Free Sensible Life by Mary Wesley Page A

fine uniforms, sable linings to their greatcoats. There is no sound to equal the musical clink of spurs. You could see your face reflected in their boots—such polish.” On either side of her large nose Madame Tarasova’s eyes gazed into the past. “All their underclothes were silk, of course.”
    Had she been engaged to one of these creatures? Had she lost a lover? How to ask? Blanco helped himself to a cake. “Were some of these officers relations of yours?” He screwed the stool round to watch her face.
    “I watched them riding or driving in their carriages, such fine horses. They went to the great balls and to parties. This was before the Revolution. My heart went with them.”
    “Ah.”
    “The nobles, the princes, the Tsar and Tsarina, their beautiful children. Murdered by the Bolsheviks, oh, the shame and desecration.”
    “Tell me about the Bolsheviks—”
    “You should have seen the clothes the court ladies wore. The magnificent jewels, oh, the pity. Where are those jewels now?”
    “I don’t know, Madame Tarasova. In hock?”
    “The silks and velvets, the lace, those incredible furs. Imagine the sable and mink, Hubert.”
    “Tell me about Lenin.”
    Madame Tarasova pursed her mouth. “I cannot speak that name without wishing to spit. Je crache!”
    “Trotsky, then, tell me about Trotsky.”
    “I would spit on him too.”
    “Stalin? More goo?” suggested Blanco.
    “I will tell you of the wonders of Holy Russia. Of Petrograd, that exquisite city, of the grandeur of Moscow. I know nothing of the monsters who destroyed my country. Where are the beautiful people who drove to the opera, the ballet, the court balls in their sumptuous carriages and sleighs? I can tell you about the beautiful people—”
    Blanco tried again. “Did you ever see Lenin?”
    “Certainly not. Such badly cut suits, he had no idea of dress.”
    “Did you see Trotsky?”
    “He dressed a little better. No, I did not see him.”
    Blanco pushed the cake plate towards her. She was stitching hard, hemming the bottom of the pink cotton dress with swift jerking movements. He would try another tack.
    “The poor, Madame Tarasova. The serfs. What about the poor?”
    “They were there. They served the beautiful people, cared for their jewels, their clothes. But let me tell you about the clothes, not the serfs; their clothes were dull, of no importance.”
    “Tell me about the common people, the soldiers who died in the snow at the front.”
    Madame Tarasova threaded her needle, holding it to the light, squinting. “They died. There were plenty of them. They had uniforms of rather coarse material.”
    “They were poor,” said Blanco. “Poor.”
    “Jesus Christ made it clear that the poor are always with us, did he not?”
    “And not the officers?”
    “Come to think of it, he never mentioned the officers.” Was she teasing him? “It was the officers who were beautiful. The soldiers were drab.”
    “I don’t believe Jesus Christ was a particularly snappy dresser,” said Blanco. Madame Tarasova did not seem to hear. “So you were not, are not, interested in what Lenin did for the common people?”
    “Only,” Madame Tarasova was stitching fiercely, vindictively, “in that his interference in the natural order of things has made me a poor and common person without even the security of a passport. My Imperial Russia is no more.”
    “If you had stayed in Russia, would you have had jewels and silks and furs?” Madame Tarasova did not answer. “Forgive me for asking,” said Blanco, embarrassed, “but was your family very rich?”
    “What does it matter now?” said Madame Tarasova, sitting in her cramped lodging above the horse butcher. “Look, the dress is nearly finished. It is all the fault of Rasputin and his influence on the Tsarina. He wore filthy clothes, he was a disgusting, drunken, devilish man; the nobles who killed him had great difficulty. He had inhuman strength.”
    “What were they wearing? Were they