Art Journal

Nature Ramblings ~ Past Times Time Travel ~ Romancing Daily Life
Showing posts with label Russia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Russia. Show all posts

Friday, August 5, 2011

My Heart Beats Faster: A Pair of Pointe Shoes




Judy pointed out that having neither the skills, physique, nor training, to pursue my own pair of pointe shoes, I’d be much better off sticking with my cello. Not being really that all interested in learning to plie, pirouette or execute rond de jambes myself, I agreed. She added in her usual practical style that Andy Klepper’s mother had just started him on trumpet lessons, and we could all play in the ballet’s orchestra together.


This month I'm working on the Kindle edition of "My Heart Beats Faster in Past Times", an Imperial Russia-based time-travel romance novella with music and ballet themes.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

My Heart Beats Faster: Larisa's Programmes




I had settled down to work in Silicon Valley. After ten years of marriage, it turned out that there was a little more to romance than simply putting on the right outfit, and heading out for a pas-de-deux with my dancing partner, but I learned to be happy on my own. I raised my daughter and joined the small local “Ohlone Symphony” as a low-ranking second cello. I also visited the San Francisco Opera House innumerable times to listen to the professional cellists play the classic compositions, and watch toe-shoes turn on the sprung hard wood stage in performances like Swan Lake, Giselle, Rodeo and – well a whole shelf of my living room bookcase holds my scrapbooks filled with old programmes.

This month I'm working on the Kindle edition of "My Heart Beats Faster in Past Times", an Imperial Russia-based time-travel romance novella with music and ballet themes.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Russia Bound: My Heart Beats Faster in Past Times (Full Story - Free Audio/Podcast Download)

The illustration details are even more fun if you click on the the picture above





A Time Travel Short Story
copyright L.Shimer, 2011
Russia Bound: My Heart Beats Faster in Past Times

sprang from the pages of this art-journal

In Part 1: Trip Planning  Larisa found her old spiral notebook from Russian class  ..That notebook had a Peter Max design on the cover....Remember the poster of his we put up when we were freshmen, and what that gross boy down on the second floor wrote on it? 

Part 2-The Samovar's Story: 
Note To Self:Keep a low profile. Do not cheese the Empress off

Part 3-The Winter Palace: 
I put up one hand to the gaping bodice of my Worth-like costume, in almost a parody of feminine modesty, feeling suddenly breathless, and not only from the corset. It was as though an electric current had passed through me with the entrance of this man.

Part 4:  My Heart Beats Faster 
I returned the stare, for a little longer than normal. What could there possibly be in a pair of eyes and a deep bass voice to make me feel a sense of immediate connection to a man I knew nothing about. The cool air of the church hammered against my lungs.

Part 5: - A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace I'd never before seen a table spread with as much food as that one in the Winter Palace. While the hard-working peasants were struggling to grow enough food to content themselves with black bread, and the cabbage soup known in Russia as 'shee', the imperial court of the Romanovs, were- well now I know where the expression, 'eating royally' comes from.





~ ~ ~
Did you begin to read this serial and wonder what happened next?
~ ~ ~
I've recorded the *complete story* as episode 5 of The Simple Romantic's podcasts, "Unpolished Performances", You can download it (it's free) at the iTunes store, by clicking on this link.

If you prefer, you can listen live on the web by clicking on this link.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Time Travel Trip, Preparation for a PopOff: Russia Bound (part 6)

 My friend Judy Gosnell, who has visited Russia six times(!),
 took the original photo for this illustration.
She has, very kindly, given me permission to use her work here
Have you missed any of the
 Previous Journal entries
for this Russia Bound Time Travel Serial Story?
Part 1: Trip Planning







I found my old spiral notebook from Russian class when I was cleaning out my closet today. Gospadee Boza Moi! Isn’t that what we used to say? It’s been over thirty years and I’ve forgotten so much of what I learned. That notebook had a Peter Max design on the cover. I’d forgotten how much I loved him when we were in college. Remember the poster of his we put up when we were freshmen, and what that gross boy down on the second floor wrote on it? I’m so sure he’s either incarcerated or else working for the prison system now.

