122 E VA S T A C H N I A K

plague in the south. Not too many, but enough to stop anyone coming from there for forty days.

Gatchina would do. It is a comfortable estate, easy to guard.She scans Panin’s face for the slightest hint of irony. Eunuch- like, she

thinks him, swollen with what she would like to believe is indiff erence but must be pride. Guard Grigory Orlov?

But Panin’s gray eyes are serious, his plans rational and precise.Twenty, forty men, if needed. Muskets at the ready. Ears deaf to threats

and pleas. Pockets immune to bribes. Her order is all Panin requires.Yes.Time is on her side. Time will calm Grigory Orlov.For now she must do whatever it takes to avoid words hurled in haste

and pain. Words both of them will later regret.

“Is everything good?” Vasilchikov, her timid lover, asks. In his eyes there is unease. How do you tell a man that his caresses are too soft, his kisses too shallow?

In the shimmering glow of the Tsarskoye Selo afternoon, everything irks her. Th e banya is too hot. Th e rooms too cold, in spite of a blazing fi re. Time stalls, drags, only to rush forward with frightening abandon. Images stick to her like tar. Th at moment almost twelve years ago, when, on the heady day of the coup, a young Horse Guard rushed to her side to give her his sword knot. Weren’t they already riding together, side by side, then?

She remembers the silky sheen of Grisha Potemkin’s hair, the fl ashes of sauciness in his eyes. Gestures, fast and bold. Th oughts that make her nipples grow tender against her stays. He intrigues me, but I’m not besot-ted. Th e unattainable tempts him. Potemkin wants to conquer, and what he conquers he will despise. She has known such a man already. She doesn’t wish such a man again.

Th e listless man who for the last few months has been allowed to enter her bedroom, who trails after her like a stray dog, repeats his ques-tion: “Is everything good? Am I pleasing you?”

Th ese are not wise questions. Th ey invite nothing but lies. Th ey warn of weeping fi ts, sulky displays of distress. She feels a tug of guilt.

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E M P R E S S O F T H E N I G H T 123

Th e Empress turns an hourglass upside down, watches the sand slide through the narrowing tunnel.

“You must excuse me now,” she mutters. “I’m tired. I wish to be alone.”

She throws herself into work.One can be too successful, too bright, too visionary. In European

games, power is thrown on the apothecary’s scales. If they do not bal-ance, trouble ensues. Russian victories have made the Prussians uneasy and the Austrians frantic. Th e coded dispatches sent from court to court demand curtailing Russian gluttony.

How much would she give up for not fueling Turkish wrath?She is tempted to give up nothing. For months, she pores over maps,

adds and subtracts the numbers. How much does a war cost? How much does it bring in return? Th ese are not crass calculations. Prussia and Aus-tria want chunks of Poland. Th e Empress of Russia can help herself to her share, too. A lion’s share, Frederick of Prussia tempts. Far greater than what we get.

It’s a hard bargain. Isn’t Poland hers already? Isn’t Stanislav doing what she instructs him to?

How much shall she pay for peace? She cannot wage two wars, can she?

Giving up chunks of Poland? Is it worth it? What if she stalls? Re-fuses?

Th e Empire is like an old quilt in need of constant tending. As new patches are added, old ones thin and tear.

In the Urals, a Yaik Cossack is gathering disgruntled mine workers and runaway serfs. Th ey have just attacked yet another estate. Robbed the cellars, stole the gold and silver and ran away. At the foundling hos-pitals, the mortality rate is 99 percent. Doctors give her long lectures on the balance of humors and declare the medical art helpless against the immoral habits of the poor. Paul, her son, has reached the age of majority and hints that Maria Th eresa is teaching her son and heir how to rule.

Th e throne is a lonely place.From Gatchina, Grigory Orlov is sending emissaries. Brothers, cous-

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124 E VA S T A C H N I A K

ins, even his old servants, whose toothless mouths blend pleas and spit. Grigory wants to see her, his beloved matushka, the only joy of his life, one last time. Only one. How can she deny it to him after all that has joined them? How can she be so cruel?

In her inner rooms, the timid lover’s voice quivers. Vasilchikov’s body gives off a whiff of stale cheese. He hasn’t seen her for three full days. She has not replied to his latest question. She walked away while he was still speaking.

Th e memory of his touch grows faint and fl eeting. Th e lover’s hour is for caresses not accusations.

My mistake, my fault, she thinks of him. Made of desperation.Should she not have listened to Panin? Should she have sent for him,

instead?He, Potemkin, is at the Turkish front. Th ere is nothing they say about

him that she doesn’t know already. Nature has made Grisha a Russian peasant, and he won’t ever change. He fears bad omens. Trails after char-latans and tricksters. Chews on raw turnips. He’s moody. Indolent. Slov-enly. Vain.

