Chapter 4: The Gelleroff Eyes
She was going to die.
She was going to suffer the fate of all the dissidents who had come before her. The rumors of what befell them were almost as numerous as the ones about the survival of the Grand Duchess Monica.
Only how would it be? Death by firing squad? Execution in the gallows, or worse, beheading?
Mona was shivering and terrified by the time she heard the truck roll to a stop. She had been blindfolded upon being nabbed and thrown in the back, so she had no idea where they had gone. For a while, she had attempted to track the turns the truck took from Theatre Street, then given up.
Mona listened to the doors being opened, then felt hands seize her and haul her out of the truck. She felt cobblestones beneath her feet as she was frogmarched to the side. Her foot caught on the curb, and even with two big men roughly holding her (at least she presumed they were men, from the smell of sweat hitting her nostrils), she nearly tripped.
Warmth suddenly replaced the biting chill of the winter, and by this Mona deduced that they had passed indoors. Only then was the blindfold removed.
"This way," one of her two guards grunted sharply. As if she had a choice! She wasbeing held firmly by her upper forearms, frog-marched through this government building so forcefully and with such speed, her feet barely had time to make purchase with the spit-polished linoleum floors. She could have floated down the hallway if she wanted to, they practically flew down it so quickly.
One of the men holding her opened the door to a nondescript office. "General Tribbiani: we found the girl."
At the beckon of someone unseen, the trio shuffled in. Mona glanced around until her eyes fell on the man who had apparently ordered her arrest.
General Tribbiani was a classically handsome man. Mona recognized him as one of the regime's most passionate supporters. He sometimes gave speeches in the square near the theatre district whose streets she patrolled and cleaned. Mona had always taken noticenot only of the passion with which the General spoke but also how, by his looks alone, he clearly was not of the mother country. He was an Italiano - what some might denigrate as a wop.
The General now rounded his desk, his expression unreadable as he looked at Mona. Finally, he gestured to a chair opposite his desk.
"Set her here."
The men who held her more or less threw Mona into it, and with such force that the chair almost toppled back and overturned with her in it. With a curt nod of his head, the General dismissed his subordinates. The door closed with a click of damning finality.
Though she was terrified, Mona somehow found it within herself to keep control of her own body, willing it not to shake. Silence reigned for a moment, broken only by the click of the General's boots as he circled back to her. Mona closed her eyes, bracing herself for what was to come. Short of likely death, there were other ways this large, muscular man could punish her. A beating in the privacy of his own office. Her skin crawled at the thought of: rape, either here or in the privacy of some bedroom. Didn't government workers occasionallyhave cots set aside in their places of occupation? Plus, this fellow was Italian - much was said about the Italians, not the least of which being their animalistic and insatiable drive for sins of the flesh...
A clearing of the throat made Mona open her eyes. The chair behind the desk directly opposite her was vacant, and she turned her head: General Tribbiani was perched on the corner of his desk.
He actually smiled at her. Were he anyone else, much less associated with the Kremlin, Mona would have had to concede that she rather liked this smile. It was strangely inviting, for someone who worked for fascists such as the Soviets.
"Welcome to the Nevsky Prospect." Mona regarded him silently, almost blankly. It amazed her how careful she was keeping her expression, and she didn't know exactly where she found such poise, or where it came from. "Have you ever been to this part of Leningrad before?"
"No, General."
Joey chuckled. "You can call me Joseph."
Mona arched an eyebrow. "Is that what all your... girls call you?" She almost used a different word, but refrained in the nick of time. One other thing she had heard about Italianos such as him: their reputation for possessing an explosive temper was notorious.
To her surprise (and relief), Joseph began to laugh. "... Sometimes," he conceded. Well, at least he was truthful, up to a point. Now he circled the desk, his head bowed, suddenly all business-like, though there was a calm countenance to the way he carried himself. He was completely in control, and he knew it. He expected Mona to, as well. "Where do you live, Miss...?" He let the last word hang, fishing for it.
Mona cleared her throat. "No last name. Just Mona."
Joseph blinked; evidently, he had not been expecting this. "Are you not married?"
For some reason, she blushed. "No..."
"Shame. Pretty little thing like you... I'd wager we're about the same age..." He was half-talking to her, half-murmuring to himself.
Mona straightened her back. "Are you proposing to me, General?" she demanded. She'd certainly heard of Russian men asking for their girlfriends' hands in marriage in more inartful ways.
Now, Joey full on laughed at this. "Heavens, no! I'm just... trying to figure out how old you are."
"I'm 26," Mona stated quietly. Internally, she didn't know why she told him that, and chastised herself for it. Even the most innocuous information as a person's age could be held and used against her by these Soviet beasts.
Though from all outward appearances, Joseph didn't look like a beast. His eyes were startlingly kind for someone who worked for Lenin and his ilk.
