So, I'm back after two weeks. I'm sorry that this chapter took me so long, but honestly, I'm still not even sure if I feel totally comfortable with it. The song which is halfway featured in this chapter was difficult to integrate into fic form without making me sound like I was tripping pretty hard while writing this.
Chapter 3 should be up this weekend. It was far less difficult for me to have make sense.
Requisite disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, and I'm not making any profit off of them. If I were, I'd be helping to pay my own way through college. And yes, I know that the film Anastasia is riddled with historical inaccuracies, ones which this story continues to operate on. I'm working out of the film-verse here, not real life, okay? Great.
Leningrad (St. Petersburg), November 1926
There was a reason why Napoleon and his army had turned back from the invasion of Russia: its winter bit more sharply than any steel blade.
Why people had first colonized the landmass – or, perhaps more questionably, why they continued to live there when for five months out of the year the entire north became a swath of icy wasteland – was entirely unknown. There were the resources, of course: wood, oil, precious honey, vodka, and the open land – yet the winter called into question the benefit of such efforts.
Much like it called into question the sanity of those who worked in the unheated Soviet factories that were spread throughout Leningrad. To be certain, they complained of the bitter cold, the ice, the damp, the poor living conditions, yet they continued to work at their assigned positions. Why?
Well, without an intricate understanding of the Russian proletariat and the Soviet government and the state of the USSR in the late 1920s, it is difficult to say. It is thus thankful that such an understanding is entirely unimportant to this story.
What is important is the news that had appeared that morning via the underground market (as such news would never be printed in the government-run papers). If rumour held true, then the Dowager Empress Yulia Feodorovna, one of the last living members of the formal royal family, feared that she would never see her (potentially dead) grandson, the Grand Duke Kurtyanadovl Umelnov, before her life ended. Following this fear, she had renewed the search for her young relative.
The peasantry of Leningrad, increasingly deprived of free forms of expression due to the ever-growing restrictions of Stalin's government, thrived on gossip. Nothing this tantalizing had been talked about in months – years. As the whispers and murmurs of this news moved throughout the streets, something like a melodious hum came over the crowds, as the gathering chatter united itself into a far clearer voice. "It's a rumour, a legend, a mystery," the collective voice sang. "Something whispered in an alleyway or through a crack. It's a rumour that's part of our history." The voice broke off as a new tidbit swirled through the crowd, sparking hushed conversations as the peasants looked about nervously, afraid of alerting the police of their potentially pro-royal activities.
What was this new rumour?
One woman whispered it loudly enough to her friend that it was absorbed by the full crowd, the voice once more taking on the message. "They say his royal grandmamma will pay a royal sum, to anyone who brings her young prince back!" To a crowd whose wages came from the government and by the day, the prospect of the reward – 10 million roubles, at that – was nearly miraculous.
As the gossip continued to hum through the crowd like an electrical current, a broad-shouldered, well-built man moved quickly through it, absorbing what new information he could as he made his way toward the fringes of the cluster, headed away from the centre of the city and towards a decommissioned theatre.
He moved quickly up the steps of the old building, pausing only to look around for a familiar face. "Pyotr!" someone called from behind him. He whirled around to face the speaker, only to come face-to-face with his curly-haired, hazel-eyed partner in crime.
"Blanieri!" he exclaimed, moving closer to the younger man. "Did you hear that news of the search for Kurtyanadovl has broken to the public?"
Blanieri scoffed indignantly. "Of course I've heard – it's all over the streets! I'd been hoping that this news wouldn't break for another week!" He pinched the bridge of his nose tightly.
"Why, are you worried that it'll interfere with the plan?" Pyotr asked, putting his hand on Blanieri's shoulder.
"No, I –" he broke off, shrugging away Pyotr's hand and striding forward to look out at the crowd below. "I'm worried that now, with so many people knowing exactly what we're looking for, we'll be overloaded with willing participants."
"And that's problematic because…"
Blanieri glared at him. "Sometimes I wonder why I work with you."
"Because I'm charming?" Pyotr bantered back, flashing a wide smile.
"No, because you're a damn good thief and you've got connections," Blanieri replied, his head in his hands. "But you're also rude and, at current, interrupting me. Having so many people is a problem because not only does it mean more candidates to sift through, it also means that it will be more likely that news of our little scheme will be leaked to the police – or worse, go all the way to the OGPU."
"Oh, loosen up," Pyotr laughed, punching the younger man in the arm. "I got us this theatre without any fuss, didn't I? Now come on, we've got the market to visit." He turned away and down a corridor to descend another flight of stairs.
Blanieri stared after him, briefly, rubbing at the already-sore spot on his bicep. Sighing, he went to pursue his friend.