So why does he make friends faster than kvass breeds fl ies?Her desk is piled high. Letters, proposals, petitions, drafts of treaties

she needs to analyze and amend. Reports on the dyeing of silk, the feasi-bility of building a china manufactory, summaries of books she has no time to read. Five secretaries work around the clock and yet the tidal wave of papers does not diminish. “Still think you are better than me, Catherine?” the late Empress’s voice mocks. “Th at you can do it all alone?”

Lieutenant Potemkin appears at court unannounced. He throws himself at her feet, like the thespian he has always been. Her ladies- in- waiting scamper away, lean against the walls, blend into tapestries on which nymphs escape their pursuers, hunters aim arrows at giant stags.

A lean, pale face. A black patch over his left eye. A Cyclops, she recalls Grigory Orlov’s old taunt. Blacksmiths, she has since learned, cover one eye to minimize the power of fl ying sparks to blind them.

Th e same cleft chin, full lips. No longer a boy but a man toughened

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E M P R E S S O F T H E N I G H T 125

by hardships. Attacked and outnumbered by the enemy, he was the hero of the victory.

Still in love with her after twelve long years.You can see my zeal. You will never regret your choice. I am Your Imperial

Majesty’s subject and slave.Let it be, she thinks. I won’t fi ght it anymore. In her mind, for some time

now, she has been making amends to the timid lover. An estate, a generous pension, a few trinkets from her latest Parisian shipment. How long will it take to move Vasilchikov’s things out? A day? Th en another day for Grisha to move in. She already has her fi rst gift to him: a promotion.

Th e simplicity of these arrangements tickles like an ostrich feather.“Stand up, Lieutenant- General Potemkin,” she orders. “Your Em-

press is extremely grateful for all you have done for Russia. You are very, very dear to her heart.”

He rises with awkwardness, which amuses her greatly, and gives her a pained look. “Why is my Sovereign dismissing me?” he asks.

“Dismissing you?” Has she not just given him a sign? Could it be that she has not been clear enough? But deep inside her, she knows that he has read her thoughts and found them wanting.

His good eye doesn’t let go of her.He shakes his auburn hair. He abhors coyness. He doesn’t care about

promotions, but now that his Empress has just given him one, he is going back to the south to earn the honor. He thanks God Almighty that the peace treaty with the Ottoman Porte has not yet been signed. Th at there are still skirmishes on the border.

Her shoe grinds against the carpet. Th ere will be a hole there, after-ward, matching the size of her heel.

Grisha Potemkin does not fl inch against her anger. His last words to her before he leaves are: “Step on me, obliterate me, or take note of my love.”

You won’t think of him, Catherine orders herself. It is that simple.Not easy, perhaps, but it can be done. Th ere is her son’s wedding to

plan and arrange. Guests to receive. To dazzle with how much she has achieved already.

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If this is not enough of a distraction, in the Urals, the Yaik Cossack declares himself Peter III. “With the help of a faithful servant I’ve es-caped my wife’s murderous hands,” he announces, clearly with someone’s expert help. “I’ve come back to free my people from this sinful German usurper. I’ve come to put my son on the throne that is rightfully his.”

Th e Cossack’s name is Emelyan Pugachev. Pugachev doesn’t resemble Peter. He is short, fat, and illiterate. He speaks only Russian. But those who wish to believe can accept even wilder tales. Th e mob the traitor commands is no longer robbing wine cellars and stealing silverware. Pugachev’s trail is that of slashed throats and spilled guts. It is moving east.

She knows them well. False Tsars. Usurpers commanding hordes of peasants. Filthy, bloodthirsty men who listen to their loins and their in-satiable greed. Who want to bathe in blood and semen. Who sire noth-ing but terror and death.

How little it takes. Call yourself Peter. Or Elizabeth’s daughter. Con-vince a few fools and a few cutthroats fi rst. Promise them rewards be-yond their earthly ambitions. Make them think all is possible. Boundaries will fall. Barriers will be dismantled. Justice will shine on the smallest of them all.

Command through hope and fear. Coax and threaten. Off er dreams that dazzle with easy possibilities. Watch the human wave gather more riff raff , feed on disappointments, thwarted ambitions.

Give what’s not yours.Grow deadlier with each promise.

Lieutenant- General Potemkin is back in St. Petersburg, but he doesn’t appear at court.

Why?If Her Imperial Highness wishes to know, her faithful subject slave

has to oblige. Potemkin has removed himself from court because he is in despair. Th e one he loves with all his soul doesn’t return his passion. Only in a monk’s cell, where he can contemplate eternity, can he fi nd consolation. He will pray for his beloved every minute of his life.

He is back, she thinks.

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