J. M. Sidorova

THE COLORS OF COLD

A NEW STORY FROM THE AGE OF ICE

She paints and powders her face, pins her hair, tightens a corset over her shift, dons petticoats, chemisette, dress, jacket, shawl, elbow-length gloves, turban. She gathers her papier-mâché flowers back into the basket. The much-thumbed blues with the word Voir, Watch, inscribed on their petals, reds with Effleurer, Touch Lightly, and whites with Ressentir, Experience Physically. Her flowers are admission tickets, and the inscriptions, pretty names for three grades of entertainment she offers. Blue, white, red—the three revolutionary, patriotic French colors, they don’t just stand for Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité—they are her colors too. She’s known no others. She is twenty-two years old, and the Revolution is twenty-four.

She thinks back to the prior evening. A young man named Julien came to see her. He had purchased a red flower, Touch Lightly. He was a veteran of the Russian campaign. His left leg ended at mid-thigh. When he plunked into the chair in her room, he kept his crutches under his arms, and they angled to the floor on each side like bony, flightless wings. He kept bouncing his good leg up and down, the heel of his boot clacking on hardwood. He asked for her name and she said Constance, the first one that came to her mind. Just another nom de guerre. A day later she wishes she were gentler with Julien, refrained from telling him ghastly stories. Wishes she told him her real name.

Although even that name, Cherie—is it not, after all, another nom de guerre?

She thinks she hears cannons—from the heights of Montmartre, from the plains of Saint-Denis. But perhaps she is mistaken. She picks up her flower basket and walks an unlit passage barely wider than her shoulders, and then a corkscrew of stairs down to her little showroom, where she empties the basket into a tin bowl before the stage, wakes up Marquis, checks the thermometer. It’s the end of March and days are getting warmer. Warmth lingers later into the night, leaches all the way in through the masonry of the Palais-Royal, its plaster, wallpaper, draperies. To keep the air in the room just right she’ll soon need to buy ice, and ice is expensive in summertime. And ice blocks, stealthily placed around the stage, make her feel a cheat. But there is only so much she can do. Spectators warm up the room by their mere presence. Today, she can only accommodate an audience of thirty, though she wonders whether there’d be any attendees at all, what with the war. All the newsstands on the ground floor of the Palais announce that the Coalition armies are drawing in around Paris. All the coffeehouses of the Palais are buzzing with war talk. Will the French army hold? If it does not, will Paris be sacked?

And yet—the boutiques of the Palais are open, pub cellars and gambling rooms too. In the court of the Palais this afternoon, vendors of roasted chestnuts and lemonade were doing brisk business, the prim old lady with musical glasses was dinging out her tunes, and Monsieur Grimacier still contorted his ample face into the wildest shapes and announced them, for the public’s edification, as Righteous Rage, Pang of Remorse, Suppressed Shame. Parisians still need to eat, drink, gawk, and talk, war or not, but will they come to her show, to the act of Mademoiselle Froid?

“Let in no more than thirty people,” she tells Marquis just in case. The old man shakes his head and shuffles to the doors.

* * *

People do come (she peeks through the holes in the stage curtain). They file in, all ranks and vocations mingling jauntily; they could be merchants and civil servants, officers and shoeblacks, fruit girls and matrons. They smell of beer and coffee and old clothes. They take their seats. The chairs are a vestige of the room’s past life as a café. Two lives ago it was a comedy theater where they ran a puppet show about the wretched Philippe Égalité, the original owner of the Palais. His overindulgent days as Duke of Orléans, his execution. The room’s walls need new wallpaper, the dormant fireplace, a chimneysweep’s attention. There is a small plaster cast of the Louvre’s Venus de Milo by the entrance—another leftover. Even from her vantage point behind the curtain, Cherie can see the gray buildup of thumb grease on Venus’s feminine parts.

Cherie thinks of Julien, the one-legged veteran. He told her he’d seen her act, and she tries to recall his coming here. When was it? Was it more than once? It’s a long way for him to clomp to the Palais from Les Invalides, where he’s been lucky to still have a cot. It seems to her—just as she notices his absence now—that she would have remembered him coming. But she doesn’t.

Marquis is preparing the audience. He knows showmanship. “This stage is bare as my pate, mesdames and messieurs.” He tips his wig, drawing a few snickers. “No undignified trickery. No devices other than knowledge of physics. Nothing unsafe or unsound.”

There are devices, albeit those of physics, not trickery. Two mirrors—man-sized concavities made of polished tin—are recessed into the corners of the stage, facing each other. She needs them for her act.

Marquis thanks the audience for attending the show on “a day as momentous as this.” He refers to the war. “Tonight may well be the eve of a great battle.” She is ready for a cue to step out—but Marquis is not done. “And you’ve come to the right place on a night like this! An Englishman I once met said Paris is a place where nothing is secure or can afford security, least of all the Palais-Royal. A lie, mesdames and messieurs, a dirty British lie! This is the safest place in Paris. We are perfectly secure here in the Palais-Royal—” He spreads his arms and makes a dramatic pause. “—as long as we know which floor we are on.”

The audience creaks its chairs, chuckles, amused. She wonders what the old man is up to, even as she agrees that she and Marquis do feel safer here, inside the Palais. This is their home. They’ve hardly gone outside in months. She sleeps in her boudoir up in the garret; Marquis sleeps in what used to be a kitchen adjoining this room. The inner court is where they get their fresh air. They take their meals down a hallway in the Café Montansier. One floor up, the bathhouse Athénien is for washing.

Her life is in these rooms, she thinks, while Marquis dramatically reviews the topography of the Palais for the audience: “The first floor?”—“It is for arts, attractions, and amusements.”—“The second floor?”—“Is for eating and gambling.”

“The third floor—is for pleasures of love.” Marquis savors the word like a true connoisseur, pinching the air with his fingertips. Still behind her curtain, Cherie is getting impatient: the lanterns are burning, the room air is getting warmer.

He says, “When we know which floor we are on, we know what to expect, and therefore we are safe. It is only the rooms between the floors that are unsafe.” He makes owl eyes and leans forward. “The rooms that belong on two floors at once. Bordello boudoirs that double as ghost shows. Restaurants that reenact the Reign of Terror. Public baths that purport to be ethnographic museums! Which floor are you on, mesdames and messieurs, do you know?”

She does not like at all where this is going. She hears sprinkles of laughter. A man says, “First floor?” Another ventures a guess: “First and third?” A woman titters.

She’ll have to have a talk with Marquis after this show. The older he gets, the more he seems to forget that her “act” is not effortless. He slips into believing that she can do what she does at will, and therefore can perform—if only she stopped being so capricious and saw the light of reason—for hundreds of people, every day of the year, anytime after he is done tantalizing the audience. But she can’t; she’s told him over and again that she can’t, and that is why they’ll never make enough money on these shows alone, and the rent for this shoddy room goes up and up, because of the war and—

Finally, Marquis’s speech draws to a climax. Spectacles perched on his nose, his liver-spotted hands fingering a leather tome, he regales the audience with the tale of “a dear friend, the distinguished French scientist Monsieur Pictet,” who discovered—“proving wrong that traitor to the French people, Lavoisier”—the “scientifically advanced, magic radiant rays of frigorific cold,” and taught them to “your humble servant.”

“Cold is not a mere absence of heat, mesdames and messieurs. You are about to see the power of radiant cold with your very own eyes. You will see the birth of the snow maiden, like Venus from sea foam. I present to you my favorite and brightest pupil, the esteemed protégée of the prime minister to the Elector Theodor of Bavaria, the distinguished Count Rumford of the Holy Roman Empire—the incomparable! Mademoiselle! Froid!”

She is not Count Rumford’s protégée. The Holy Roman Empire no longer exists, and poor Lavoisier had done nothing wrong other than insisting heat is made of particles. Marquis is not Pictet’s friend, a once-upon-a-time acquaintance, at best. But this is the Palais-Royal. What passes for truth here is different.

As she walks out and bows to the applause, he bumbles offstage, picks up his violin, and launches into a sonata.

She steps into a small circle chalked on the floor, which marks the focal point of one of the tin mirrors. Her job is to undress.

* * *

She looks into the faces of her spectators, searches for one or two whose stare will make her most uncomfortable. Perhaps this man, the one who’s just said that her act belongs on two floors at once? He looks like a hungry weasel in a man’s body. Or—this old, gaunt woman in round spectacles, poised on the edge of her seat like a lizard on a hunt? They stare, and Cherie stares back, slowly unwrapping her shawl. She wants them to wake a memory in her—no, make her relive the moment from her past: she, a ten-year-old, standing naked on the dissection table of an old anatomy theater. Bawling.

But the memory does not come alive.

She can try another way. She turns her eyes to Marquis, fiddling away his Vivaldi or Pisendel, bouncing on his seventy-year-old knees. He never looks back at her during this, never. He just dips and rocks, bow legs in silk stockings, everything from his coat to wig, to the cross of the defunct Order of the Holy Ghost on his chest—already a twenty-year anachronism. You look like a clown, old man, she tells him in her mind and recalls his reply, I am a clown. A dress of distinction becomes a shroud of doom becomes a clown’s costume. O Clio, so full of mischief.

She reaches out to that memory of the anatomy theater. She feels a kindling of what she calls a red upset, the color of her papier-mâché flower Effleurer. She recalls Marquis in that anatomy theater, his younger self, standing cross-armed, talking with another man, eyeing her over his haughty, aquiline nose.

The red upset grows more acute. Yet treacherously, her mind backflips to another memory: her asking Marquis not so long ago, How did you survive? Twenty years back they used to kill for less than flaunting the Order of the Holy Ghost cross. Weren’t you friends with Philippe Égalité when he was a duke? And they executed him, didn’t they, dragged him through the Palais, tried him and guillotined him in under two days!

She remembers his wry smile. He said, Duke of Orléans thought if he’d open half of his palace to the mob, it won’t gobble the rest. What a fool. How did I survive? By walking away from everything I had before they’d take it from me.

He had been a real marquis before the Revolution. She may have been his bastard child. She can’t be certain. She was too small to remember, and his memory changes with years. Most of the time he’d say, You are a foundling, they dropped you at my door. Sometimes: I ran into you on the streets, Cherie, near the Place Louis Quinze. I was there to watch the beheading of Madame du Barry. It was December 1793. You must have toddled out of some house. You had only your little diaper and bonnet on. There had been massacres. You were so cold my hands ached when I picked you up.

And once, he said, If I was meant to lose everything to find you, I don’t regret it.

She sneaks a glance across the stage, in time to see that a few snowflakes have appeared in the focal point of the other mirror. If someone placed a thermometer in that focal point, as Monsieur Pictet had years ago, it would have registered a dip in temperature: the rays of her cold reflected from one mirror onto another.

The snowflakes—too few, alas—drift, unnoticed by the spectators, to the floor. Her upset is blue. It does make her cold, but not cold enough.

But she still has time, she thinks, and the full attention of her audience. She knows how to be slow, when needed. It took her two minutes to unbutton and remove her jacket. It is a performance, not a denudement. Not yet.

* * *

And still. A human being gets used to anything, don’t they say? That is the problem.

Her mind returns to Julien, the one-legged veteran. He must have been about the same age as she. He must have been handsome before he’d left for war. Now his face was a face of misery. Still, he came as a paying patron; so she stepped so close to him she could brush against his leg stump with her thigh, and she told him one of her tales, the one she’s told a hundred times before. It was just a little something for the mood, something that went well with her Touch Lightly flower. “You’ve heard the lore,” she said to Julien, “how, before she met her doom, Louis’s mistress, Madame du Barry, pled to the guillotinemaster, ‘Encore un moment!’ Just one moment please! Well, that night the death mask makers went among the executed, scavenging for heads of the rich and famous. Everyone knew that du Barry’s death mask would sell for a hefty profit. One woman, Tussaud her name, found du Barry’s body lying on the ground, one arm out, another tucked in, bent at the elbow, and wound around that arm was a blood-stained sack. In it was the body’s severed head. Tussaud pulled and pulled at the sack, but the body held on, like it was dear to it.”