 Note To Self:Keep a low profile. Do not cheese the Empress off
* Part 3The Winter Palace  
I put up one hand to the gaping bodice of my Worth-like costume, in almost a parody of feminine modesty, feeling suddenly breathless, and not only from the corset. It was as though an electric current had passed through me with the entrance of this man.
Part 4: My Heart Beats Faster in Past Times 





I returned the stare, for a little longer than normal. What could there possibly be in a pair of eyes and a deep bass voice to make me feel a sense of immediate connection to a man I knew nothing about. The cool air of the church hammered against my lungs.
 Part 5:  A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace
I'd never before seen a table spread with as much food as that one in the Winter Palace. While the hard-working peasants were struggling to grow enough food to content themselves with black bread, and the cabbage soup known in Russia as 'shee', the imperial court of the Romanovs, were- well now I know where the expression, 'eating royally' comes from.






*  *  *
Part6: Preparation for a Pop-Off






 “You’re looking distracted.”

I studied Alina’s classic profile. Was she also a descendant of the Romanov’s, or only a half-sister to Vasily Fyodorovich?

“It’s just so much more than I'm accustomed to, imperial politics, chatting with countesses, and pastry puffs filled with grouse.” I hope my response sounded more off-hand than I felt.

Alina frowned. “Ulyana’s circle is full of gossips. You can’t believe ninety-nine percent of their tittle tattle.”  She sighed. “I should have known their tongues would start wagging the moment I got up. There’s nothing they like better than a new ear to fill up with scandal, ” She gave me a long sideways look, “whether it’s the latest crim con or just ancient history.”

It seemed like a good time to change the subject. “Where are we going now?”

“You’re going to change and then we’re sending you on. There’s a portal in the-”

“No! I didn’t even get a chance to see the empress. Couldn’t I maybe hide under the buffet table, or put on one of the maid’s outfits and take a cup of tea and a sausage roll over to her?”

“And take a chance on the tsaritsa's cousin deciding you’re a tasty little bite of sausage himself? He’s got an eye for any new treat that comes decked in a cap and apron.”

I groaned as she chortled. Her melodic laughter reminded me of the sound of the evening bells.

“There’s a reason you paid for the special insurance on this trip, you know. It’s more than my job is worth. Hurry up, Lariska. Sergei’s assisting with the service and I want to get you changed before he comes looking for me.”

“Are you still concerned about him meeting me?”

“Oh no. I told him earlier, while Vasily was helping you, that  I had a visitor, and that you are a friend of a friend,. “But we’ve got to hurry to get you to the portal on time and, “ she winked at me. “He is such a distraction once he gets talking.”


The bells were tolling once more as we raced along the long corridor. Still my guide was hopeful. “Father Anton likes to keep him talking.”  We slipped past a slow-moving elderly couple who were taking their time leaving. I was darting glances everywhere taking in the details of the gloriously dressed pair, still glimmering candles, burnished icons and gilded walls, as Alina dragged me into the little ante chamber.

I convinced her to loosen my laces as soon as she had the bodice of the Worth-style gown unhooked. Just as she released the final cord, the door handle rattled  followed shortly by the sound of a key turning. “Господь.”(GodAlina gasped .

“назад! (get back) Cover yourself, Lariska!”

She grabbed up the blue velvet cape that was still lying on the table and whipped it’s folds over my half uncovered torso. I was too pleased with my state of now comfortable undress, to be overly concerned about our visitor. Besides that, I half-hoped that Vasil Fyodorovich might have returned. As Alina ran to the door, I gloried in the satisfaction of filling my lungs completely with oxygen.

Just as the door began to open, Alina grasped the handle firmly and called through the crack. “м-м-да (m-m-da) Mmm, da, Sergei. A moment please. I came in to make some repairs to my friend’s dress. She’s not quite decent.”

A man’s whispered response came through the opening. “ш-ш! (š-š-š)shhh!, shh! Alinochka.” It was a tenor voice, not the deep bass one I’d been hoping for. “I don’t want Father Anton to hear me down here.”
“It will be OK,” Alina whispered back to me. “I just remembered that that the engineers set the time back an hour on that portal, the last time they came through.” She opened the door and a dark-robed figure slipped through.
“What a relief. He harangued me for an hour before the service. If it’s not one thing it’s another. Would you believe he won’t let me-“ He broke off, having only then made out my blue-swathed shape in the dim light of the candle.

Alina sighed and assumed a formal tone. “Larisa Aleksovna, make you known to my fiancée, Sergei Ivanovitch.”

