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