She could see misery on Julien. She could smell it. Yet she went on. “The mask maker stopped to catch her breath and then saw that all the mud around the body was covered with scribbles. The same three words, over and over again, ‘Encore un moment.’ Do you want to know what happened next?”

He nodded sharply. She eased his hand out of its grip on the crutch. He shivered. She peeled back his sleeve. His wrist was thin like a girl’s. She turned it vein side up. She said, “As soon as Tussaud noticed that she stood in a halo of writing, surrounded with words on all sides, at once the headless corpse’s hands fumbled to find her arm. When it succeeded, it traced—” She scribed on his wrist with the pointy tip of her gloved nail—over his vein, shaped like a windblown sapling, over his racing pulse, up and up his forearm, Encore un moment.

He sucked in a breath. She kneeled between his leg and his stump. She walked her fingertips back into his palm and curled them in it. Another shiver passed through his arm and hand and broke in her fingers. She squeezed back. “Your flower says Effleurer. Do you want to do what you came here for? Do you want to touch me?”

* * *

She makes a slow turn, unbuttoning her dress. She tilts her head like the Venus de Milo, the grimy replica cast of Venus that is over by the entrance. It is tempting to think of herself as a marble nude out on display in a public place, insensitive to eyes and hands, to revolutions and wars. But that is exactly what she cannot afford to think.

That night, Julien said, “I came because I feel freezing cold. Can you help me?”

She was so surprised she laughed out. “Me? Help you get warm? You’ve come to the wrong girl, soldier.”

He shrank back in his chair but did not give up just yet. “No. It’s not like that. Hear me out, please, Constance.”

* * *

Below her, Marquis is sawing and slicing through an allegro. Arthritic fingers—he is probably in pain right now, but he never complains. She only knows because she’s seen how he looks when he thinks he is alone; seen his chin tremble when he accepts the medicines she’d bought him. She knows, because his violin adds to the tension that grows with every breath of her spectators; and they must be breathing faster and faster now—that weasel-looking man, that lizard of a woman. She is fighting against them all, one little cold against their billowing warmth—because the warmer the air, the colder she needs to get. This thought alone could’ve made her bright red not so long ago. But not today. She undoes the two upper crisscrosses of her corset’s ties and inserts her finger under the third. She pushes her mind back to the old anatomy theater, its circle of steeply ascending pews and domed ceiling, a skylight full of fleeing clouds, the wall paintings that frightened the child’s mind. There were four men, and Marquis said to them, Messieurs, I now invite you to touch the girl and dispel what doubts you have. She opens her corset and shrugs the straps off her shoulders. She hears Marquis’s younger voice—from twelve years ago—in her mind, I am sorry, Cherie, but we had to upset you. You know you won’t get cold enough unless you are very, very upset. And it will go unnoticed unless we get you out of these warm clothes. Do you want them to believe you, Cherie? Do you want to make miracles?

She remembers nodding, tears on her face. She remembers Marquis holding her, some weeks later, murmuring into her ear, People, you know, they call these things fear, and rage, and shame. But you are not like other people. What you feel—these upsets—they make your magic work. Your cold. They are useful. Necessary. They make you special.

And thus she began calling these things, her feelings, by colors—blue, red, white—because her feelings are unlike anybody else’s. She does not even know what others would call her blue upset, her red upset. She doesn’t care to know.

She thinks of her patrons. Of all those who had come to her boudoir with the white flower Ressentir in their hands, with the requests to “experience her physically.” Whatever names they’d have for her upsets would be wrong, wrong! She peels her shift off her shoulders and begins to free out her arms. She glimpses several more snowflakes in the air across the stage from her. They fall to the floor, they melt. Why is it only the blue upset, only the slightest hint of red, like a fresh bruise, that she feels?

* * *

Hear me out, Julien said yesterday night, and she did. “It’s not me. It’s my other leg that feels cold, the one that is missing. I lost it in Russia, during the retreat,” he said.

How could a missing leg feel anything? She backed away from him and sat on the taboret in front of her vanity.

“I thought you of all people will believe me,” he said, breaking a shiver. She kept silent, so he added, “Because of the snow maiden. I’ve seen her. I’ve gone to your performance. Then after the show the old gentleman in a wig was selling those flowers, ‘For a private audience with the snow maiden,’ he said, and I thought—”

She interrupted him. “You thought you’d meet the snow maiden that I conjure?”

He was abashed. “Yes… I don’t know. Maybe—you let me ask the snow maiden for… to undo what was done to me. She was like an angel. And she appeared in snowfall. I thought, maybe—” He looked into her face and blushed.

What she desired most of all that moment was to stamp out his stupid phantasms. To yank him hard and slam him into the ground of her truth. There is no “snow maiden,” it’s just me! And there is no such thing as a cold, missing leg. And I can’t help you. “It’s been a year and a half since 1812,” she said sternly, “your leg, Julien, it no longer exists. It was burned or buried, or both. It’s just no longer there, you understand it, right?”

“It does exist.” He clenched at his stump with one hand, then with both. “Last time I’ve seen it attached to me it was frozen into ice. Trapped in it. I prayed for escape.” He started rocking his upper body back and forth. “Next thing I remember, it was gone. I gave up my leg so I could get out of there, and I accept that. But it’s still frozen into ice. And I can feel it. The pressure. And the freezing cold.” His fingers clasped tight around the stump’s end as if he were making a tourniquet to check the flow of influence from far, far away, from the icy wastes of Russia.

Radiant cold, she thought. If only Monsieur Pictet and those other men from the anatomy theater could hear this! She said, “What about spring? And summer? They have summer in Russia, don’t they? Is your leg cold in summer?”

He nodded.

“So you’re imagining it then,” she concluded. “Ice melts in summer.”

“No, you don’t understand! This ice—that trapped my leg—it will not melt, ever. They store it—someone must have. You know how they harvest and store ice there? They must have taken it, my leg and all, to some cellar and they will keep it there captive forever!” His face glared with conviction, his good leg bounced on the ball of its foot.

Julien the one-legged veteran, you are mad. “Who would do such a thing, freeze your leg in ice and then cut it off and keep it? How did you survive this? Have you not been wounded in battle, attended by a surgeon? Sent to a hospital? Is this not how it really happened?”

“I told you how it went,” he cried out. “I don’t remember anything else!”

He hugged himself, shivering. His eyes teared up and the tip of his nose turned red as if he were truly freezing. He doesn’t want to remember, she thought. Sweet Mary, mother of God, behold what Napoléon has done to these boys. Weep for them. What is this one going to do when they kick him out of Les Invalides? How will he fend for himself if he’s going to shake like this half the time, as if he were out of his mind? What’d happen to him if the Russian army were to enter Paris?

She approached and took his hand softly. “Julien, why don’t you come here and lie down on this ottoman. And close your eyes, and keep them closed no matter what. Then you can ask the snow maiden for help. All right?”

She helped him out of the chair. As he settled on the ottoman, she told him to rest and wait. She tiptoed into the corner and pulled off her gloves and shift. She was upset enough, with blue and white colors of upset. She returned and slipped in next to him, took his hand and placed it on her breast. His fingers twitched over her nipple. She cleared his forehead of the strands of his hair and kissed it. “Make a wish.”

* * *

Marquis is the only family she has, and yet she can’t explain it even to him. She wants to tell him, My blue upset, even my red upset, no longer work on stage. She imagines how he smiles absently and shakes his head and says, But, Cherie, you are my powerful magician. You can—

No, listen to me, she insists. There is a white upset that I feel, what is it? The white upset, the strongest, strangest of all, the kind that overtakes her against her will when she lies under a white flower patron—Ressentir, Égalité—it is blazing white before they squirm away from her, exclaiming, some with distress, others with thrill, You really are cold, girl, colder than a corpse. You’re burning my privates, I swear!

The white that rises from the bottom of her belly, and it feels like revolution itself, she thinks, with the terror and with toppling of marble statues and with chasing people out of their homes—only it is all inside her, while she stands, like this, on this stage, right now, naked more absolutely, more hopelessly, than even the armless Venus over by the door, and she wishes—

And she wishes that Julien did not leave, yesterday, the way he did. She told him to make a wish. He hid his face between her breasts. His shoulder jerked as shivers passed through his body. She waited, stroking his hair. She waited for his wish, but above that—for him to admit the obvious—how cold she was, how it had to mean she was the snow maiden, lying next to him. Then, she would say that she granted his wish. Who knows, maybe it would help him.

Instead, his shivers eased off and he said, “Ah, Constance. I am just a fool, aren’t I? A fool’s dream. The snow maiden doesn’t exist anywhere but on stage.”

Still unwitting, still blue and white, she pressed the back of her hand to his cheek and said, “Don’t you feel how cold I am? I am the snow maiden.”

He opened his eyes, pulling back to see her better. “Why do you say that? You’re not cold at all. You are very kind, and lovely, and you pity me, and I am thankful for that, but… you don’t know ice. You can’t speak for it.” He sat up on the ottoman and wiped his eyes.

She asked again, incredulous, “You don’t feel that I am cold?”

“What? No.”

Only then did she let her stunned mind consider what this could mean for her. Hope? She was a girl whose emotions made her cold—the stronger the emotion, the colder—and here was a boy who seemed not to notice it. She let herself be carried away for a few fleeting seconds, forgetting all these years, everything that happened between now and that anatomy theater over a decade ago. And just then, just that very second he heaved a sigh and said, “I know that is how I survived. I traded my leg for a fighting chance. But there are times when I just wish that I could feel the cold the way I used to. Like everybody else. With my fingers. My forehead. But I don’t. You can put ice to my skin, and I won’t know. I’m a cripple. The only cold I ever feel is the ice-trap on my missing leg. I don’t wish my leg back. I just… All I want is to be normal again.”

And this, these words and nothing else, suddenly made her red, so red that she jumped up and shouted, “Go away! Get the hell out!”

He scrambled up, repeating, What’s wrong with you? What did I do? He was reluctant to leave, and so she shouted, I don’t want you! and threw her powder and rouge boxes and stockings and gloves at him, until he collected his crutches and managed to clatter to the door and shut it behind himself.

* * *

It is this memory, today, now, on stage, that catches her breath, that makes her clench her hands and stare senselessly at the faces of her audience, at the walls, draperies, lanterns. There will be no miracle. It’s over. There is no point.

Marquis keeps pulling a cantabile out of his violin. Chairs creak. And creak. The weasel-man clicks his tongue.

“That’s it?” somebody mutters. She bows her head. She’ll leave now. She expects catcalls. She hears the chairs scratch the floor as the audience rises to its feet. Then the cantabile peters out. There is a strange movement in the air, half gasp, half breeze, and then she hears Marquis exclaim, “Behold the snow maiden!”

To her left, in the focal point of the other mirror, a ghostly shape is coalescing, a perfect silhouette of her, a reflection, a nude made in her image out of falling, swirling, sparkling snow. She barely gives it a glance, but she is relieved. She has done it, the miracle. Again. It snows. She is so tired. But she’s free to leave the stage now. Another show is over. Everything returns to its tracks.

They will applaud. Then Marquis will sell some papier-mâché flowers out of the tin bowl.

But on this, the twenty-ninth day of March 1814, she looks up and to the back of the room, and forgets she wanted to leave. Snow falls and falls, out of thin air and onto the floor. She stares. She can’t tell when the door cracked open, when he clanked in, but he is standing there now, crutches angling out like bony, flightless wings; he’s come back, and he is looking her in the eyes.

The snow falls thicker and thicker, it piles up, it fills in the silhouette within which it falls, and spreads around it like a shiny halo; and as the ghostly form solidifies, feet to waist to shoulders to head—as snowflakes turn to ice and ice becomes a maiden—Cherie feels red, and blue, and white, but mostly—something else.

It’s not an upset. She doesn’t need to give it a color. “Make a wish, Julien,” she whispers.

An excerpt from The Age of Ice

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The Age of Ice

By J. M. Sidorova

Available from Scribner July 2013

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Age of Ice

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An Acclaim for The Age of Ice

“The Age of Ice rekindles every far-flung childhood memory you have of what it means to experience a great book.”

—Téa Obreht, New York Times bestselling author of The Tiger’s Wife

“Everything you could want in a novel.”