I smiled at the novice. “I understand you’re planning to enter the priesthood, Sergei Ivanovitch.”

The man had a smile that spoke of innocence coupled with a great understanding of the sins of the world. I thought it would serve him well in his chosen profession. “Yes, I am training to be a priest. First, of course we must be married.”

I looked questioningly towards Alina.

“You see the church here, Lara, feels it is important that the father have a wife. And, if a priest plans to marry, he needs to do so before he is ordained.”

“Oh, I see,” actually I didn’t quite see. I still associated the Russian Orthodox Church vaguely with the Catholic Church.

“Besides,” Alina tossed her head, “I must marry Sergei as soon as it is possible, to keep the women who pretend that they come only to pray from admiring my Sergei too much!”

“Do you expect to be married soon then?”

“We are looking forward very much to being married but there are a few complications.”
,
“Da, complications!”, Alina nodded knowingly and rubbed the fingers of her left hand together in the universal sign for money. Sergei reached out, took the  hand in his own and dropped a kiss on her fingers.

“So, you are this mysterious visitor of Alina’s - from America I think she said? I very much admire your Populist Party. Such exciting times for your country right now, I wish I could visit and see things there for myself!   Are you supporting William Jennings Bryant for president?”

I’m sure I looked as stupid as I felt. I had a vague memory of hearing some family story about my midwestern great grandmother having been heavily involved in the populist movement.

“Well, I certainly hope he’ll win. I wish even more that I were enfranchised to vote in the election. I hope you’ll get your wish to come and visit. We can always put you up on the family farm in Deerfield Illinois. Just ask anyone in town where to find the Jost Farm.” I knew for a fact that the family farm had been well stocked with Josts from before the Civil War, up until World War II. My mother’s entire family, as well as an assortment of cousins, aunts and uncles had returned to live and work there during the depression, when her father and various other relatives had lost their jobs.

He laughed. “I don’t think I will ever be able to afford to go to America. Besides, Alinochka always says I’m not a good traveler. “

My guide gave me a knowing wink.

“Why are you hiding from Father Anton, Sergei? You said he chewed you out earlier.”

I wondered in what era Alina had picked up this piece of slang, but Sergei seemed to understand her perfectly.

“Oh, it is only that he does not like me feeding Mishenka and Borya.”

“But Miska is a real help around here! This place would be overrun with mice if it weren’t for him. And Borya, well,” she paused.

“Everybody loves that dog,” Sergei concluded. “Well everybody but Father Anton. And he lays on my feet to keep them warm when I have a lot of reading or writing to do.”

“So that, could be considered as important a service to the church as catching mice,” I added.

Sergei gave me a friendly smile. It was clear the man was a charmer and I could see why Alina was taken by his obviously gentle character.

“I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you ladies.” He moved towards the table and reached underneath to draw out a large meaty bone wrapped in greased paper. “But I managed to get this from the kitchen. Borya is waiting for me by the gate. What Father Anton doesn’t know won’t- Say what is this?”

‘This’ was the pince nez that Vasil Fyodorovich had removed from his breast pocket while helping me with the hooks on my frock. I recalled now that he had dropped the spectacles, on top of the table.  They had probably been caught in the folds of the blue velvet cape, which had also been lying on the table, and then fallen to the floor when Alina had tossed the garment over me.

“Bozeh moi,” Alina retorted. “That’s Vasily’s glass. I hope that the poor boy hasn’t needed to read anything since he was in here. He can’t survive without them.”

There was a sudden plaintive sound of mewing and the door rattled again. I recognized the sound of a cat’s paw attempting to gain entrance.

“Help me, will you, Alinocka,” Sergei wrapped the bone loosely in it’s greased paper, and extracted a small glass bottle and chipped saucer from the same box beneath the table. “You catch up Mishenka and put him out the hall window with this, before anyone hears him. I’ll take this out to good old Borya, before Father Anton notices him out in the garden.”

With a hurried murmur that she would be right back to help me finish changing my clothes, Alina slipped out after her fiancée.

I hadn’t really had much time to take in the details of the room, and later on I might wish I’d taken the trouble. Though it was relatively bare, there were a few dark prints on the walls. I walked the room, peering into the dimly lit faces of long-gone saints and sacred babies, but the room’s minimal lighting didn’t really do much in the way of visibility. Besides that, the pictures needed cleaning. I looked around for something else to do.

