
camera went "Click". Everyone presumed that the photographer's subject
was the Presidential box.
Tatiana giggled, "Oh Piotr, I thought you had lost interest."
+ + + + +
There shouldn't have been anyone on the driveway to the castle this
late at night, but there was. A tall man was waiting in a doorway on
the other side of the roadway. He didn't lean against anything like a
loafer would. He stood on both feet with his weight evenly
distributed, like a soldier at ease. He was well dressed too. A
broad-brimmed fedora covered his head. It matched the trench coat
that covered the rest of him. His black shoes shone in the light of a
street lamp.
Piotr, who had decided to go for a stroll before retiring, looked at
the man and thought he had seen him before. Had it been this
afternoon at the arena? Or was it sometime earlier? He wondered if
the man had followed him and, if so, why? Why would anybody want to
follow him?
He decided to test him. He set out for his walk down the driveway ...
in the wrong direction if he was going to retire. The man did not
move. He clung to his shelter as the sailor strode down the road and
crossed into the shadow of the main gate. Now they were on the same
side. Still the man hadn't moved. Piotr decided that his imagination
had probably gotten the best of him. He retraced his steps only now he
was on the same side of the road as his quarry. As he reached the
spot where the man stood, he glanced quickly at his face. The man
spoke to him.
"Hello, Piotr Veliky." He fell into step beside him. "My name is
Sasha Romkoski and I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't
mind." "Are you a policeman or something?" "No, I am a reporter from
the Peterburgskie Wedomosti (St. Petersburg News). I happen to be in
Lisbon covering the Bullfights."
"I think I have seen you before, haven't I?" The newsman didn't
answer the question directly. Instead he said, "I like your new
uniform, but the one in the tailor shop in St. Petersburg would have
looked better on you. Officers do not have as much fun with the girls
as do enlisted men. Yes?"
"You've been following me, haven't you?" "Yes." "Why?" "It is not
often that a seaman in the Russian Navy finds himself in the company
of the Imperial family. It shows a more human side to them. Everyone
should know that the Romanovs are not as cold and forbidding as people
perceive them to be.
"You have a knack with people, they warm to you quickly. Even Senior
Pedro Sabicas seems to have taken a liking to you. I only wished my
photographer had been able to capture your face when you realized that
you were eating the testicles of a bull."
Even in the dim light, the reporter could see the sailor's face turn
red. "Do you think you could arrange for me to talk with Catherine
Rasputin? I would be most appreciative."
Piotr had been warned about the press but did not want to be
belligerent. In the back of his mind he wondered if the girl in his
bed chamber had been supplied by this man. If so, then why give away
information when the girl would provide a much more pleasant reward.
So his reply was, "I will speak to her about it tomorrow. How long
will you be in Lisbon?"
"I am not certain. My paper has asked that I cover an event in
Tangiers when I am finished here. I have heard that the Standart is
also going to Tangiers when repairs are completed. So I am certain
that our paths will again cross."
Piotr said, "In the future do not hide yourself from me. Be direct. I
was afraid that the bar man in St. Petersburg was correct; it was my
Hui you were interested in." The reporter did not confirm nor deny
the accusation. Instead he turned up his collar and disappeared into
the shadows of the night, walking down the driveway, away from Pena
Castle. As the sailor reached the doorway, he heard the distant sound
of an automobile driving down the mountain.
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