—Karen Joy Fowler, author of The Jane Austen Book Club and We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves

“Ice binds the characters and shatters them apart, and the far reaches of the novel—Siberia, St. Petersburg, Paris, Herat, Calcutta, and New York over hundreds of years—are spanned as if by bridges of ice. Sidorova has created a tale at once familiar and foreign, thawed out of history and yet still fresh.”

—Paul Park, author of A Princess of Roumania and Ghosts Doing the Orange Dance

“I’m in awe. The Age of Ice is a luminous vision, a waking dream, utterly delicious. Sidorova is the best new writer I’ve come across in years.”

—Rudy Rucker, author of The Ware Tetralogy

Map: St. Petersburg 1740

Birth

I was born of cold copulation, white-fleshed and waxy like a crust of fat on beef broth left outside in winter. I was born of seed that would have seized with frost if spilled on the newlyweds’ bed. I was born on the twenty-seventh of September because in the month of January my parents had been sealed in a wedding chamber made of ice.

The year was 1740. The place—St. Petersburg, Russia. My country, corseted, wigged, and powdered on top but still darkly savage at heart, was panting and retching after the marathon Peter the Great had forced her to run. My would-be father, Prince Mikhail Velitzyn, scion of a family ancient and stately, had been transformed into a court jester. He had been forced to wear red-and-white-striped stockings and pretend to be a hen—to brood an imaginary clutch in Empress Anna Ioannovna’s menagerie of dwarfs, cripples, freaks, and victims. This was his punishment for an alleged affair with a Catholic noblewoman.

I’ve never met that woman. She may have never existed. The one whose existence is certain was Avdotia Buzheninova, a jester by birthright and a humpback, whose act was to writhe in a mockery of yearning, to clutch her breast and wail that she was lusting for a husband. The empress loved the gag, they say—so much so that it inflamed her head with an idea of a jester wedding.

That winter was brutal, and generous with precipitation, thus permissive of all manner of arctic entertainment: making snowmen and leaving men out in the snow, sharpening blades of axes and ice skates, freezing little birds and little maids in flight. By January, upon the empress’s whimsical orders, a palace was erected out of ice blocks—the purest crystal blue, ripped out of the Neva River’s winter hide and chiseled to diamond perfection by the empress’s slave architects. Inside the palace was a wedding chamber, a canopy bed on a dais, with heavy drapes half drawn, cascading to the floor—all made of ice.

The wedding opened with festivals and masquerades. Dwarfs trumpeted and freaks paraded. A procession followed, and at its head strode the empress herself, dressed as the Queen of Sheba. She danced, quaking her regal fat, perspiring in her sleeveless gown. She led my parents to the wedding chamber, gave them the blessing, and locked them up for the night.

Idle tongues used to say it was for fear of being left forever inside the frosty chamber that my parents fulfilled their connubial duty. But what do they know of ice, those idle tongues? No one but an abused prince and his slave bride know how fingers, skin taut with cold, nail beds bruise-blue, climb into warm recesses of the flesh, hiding from frostbite. How sweat and tears freeze and join with ice, becoming part of the curtain, part of the bed. How flesh shivers, giving its seed up as the last drop of oil for the dying fire in a night that is as long as winter. How dawn glows through the walls of ice, and lights up the cavern, and finds them fused together, clinging to the residual warmth of each other’s blood.

Only in the morning did the guards go in, to find them half dead on the ice slab of their wedding bed. Nine months later, two boys were born. My brother Andrei came first, a perfect infant. I found my way out a day later. I was smaller and paler than Andrei, and once I cleared the womb, our poor mother expired. Everyone was certain that a colorless runt like me would not see his first summer. But they were wrong. They knew nothing of ice.

In Corpore Vili, or The Early Phenomena

1740–69

Empress Anna Ioannovna died a month after we were born, and my father retired from his clown duty and fled the capital for the family estate near Moscow. Peter the Great’s daughter, cheerful Elizaveta, eventually ascended to the throne, while Father married a proper, if unremarkable, noblewoman. Soon Andrei and I had a half sister and another sibling on the way.

The extended Velitzyn clan never let Father forget his ignominy, and the episode was a frequent punch line. Back then, no one was coddled. The age of delicate senses had not yet dawned, nerves had not been discovered. Father helped himself by letting his temper loose. The only concession he ever won was a ban on house jesters and fools, much lamented by the family members. We had to depend on our household pet for entertainment—a brown bear who sat on a chain by day and roamed the grounds as a watch by night, and who would dance for a treat when in the mood. Father was like that bear, I would think years later. Both fearsome, both wearing an indelible weak spot: one a chain-link in his nose; the other, a foolscap, once and forever.

My brother and I were treated to the story of our less than noble origins as soon as we were able to listen. I remember Andrei telling me (we were five or so), “If Anna Ioannovna didn’t die, you’d be a jester!” To which I replied, “We both would’ve been jesters. But if she hadn’t died we would’ve killed her!”

I uttered the murderous verb with the gusto only a child can get away with. Andrei returned a sharp glance. “To avenge our father? So that he would love us?”

It stunned me that this particular reason had been absent from my mind until Andrei brought it up. My reasoning, if you could call it that, went toward a takeover of the throne to found an empire of jesters, freaks, and cripples. I looked at my brother, at his serious face. Was there something important I did not yet understand? “Yes,” I said. “Why else?”

* * *

When we were eight, Andrei found a book somewhere in the house, titled La fantesca and written in Italian, which neither of us could read. On the cover was a drawing of a woman unloading a loaf of bread as round as her bosom in front of a man seated at a table. It was but a piece of smutty romance, as I later realized, but Andrei had connected it to the mysterious Catholic lady on whose account our father had been punished. His guess could have been correct—how else could an Italian tickler have wound up in the household of a Russian prince? Andrei, however, took to believing that the woman in the picture was our father’s love. And one day he confessed to me that this Italian woman was his true mother, not the jester Avdotia Buzheninova.

What enraged me wasn’t the fact that Andrei thought only of himself, not both of us, when he redefined his maternal origins. It was that he did not want to have sprung from the terrifying and wondrous Ice Wedding. That he could denounce it for the mundane womb of some foreigner wench with a loaf! Dimwit, I shouted at him. Humpback’s son, he shouted back. I hate you!—I hate you better! When nannies and wet nurses came upon us, we were balled up in a fight.

Clearly, though, I hated him less than he hated me. Not a week passed, and I was offering my humblest penitence to my brother. He pardoned me like a gracious king. He needed me to play the game of Czar-Sultan of the Golden Horde and the Great Warrior Ilya of Murom, or fence with oaken swords, or sneak upon the napping household bear, tickle his snout with a sallow-tree branch full of catkins, and run like we stole something when the beast awakened, sneezing.

* * *

When we were ten, we built an ice palace. It started as a snow fortress, then we added a wall slit for a window and a roof made of pilfered fire-wood and fir-tree paws overlaid with snow. The idea was mine. At first the interior of our palace was barely large enough to sit two, but we kept at it, carving and digging snow on the inside, hauling in and packing new snow onto the walls from the outside. When tired of our labors, we huddled inside. Andrei would make a tiny fire and gaze at it, his knees drawn up to his chin. I would wrap my arm around his shoulders. Even in those tender moments I couldn’t help but feel that I had failed to understand something important, that Andrei’s mind inhabited a different space, and, to squelch the feeling, I urged us back to work.

One sunny winter afternoon we were at work inside our palace when Andrei rose from his knees and walked out. I looked for him through the window: he stood just outside. He looked at our stepmother—pregnant again and bundled comfortably in furs, she promenaded down a path some fifty yards away. Our three-year-old half brother waddled next to her, his arm raised above his head, his little mitten of a hand held fast in hers. They stopped to look at our handiwork; she bent to talk to the three-year-old and pointed at us. Their shadows lay long and blue on the salt-white snow. I joined Andrei outside. Our stepmother started down the path again, away from us and our ice palace, slowly, so her child could keep up. Andrei stared after them. I tugged at his sleeve. “Let’s go!” He ignored me. I pulled again but he yanked his arm free.

Looking at our stepmother’s back and then at my brother’s sharp profile, a revelation washed over me. The something important that existed had given itself freely to Andrei and spared none for me. That’s why I wanted, needed to be with him: as if he were my interpreter, my guide. Without him, I could stray off into a strange and sad land, misunderstanding and misunderstood, unable to grasp why a motherless boy freezes, ceases play, when faced with a tableau of maternal love.

Then the moment of acuity passed. I nudged Andrei’s sleeve again. Without a word, he went back in.

When twilight set in he was making his fire. He blew on coals till he was dizzy, then fed in some dry pine needles, then wood chips, then twigs, then logs. And more logs. I begged him to stop but he would not. My cheeks burned, my forehead ached. Heat and smoke and shrapnel of glowing cinders beat us all the way to the snow walls, and still Andrei tossed more fuel into the fire, and the flames were about to outgrow our chamber.

We fled. Through the window slit the blaze shone like a giant magic lantern, orange through dusky blue; it was beautiful in its doom. Andrei whooped when the roof collapsed, and laughed in shrill, compulsive volleys when the flames hissed, dying under the weight of snow. He still laughed when a manservant ran to us from the mansion with a dispatch for us to go indoors at once, and he went eagerly, circling around the man, poking him in the arm, asking Did you see? and heaping upon the man a story of how he’d burned down the ice palace.

I dragged behind them. I wasn’t angry at Andrei. I was sad.

* * *

When we turned twelve, Andrei begged to be sent to the Cadet Corps in St. Petersburg and our father gave his blessing. Twenty-five years of service were mandatory to sons of nobility back then, and those who eschewed it were forced to append a humiliating appellation to their signature—Juvenile—for life. Still, we did not have to start so young. All I knew was that Andrei longed to leave home. The reason? It had to have come from the same place as his impulse to burn down the ice palace. Still, If he goes, I go, I told Father. He did not object.

By the time we were sixteen, I had learned to drift dispassionately along in the regimented life of the Corps, while Andrei was brimming with ambitions. He longed to join the elite Leib Guard, praetorians of the “Third Rome” (as the Russian Empire liked to call herself). He wearied himself with training: throwing cast-iron balls as far as he could or hanging from a crossbar with a weight fastened to his legs in order to stretch himself taller. In this manner he strove and I drifted, each of us coming into manhood and taking the shapes that belied our kinship: my hair darkened, his paled. I bolted, tall and long-armed; he settled on an average height, broad in the shoulders. My features arranged themselves handsomely; his came together in a pleasant but ordinary visage.

On graduation day a pole was installed in the exercise court. High up on the pole, a notch was chipped, the proverbial cut. Chickens came scratching around the pole as we queued up opposite it. When it was his turn, Andrei all but took his heels off the ground to make the cut, but alas. “Too short. Next!” the corporal droned. When stepping away, Andrei kicked at a chicken, drawing snickers from everyone present. He blushed and fled. My turn came next and I stepped in and out fast: I was in a rush to find Andrei. Of course I was tall enough.

I found him at the edge of the grounds; he sat in the grass, wrestling a burr off his stocking. I hovered over him and offered what I thought was the only, the best consolation. “I’d rather go with you than be a Leib Guard.” Picking viciously at the crumbling burr, my brother replied, “You’re stupid. You don’t know what it means to be a Guard.” He struck a chord: indeed the Leib Guard’s appeal did not penetrate me, which could be considered dimness rather than indifference. I felt slighted, yet still I tried: “I mean, because of you and me—not the Guard.”

Andrei sprang from the ground. “Leave me alone!”

He pushed me out of his way and was ambling off when I released my frustration. “You picked the wrong mother,” I said. “Should’ve stuck with Avdotia—would’ve grown tall.”

He spun around, furious.

I said to his face, “Your Italian did you no good.”

He measured me. “Get out of my life.”

I could not help noticing that the remnants of the burr still clung to his left stocking as he stomped off. I stood; wasn’t I like that burr, I thought. I called his name but he kept going.