There was an old piece of newsprint lying on a heavy box bed built into the wall, and I carried that over to the table, where the candlestick was sitting.  There’s something delightful about reading something that still looks relatively new, when, in my own times, it would be a crumbling piece of antique ephemera. By the candle’s light I could now see that the page of paper was primarily dedicated to an advertisement for some kind of household cleaning product. The words, however, were so small that I couldn’t read them in the low light. The pince nez were laying there as well, where Sergei had put them after retrieving them from the floor. I picked up the glasses and held them over the tattered piece of print, wondering idily just how blind Vasily was without it.

The words swam before my eyes. Over and over in my head, I heard the advertising slogan from the paper my dad used to take. ‘Timely news for modern times.’   The newspaper office had long since closed its doors. No, of course it hadn’t. It might not have even opened its doors yet. Let’s see what had the banner proclaimed about the origin of the business? Time travel isn’t quite like dream travel, but there’s a similar quality to it, a sense of floating up and away and also a sense that the physical is no longer important. At least, it’s not important until you come back to your body. And at that point, the physical is really important because you can feel pretty lousy.

I leaned my head back onto the rococo wall trying to get my insides to subside. I was sitting on the floor in a welter of pink lacey skirts and blue velvet cape. The bodice of my gown was hanging down around my waist and my underpinnings were about to become utterly unpinned. I shrugged my arms back into my garments as best as I could, wrapped Alina’s cloak around myself and staggered to my feet.

I’d heard that unexpected time displacement pop-offs could happen when people were traveling, but I’d never expected to go on one myself. So, where was I? That was the first thing to figure out. When was I, would also be nice to know.

* * *

Friday, February 18, 2011

Time Travel Trip, A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace: Russia Bound (part 5)


Have you missed any of the
 Previous Journal entries
for Russia Bound Time Travel?

Part 1: Trip Planning

I found my old spiral notebook from Russian class when I was cleaning out my closet today. Gospadee Boza Moi! Isn’t that what we used to say? It’s been over thirty years and I’ve forgotten so much of what I learned. That notebook had a Peter Max design on the cover. I’d forgotten how much I loved him when we were in college. Remember the poster of his we put up when we were freshmen, and what that gross boy down on the second floor wrote on it? I’m so sure he’s either incarcerated or else working for the prison system now.


Jan 13, 2011
 Note To Self:Keep a low profile. Do not cheese the Empress off.

I put up one hand to the gaping bodice of my Worth-like costume, in almost a parody of feminine modesty, feeling suddenly breathless, and not only from the corset. It was as though an electric current had passed through me with the entrance of this man.

*  *  *


I returned the stare, for a little longer than normal. What could there possibly be in a pair of eyes and a deep bass voice to make me feel a sense of immediate connection to a man I knew nothing about. The cool air of the church hammered against my lungs.



* * *

Part 5: A Spot of Tea in the Winter Palace

The high drawing room walls were covered with pale green silk brocade and there was gilt everywhere: mirrors, picture frames, and on every kind of bibelots imaginable from clocks to vases. Normally I would have stopped to take in the beauty of the glittering decorations against their background of undersea color, but my attention was drawn to the massive table that dominated the center of the room. I'd never before seen a table spread with as much food as that one in the Winter Palace. While the hard-working peasants were struggling to grow enough food to content themselves with black bread, and the cabbage soup known in Russia as 'shee', the imperial court of the Romanovs, were- well now I know where the expression, 'eating royally' comes from.

This was, my new friend explained, with an airy wave of her hand towards the enormous table, "just a simple evening tea". I did indeed see tea, being dispensed from a very familiar-looking samovar nearby. That genial beverage was nothing more than a side note, however, though it was a pretty elegant note.

The silver samovar had acquired a nice polish since it had left my possession. In current times, the vessel had that nice new look of a recent wedding present. The intertwined initials "N" and "A" stood out in clear relief. The insignia on the pot was easier to make out now. It was a fearsome pair of crowned, birdlike creatures with rather horrid humanesque limbs. They were holding various nasty implements with strongly royal characteristics. I recognized the emblem from a vague memory of a class worksheet pertaining to the arms of the Romanovs. No wonder the samovar had proved to be such an excellent vehicle for my travels back to the palace.

