The Paleys (1921-1927) - An Alternate Romanov Story

A Missed Opportunity?

Serge

"What illness is this? Hemophilia? What does it mean?"

Anna's voice cut through the room, sharp with anger, drawing Serge and Dmitri's attention from the sofas where they lounged. She sat at her desk, clutching a newspaper, her cheeks flushed as a rare burst of emotion flickered across her face.

Serge and Dmitri blinked at her, slow to react. They'd been indulging in a shared dose of opium Serge had brought with him, a gift from one of his wealthy patrons. Dmitri eagerly joined in, but Anna engrossed in crafting her latest scheme to reach the Tsar, waved off their invitation.

When Anna erupted, Serge and Dmitri were sinking into the haze of post-euphoria after their early boost of energy had been replaced by a languid calm. The drug helped Serge with the constant muscle pains he experienced from the demanding hours of rehearsals and spectacles he had to endure for the Ballet Russes, but he was aware that smoking was bad for his lungs and impacted his breathing, so he was careful with the times he chose to indulge in this small pleasure. His career was far too important for him to waste because of something so insignificant as a couple of hours of oblivion with opium.

The three of them were gathered in the cramped living room of Anna and Dmitri's small apartment in the Vaugirard district. It was a far cry from the luxury they had seen at the Grand Duke's mansion. The apartment, inherited from their late aunt, was modest and decaying—a space of peeling wallpaper, threadbare furniture, and carpets riddled with holes. The pervasive mould clung to every surface, and the bitter cold seeped through the unheated walls, forcing them to bundle up in layers.

But at least it was theirs. Most Corps des Ballets dancers shared rat-infested rooms around the theatre, and factory workers such as Dmitri could only dream of owning an apartment near the city centre.

But Anna's outburst shattered their temporary tranquillity, and the room seemed to hold its breath as she demanded an answer.

"I have no idea—never heard of it," Serge drawled lazily, exhaling the last remnants of smoke.

"Isn't that the illness the Tsar has?" Dmitri chimed in; his tone was as sluggish as Serge's. "The one only princes get? I remember something about the Mad Tsarina thinking her lover—the Mad Monk—was the only one who could cure it."

His words ignited Anna's simmering frustration into something sharper.

"Aren't you two helpful?" she snapped. "Well, whatever it is, the Tsar is suffering from it—and it's serious enough that they've published a health bulletin in the papers. You know as well as I do they'd never make his condition public unless he was fighting for his life!"

Serge's mind was still a haze, and he hadn't been participating in the Bolshevik meetings long enough to understand all the subtleties of their plans and ideas, but considering they were trying to bring down the Monarchy and the sole heir to the throne was gravely ill, Serge could not conceive why Anna was so furious. To him, it looked like Providence was getting things done for them.

"Isn't that a good thing for us?" He asked naively.

The glare Anna shot Serge's way was so fierce it cut through the opium haze clouding his mind. Blinking rapidly, he sat up straighter, instinctively bracing for the scolding he knew was coming.

"We are not ready yet," Anna said, each word dripping with disdain as if addressing a particularly slow child. "Lenin was the only one who could unify the party, and now he's an invalid. He probably won't last another month. When he's gone, the fight for leadership will begin. Zinoviev isn't even leading the race. Trotsky and Stalin are the frontrunners, but I don't believe either is what the party needs."