* * *

I hoped that this upset would pass as others had, but Andrei repelled my overtures as days at the Cadets dwindled. They assigned him to the Novgorod Musketeers. I wrote to our father begging him to intercede—to help get Andrei into the Guard. I had no idea whether Father had enough weight to accomplish it. By November, Andrei was back at the home estate in Moscow, while I moved just across the Neva, to the Preobrazhensky Leib Guard barracks, and waited to be sworn in. In December a letter from Father said Andrei was leaving, and not even for Novgorod but much farther away—for Smolensk. “That is the way your brother wants it,” Father wrote.

Meanwhile, the day of my swearing-in ceremony drew near. My mind told me to enjoy myself, but my heart ticked with anxiety: the moment of irreversibility would be fast upon me unless I did something.

So I ran. One night in December I hit the St. Petersburg–Moscow road as befit a distraught youth: no kibitka, no coachman, no blankets, only my mount, borrowed from my second uncle in St. Petersburg. The loaner horse bolted an hour into the journey, and I was thrown out of the saddle; when I rose to my feet I became aware of the formidable silence of the winter fields. Just a few lights of human habitation twinkled miles ahead of me, the light of the world divided between stars, the moon, and the snow. There was a stillness in the night, a majestic calm of cold that seemed to know that it could overpower any disturbance—rushing hearts and thoughts, scurrying of warm creatures and fluttering of warm molecules.

My horse stopped a few yards away from me, steaming and jerking her hide under the saddle. It was a coat that had startled her—discarded or lost by a traveler. Balled up in snow, it resembled a crouching beast. The horse neighed, fearful—she seemed to understand the peril of the snowy world. I, too, felt a pang of fear—or awe, rather, the kind that freezes one in place. In order to dispel the feeling I took my glove off and picked up a handful of snow. I squeezed my hand into a fist, then opened it, and let the snow fall out of my palm.

The snow I had squeezed didn’t melt. Dry, solid flakes went into my bare palm and dry flakes sifted out, sparkling and twirling as they fell to the ground.

My first thought—after a flash of sheer primal wonderment—was how I’d tell my brother about it. I did not believe my eyes, I’d say, and I did not, or rather believed just enough to make a story out of it, the excitement, the urgency of which would help me close the gap between us. Hokum, he’d challenge me, prove it. We would run out to the yard, and then—

I crouched and scooped another handful of snow. This is how I’d prove it. I opened my palm—and beheld the snow melting. It was as if my brother and I had just grown even farther apart.

I felt a wet nudge to the back of my head. My impatient horse. “Teasing me, right? Fooling me,” I said to the snowy fields. I looked forward, then back. Then mounted and rode on toward Moscow. I stopped at the next transit lodge to wait out the night. Come morning I was on the road again.

Andrei, when I reached home, looked as if he was older than me by a year, not a day. At dinner the footman served him second after Father, while my turn came after our stepmother. Even as I dug into my meat pie, Andrei let his languish on a plate, while he—like an adult—discussed with Father our military prospects against Prussia in what would later be called the Seven Years’ War. This was the first time I heard—or remember hearing of it. Before this moment, my world was too small to hold a war in Europe. Aren’t you supposed to be sworn in soon? they kept asking me. It is not for another three weeks, I lied.

That day, meanwhile, was right upon me. I spent it restlessly, filling with a mix of self-righteousness and fear. By evening I was overflowing and ready to take my cause to Andrei. “What have I done to you? What offense have I ever given? Why are you mad at me?”

He was packing his chest. “Am not,” he said.

“That time at the Cadets was just a joke, like we’ve always done. You know it!”

He held an embroidered vest at arm’s length and scrutinized it. “You want this one?” He tossed it in my lap.

“It’s new,” I stated, wondering whether it was a gesture of reconciliation.

“Auntie’s gift. I don’t want it. Too showy for me.”

No, it wasn’t a reconciliation. I said, “If it’s about the Guard—”

“I don’t want to be a Guard. They’re nothing but peacocks.” He resumed packing.

I said, “It’s today. The swearing-in. I am missing it.”

He looked up. “Now, that’s stupid.”

And I had hoped to impress him! “You just called them peacocks!”

“Better than nothing. You want to remain a juvenile?”

“No.” I did not know what I wanted, apart from staying in his good graces. “You being so distant does not help.”

“I am not distant,” Andrei said. “Just different.”

“Different how?”

“Go back, maybe they’ll still take you.”

I had a miracle happen to me on the road… I almost said it. I wanted to, it was my last trump card. But I bit my tongue. It would win me no appreciation of his, would it?

I refrained, I think, or else a servant boy prevented my confession, a lad who came in with some brown and crumbling chunks of homemade soap for Andrei. The conversation was over. I picked myself up and left the room, blindsided by a thought that came for the first time, never to leave: what if my brother had not been running from home—but from me? Thus ended my childhood, some seven years after Andrei had ended his in the blaze of our ice palace.

Looking back, I know I loved him, and I know there had been sweet, unself-conscious moments in our brotherhood that no ice palace could overshadow: Being five years old and running full speed down the enfilade of sunlit rooms, shouting his name, a special, diminutive version of it that we used between the two of us: Andrewsha-a-a! And seeing him charge from the other, distant end, with a similar battle cry: Alex-asha-a-a-a! And then colliding in the middle, laughing so hard that the backs of our heads would start hurting.

Now we were only running away from each other.

* * *

I slunk back to the Preobrazhensky. On a bright December day they tied me to a sawhorse, a hand at each end; I could either stand bent over, or kneel. “Barebacked or leave the undershirt on?” the officers asked. I opted to leave the shirt out of it. I stood first, then knelt, waiting for my ten lashes.

My punisher, a subaltern not two years older than me, stroked the knout as if it were a mane of hair and told me, “You’ll be all right. No brass, see? Just leather. And I won’t flick my wrist.”

On the first lash I nearly dislocated my shoulders. The pain was exquisite, despite his not flicking. After the fifth he stopped and dumped a bucket of snow on my back, “Cool it, rookie,” adding into my ear, “Our Lady-Colonel is here. Aren’t you lucky.” The “Lady-Colonel” of course was the empress herself, Elizaveta. My eyes downcast, I saw that her crinoline trembled like a dome of jelly as she approached. I saw the pointy tips of her pumps on a Persian rug laid out in the snow. A gloved, perfumed hand touched my cheek. “He learned his lesson, haven’t you, darling? Get off your knees, let me pardon you… Such a strong one!”

Imagine a youth, bare-trunked, loose-tressed, bound by his wrists, and piquantly raw with pain. Imagine the zestful mix of defiance and gratitude he puts into kneeling before his middle-aged empress. She got her arousal, I got my pardon.

The only peculiar detail… I distinctly remember: when my punisher’s mercy landed me with a bucketful of snow on my lacerated back, it brought me no relief whatsoever. No anesthesia, not even a sensation of cold.

* * *

For the next four years, each fighting season—that is, spring, summer, and fall—Andrei would go to war with the Prussians. It is a miracle he did not get himself killed during his first one, in 1757, a bloody muddle, the so-called triumph of the Russian guns at Gross-Jagersdorf, and then in 1758 at the Russian defeat at Zorndorf. By 1759 the Russian army had learned its lesson and did quite well at Frankfurt an der Oder, Kunersdorf, then Berlin. I, meanwhile, was busy growing my braid to just the right length, doing drills, or escorting the court in its seasonal migrations from one countryside palace to another. Yes, all we did was guard. The last time the Preobrazhensky went to war was under Peter the Great. Now, only an occasional detachment, a handful of volunteering hotheads went out on campaign, and usually returned without a single battle.

Winter or summer court residence, there was always a good-size banquet hall where we officers would spend time drinking wine and playing cards. My former punisher-hazer, whom I now knew as Paul Svetogorov, or Paulie, had taken me under his wing and from him I learned the ins and outs of a Guardsman’s life.

A proud owner of Viking looks, soulful tenor, and a mobile brow whose flutter conveyed a range of affects from scrutiny to flirtation, Svetogorov was impossible to ignore. The Guard is the navel of the earth, he would reiterate, the cream of the crop. Andrei, on the other hand, when he would leave the troops billeted in Poland or Livonia and come home for Christmas, would greet me with, How go the peacock’s labors?

How go the footslogger’s travails? I would answer. Each winter homecoming Andrei’s jaw would be set harder, his speech flow slower, his look appear duller. It is hardly surprising that as time went by I was more and more inclined to feel like the navel of the earth rather than a peacock.

* * *

Empress Elizaveta was very fond of the military in general and of the manliness of her bodyguard in particular. In St. Petersburg, she lodged the whole first grenadier battalion (to which I belonged) on Millionnaya Street, in a large three-story building just across a canal from her Winter Palace. Officers on the top floor, subalterns and soldiers below. Life was a frolic in that house, a jolly good time.

We weren’t just Her Majesty’s security, we accentuated her, we were the choirboys to the performance that was her life. On Christmas morning we were encouraged to barge into the imperial boudoir with celebratory shouts. At Easter Eve we lined up in a pious backdrop to the church service and the procession outdoors that followed (having secretly wagered on which one of us would get to trade kisses with the empress—a customary accompaniment to the “Christ is risen”—“Truly risen” exchange). Svetogorov would twitch his brow and say, “Know, pal Alexis, when to go and when to come, and you’ll go far.”

What he referred to, I assumed, was the fact that our all-night vigils of wine and card games at the court would sometimes invite a different kind of performance. It took place in a roomy tent, which the empress had ordered to be pitched right inside the grand hall of the Winter Palace. The night I entered that tent—my first and last time—the darkness was impenetrable, and when several hands put a blindfold around my eyes, I gathered that I was supposed to play a game of catch. Once my eyes were covered, candles were lit. Laughing, the ladies told me no peeking, and that I would only be let go if I caught the empress herself. I was inebriated, and the dancing lights did marvels for my weakened sense of balance. I tripped and fell, hot wax splattered onto my blindfold, and when I tried to sit up, it felt as though a great multitude of lively bundles of fabric resisted me. At length I captured one bundle and tore my blindfold off. “Prince Velitzyn,” they chirped, “you are breaking the rules!” and blew out their candles.

As a child I had always imagined that ladies’ dresses were cavernous on the inside, not unlike a church cupola, and in the center of it, their mysterious legs hung lonely and cold. But once I applied myself—in that tent—to finding the said cupola, the task was more like unraveling an onion. Only with difficulty did I find flesh among cloth, and as I exploratively sent my hand up to the apex, my catch shrieked, “Stop it!”

I withdrew, apologizing. My blindfold was reinstated. I fumbled on, somewhat less able to enjoy myself amid their nimbleness and laughter. I did not so much bump into the empress as was goaded to do so, and I held on to her for balance; even so, we both fell onto some cushions. Her laughter was conveyed to my ears over the shaking terrain of her bosom. She finished with a sigh and leaned on me. I captured her plump hand on my face and planted a respectful kiss; her rings smelled of metal and shed skin trapped in gemstone mountings, and they abraded my lips when she pulled the hand away. A palm, presumably hers, alighted on top of my blindfold, and a hand authoritatively unbuttoned my breeches, located my loins, and proceeded to inspect their state. I quivered, then yielded as she plied, cooing out mysterious clipped phrases such as Apraksiya, silly thing, has thought up three trunks of nonsense. Then, suddenly, she pulled her busy hand out and now used it to remove the blindfold and palpate my forehead. “Daddy dearest,” she remarked, “this can’t be right.” She studied my face. “My prince, are you well?”

I pulled my knees up and said yes, but her motherly face remained concerned, even frightened. “Look at you—white as canvas, cold as ice. Go, daddy dear, go and get a good sleep. No more drinking for you. Go!”

I got on my feet, buttoned up, and went. She said, “Oh, and send praporshik Svetogorov to me, will you?”

* * *

When I approached the table, Svetogorov slammed a joker onto a fan of cards. I said, “Paul? Your turn.” He smirked while half a dozen others scrutinized me. A few of them chaffed me, and I could hardly contain my double embarrassment: I had been groped by the august lady and then—for whatever reason—failed to satisfy her.

“Gentlemen—not a word!” Svetogorov intervened. “Let him be.” He poured me a shot, which I refused, then, once on his feet, he put his hand over my shoulders, encouraging me to walk with him. “No big deal, no big deal,” he consoled, looking into my face. “The first pancake always comes out botched, that’s all.”

“What pancake?” I protested.

