Chapter 1: Have You Heard?
The pair of con men stood at the edge of the crowd gathered in the square. The boos and hisses of dissent were exhilarating, at least to one of them; the other seemed palpably nervous, almost to the point of cynicism.
They did not recognize the burly gentleman who now stood at the podium above the crowd, holding out his hands in a placating gesture for calm that would have been believable, were it not for the array of stormtroopers with guns flanking him on either side.
The one con man - the one who felt his blood stir at the heckles of his countrymen - thought the gentleman speaking looked like a wop. One of those Italian types. He'd seemed to have an Italian sounding name when being introduced, one that the young con man had already forgotten. At the very least, anyone with eyes and half a brain could see this fellow was not Russian... He was not from Mother Russia...
"... I hear you, comrades! The revolution hears you! Together, we will form a new Russia, that will be the envy of all the world! The Tsar's St. Petersburg is now the PEOPLE's Leningrad!"
The young con man, Chandler Bingayev, scoffed in disgust. This showboating ass of a wop was doing nothing more than putting up window dressing and attempting to pass it off as an original thought born of genius. Lipstick on a pig, his mama would have said. He turned to his companion. "They can call it Leningrad, but it will always be Petersburg... new name. Same empty stomachs! They tell us times are better? Well, I say they're not! Can't cook an empty chicken in an empty pot! A brighter day is dawning!" he mocked. "It's almost at hand! The skies are grey, the walls have ears and he who argues disappears!"
"HAIL OUR BRAVE NEW LAND!" Some of the rubes in the crowd - too many, to Chandler's mind - had been converted by the wop's enthusiastic speech promoting the joys of fascism.
Shaking his head, Ross Popov - Chandler's companion - hustled his fiery young friend away from the crowd dispersing from the rally. "Ranting about it isn't going to do anything... Chandler! They've closed another border... we should have gotten out of Russia while we still could!"
The two men disappeared into the nearest street bazaar. Chandler couldn't help but have his eye drawn more to the people buying the trinkets and bric-a-brac than to the actual bric-a-brac itself, as he looked around. The sight was a microcosm of the policies the Bolsheviks had wrought for much of the last decade: now, everyone was 'equal.' Professors who once taught economic theory pushed the brooms in the street. Two dozen total strangers could be crowded into two small rooms and those were your living conditions.
You hold a revolution, Chandler shook his head ruefully, and here's the price you pay: people who mindlessly stood behind their leaders, no matter who they were, Imperial or Bolshevik... while simultaneously standing in line for bread. Oh, but these were good and loyal comrades who, if anyone asked, would enthusiastically declare their favorite color was RED!... all the more vehemently if the person doing the asking was holding a gun.
He sighed, his ears suddenly straining to listen as he overheard the edges of a conversation between two old women nearby, and he smiled. Thank goodness for the gossip that got them through the day! The ascendant Soviet government in the Kremlin had not outlawed idle talk yet, though that could be coming. He wondered what it was like in America - to speak your mind freely without worry of being shot at, harassed or arrested.
As he and Ross went along, it seemed snippets of the same forbidden conversation were everywhere:
"Have you heard?"
"There's a rumor in St. Petersburg!"
"Have you heard what they're saying on the street?"
"Although the Tsar did not survive..."
"... one daughter may be still alive..."
"The princess Monichivna...!"
"But please - do not repeat!"
Monichivna... that was the full, true Russian name of the supposedly not-deceased princess, the Grand Duchess designate. Most Russians who still remembered their history used the Anglican christened name: Monica... when speaking of her.
Chandler had heard them all before: the whispers. The rumor. The legend. The mystery... He didn't know if they were true, or if he would want them to be. Whether they were or not mattered little to him. All that mattered is the possibility that they were true. That held more power than any lie, even if these rumors would prove one day to be just those: a lie.