They'd arrived at the seedy black marketplace rather quickly. As per usual, it was crowded and stuffy within the few rooms it occupied, as merchants called out to potential clients just as they might have in an open-air market. With a practiced ease, the two moved from stall to stall, examining countless counterfeits, stolen goods, and illicit merchandise. On another day, Pyotr and Blanieri might have been among the sellers, offering a few of the remaining items they'd managed to nick from the mostly stripped Winter Palace or advertising their services as counterfeiters of government papers. But today, they were among the buyers, looking for something – anything – that might legitimize their scheme to "find" the Grand Duke.
One of the first booths the two stumbled upon was offering portraits and other artwork. In particular, they looked at a small oil pigment painting on wood of a man (who closely resembled Tsar Boris IV) in full military regalia. The seller noticed their interest and hurried over. "A rouble for this painting," he said, picking it up, "it's Umelnov, I swear!" Doubtful that anyone would handle a portrait of the royals with such carelessness, Blanieri and Pyotr quickly moved on.
They next came to a woman who had various articles of clothing draped over her tables and chairs, as well as a few that were pinned up to real mannequins. She gestured to a few wool one-piece outfits that looked worn and of poor quality. "Count Yusipov's pajamas, comrade, by the pair!" she exclaimed, clearly desperate for a sale. Having never heard of "Count Yusipov", the pair quitted the stall rapidly in hopes of greater prospects deeper within the market.
They had been looking for at least half an hour before they found anything useful. A man selling higher-end clothing and textiles pointed them to a beautiful black wrap with mink fur around the edges. "I got this from the palace," he said, lifting the wrap gingerly. "It's lined with real fur trim!" Pyotr and Blanieri tried to conceal their excitement as they looked at the article, sharing the same thought: it could be worth a fortune, if it belonged to him. After some haggling, Pyotr handed the man a 50 kopeck note, and he and Blanieri walked away with the wrap.
After a few more purchases, Blanieri and Pyotr had walked out of the market, headed back towards their theatre. During the walk, Pyotr recalled a few weeks earlier, when his partner had first suggested this scheme.
News had just reached Leningrad (via the underground) of the Dowager Empress' renewed search for her lost grandson. Even as the news remained within the world of thieves and forgers, it snowballed from just a fact to something of a fable. Pyotr was on the receiving end of Blanieri's romanticized version of the events. "It's the rumor, the legend, the mystery," he'd said, "it's the Prince Kurtyanadovl who will help us fly! You and I, Pete, will go down in history!" At this point, Pyotr was confused. Then, Blanieri began his pitch. "We'll find a boy to play the part, and teach him what to say. Dress him up, and take him to Paris," he practically crooned, holding onto the last syllable of 'Paris' to make it sound like 'Pa-reeeee'. Pyotr had snorted at his friend's antics, though he was still a bit confused by Blanieri's proposal and doubtful of the plan. "Think of the reward his dear old grandmamma will pay!" he'd said, mentioning the 10 million roubles – and then Pyotr was sold on the idea, even if he was doubtful of its success. But what Blanieri did next convinced him that the plan – however far-fetched – just might work. He pulled a small, gold, egg-shaped box from his pocket, and explained how he had gotten it as a boy, during the royal family's flight from the Winter Palace. He said that it had been given to Kurtyanadovl by his grandmother, and though he was entirely unsure of its purpose, he knew that it must have held strong sentimental significance for them both. With evidence like the box, he'd said, "who else could pull it off but you and me?" No one, Pyotr had thought haughtily. They'd then begun to daydream about what they'd do with such a reward. "We'll be rich!" Blanieri had exclaimed, and Pyotr had assented. "We'll be out!" he'd added, and after that both of them had paused, dreaming on the possibility of actually escaping Russia, permanently – perhaps to America, or possibly England, or maybe to southern Europe. Then, imagining news of their success breaking in Leningrad, Blanieri smiled, saying "and then Leningrad will have some more to talk about."
Continuing to move through the crowded square, the two watched as the gossipy hum that had settled over the people rose to a loud din – as was regularly the case for a rumour in Leningrad. People were already referring to the search for Kurtyanadovl as a "fascinating mystery". Blanieri leaned over to Pyotr and whispered that their plan was "the biggest con in history!" As they moved away from the cacophonous crowd, they continued to think on the boy around whom the rumour was centred. The same thought that occupied their minds was also filling the minds of the people in the square: the Prince Kurtyanadovl – alive, or dead?
The answer hung perilously over the gathered crowd, a whispered thought from subconscious depths: who knows?
For anyone to who this might have been unclear: Pyotr is Puck. If you can't figure out Blanieri then I'm seriously starting to doubt that you're a Klainer.
And look! There's a little blue link, maybe a thousand pixels south of this text, and if you click on it, it opens up a box where you can give feedback on this story! Awesome, no? But seriously, even a few words means so much, and reviews really do make my day. :)