The urn sat on a small, but very elaborate, boule table shaped like an elaborate fiddle. The marquetry work was lovely, consisting of inlaid mother-of-pearl against an ebony and red background

But it was what was laid out on the thickly patterned damask covered tablecloth that really attracted me. Despite my whale boning, my travel experience had made me frankly hungry. The board was spread with the most delicious looking viands. In the middle of the cloth was a huge pyramid of sparkling crystal platters heaped with absolutely prime looking apples, pears, grapes and mandarin oranges. I've never wanted a piece of fruit so much in my life. Our modern day marketing technicians could learn a lot from whoever configured that display. Off to one side footmen were just lifting the white napkins off silver serving dishes, filled with napoleons, slices of babka and chocolate gateau, small sweet rolls, meringues, almond, raisin and fruit cookies, ginger biscuits, and three other kinds of pastry I didn't even recognize.

There were tiny crystal bowls filled with molded butter, and a colorful medley of jams and jellies, lumps of sugar and cut orange segments covered in a fine dusting of sugar. Nearby were concentric circles of bread platters that seemed to be graded by contrasting colors. There were artfully arranged pieces of black bread, dark and light ryes, steamed bread, french rolls, and slices of light brown wheat bread standing at attention. Opposite the breads where platters arranged, again, in concentric neatly arranged circles of sliced ham, chicken, tongue, turkey, beef, and something I thought might be grouse. There was also cream cheese, grated white cheddar, Swiss cheese, and green wedges that could have been cheese. Off to one side were trays of  sausage rolls and filled savory pastries, absolutely oozing with meaty filling. These were laid out on long platters made of delicate bone china, set three tiers high.

At a nearby small table a party of beautifully outfitted young women were drinking tea out of delicate green and gilt porcelain cups. A dark haired beauty in pale blue was sliding her fork into a piece of glazed babka thick with candied fruit and raisins. My mouth began to water and I looked desperately at Alina. "Do we just help ourselves?"

She answered by thrusting a plate with one of the delicious-looking chocolate laced Napoleons towards me. "Gospedee, bozhe moi, the tsarista has descended on us! Here take a mille-feuille, head over that way, and just blend in before she notices you." 

I managed to snare one of the golden pears and a piece of black bread as she hurried me across the floor towards a table by the far wall, occupied by three elderly ladies. “Why are we running away from the empress? I’d love to at least get a chance to see her. I promise not to ask for her autograph or anything!”

“She's unpopular in St. Petersburg because she's so suspicious of everyone in it.  And that just makes her even more suspicious. If she thinks you're a newcomer she'll wonder what you're doing here. We could both get the boot.

I moved my plate up so that it partially covered my profile. "So what do I do to blend in?"

"Oh Grafinja Ulyana will likely take you under her wing. If you want to get an idea of typical court gossip, you can't do any better then to join Ulyana Marovna's party. I'll introduce you." Alina kept an eagle eye on the gilded main doorway as she hurried me across the room. As much as I'd have liked to spot that ill-fated granddaughter of Queen Victoria, I was even more interested in getting through the evening without losing access to my tasty little meal, even if I didn’t manage to score some of that babka.

Grafinja Ulyana was happy to accept any friend of Alina Fyodorovna without question. It made me wonder just who Alina’s daddy Fyodor had been, when her comrades Grafinja Kseniya  and Baroness Theodora, ("She's an Austrian," Alina whispered,) made a fuss over me as well. A neatly aproned woman came around to refill my new companions teacups and deposit brimful cups for Alina and me. Porcelain cups, not tea glasses, I noticed appreciatively, despite what I'd read in my well-worn copy of Elena Molokhovets' A Gift to Young Housewives. I made a mental note to add this important historical tidbit to my travel journal.

It wasn't too long before the ladies left off complimenting me on the color of my hair, the tone of my voice, the luster of my complexion, and returned to what they'd obviously been discussing when we arrived. The Baroness was having her brand new dacha redecorated and Kseniya Grigorevna had quite a number of suggestions to make. Ulyana Marovna disagreed with most of what her friend proposed. I yawned, thinking that their conversation wasn't that all different from one I'd listened to at the neighborhood New Years Eve party, except that where I lived no landless peasants were evicted when Joy and George who lived down the street, had bought their "little place in Carmel".

