Siberian Red

the Villa Rode.
    Pekkala was looking for Rasputin, who could be found at this place almost every evening. He did not normally seek out the Siberian mystic. In fact, Pekkala usually went out of his way to avoid Rasputin, but he was the only person that Pekkala knew he could talk to about what he’d seen earlier that day.
    The Villa Rode was popular with the St Petersburg elite because it did not close until dawn. When the famous Streilna restaurant, which resembled a miniature palace made of ice in the middle of Petrovsky Park, shut its doors at 2 a.m., followed by the Koupeschesky casino club at 3 a.m., those who were still conscious and had money in their pockets paid a visit to the Villa Rode.
    The building’s wooden plank exterior was badly in need of paint. Inside, the rooms were cramped, the tables small and rickety, and the acoustics notoriously strange. It was sometimes possible to hear the whispered conversation of a couple on the other side of the room while having to almost shout to be understood by someone sitting at the same table.
    Through the open windows of the Villa Rode came the sounds of laughter and piano music. A deep and slightly drunken voice crooned out Sorokin’s song: ‘As long as I can see the flame, out there in the darkness, I know that I am still alive.’
    The Villa Rode had become Rasputin’s favourite haunt for the simple reason that he never had to pay for anything when he was there. His bill was handled by the Tsarina Alexandra from an account set up specially to pay for his food and drink, as well as to cover the costs of the broken chairs, tables, china and windows, which were often the result of his evening entertainment.
    Rasputin had been thrown out of so many places that restaurant owners were given a special number to call if they needed him removed from their premises. Once the call had been made, an unmarked car would be dispatched and Rasputin would be hauled away by agents of the Okhrana, operating under the direct orders of the Tsarina. Fetching Rasputin was said to be one of the worst duties an Okhrana agent could be assigned. Chief Inspector Vassileyev, head of the Petersburg Bureau‚ reserved it for those men under his command who required an extra dose of humiliation.
    Just when it seemed as if the city might be running out of places for Rasputin to disgrace himself, the owner of the Villa Rode, a sombre-looking man named Gorokhin, hit upon a brilliant plan, which assured him a steady source of income from the coffers of the Romanovs, as well as the gratitude of the Tsarina.
    Gorokhin offered to build an extension on to the Villa Rode. This extra room would be for Rasputin alone. It could not be accessed by regular patrons, nor would Rasputin ever be asked to leave the extension, no matter what he did inside it.
    No sooner had Gorokhin made his offer than a team of builders arrived from the palace of Tsarskoye Selo to begin construction of the extension. It was completed in forty-eight hours and, since then, Rasputin had made it his own.
    Gorokhin recognised Pekkala at once, and correctly guessed that he had come to see Rasputin. He led Pekkala out the back of the restaurant, passing through a neglected garden thick with tangled bushes. The air was heavy with the smell of lavender and honeysuckle. At last, they arrived at a plain, low-roofed hut which adjoined the Villa Rode.
    No noise came from behind the pinewood door. Nor was there any light glimmering through the shuttered windows.
    ‘Are you sure he’s here?’ asked Pekkala.
    ‘He kicked the door down on his way in this morning,’ replied Gorokhin. ‘I had to put up this new one. There have been several visitors since then, but Rasputin himself has not emerged.’
    ‘Is he alone?’
    ‘I doubt it.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Pekkala.
    Gorokhin nodded and left.
    Pekkala opened the door and walked inside. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol and the ash of coarse Khorizki tobacco, which Rasputin preferred to the more expensive Balkan cigarettes smoked by his benefactor, the Empress.
    The only light came from a single candle melted on to the head of a small brass Buddha. The melted wax had trickled down, coating the belly of the statue.
    Searching the gloom, Pekkala could make out a large couch and a low table strewn with bottles. On an upholstered stool sat a man who was definitely not Rasputin. This stranger wore a black wool coat with velvet collar, and clutched a round-topped Homburg