Joseph's lips pursed in a bemused frown. "Is that what they told you to say?"
Mona blinked. "They?"
"The men you've been working with. Everyone knows that Princess Monichivna was born in 1901."
Mona decided to play looking offended at this, and there wasn't even much playing about it: she was offended. "Are you insinuating that I am older than I look, Joseph?"
Joseph chuckled again, wagging a finger at her. "You're a saucy one, I'll give you that! Of course, that could also be their influence, coaching you, but... fair enough. I'll play. Perhaps you really are so feisty anyhow, young and unmarried as you are."
Mona swallowed. "I grew up in an orphanage. I had to fight for my bread with the other children."
Joseph hummed and jotted down some notes on a yellow pad. "And tell me, Miss Mona, how old were you when you were sent to the orphanage?"
"17."
Joseph glanced up, startled. "Sevente...? Why, that's nearly grown!"
Mona nodded. "I was just there for a year. No one adopted me, and I was cast out on my own to find work."
"And did you?"
"I'm a street sweeper. The theatre district is my jurisdiction." Though from how Joseph's expression didn't change, she had a feeling he already knew that.
Joseph stroked his chin. "You would have been easy pickings then... Miss Mona, are you or are you not acquainted with men by the name of Chandler Bingayev and Ross Popov?"
Mona kept her expression in a blank affect, blinking dolefully. "I know no one by those names, General."
"They're con men. The Bingayev youth is wanted for petty thievery..." Joseph was flipping through some files on his desk. "Gospodin Popov for... impersonation of royalty..." He glanced up at her, lips pursed. Now there was a serious and grave, almost dark look to his eyes. "You were seen, allegedly with these men, by three whores who work the theatre district. They say your associates..." (Mona almost protested that they were not her associates, then thought better of it. Protesting too much was just as good as letting someone know you were lying). "... are holding auditions, supposedly for a scheme to have some young, impressionable girl, pass herself off as the princess Monica. Pass off to whom, I don't know..." His voice trailed off; when he caught Mona pondering him, he smiled and returned to perch on the edge of his desk.
"You ought to know the dangers of attempting to pass yourself off as one of the royals," he cautioned. "Your friend Ross Popov certainly doesn't, or if he does, he doesn't care." He snorted scoffingly. "Imperial Court, my... foot." His conscientiousness against swearing would have been almost adorable, in any other setting. Joseph stared at Mona with an almost paternal quality. "There's no wisdom in trying to impersonate a dead woman, Miss Mona. The princess Monicivna is really dead. You do realize this, yes?"
Mona bristled. "And how do you know this?"
Joseph cocked his head to one side. Truly, he had to admire her spunk. None of the other Monichivna pretenders he had rounded up had demanded proof of him. He drummed his fingers along his leg, then briefly glanced away.
"... My father was in the battalion that stormed the Yusupov Palace, the night of the Revolution," he admitted at last. "He personally carried out the orders to execute the royal family. He was a witness." He said this earnestly, as if he took some great pride in this fact. "I was a boy. I heard the gunshots from my bedroom window. The Tsar and his children's screams."
Mona shivered, shaken by how... she could almost hear the screams of the murdered, too, in her mind. She bowed her head, though she tried to not make it look like it came from a place of guilt. She was guilty of nothing.
"Even if the rumors were true... that the princess somehow managed to survive..." Joseph was going on. "I've seen many girls pass through her who bear more of a resemblance to Monichivna than you! Why..." He barked out a laugh. "You look nothing like her!"
He suddenly and roughly grabbed her face, strong and calloused fingers gripping her chin and tilting it back so he could peer at her. Mona kept herself perfectly still, her eyes flashing with fear rather than the defiance she wanted to convey. Joseph was nose to nose with her, close enough that he could have kissed her if he wanted to...
Something introspective and shaken came over the General's face just then. "You look nothing like her..." he repeated breathlessly, though this time with less conviction, as though he himself no longer believed what he was saying. A long pause, and then, when the silence became too much to bear...
"What?" Mona challenged.
"Nothing. It's just... you have the Gelleroff eyes..." Joseph staggered back and cleared his throat yet again, this time awkwardly. "You seem like a nice girl, Miss Mona. I would impress upon you to beware of the company you keep." He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "You may go."
Unable to believe that an agent of the Kremlin was actually letting her off with a warning, Mona didn't need to be told twice. She fled the office.
Watching her go, Joseph sighed, feeling something he had never felt before: deeply shaken.
And something else: desire...
He shook his head. That was ridiculous! He'd only let Mona go because the paperwork through which to process her would have been more trouble than it was worth. It wasn't because he was... attracted to her! Not a gutter rat!
Joseph sighed and returned to his desk and the myriad of other items that demanded his attention, more than the allegations of girls fraternizing with con artists while trying to pretend to be Monica. The Neva flows...