“The pancake,” he affirmed with significance and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Sleep it off.” With that he cocked his chest—“Watch me”—and dived into the tent. I was seventeen then, he was almost twenty. The empress was nearing fifty. In the autumn of that same year she fainted in the middle of the road, walking from her church to her apartments. She fell into her own crinoline, I remember, and it caved in around her like a sinkhole. A bad sign.

* * *

There are stories of the empress’s favorites and their vertiginous ascents to power, but my story is not one of them. Neither is Svetogorov’s; whereas I proved incompatible with Elizaveta’s amorous exercises, he lacked the smarts to turn his superb goings and comings into a strategic gain. But he remained my defender and always repelled regimental fun-pokers when they took aim at my unhappily enduring chastity. It was a myth of Svetogorov’s making—that I was highly principled, a man of the purest discretion. I was grateful that he had my back.

In retrospect, the memory of those years is embarrassing in its entirety. It is hard now even to conceive that goodhearted, cheerful savagery that passed for our code of honor; that strange mixture of the lurid and the naïve that fed our famous loyalty. Our tight poise on duty and drunken debauchery off-duty was a logical impossibility of the same kind as Svetogorov’s, when—in my company—he would discharge himself into a prostitute, pushing into her from behind with compulsive urgency, and afterward take up his guitar and sing, moist-eyed, about romantic devotions. Nowadays our hyperventilation before our Lady-Colonel would fool no one; the truth that lay at the bottom of it, heavy as a drunk’s stare, was that we were a power, we were feared—and it was intoxicating. When poor Elizaveta passed away (less than two years after my failure in her “tent”), her praetorian teddy bears dethroned her nephew and successor, Peter the Third, after he reigned for only six months because we just did not like him, and it did not matter what the Great Chancellor Prince Cherkassky, or the French ambassador, Marquis de la Chétardie, or the English ambassador, Sir Hanbury Williams, imagined about their own cleverness and the reach of their bribes. Peter the Third’s wife, Ekaterine, better known as Catherine the Great, was installed, backed by our bayonets; we obtained ourselves another Lady-Colonel.

This happened in the summer of 1762. I remember marching onto Peter the Third’s Palace—a show of force our commanders put together so that Ekaterine could intimidate Peter into abdication. She was at the head of us, on horseback, dressed in our uniform. Excitement was all around me, men feeling momentous. As for me, I marched with one thought foremost: What was so wrong about me that it was repelling women?

* * *

The one important consequence of 1762 was that we made peace with Prussia. Andrei could come home—and so he did, after a two-year stopover in Poland, where Russian troops were propping up a newly elected king.

Andrei came back a man with a jaw set so hard that he barely smiled or spoke; a dull man who refused to entertain civilians and ladies with stories of his military feats. He came back merely a captain of infantry, and this modest advancement in rank prompted Paul Svetogorov to opine that Andrei was either inept or disliked. I wondered the same.

Our reunion was formal.

Yet my attention did not dwell on it too much because another subject preoccupied it—I had fallen madly in love. She was seventeen, a diminutive beauty with chestnut curls and stunningly dark brows and eyelashes that framed curious and demanding eyes. She turned those eyes upon me first, she chose me! She came to watch our drills, among other ladies and their male custodians (we were being made into a gentler, more European, showcase). Eventually, we were introduced. Prince Alexander, allow me to present to you Countess Marie Vassilievna Tolstoy… Countess—the Leib Guard subporuchik Prince Alexander Mikhailovich Velitzyn… She was so tiny! She looked up and I stooped down, bowing. She blushed. I was hers, right there and then.

I went through all the stages a lovestruck young man was supposed to check off: poetry, sleeplessness, sartorial concerns, and epistolary excesses. Svetogorov eagerly stepped into the role of my confidant. At long last, he cheered. He tutored me in strategy, interpreted her letters for me, and mobilized the whole vast network of his buddies to create a beneficial climate for our romance.

Social calls, hitherto avoided, now turned into conduits of courtship. I spent hours perched in the sitting room of the Maison Tolstoy on the Moika River, maintaining a polite conversation with a watchful Tolstoy matriarch and her elderly sisters, while all I wished for was but a single moment alone with Marie. Balls and fêtes became great windows of opportunity. Ah, the way she looked at me when we danced minuets! We must have roused smiles—a couple so mismatched in height. When a dance required that I lifted her off the floor, I had to restrain an urge to nestle her in the crook of my arm and spin all around the hall, carrying her like a precious gift of heavens. I could not believe I deserved her.

One day I received a letter from Moscow. Father wrote:

Son Alexander, we heard you are seeking affections of the youngest Tolstoy girl. Your stepmother, who is friends with their Muscovite relatives, warns that the girl’s frame is too narrow where it matters for childbearing but we say Tolstoys are a good stock and a respected house. Is this the only Tolstoy sister who answers your courtship? If so, lose no time and propose, you have our blessing. Your brother, if you don’t know it yet, is also considering matrimony, and may have settled his matters already.

My heavenly love, reduced to utilitarian terms of hip width! And, not least, I wished Andrei and I hadn’t been pitched in a competition of who’d marry first. But I did not question the prospect of proposing to the Tolstoy girl. That was what one did after one fell in love.

So I sprang into action. I paid a call to the head of the house, the formidable Count Vassily Tolstoy, made a mention of my honorable intentions with regard to his daughter, and received his permission to proceed.

The evening of that fateful day, Svetogorov decided to throw a party for my successful completion of the first step out of bachelorhood. I voiced caution, but he said, “You know your petite comtesse will accept. She is crazy about you. What do you have to worry about?”

Midway through our celebration we perceived an urgent need for ice. The kind of urge that has for centuries sent packs of young, excited males on a search for the missing ingredient for their revel, be it another sort of liquor, or treat, or the company of a particular person. It was July, the night was hot, our vin mousseux de Champagne may have been in dire need of chilling. It does not matter. What matters is we headed into the imperial larders.

Imagine a cheerful crowd of Leib Guard officers invading the imperial kitchens, holding the staff almost at gunpoint. Led, as ever, by Svetogorov, we descended into the basement, unlocked a door to a room, and flipped the lid of a chest to reveal layers of straw that covered perfectly preserved, huge slabs of ice. We whipped out our swords and attempted to hack at it, but the highest-grade imperial ice resisted splendidly. Then Svetogorov found an ice pick, and the next moment, shards of ice flew in all directions as if they were alive and trying to escape. My fellows frolicked after them, but I—I froze. One shard had lodged itself at my feet and lay there waiting. It glittered in the candlelight and it seemed to radiate confidence—a groomed, smooth, mature ice. It could have been old. As old as I. It could have been the very same ice from which Empress Anna’s Ice Palace had been built. The ice my parents had lain on. Do they not say that ice has memory? Suddenly, it seemed as if my mind—no, my whole body impaled itself on a peculiar realization: if I picked it up, it would become one with me.

Why?!

“Hey!” Svetogorov pushed me in the shoulder. “Wake up!”

I fled the basement.

* * *

Svetogorov said, “Marriage fears. Nothing out of the ordinary.” I begged to differ.

But in those days we did not speak so openly. Euphemisms, innuendos, and—for the more daring—French colloquialisms, oft misinterpreted, were all we had. Svetogorov used to say that I had been either too anxious or too idealistic with the ladies; in private, he may have thought that I simply couldn’t achieve an erection. That, I could. What I could not do was explain to him how strange were the fears that struck me after the visit to the ice box. As grotesque as they were vague, they fled the torch of reason but returned tripled the moment reason looked the other way. What if some curse had been precipitated on me and my brother at conception? Was that why Andrei disliked me? What if Marie would be repelled by me just as others had been? No matter how fond of me she was now, what would she do on our connubial night?

And could I—should I—talk to her about it?

* * *

The gentle humor of the rites of courtship is that after one’s intent had been declared, everybody conspires to create opportunities for imminent proposal. Watchdog aunts and nosy sisters now flutter out of the room whenever one pays one’s call. Everybody, including the bride-to-be, stares at one with bright anticipation. Yet, time after time, one fails to deliver.

Same as ever, that day: we were walking down a path in the Italian Gardens, and Marie’s mother, uncharacteristically interested in every rose along the way, just kept falling farther and farther behind. I grew tenser by the minute, which finally caused Marie to take matters into her own hands. “Mon ami, forgive me, but I can’t help but see you are ill at ease with me. I should like to know the reason. I would hate to cause you an upset and not amend it.”

I stopped. I could lie or evade. Or confess. Did we not love each other? Ought we not to speak of our woes? So at long last I said, “I hope it would not be a surprise to you if I say that I’d be honored and delighted to ask your hand in marriage, but before I even dare to do it, I need to tell you something important.”

She was intrigued—pleasantly, so far. “But by all means! You should not have troubled yourself over it, I would gladly listen to you and help in any way.”

The next step was much harder. I took her hand and stopped looking her in the eyes. I squeezed the words out with much labor and torment, meander and pause. The summary of it was: “I have a concern about myself,” and “when we’re man and wife you may be dissatisfied with me,” and “if so I will never forgive myself for binding you in a union that was a burden,” and “I have to ask your permission to perform a trial of sorts before we are betrothed to each other.”

My innocent petite comtesse! Only she could be so trusting, so kind and pure as to not take off running that very moment. She blushed, asking, “A trial? What kind?”

And I blushed, answering, “A tryout. Of you and me. Whether we can touch each other.”

“But we—”

“As man and wife.”

“My parents will not—”

“It’ll have to be in secrecy.” The further I went down that hole, the more I thought that this was the best thing to do. The right thing.

She was biting her lips in thought. “Is there no other way?” she begged. What was she imagining, as she stood in those pristine gardens, on this August afternoon, amid roses and butterflies? Horror tales of maidens’ honor lost, of sinister men and their predations? Greasy beds under scarlet canopies? Or was she just figuring how she could slip from the Maison Tolstoy unnoticed? My loving, devoted Marie, she did not want to bargain—too much—with me. “I just can’t imagine how this could be arranged,” she said.

“It needn’t be elaborate,” I improvised feverishly. “Just come out at night. Through the kitchen door. At two in the morning. I’ll be waiting. Every night for a week starting tomorrow I’ll be waiting unless I hear from you otherwise. We needn’t much time, we needn’t even go anywhere from your door.”

Oh, I was flying. Inflated and carried away, as if she’d already agreed.

“We will… right there?” she puzzled, and I was nodding, oh yes! I needed but little, only a tip of the iceberg that was intercourse. I wished I could say so!

“Shh,” she said, “my mother is here.”

The matriarch Countess Tolstoy had run out of flowers to inspect. “Mother”—Marie was all blushing cheeks, wayward eyes, and shrill voice—“Prince Alexander asked me to marry him.”

“Oh, did he?” The matron feigned surprise. “My dearest children—”

“—and I told him I’ll give him my answer in a week.” Marie tried so hard to look willful and sophisticated but she lacked the practice; she awed me nonetheless, my dear beloved. She fumbled and fled into the arms of her mother, the latter now surprised in earnest. “Oh, did you?”

Misplaced like a milepost in an open field, I stood as, safe at her mother’s bosom, Marie turned back to me. “I trust you will wait for my answer,” she said and gave me her—only slightly trembling—fingertips to squeeze in a good-bye.

Of course! She had to be inviting me to be there, by her kitchen door, every night starting tomorrow! “I will be waiting,” I said.

She led her mother away, and the moment they turned the corner, my confidence waned. I spent the next twenty-four hours in remorse, doubting Marie’s meaning and questioning the asinine plan that I had conjured on the spur of the moment.

* * *

St. Petersburg in the 1760s was much different than it is now. It was a city cut out generously, for growth, and it had not yet filled its own interstitial spaces. It lay like a fanciful appliqué on the burlap of my country’s reality. One could be disturbed by its contrasts if one wasn’t so used to them: gilded carriages that bounced over rutted dirt roads, baroque palaces that stood amidst empty fields, wolf-hunting that was best just a few miles away from the assiduously manicured Italian Gardens.