As for Ross Popov, he was reflecting more on what his life had been like, at least before the Revolution. In his esteemed opinion (which didn't count for anything anymore, since having an opinion could now get you killed), St. Petersburg had been lovely when royalty was in fashion. He'd called himself a Count, as though he'd always been one - he hadn't always been one, but it was the clothes that made the man, and if you told yourself you were someone you weren't often enough, not only would you believe it was true, but others would as well.
Yes... he, Ross Popov, had hob-knobbed with the royals. He'd danced with the Grand Duchess Phoebe Althea's personal lady-in-waiting. He'd even spotted Tsar Jonathan II from a distance once... but then, a change of luck! The commies had come, the Tsar was dead, the royals, and...
"Well, comrade, now we're stuck!"
"Ross, I've been thinking about the Princess Monica..."
"Oh, not you too, Chandler!" Ross moaned. "You and everyone else!"
"You haven't heard the rumors. They say her royal grandmama will pay a royal sum to anyone who can bring the princess back!" Chandler's eyes gleamed.
"Chandler, she's dead!"
"She can be un-dead if we want her to be!" Chandler insisted. "If we say she is... if we say we have her and bring her to Phoebe Althea, the Grand Duchess herself! Think of it! We'll find a girl to play the part and teach her what to say! Dress her up and take her to Paris! Imagine the reward! Imagine what her dear old Grandmama would pay! Who else could pull it off but you and me?"
The pair stepped into the cobblestoned street, not noticing the car careening around the corner until it was nearly on top of them and a street sweeper who was brushing the sidewalk close by. The exhaust pipe backfiring was all the warning they were given. Thinking fast, Chandler dashed into the street and pulled the woman out of the way. Right before he got to her, he heard her cry out.
"It was a truck backfiring, comrade, that's all it was... Those days are over, neighbor against neighbor..." Chandler's voice trailed off as he glanced down, face to face for the first time with the woman he had saved. The woman he was still holding.
She was a young woman, about his age, with flowing raven locks and piercing, entrancing sapphire-blue eyes. A heart-shaped face, she was indeed a vision of loveliness. The only thing that marred it was the flecks of soot on her cheek. The broom she carried... she was a sweet-sweeper by trade.
Chandler could feel how the woman was still trembling in her arms. The mere sound of a truck backfiring had triggered her, and for this he couldn't blame her. She must have suffered quite a traumatic experience around guns, maybe even during the revolution.
"You're shaking..." he observed, stepping out of the charged and close embrace in which they now found themselves, breaking an almost frozen tableau. Still, he kept one arm around her, feeling an almost intrinsic need to protect her. "There's a cafe and tea shop just steps from here; I..."
"No, thank you..." she murmured.
"What's your hurry?" Chandler asked gently, oddly fascinated by her even as she twisted away from him.
"... I need this job; they're not easy to come by..." A pause and then: "But thank you."
"I'm here every day!" Chandler offered, raising a hand in farewell as he stared after her, watching her go back to her menial labor. Shaking his head, he and Ross turned the corner and landed right in the middle of another street bazaar.
Shouts assaulted them from all sides:
"Ten rubles for this painting! It's Gelleroff - I swear!"
"Count Guntherpov's pajamas, comrade - buy the pair!"
"I found this in the palace - initialed with an A! It could be Duchess Althea's - how much will someone pay?"
Chandler shook his head. He didn't need something belonging to the old lady. "We need something of hers - the girl - to show the old lady!" That was when a purveyor of jewelry caught his eye. "... How much is that music box?"
"Ahhhh... the music box... it's genuine Gelleroff! I could never part with it..." The vendor actually caressed it lovingly.
Chandler smirked, haggling. "Two cans of beans, comrade?"
Apparently, the vendor didn't love the music box that much. "Done!" he growled, and in a thrice, the dirty deal was struck.
Chandler tossed it in his palm, thoughtful. "Do you believe in fairy tales, Ross?"
"Once upon a time, I did," Ross huffed.
"We're going to create a fairytale the whole world will believe! The biggest con in history!" Chandler promised.
