Chapter 3: The Rumors Never End
By now, most of the bureaucraticworkers in the Kremlin had become desensitized to it.
Another rumor on the street. Another bit of hearsay from a friend or a friend (really, a former friend) to attend to. Another scheme, another lie. The rumors never ended.
And just about all of these rumors centered around one person: the princess Monica.
Comrade Joey Tribbiani was of the firm belief that the people weren't spreading rumors about this particular Gelleroff because they liked her the best, or any better than they had liked the Grand Duchess Phoebe Althea or the Tsar, per se. He honestly doubted that more than a decade on from the Revolution, there were people in Russia who could tell you exactly who Monica was or what had been her title. No, her name was merely being bandied about in whispers because someone had happened to select her as the one royal who they believed had somehow escaped her just fate at the hands of the righteous comrades. Once a rumor took off, it had a life of its own, far outliving who first told it or even whom the rumor itself was about.
Because some rumors - not all, but some - could give people hope. Hope: it was the only thing stronger than fear.
As adviser to the Chairman, Vladimir Lenin himself, it was Joey's responsibility to stamp out that hope... as much as it might have occasionallynagged at his conscience. In this case, hope spread dissent, and dissent would not be tolerated by the Peoples' Commissarsat the Kremlin, and especially not by the Chairman.
For that reason, Joey didn't care how outlandish a Monica rumor was, even as he knew itwas outlandish. Striding into the governmental offices here in the Nevsky Prospect, he made a point to remind the underlings:
"Anything concerning the Gelleroffs, even the most... preposterous rumor... we take very seriously."
He was also reassuring the small gaggle of two-bit hussies who had apparently called in this latest gossip as much as he was trying to boost staff morale. At his well-meaning platitude, one of the 'actresses' (the things street whores were calling themselves these days!) scoffed.
"I told you: she's about as much a Gelleroff as I am!"
"She's a street sweeper! She was sleeping under a bridge until she took up with those hustlers!" One of her friends added insistently.
"Her name is Mona," the third cut through the squabbling.
Joey dutifully took down the name in his logbook, flipping the cover closed. "Thank you..." There was a pause, and then he dug into his pocket and forked over three fistfuls of rubles over to the girls, who took it greedily and eagerly. Every informant had their price, after all, and besides, Joey had just handed each girl more money than they would see even if they prostituted themselves out to men for an entire week without a break.
"Well? Aren't you going to arrest them?" The first hussy demanded, not moving.
Joey sighed. "You've done your duty; I've done mine - listening to your gossip!"
"It isn't gossip! It's the truth!" The second hussy squawked, sounding like some kind of demented goose.
Joey stamped his foot sharply for silence. The entire humming office stilled to a hush. "The next time I see the three of you, soliciting off Theater Street..." he paused imperviously. "... I won't look the other way!"
The three 'actresses' let out little affronted gasps and scurried away. Joey almost arrested them all right there, for presuming to think they were entitled enough that even the threat of equal justice under the law didn't apply to them or their profession.
Joey strode back to his office, slipping his logbook into his pocket. Another rumor on the street. Another girl to apprehend. Another pretender who'll no longer play pretend. If the Kremlin knew how much time he was having to devote to chasing Monichivna imposters... well, they'd be surprised. Perhaps even annoyed. But not threatened. Joey certainly wasn't. He wasn't threatened by the possibility that any of these rumors were real. No, he was under no delusions about that. The poor girl was dead and buried. It was these fools who wouldn't allow her to rest and be done with it!
Still...duty to the Revolution and the Cause was before all. The law compelled him to investigate, even just to determine what he already knew: there was no evidence. The claims had no merit.
... Right?
"Let's go over this one more time..." Chandler droned patiently. He flipped from the previous portrait to the next one where he had laid them along an easel mounted here on the stage. The portrait clattered the floor to make way for the next one.
"Count Sergei!" Mona guessed, correctly, though her lips were pursed in a clear display of uncertainty.
"Wore a...?" Chandler prompted.