There was a veritable prairie land behind the Admiralty, all the way to the Moika River, where the Tolstoy mansion stood on the east bank, and beyond it. There were timber warehouses facing the mansion over the Moika, and dogs howled there at night. If the wind blew from the west, it smelled of tar from the Admiralty’s shipyard; if from the east, of cowherds. The grass was so tall and coarse next to the Tolstoy stables, it pricked me in the eye, where I sat. Fleas jumped in that grass, mosquitoes buzzed, and vermin scurried about. Well before sunrise, beggars with branded foreheads and ripped-out nostrils gathered nearby, waiting for the snobbish household serf-man to come out and give away scraps from the Tolstoys’ generous kitchen.

It was, in other words, a highly unsuitable place for a delicate young lady to come out to at night.

For five nights I waited for her in vain. On the sixth night the door opened and she slipped out. I emerged from my hiding spot in the grass. She grabbed the door handle, ready to flee, then saw it was me. She tiptoed over. A nightcap, a house frock, and a sleeping gown. Slippers on bare feet. “Here I am,” she whispered.

For a while we stood close, not a hand’s width between us, and stared at each other. Then she shut her eyes with the kind of sacrificial abandon that should have struck the longest, saddest chord out of my soul, had I not been so taken with thrill and passion.

I lifted her and curled her in the crook of my arm the way I’d dreamed of, and knelt in the grass, she in my lap, and I kissed her cheeks, and lips, and shoulder—somehow bared—and then a bare knee, and neck, and chin, and lips again.

I kissed her until I suddenly tasted salt and saw, in a breathtaking close-up, a long tear-track glistening on her cheek. The tear escaped her eye no matter how tightly she squeezed it shut. The next instant I noticed how stiff she felt in my arms. And then I pulled back and saw her as she was, so brave, so determined, fighting shivers, squeezing all of herself so tight—those little white fists held aloft… And still unwilling to open her eyes, still hoping, she whispered, “No, don’t stop! I’ll be all right, it’s just me, it’ll go away. Please don’t let go of me!”

But let go I did. “What,” I said, deadening, “is it?”

She scrambled off my lap. She tried to speak but sobbed instead; she shivered and tugged at her nightgown. The kitchen door behind us opened, a gaggle of lanterns spilled out. “Young mistress! Young mistress Maria Vassilievna, where are you?!”

Marie was backing away from me. “It was… it was—”

Led by the matron Tolstoy, the search party was closing in; Marie turned and faced them, wailing like a child. “I sleepwalked! Mama, I’m so scared! I’m cold, Mama!”

They surrounded her, swept her indoors. No one ever saw me.

* * *

There is a Russian fairy tale about Old Man Frost, the ruler of winter. He roamed the wildest reaches of the land, he raged in snowstorms, and come morning, he stood amidst his snowy desolation. A sorceress once saw him standing like that, and pitied his loneliness. She made him a lovely daughter out of snow. When spring came, the snow maiden was meandering through the forest and became entranced by a delightful tune played on a flute. The flutist was a handsome lad and she fell in love with him. Yet soon she realized how many obstacles were in the way of her love: he lived in a village and she hid in the forest; she was pale and shy, while he was courted by many a rosy-cheeked lass. Only once did she dare to show herself to him, yet he took interest and invited her to a village festival. There was a big bonfire, and lads and lasses were jumping over it to show off; the flutist dared the snow maiden to jump with him. She knew she shouldn’t but she was determined to prove her love for him. She jumped, and in an instant she evaporated in a cloud of steam.

With us, the parts were reversed, and so were the elements of nature. The trial was not by fire—it was quite the opposite. Not two days after our transgression, pneumonia struck Marie and brought her to the brink of death. Only in October had she convalesced enough to take my visit. She was swathed in blankets in a rocking chair by a fireplace when they ushered me in and left us alone. I knelt beside her. The fire pushed waves of heat onto me.

“You.” She touched the lapels of my jacket. Then, “We are not going to marry, are we?”

“No,” I said.

“I’m sorry. I must be frail. The doctor says my constitution—”

“You are perfect. Kind. Brave. The cause lies with me.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. What… did you feel?”

She gazed into the fire. “Cold,” she said.

* * *

She was a gift of the heavens, and I did not deserve her.

That day Marie asked me henceforth to avoid her company, and I obliged. In a year she was seen with suitors; I could not blame her but suffered afresh nonetheless, not least because Andrei was getting married! Heartbroken was a medical diagnosis back then but it did not begin to describe the mix of envy and bile that flooded me when I stood at my brother’s wedding. Was my brother not cursed, after all? Was it just me? Or was Andrei’s bride, this Anna something or other, an unremarkable, demure girl I barely looked at before the ceremony, somehow more accommodating? Or did she, poor thing, not know what she was getting into?

The gossips of St. Petersburg found the famous “rejection of Prince Velitzyn by Countess Tolstoy” a fertile ground for speculation. Many held me at fault. In another year my petite comtesse married a rich civil servant twenty years her senior, while I remained chaste—and now the gossip turned to my deficiencies, one guess more piquant than another. Then Marie died in childbirth. Those narrow hips of hers.

After her death my critics fell silent. Now I was a black swan who had lost the mate of his life. The irony.

Of this I am as sure as I can be: she never shared my secret with anyone, she took it with her.

* * *

If not for Marie, I would have taken much longer to understand it, but now I knew: arousal made me cold. What was I to do?

I became a misanthrope. I was intemperate with my grenadiers and curt with everyone else. I was disconsolate and reveled in it; after a while I became disliked. I daydreamed of various exotic and demonstrative ways of self-destruction. When Empress Ekaterine imported the distinguished Dr. Dimsdale and his son from England in 1768 to inoculate herself and the young Grand Duke Paul against smallpox, I volunteered to be the corpore vili on which to fiat experimentum. (The empress refused to order anyone to submit to such a fate, while the doctor was reluctant to use his procedure on her without a test run.) I looked forward to a dignified illness and heroic death, but the self-sacrificial move turned out to entail a week of purgatives and boiled vegetables, followed by nicking on both arms with a scalpel dipped in pustules of a disease-stricken child from the city’s outskirts. This was followed by another week of laxatives and special diet, during which I developed tenderness in my arms and then a mild fever. Then I got well. I erupted not one pustule, and Dr. Dimsdale doubted the inoculation had truly taken; he certainly could not use me as a source for more inoculations (which was my last hope: in those days we believed that the subject whose pustule matter is taken to inoculate others will consequently die). In two weeks, profoundly purified of “crudities in my stomach,” sick of turnips and cabbage but hardly altered otherwise, I returned to the regiment and to misanthropy.

One winter eve, Svetogorov stomped into our room in the Leib Company House straight from la louveterie—wolf-hunting—with Count Gregory Orlov. Smelling of fresh snow and blood he came, rosy-cheeked and ready to pour out a full report of his adventure. Then he observed me curled on my cot, wrinkled his nostrils at the stifling air, and judged, “It ought to stop someday, friend Alexis. Count Gregory inquired after you just now. He is where power is. Three”—he raised his eyes to the ceiling and counted on his fingers—“no, four ladies I personally know, comfortably married and nicely positioned dames, have been inquiring after you and are ready to allay your… your douleur…” He made a pause and since I did not protest, he hounded me a bit more. “I mean… Poor Marie had been a fine maiden, no question. But to keep mortifying yourself over her is just unhealthy. She was not your wife.” Again, he checked the effect and baited me, “She was not bearing your child… I assume.”

I lunged at him like a cornered wolf. I struck him in the chest and called him an unscrupulous lecher and an insensate fool. As he swung his arms to avoid my grabbing him by the lapels, I demanded that he challenge me to a duel, and when he cried, What for? I answered, For calling you a fool, you fool! and by then other officers came upon our spectacle and held us back while I shouted, Fine, then I will challenge you—for speaking lowly of the late countess Tolstoy!, and when everyone heard that, they just shook their heads. Their hands shrank from me, and Svetogorov righted his dislodged jacket and muttered, “I won’t duel with you, Alexander Mikhailovich. Foremost you need to fix yourself.”

I strode out, chased by reproachful stares. I sprinted along the Winter Canal to the Neva, then tumbled down the bank onto the Neva’s frozen bed. On my hands and knees, I wanted to wash my face with snow—and that was how I learned that rage made me cold too. The snow would not melt against my skin.

I howled. I cursed the river, the night, the city. I cursed until nothing and no one else was left to curse at, but me.

* * *

From then on it became a matter of finding what else would provoke my body. I was no black swan. I was a mangy wolf. I picked fights in St. Petersburg’s seediest taverns. I dressed as a commoner for those adventures, but I fooled no one who mattered. The next day the whole regiment could see my black eye or squashed lip. I remember myself crouching in someone’s yard one night, whether thrown out of a drinking establishment or hiding from a ruffian’s chase, my heart thumping, my hand squeezing snow, my mind noting with malicious satisfaction that, once again, the snow did not melt. Fear made me cold too.

And I never, ever felt it.

It would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad. I may have misunderstood altogether, I realized, what others meant by saying they were cold. When I used the word, it could mean a pang of anxiety, or discomfort. Or unwelcome weather. Even so, I believed I hadn’t been cold as a child. Maturing into a man was what had brought it about, and provoking it now only made it stronger.

At last my commanders ordered me to take leave. Officially, they were rewarding me for my smallpox heroics. Unofficially—if I did not mend my shaken constitution, my leave could well become expulsion from the regiment. And yet, all I thought about was the multitude of things I could do back home—hail the labyrinthine, crooked-streeted, humpbacked Moscow with her high fences, deep cellars, and dark taverns! She’d turn her blighted eye on my histrionics. She would not fuss about me the way pretentious St. Pete’s did!

* * *

My childhood home, the estate of Velitzyno, lay just outside Moscow proper and encompassed fields, groves, a river, several lakes and villages. Two elders, my father and uncle, or rather, somnolent inertia, ran the estate; other Velitzyn males of service age were all dispersed, either throughout the empire in its numerous garrisons, holding the borders, or at court, in the Senate, in collegiums (i.e., ministries), holding the rudder, or as ambassadors in Europe, holding fingers on her political pulse. The old mansion meanwhile was filled with nieces of all ages and a few prepubescent nephews, tended by a company of seven ladies and an army of house folk. The days were spent having meals or talking about them, except on Sundays, when there was also church in the morning, and the banya, a bathhouse with a steam lodge, at night. Into this bliss I descended, a mangy wolf with little else to do but roam and sniff for blood.

My father was not pleased to see me. But to the resident flock, I, an elite officer in the prime of his late twenties, was still a shiny gift from the capital. At once, I saw a world of opportunity for self-indulgence. I did not have to go to Moscow for my debaucheries, I could just as well start right here at home.

Consider an example of my activities:

At eleven o’clock one January Sunday, I insist on combining a little red sleigh (hardly used) and a certain two-year-old mare (who never pulled that sleigh before). Disregard advice of the stablemaster. (Shaves too short for her, he says. Bah! I say to that.) Charge off. Following a river, I encounter a hillock upon which stands a banya, where some peasant women dash out to gambol in the snow. I drive in and catch them unawares, most flee, one slips and falls. Her body is white and pink and veined, and freckled in places; it steams, and the snow that still clings to it is melting. I take my fur greatcoat off, lay it out at her feet, order her to step on it. Back up a pace, crouch, order her to stop stooping and covering her shame, order her to look me in the eye. When she does, her face is flushed, her stare defiant, though she is shivering already. She is older than I thought, a married woman, most certainly. She knows what I am about. I scoop snow into my hand and squeeze it. Open my hand. Ask, “What do you see?”

She shrugs—and her breasts stir in double negation.

I think I do not need to touch her, only to keep looking at her. I consider the biblical Onan. Consider snatching her and taking her someplace more convenient. Say, “Come here.” Stretch out my hand, snow in it, for her to see—as if it is an explanation for my imminent action. My mouth is dry. “Look at it! What do you see?” She cranes her neck, her eyes dart from my hand to my face and back. “Snow?” she says.

“Do you see it is not melting?!”

She returns a wary stare as the few vestiges of her snow slip most tantalizingly down her curves.

“Pick up my coat, wrap yourself.”

She obeys.

I grab her.

