Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [532]
The centre of this was the church. For old Alexander, always inclined towards, at least, the forms of religion, this was natural. For others, careless of religion back in Russia, the Orthodox Church was now the remaining bastion which preserved their identity and added moral integrity to that preservation. There were two branches of the Orthodox Church to which people like the Bobrovs belonged and neither recognized the legitimacy – for the time being – of the Patriarch in Moscow, who was felt to be under the thumb of the KGB.
Each Saturday, from far and wide, members of the community like Paul, already two generations removed from Russia, would bring their children to the church hall for a half-day of lessons in Russian language and history. On any Sunday one might see the bearer of some proud old Russian name handing out candles in the church or singing with a fine bass voice in the choir. The old woman with a scarf over her head, praying to an icon like any babushka, might be a Russian princess. Infants were thoroughly baptized – completely immersed in the font three times.
And once a year, Paul took his wife to either the Russian Nobility Ball – a sedate affair at which elderly gentlemen might be seen wearing tsarist decorations – or the more lively Petrushka Ball. Both were elegant, held in large New York ballrooms and well attended.
In such ways, with remarkable tenacity, the Russian community had held on and waited.
But for what? Paul was the first of the family to venture back. Did some of his uncles or cousins hope for a restitution of the Tsar? Though Nicolas and his family had been destroyed, the dynasty had survived through the Grand Dukes and such a restoration was technically possible. But Paul found it hard to imagine. Nor could he conceive of abandoning his home in New York. ‘But if things change, if things open up, then it would be good to get involved,’ he would say. It was a rather vague aspiration, but full of perhaps only half-acknowledged emotions.
What a stroke of luck it had been, meeting Sergei Romanov. They had found each other at a trade fair in New York the previous year. The Russian had been looking for opportunities to develop software programs in Moscow under licence to western companies. He had a good team of people but little idea of the business and Paul, who marketed desktop computers, had been glad to give him some help both in making contacts and with his faulty English. Only on the second day had Bobrov mentioned that one day he hoped to go to the Soviet Union and visit the family’s old estate. The only trouble, he explained, was how to get there as it wasn’t on any tourist route. ‘A little place called Russka,’ he had said.
‘But, Paul Mikhailovich,’ Romanov had exclaimed, ‘that’s the very place my own grandfather came from. I’ve never been there myself. Come to Moscow, my friend,’ he had said warmly, ‘and we’ll go there together.’
And now here he was, with Romanov coming to collect him.
They had agreed to meet in front of the hotel at six-fifteen. Too early to get breakfast in the cavernous dining room, but Paul had noticed the previous evening that on the fifth floor there was a little bar that opened at six, and he made his way there now.
It was a small place, typical of such refreshment rooms. Under the glass counter would be laid out plates of sliced cheese, sliced salami, pirozhki, hard boiled eggs and, of course, white and black bread. There were large jugs of apple juice and grape juice, a coffee machine and a samovar. By the window was a counter where one could stand to eat; down one wall there were four small tables. The big glass doors meant that one could see the people inside, and the opening times were pasted on the glass.
It was five minutes after six when he got there. Inside he could see the food being laid out by a pretty but bored-looking blonde girl of about twenty. Behind her, a large, grumpy woman in her fifties was grimly inspecting the bread. He tried to open the glass door.