"Feathered hat!" Mona finished. Another correct guess. But she was going to have to do even better if she was to fool the Grand Duchess.
"Correct!"
Ross nodded along approvingly, appearing slightly sleepy. They'd be at the lessons for hours, and if Mona appeared as tired as he felt... He hoped Chandler would finally decide to call it a night. "I hear he's gotten very fat..." Ross drolled dryly to his companion.
"Oooh! As I recall, he had a yellow cat! Didn't he have a yellow cat?"
At Monica's... question? Recollection?... Ross sent Chandler a surprised and sharp look, matching the caught-off guard expression his younger friend also sported. "I don't believe we told her that..." Ross mumbled, bewildered at...
"How could she possibly know that?"
"Know what?"
"That Count Stepan..."
"Sergei."
"Gesundheit. Sergei - had a yellow cat!"
"Has a yellow cat," Ross corrected. "He's still alive - which we won't be if we don't book passage out of this godforsaken country as soon as possible!" He gestured towards Mona. "She's going to have to be ready at some point, Chandler!"
"But what if I'm not?" The men were lifted out of their heated conversation and turned as one towards their pupil, whose shoulders were now slumped dejectedly. "What if I can't prove to Gr... Phoebe Althea that I'm..." She shrugged helplessly. "I don't even know who I am!"
Ross softened. Watching Mona now, he could tell that she hadn't agreed to this scheme to trick the Grand Duchess. Rather, she seemed eager to actually maybe provide some comfort to the Grand Duchess, however contrived that comfort was, since Mona after all wasn't actually...
Ross decided to set aside the disquieting reminders of his own motivations for this scheme and how they clearly differed with this girl's in favor of approaching her as a friend might. In this new Russia, one would be hard pressed to have any of those in the truest sense of the word.
"My dear... before the Communists came, I was a nobleman." Actually, he really wasn't, nor had he ever been, but Mona didn't need to know that. "I represented all Russia in the Tsar Jonathan's Imperial Court!" He cupped her cheek, bringing her eyes to meet his, studying her the way a favorite uncle would. "And I've known my fair share of royalty..." He murmured.
"It doesn't matter if you don't know who you are or not, Monavina. What matters is that you carry yourself like a royal. If you believe you are somebody, eventually you will be. That somebody," he arrived at the end of his otherwise fine motivational speech somewhat awkwardly, lurching to the main thrust of his point.
Mona's eyes grew misty. "Do you mean that?"
"May I be stripped of all my titles and never visit court again," Ross vowed.
Chandler held in a snigger. "Ross? You were stripped of all your titles..." In the interest of maintaining the illusion with Mona, he refrained from using air quotes, if only barely. "And you in all likelihood are never going to visit court again."
Ross scowled. "Never letting a man have his fun..." He mumbled.
"Oh, not me!" Chandler smirked, the crease to his lips insinuating. "You've found yourself a fine winter's flower! Away you go!" Ross's scowl only deepened as Mona flushed prettily.
"No, sir, not I!" Ross's mustache fluttered through the wrinkling of his nose. "I'd be better off leaving her to you!" Now he noted how Chandler and Mona exchanged looks, both of them turning potent shades of fuchsia. Wrestling down his smile of intrigue, Ross filed this telling information away for later. Chandler awkwardly cleared his throat.
"Why don't we call it a night for tonight? Do you need someone to walk you home?'
Mona smiled softly, shyly. "My tenement building isn't far." An awkward pause. "But thank you."
"Meet back here tomorrow," Chandler grinned. This plan was going to work! He could feel it!
He watched for a moment as Mona dashed up the theatre aisle to the back of the house before turning back to find Ross smirking at him knowingly.
"What?" He held up a hand as Ross started to open his mouth. "You know what? Forget it. I don't want to know." He threw an arm around his partner. "I do, however, want to get down to the train station and book a triple passage to Paris..."
And the two con men slipped out a side door of the Yusupov Palace.
Out in the street leading from the front of the theatre, Mona barely made it a few blocks before the Stasi seized her and threw her into the back of a horse-and-buggy wagon.