An earsplitting scream erupts from the sweat lodge. Startled, I release my prey and she runs away. My greatcoat falls into the snow. I see a crowd has formed, watching me from the top of the hillock, men and women both. I flee to my sleigh, whip the mare, she bounces up and down on all fours wildly before she gets traction. As she widens her gallop under my whip, she hits the sleigh with her hind hooves—the shaves too short indeed—and so she scares herself into a frenzy. The sleigh overturns as the road curves away from a pond, I am dumped, the pull of the shaves and my clutching onto the reins bring the mare down, and both of us wind up sprawled below the road, in deep snow.

Lying there in that snow, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, I stare at the empty environs, at the sky splintered by an occasional crow. Then I roll over and, gritting my teeth, succumb to Onan’s ways.

I growl angrily at my own hand and stare down—in a curious feeling of animalistic parity—the mare who is trying and failing to get on her own feet. Once I’m done I get up, unharness the mare, and let her climb out of the hole she’d made. I trudge to the pond and sit. There are sullen willows and crows that strain themselves cawing, a fisherman’s crooked shack on the far side. That’s how it is going to be, I say to the pond. God help me.

The mare and I walk back to the mansion, where I learn the latest news: Andrei and his wife will arrive in days. He will stay just long enough to make sure she is settled, then leave for the war with the Ottoman Turks. How fortunate! Instantly, my existence receives new purpose: I will win the wife’s trust and she’ll tell me everything I wish to know about my brother but will never learn from him directly because I won’t ask and he won’t tell.

Is he cold? Like me?

* * *

God help us.

I watched, a part of the welcome committee, as they climbed out of a kibitka. My brother first, a solid man now, square-shouldered and unhurried, and then—the wife.

“What are you doing here?” was Andrei’s greeting for me. No one had told them, apparently.

“On leave,” I relished saying. “For the service I rendered to the empire. Haven’t you heard?” Oh how I enjoyed seeing his face turn dour while I gallantly mentioned my inoculation, looking not at him but mostly at his wife. Anna, wasn’t it? Her hair was very dark and so were her eyes, her skin was porcelain-white. But she was no beauty: her nose a trifle too pointy, her mouth too small. Her smile was tentative. She wouldn’t be hard to win over.

“We’ve heard of your service,” Andrei said and all but carried Anna inside.

Andrei made it known that he did not like my staying in Velitzyno. I overheard it. I eavesdropped by the door to Father’s study; they had to be talking about me. The floorboards creaked and voices rose and fell. Andrei’s, agitated: he… irregular behavior… ill-natured… is said to be… Father’s, irate:… me to do, kick him out?… so he takes it to town?

An hour later, Father called me in. I walked into his study with a sardonic smile on my face: See if I care! He surprised me by saying, What was that faux pas you had performed on that Matryona woman? I said, Matryona who? —The peasant woman you are rumored to have attacked, he said. Attacked?! I flared. There was no attack! Where’s the damage?

He erupted in a gurgling cough. He grumbled, We don’t need disturbances here.

I shrugged, ready to leave. Is that all?

It was.

* * *

Oh, I knew: never had Andrei been so reluctant to leave this old house as he was now. I saw him talking to Anna. She was seated in an armchair and he was standing over her as if he were a teacher and she a pupil who needed correction. I knew he had indoctrinated her: Stay away from Alexander! He is a troubled man!

I could just tell. And so I waited for Andrei to abide the call of duty and leave. I waited through all those little silences, and forks dropped at dinner, and the glances Anna cast about as if—but for an instant—she was deeply and profoundly disoriented.

Oh, I watched her, yes, I looked for ways of entry into her soul. She was twenty-two but her calm demeanor made her appear older. Her dark eyes were sad. I knew just what to ask her come the right time: Why are you unhappy?

* * *

Andrei left.

I hunted her. Day to day, from fireplace to fireplace, parlor to parlor, among ladies playing cards or taking cordials or altering clothes or tasting currant preserves or knitting or finding each other’s soft spots and there inserting their dainty needles (Anna would respond with a polite—or clueless—smile). I chased her among children at play, where she would take part dreamily, while younger nephews blushed at older nieces, and nieces twittered into each other’s ears in their little-girls’ French.

She avoided being alone with me—she was a good pupil—but no matter. I could converse with her—or about her—in others’ company. How is my sister-in-law doing today? My lady cousins, I knew, would supply the context: Annichka, dear, your brother-in-law seems so taken by you… runs in the family, no doubt… although no two brothers could be as different as these… and this one is a bad, bad boy, they say…

I piqued her interest. Soon she would at least sit with other ladies and listen to me telling stories about Andrei’s childhood: Do you know he wanted to be Iliya of Murom when he was a kid?… Do you know he wanted to be a Leib Guard so badly that he stretched himself taller?… He wasn’t always as serious as now… Does he ever smile at you? Is he ever tender?

Splotches of blush would show on her cheeks. “Well, yes. Andrei Mikhailovich is a caring man. Of course he is tender with me.”

And I’d add another little fly to the ointment. “You can call me Alexander. No need for those stuffy patronymics.”

I was engaging in talk of this kind one day when a lackey approached. “Your Nobleship, a situation is downstairs. Kindly attend to it.” I registered Anna’s curious glance upon me before I left to “attend.”

The situation was standing in the backyard, between a chicken coop and a workshop. She had a boy of four, maybe five years of age, clinging to her arm. “For the third day straight she comes,” the lackey commented. “Says you asked for her, stubborn thing.”

Flushed already, I told the lackey to be on his way, then approached her. “Matryona, is it?”

She bowed her head.

“Your child?”

She nodded. “Savva.” And then, holding my stare captive, she headed toward the chicken coop.

Inside, Savva climbed the plank to the roost. “Mama, look—a hen with a cowlick,” and his mother said, “Look for a red one, baby,” and then she opened her greatcoat for me and let out her breasts. The areolae wilted in the cold air. I watched though did not touch myself in front of her—still too shy. But the next time, and the time after that, and later—I was shy no longer.

Before she left on that first day, Matryona pointed to some freshly hatched eggs. “I’ll take these? No?”

“Yes,” I said hoarsely.

Then I returned to the mansion, checking my clothes for chicken scratch, and rejoined the parlor company. “I’ve digressed. Where were we?” Anna looked up from her needlework, then dipped her head down like a pupil who did not know the answer to the teacher’s question and was afraid to be called upon.

* * *

In the chicken coop. Then in an old barn, where Matryona deadbolted a rickety door. Then in a woodshed, where she lifted her skirts, and the decrepit linen, the hemp rope–fastened wrappings she wore on her legs, were the color of dead skin. Afterward: to putter back to the mansion, dump my fur coat on the floor, leave footprints of snow all over. A feeling of shame, as I checked myself in the mirrors: God help me.

Was it to this look that Anna had started responding? Suddenly it had become so easy to find her alone: by the fireplace, in the renovated nursery, at a table covered with cups and saucers and raspberry pastries. She watched me break a pastry and abandon it. I asked, “Why are you so unhappy?” and saw confusion on her face, as if she were giving her soul an emergency inspection.

“I am not… I’m happy. Do I not look it?”

“Do you believe that people can explain their true selves to each other through words?”

“Yes, certainly, I do.”

“And yet you can’t manage to ask me the questions that have been on your mind since you first saw me. Isn’t it so?”

It was so easy to discombobulate her!

Meanwhile: In a cold bathhouse, where it was too dark to see. In a fisherman’s shack. In the workshop, where Matryona fingered a newly finished crib that smelled strongly of flaxseed oil. In the creamery, next to trays of milk, where Savva lost a milk tooth eating cream off a skimmer. I never touched her. We rarely spoke. She is neither a wife nor a widow, our lackey told me when I asked. Her husband had been drafted into soldiery, which those days meant—for life. God knows what she lives on. Tough working her land lot by herself, and her boy’s too small yet.

I pocketed tea cakes for Savva when no one was looking.

* * *

Anna said, “Very well, I’ll ask.” This time, she had sought me out. I sat at a table, playing solitaire, she insisted on standing. She said, “What do you and my husband hold against one another?”

I made her wait for my answer. “Our differences. Or similarities. Maybe we each dislike our own reflection in the other.”

“You are not being earnest.”

“You are not asking the right question.”

“Are you seeking my company because you want to annoy your brother?”

What splendid riposte! There were a few embers smoldering behind that demure facade. Yet I rewarded her only by another deck-shuffling pause and then by a very loaded, “No.”

“As in—”

“I am not seeking your company.”

“I’m sorry I was mistaken… It must be one of your eccentricities.” She turned to leave—too abruptly. She was discomposed, and it was the perfect moment for me to spring from the chair and plead, “Anna! I’m sorry. Yes. Yes I was. I’m not eccentric. I’m lonely. Very lonely, that’s all.” An utter truth, backed up by that genuine God help me look in my eyes.

She saw it of course. “Well, I’m lonely too. In a house full of in-laws—”

“I know I have a reputation. But it is not that of a seducer.” (She almost, but not quite, winced.) “Your husband has nothing to fear from me… Friends?”

This time Anna made me wait. At long last she conceded, “Friends. On a condition that you stop talking to me as if I am your brother’s possession.”

“Why, I never intended—” and so forth.

* * *

In the barn again, where I was becoming more demanding. Then I saw how our own domestics chased Matryona from the yard, saying, Be gone with you! Scavenging here! Whoring around!

When I asked what happened, the lackey said that Matryona was not even ours. Not our serf. There went my semiserious plan of easing her lot by making a house servant out of her.

Matryona never touched me either. Except once: I was performing my routine while watching her—and was not succeeding, it just would not happen; so she said, Let me, and then pulled the kerchief off her head—a newer, whiter thing she wore, with a stitchwork of little red roosters along the edge—and she took me into her hand through this kerchief, explaining, My hands’re rough and young master’s skin’s tender. I leaned back on my elbows and wanted to close my eyes but those little red roosters—this misused Sunday-best kerchief—I could not tear my mind from it, it anguished me, it jumbled me—

“You pity me, don’t you?” I said.

She stopped for a moment. Her braid rolled over her shoulder and fell on my chest. She tossed it back. Then resumed.

“I am not a ‘young master.’ I may well be older than you.” I could not bear these pangs of sadness and shame and injustice, perverted together, and so I cried, “Stop!” because I did not want her to stop, and then drew her in and held her by the waist, and straightened her skirt, and then buried my face in it and begged, “Don’t come here again. Please. Don’t come for me anymore.”

Later, Father categorically refused to buy Matryona and Savva from whoever owned them. “When you come into money, you can blow it whichever way you want!” I had no income other than the allowance he gave me. The empire rarely paid my nominal Leib Guard salary. As a landed nobleman, I was expected to have no need for it, and if I had the need, to be too proud to ask.

I came across Anna right after that conversation. “What happened?” she asked. My face must have been a portrait of ire.

On impulse, I said, “Take a sleigh ride with me. Please?”

And here we were, propelled by that same spirited mare (a choice of mine), over an end-of-February landscape, under the crisp sun. Once or twice at sharp turns Anna shrieked and grabbed my arm, then laughed—excitedly, I thought—and it cheered me up, and I thought that this was when I’d ask her about my brother. I needed, I had to know, now more than ever.

On the outskirts of a village, some kids were building a snow fortress and I turned toward it. “A cavalry charge!” I roared, and Anna protested, God, no!, and I reigned in the mare to a halt and jumped out of the sleigh. “An infantry charge! Preobrazhensky grenadiers—attack!” I stormed on, and the kids responded with a volley of snowballs. I retaliated with snow grenades and rammed the snow wall, tumbling to the ground on the other side and being bombarded by the fortress’s defenders till snow bursts covered me head to toe; yet I lay sprawled and laughed like a madman until Anna’s face appeared above me. “Look at you—a snowman,” she said, smiling so brightly. And I said, “Then tell me something. Be honest with a snowman. Is your husband cold when he performs the procreative act?”

At first she just raised her brow, prompting me to repeat it, but by the time I did, her face changed, a grave concern upon it, and her gaze turned inward. I sat up. “What’s wrong?”—“I am unwell,” she said. “Take me back.”

I was terrified. She saw it and, once back in the sleigh, she offered an explanation, “It’s my pregnancy.”

“You are—pregnant?!”

“You didn’t know?”

