Natasha's Dream by Mary Jane Staples

and because when that abdicationwas announced they had spent five minutes talking about it and then continued with their perpetual parties and excesses. It had never occurred to them, any more than it had to King Louis and Marie Antoinette of France, that the tumbrils would come for them.
    The food at the Imperial Eagle was renowned for the size and variety of its different courses. Big Russian stomachs fought the unyielding pressure of table edges. It was a place only the moneyed exiles could afford. The moneyed exiles were those who had managed to bring their fortunes with them, or their jewels, or had wisely deposited their wealth in foreign banks before the revolutionaries blew Russia apart.
    A nostalgic rendering of ‘Polyushko-Polya’ (Cossack Patrol) having finished, Mr Gibson said, ‘Is all this real, Natasha, or artificial?’
    ‘If you mean is it the way some Russians behave, yes, it is very real,’ said Natasha, who was partaking enjoyably but modestly of wine, and healthily of food. ‘But, of course, while the people only celebrated on special days, such as name days—’
    ‘Name days being what we call birthdays?’
    ‘Yes.’ Natasha regarded what was left of afiery kind of goulash. It had come to the table in its earthenware cooking pot. She toyed with the ladle. ‘No, I can eat no more. I am blown out.’
    ‘It’s only the fourth course,’ said Mr Gibson.
    ‘Enough, enough,’ sighed Natasha.
    ‘Well, I can’t put away any more myself. Do Russians always dine like this?’
    ‘People like these hardly let a day pass without sitting down to a banquet and a circus,’ said Natasha.
    ‘Circus? With performing elephants?’ Mr Gibson’s enquiry was solemn.
    ‘No, no,’ said Natasha, ‘with music, singing and dancing. Because of the way they lived, they never took the war seriously. Our soldiers were always short of guns and ammunition. When they came home wounded they would tell us so. But the officers were never short of vodka and champagne. It was no wonder they lost the war, and revolution as well. Look at them. They haven’t changed. Every night they must still have parties. If they formed another White Army and marched on Moscow, they would consider it more important to dine well than to win victories.’
    ‘Is there anyone here you know, Natasha,anyone it would be interesting for me to talk to?’
    Curling smoke spirals from long Russian cigarettes drifted upwards to join the blue haze that hung below the ceiling. Through the haze, Natasha saw faces, faces that seemed to float. There were always faces. One got to know them and to attach names to them. Outside clubs, restaurants and theatres, Russian émigrés gathered every night. Penniless and hungry, they would watch the arrival of the Russian elite – the rich and the aristocratic. They would push forward, empty hands extended, and beg to be remembered as people who had once served the privileged in their palaces and on their estates, and had remained loyal to the Tsar. Sometimes they would be remembered. Sometimes money would be given, and with a smile, but also with a shake of the head, as if the donor felt his generosity might be a mistake. The penniless Russians knew the faces of most of the rich émigrés, and their names, and who was likely to be kind.
    ‘There are many thousands of Russians in Berlin,’ said Natasha, speaking her thoughts. ‘Most are poor. The poor seek alms from the rich, and know them by sight. I have workedin restaurants like this one, and seen the same people regularly patronize them. But I cannot see anyone here who could answer questions about the Grand Duchess Anastasia.’
    ‘A pity,’ said Mr Gibson, regarding her thoughtfully. Her looks seemed to be improving almost by the hour. Her facial bones did not seem so sharp, and the rings around her eyes were scarcely noticeable. Her make-up was delicate but effective. Her white dress was charming. It was not a gown, and few of the women here would