Alina didn't seem much impressed by the conversation either. She jumped right up when I finished my napoleon and looked longingly towards the center table. "I'll go, Lariska. Chocolate gateau? Babka?" I indicated that a little of each wouldn't go amiss. The thought reminded me of an old joke of my father's, something about 'a little of ich, that's what we always said in the Russian army.' I wondered if my American grandfather was already hearing that joke from his father across the ocean back home. I wouldn't have been the least surprised.

I managed to slip a few piece of cheese, and one of the meat filled pastries off the Baronesses plate while the ladies heads turned to follow Alina's form across the floor.

"So, are you a member of the family too?," Grafinja Ulyana demanded once Alina had passed out of earshot.

I swallowed the rather large bite of pastry I’d just popped into my mouth. It was filled with what I thought was grouse, and was extremely tasty. I hoped that the napkin I quickly applied to my mouth made me look like I was delicately bred, and not like a glutton who'd bitten off more than she could properly chew.

"Family?" The word, coming on the heels of the grouse, was a little croaky.

"Yes, the family. One of Fyodor's um- connections?"

I suppose I looked as stupid as I felt. "I never met Alina's father. We're not related. I don't even know-"

"Himmel, Grafinja! The girl isn't one of these morganatic connections of which your Russian aristocracy has so many. Anyone can see she's German or Prussian. Our men marry their wives properly!"

Ulyana snorted. "The Teutons are the worst when it comes to morganatic marriages, what about The  Countess of Merenberg?"

Kseniya nodded. "It's true, Baroness. My mother always said-"

"Are you trying to tell me that Alina's parents are Romanov's?"

All three women turned in my direction. Ulyana raised one eyebrow. "No one really knows for sure, but the Tsar's father was very friendly with Alina’s mother before he was engaged to Maria Fyodorovna, when his brother was still alive. And then she married rather quickly and had Vasily. And that marriage wasn’t even recognized. It was all very irregular. Well I mean, look at his name, Vasily, what it means in the Greek!"

The name was starting to ring a bell, all right. I wished I had my cell phone. I was dying to look up the Greek connection for "Vasily".

"I’ve heard that rumor, but I’ve never believed it. Everyone always said that Tsar Alexander remained faithful to Maria Fyodorovna," Kseniya insisted.

"Well, of course they would say that. Though I don’t actually know if there was any gossip after the marriage itself.” Ulyana tapped her front teeth thoughtfully. “I mean Vasily and Alina’s mother married Maria Fyodorovna's cousin, even if the contract couldn’t be acknowledged legally, it gave her children a father. And those children even have the same patronymic as the dowager empress, because it's a family name. These things can be kept in the family. You know that as well as I do.”

I didn’t need my cell phone anymore. I’d remembered the connection. Alina's mother had planted rather a strong hint when she gave her son the Russian name derived from the Greek word for royalty.

“There's no doubt that Vasily has the Tsar's ear.” Ulyana added. “Well he would, if they're half-brothers, wouldn't he?"


Monday, February 7, 2011

Time Travel Trip, My Heart Beats Faster in Past Times : Russia Bound (part 4)

 My friend Judy Gosnell, who has visited Russia six times(!),
 took the original photo for this illustration.
She has, very kindly, given me permission to use her work here



Have you missed any of the
 Previous Journal entries
for Russia Bound Time Travel?

Part 1: Trip Planning

I found my old spiral notebook from Russian class when I was cleaning out my closet today. Gospadee Boza Moi! Isn’t that what we used to say? It’s been over thirty years and I’ve forgotten so much of what I learned. That notebook had a Peter Max design on the cover. I’d forgotten how much I loved him when we were in college. Remember the poster of his we put up when we were freshmen, and what that gross boy down on the second floor wrote on it? I’m so sure he’s either incarcerated or else working for the prison system now.


Jan 13, 2011
 Note To Self:Keep a low profile. Do not cheese the Empress off.

I put up one hand to the gaping bodice of my Worth-like costume, in almost a parody of feminine modesty, feeling suddenly breathless, and not only from the corset. It was as though an electric current had passed through me with the entrance of this man.

*  *  *

 Part 4: My Heart Beats Faster in Past Times 

"Bozhe moi, it's only you Vasil!" She smiled at me. "Goodness, I mean. I thought my fiancée had walked in on us, and he knows nothing about what I do for Period Pilots. But instead this is my brother, Vasily. He knows all my business."