“You didn’t tell me!”

“I—guess I thought you knew. Everyone else does.”

“Oh my God, I shouldn’t have—if I’d known—”

“It’s all right. It’s just—something is a little wrong right now.”

“Something what?!”

“It’s not a man’s business, Alexander. Will you just get me home, please?”

* * *

The bumpy sleigh ride I had made her endure… of course it was all my fault! I would kill myself if she lost her baby. They confined her to bed. They were saying the worst hadn’t happened, and she was hopeful. Days passed. I stayed at her side as often as she’d let me. I kept track of her face. If she was calm, I breathed. If she looked concerned, I held my breath. At the same time I kept thinking: A baby. A baby! My brother must be normal. He is not like me. I am alone. Curse them. Curse the world! I no longer needed her answer, when one day she said, “That question you had asked… Your brother is not at all a cold man. He cares deeply about me. He is a devoted husband.” Then she asked, “Tell me, what had happened between Marie Tolstoy and you?”

As I opened my mouth to respond, Andrei walked in the door. You see—the problem with the Turkish war was that it just would not start in earnest. So Andrei had sought permission to leave the idle troops to be with his pregnant wife, and showed up at Velitzyno quite unexpectedly.

“What did you do to my wife?!” were Andrei’s first words. Then, as Anna—instantly oblivious of me—lifted her arms to greet her normal husband, he took control of his emotions and asked me out for a word. Anna objected, “Alexander had done me no wrong!” but Andrei was already closing the door behind us. When we were out of Anna’s earshot, he berated me. I rebuked not a single fantastic accusation of his because I felt guilt and—at the same time—because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But I promised to remove myself from the scene, and to begin with, I absconded to the old barn I’d frequented with Matryona.

As I yanked at the barn’s door, a whole rack of icicles, sharp and long, broke off the eaves, plunged down in front of my face, and stabbed the snow, narrowly missing my foot. I picked up the icicles one by one and broke them into smaller and smaller pieces until my palms bled and only the icicles’ wrist-thick roots resisted my best attempts at destruction. Those I hurled against the barn wall, again and again. Shards ricocheted into me. After a while there was no piece left larger than a pea.

And then, at long last, my supply of rage ran out. It occurred to me that it was time to stop asking God for help, because if he was paying attention, he ought to be helping Matryona and Savva and Anna, not me; that I was one year away from turning thirty and had nothing to show for it… If I was serious about loathing myself, it was time to graduate to doing it quietly—and responsibly, without the bonfire and attendant harm to others.

It would be, at any rate, more honest.

* * *

Curiously, when I undressed for bed that night, I found a shard of an icicle stuck between my vest and shirt. I placed it on my dresser and found it still solid come morning. I had no idea what I’d done to it, but it never melted: not when I washed my dried blood off it, nor after a week in my pocket when I brought it to a certain Herr Goldstein in St. Petersburg, a jeweler. I said that it came to me by chance, what was it? Herr Goldstein inspected it with ardor, then told me circumspectly that he did not know what it was but could buy it off me. Had I any more of these stones? Maybe, I said. I told him to name the price, and he did. I doubled the number, stooped over him across the table, and watched what he’d do. As soon as he conceded, I leaned further forward and told him to explain himself. “It is not a diamond,” he said with trepidation, “But it could pass as one. If Your Nobleship were interested in considering the possibilities.”

I was interested.

Herr Goldstein’s money bought me Matryona and Savva. I settled them away from myself, in Preobrazhenskaya Sloboda, the main campus of my regiment in St. Petersburg, and set Matryona up as a laundress. In truth, I did not want to ever see her. It caused me grief. It could be said that I manumitted her and Savva because I did not want to be legally responsible for them. Except that I felt responsible still.

In June Anna gave birth to a healthy boy, Andrei Junior, and insisted that I become his godfather. I returned to Velitzyno for the baptism and beheld the happy family. “You two—make peace,” Anna ordered, a superior authority of motherhood upon her, and we obliged. An eerie feeling it was, when my brother and I stalked toward each other: it was like walking toward one’s own long-lost reflection, now feral and unrecognizable. We embraced—and, remarkably, no annihilation commenced. Then I got to hold the little one, Andrei Junior. It was joy. Thus came about my last, most important, lesson: Joy made me cold too.

I wasn’t alerted to it by the infant’s complaint—I gave him up before the wave of cold crested because I felt it coming, and I swallowed the bitter discovery without so much as a chuckle. I was a student of reserve now. I was training myself to accept that my life would be spent giving up, pulling back, stepping aside—always on the watch for a seizure of cold and ready to withdraw well before anyone complained.

As for the icicles—I found a few more of them by the old barn. Just lying there in the dirt as new grass was pushing out all around them.

Time Line of Events from The Age of Ice

1550–1850 The so-called Little Ice Age in Europe—a period of overall colder temperatures.

1740 Ice Palace erected in St. Petersburg. Empress Anna Ioannovna dies.

Twins Andrei and Alexander are born to Prince Mikhail “The Clown” Velitzyn and Avdotia, née Buzheninova.

1742–61 Reign of Empress Elizaveta.

1747 Anna Khitrovo born.

1752 Andrei and Alexander enter the Cadet Corps military school in St. Petersburg.

1757–62 The Seven Years’ War.

1757 Alexander joins the Preobrazhensky Leib Guard.

1762 Peter III, husband of Ekaterine, crowned, only to be deposed and murdered by the Orlov brothers.

1762–96 Reign of Empress Ekaterine II, or Catherine the Great.

1768 Empress Ekaterine invites Dr. Thomas Dimsdale to St. Petersburg to perform vaccinations against smallpox. After a demonstration of the vaccine’s safety, she, her young son the Grand Duke, and the court receive inoculations.

Alexander volunteers to be a guinea pig for the first smallpox inoculation, before the vaccine is offered to the royalty.

1769 Andrei Junior is born to Andrei Velitzyn and Anna Khitrovo.

1769–74 War with the Ottoman empire.

1771–75 Circle of Sentimentalists active in Darmstadt: Goethe and Johann Heinrich Merck.

1772–74 Pugachev’s revolt in south-central Russia. 1773, October-February: Orenburg, the city-fortress, is besieged.

1773 December: Alexander travels to Orenburg. Andrei dies.

1774 Goethe publishes The Sorrows of Young Werther.

1775 James Watts perfects his steam engine with a condenser.

1779 Captain Cook is murdered on Kauai Island.

1781 Herschel discovers the planet Uranus.

Alexander duels with and kills Paul Svetogorov.

1783 Britain recognizes U.S. independence.

1785–93 Captain Joseph Billings leads Russian-British expedition in search of the Northeast Passage.

Alexander joins the expedition.

1789 French Revolution begins. Storm of the Bastille, National Assembly.

1787 Alexander “glaciates.” Discovered two months later by Dr. Merck.

1793 King Louis XVI of France executed. First Coalition against France. Jacobin reign of Terror.

Alexander joins Billings’s ill-fated land trek through the Chukchi Peninsula.

1797–1801 Reign of Czar Paul I. He is murdered in March 1801.

1794 March: Alexander returns home. September: marries Anna, adopts Andrei Junior.

1796 Alexander opens his icery.

1798 Dr. Merck kills a man in a cryopreservation experiment. Suffers a stroke.

1799 Napoléon becomes Consul, then First Consul.

1801 Andrei Junior marries Varvara Redrikov.

1804 Napoléon proclaimed Emperor.

Anna dies.

1805 December 2: Battle of Austerlitz between the allied Austria and Russia against Napoléon.

Andrei Velitzyn leads the 2nd squadron of the Life Guards Horse regiment into battle and captures the eagle standard of the French Fourth Line Infantry regiment—the only trophy that allies won at Austerlitz. Andrei dies during the retreat through the Sachan ponds.

1807 Russia enters a coalition with France against Britain—the Continental blockade, aka Blocus.

1808 First publication of Goethe’s Faust.

Martin Sawyer leaves Russia.

1811 The Comet of 1812 is first sighted in Viviers, France.

1812 June: Napoléon invades Russia. September: burns Moscow. October-December: retreats. The crossing of the Berezina River in December delivers a final blow to Napoléon’s army.

Alexander leaves home. He is adopted by the Chernigovsky Regiment as it chases the dwindling army of Napoléon across Russia.

1813–17 Persian Crown Prince Abbas Mirza in Tabriz employs British officers to modernize and train his army.

1814 April: Allies (Britain, Prussia, Russia, Austria) enter Paris. Napoléon abdicates.

Alexander in Paris.

1814 July: Mary Goodwin (Shelley, in marriage) and Percy Bysshe Shelley travel through France.

Mary meets Alexander at Ossip Vassilian’s.

1815 March: Napoléon leaves Elba and lands in France, his “Hundred Days” end at Waterloo on June 18.

Alexander is taken to Persia and becomes a slave to Najar Alibek.

1817 Russian diplomatic mission to Tehran, led by General Yermoloff.

Alexander performs spying and eavesdropping duties on the British and Russians for Najar and Mirza.

1825 Persia is defeated by Russia. Britain refuses to help despite an Anglo-Persian treaty.

1829 A mob in Tehran dismembers the Russian envoy Griboedov.

1835 Alexander flees after the death of Najar Alibek and travels east.

1837 Persians under the new shah mount an attack on Afghan city-fortress Herat. British lieutenant Eldred Pottinger tries to defend Herat.

1838 A Russian military contingent under Count Simonich joins Persian shah in his camp. Colonel Stoddard arrives from Tehran with a British ultimatum to Persia. Russians leave and Persian army lifts the siege.

Alexander asks Pottinger for asylum.

1838–42 First Anglo-Afghan War.

1839 Alexander is taken to Calcutta.

1843 Pottinger dies in Hong Kong.

1854 Alexander leaves India for Singapore.

1900 Average annual temperatures begin to rise.

1905 Peking-Paris auto rally.

1906 World fair in Milan.

1907 Anglo-Russian entente cordiale signed.

1912 Ballets Russes perform Stravinsky’s Petroushka in Covent Garden.

1912–15 Russian Silver Age intellectuals meet at the Stray Dog pub. Poet Anna Akhmatova is a regular.

1913 A British business delegation visits Russia.

Alexander meets Princess Elizabeth Goretsky. December: Elizabeth marries Pfaltzgraff von Welleren.

1914–18 World War I.

1914 August: Anna and Marie von Welleren are born.

1917 Bolshevik revolution in Russia.

1926 Soviet government proposes to found a Soviet-Jewish Republic in Russian Far East (Birobidzhan).

1927, approximate: Joseph Stalin consolidates power in Communist Russia.

1933 Adolf Hitler is granted dictatorial powers. First Nazi concentration camps. Boycott of the Jews.

1935 Twenty-one German-Jewish doctors, refugees in France, emigrate to Birobidzhan; fourteen are arrested by NKVD.

Marie von Welleren marries Mark Fromm and follows him to Birobidzhan. Both are arrested.

1936–38 Show trials orchestrated by Stalin’s NKVD against “enemies of the state.”

1939–45 World War II.

1953–64 De-Stalinization of the Soviet Union under Nikita Khrushchev.

1961 Alexander visits Pierre and Anna Cazaux.

1968 Student uprisings in France.

Anna leaves Pierre, travels to New York with a young American.

1969 Rolling Stones tour the U.S.

Alexander meets Anna in New York.

1971 Anna publishes her autobiographical novel My Life Without a Twin.

1973 Oil crisis.

Alexander travels to USSR in hopes of visiting Birobidzhan.

2003 Deadly summer heat wave in Europe.

Anna dies.

2007 Northwest Passage now free of ice in summer. Arctic ice sheet is melting.

Alexander leaves for the Arctic.

Also by J. M. Sidorova

The Age of Ice

Copyright

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ISBN 978-1-4767-5613-4 (ebook)

Content

J. M. Sidorova
THE COLORS OF COLD
A NEW STORY FROM THE AGE OF ICE

An excerpt from The Age of Ice

An Acclaim for The Age of Ice

Map: St. Petersburg 1740

Birth

In Corpore Vili, or The Early Phenomena

Time Line of Events from The Age of Ice

Also by J. M. Sidorova

Copyright