The big man walked slowly forward and bent low in a courtly bow. "It is only her brother, Vasily Fyodorovich," his voice was low, a basso profundo I thought, "who knows all about everyone's business." He straightened up and smiled down into my eyes. His were almond shaped, and bright green. I returned the stare, for a little longer than normal. What could there possibly be in a pair of eyes and a deep bass voice to make me feel a sense of immediate connection to a man I knew nothing about. The cool air of the church hammered against my lungs.

"Sergei is out in the church, Alina. And he's asking if I know where you are. Perhaps you might waylay him while I help out here?"

"Oh, I haven't seen Sergei in two weeks!" His sister's cheeks were flushed with excitement. "Could you help out Larisa here? She just needs her dress fastened behind. Don't worry, Lariska. Vasil is an expert at hooking up. He's done it for me a hundred times." Before I could protest, my tour guide had scurried out to meet her beloved.

I felt a flush of my own mount as Vasily moved around and began to fit the hooks into their eyelets. "So, Larisa Aleksovna, I read all about you before you came. I know your name in your own time, and your profession. I know that you live alone, except for your dog who is being well looked after while you are gone. You are a balletomane with a great admiration for "The Sleeping Beauty". In fact you've gone to see it danced seven times in the past few years. I also know that you read a great deal of history and that you sing and play the cello."

I doubted that my closest friends at home knew that much about me. "And you Vasily Fyodorovich. I know nothing about you, except that you have a sister and both of you have something to do with Period Pilots. Do you help all the women travelers like your helping me now?"

He stopped placing the tiny hooks and tapped one finger gently against my back, causing a pleasant frisson to migrate gently down my spine. "I keep house with my sister, but I am not engaged nor", he paused, "do I presently have an, er-  connection to a woman in any time. Second," another large finger caused the same lovely sensation, "I too sing, and my instrument is the french horn.”

He moved in closer and something pressed hard against my backbone. I didn’t move away. He stepped back. “I afraid I must beg your pardon. I keep putting this in the wrong pocket.” There was a thunk as he laid a pair of pince nez down onto the table nearby and moved back to resume his position behind me.

“I am also an admirer of ‘The Sleeping Beaut’y. Thirdly," I held my breath, waiting for the next finger to do it's job, “you are the first of Alina's customers to need my attentions. I don't work for my sister's employer. I have matters to attend to here." Large fingers fumbled with one of the hooks as he resumed his task. "They are matters that her employer helps with however."

"Matters that have to do with the Romanovs?" I felt bold speaking this way to a man who was attending to my clothing in such an intimate manner.

He paused in his work and was quiet for a moment. "I have an occupation, of sorts. There are things I do that might make a difference for one or two people in the times to come," he admitted.

"And so, you are here, for now, Lara Aleksovna." Again the soft low timber of his voice sent a tremor throughout my body. It seemed to resonate in every part of me.

"I am, and perhaps you could tell me how I can help you tonight, in your work to help those one or two people."

He laughed deep in his chest, and the sound sent another funny sensation through my body, that had nothing to do with corsets.
"Malodetz! Good for you!" He finished fastening the dress and turned me around to face him. I found we were standing very close together and that his large hands were still holding me gently, but firmly, by my whale-bone constrained waist. All thoughts of experiencing the reality of court life suddenly vanished. Only a pair of brilliant green eyes seemed important.

"You wish to help me? Do you have a good understanding of the political situation at this time?"

"Well not exactly. You see back at the university-" I was interrupted by a melody floating through the great chamber outside.

Vasily dropped his hands and stepped back. "The evening bells mean that the courtiers will be assembling. You and my sister need to go." He stepped over to the door into the darkness of the church. "Alinska!" he hissed. There was a flicker of a glance from the green eyes. "But we will meet again, quite soon." And then Vasily Fyodorovich was gone and I stood waiting for my guide to present me to the Imperial Russian court of 1896.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Time Travel Trip, The Winter Palace: Russia Bound (part 3)

Please, click on the picture to fully enjoy it's Russianesque roots

Judy Дорогая моя,

I'm not quite sure where I left off writing you in my last letter. That Period Pilots trip I took to past times Russia was so different than what I expected, that it's really been hard trying to put all the pieces together.

I remember telling you about the initials I saw when I was starting to heat up that old samovar. It was just about the time I first made the letters out, that the portal started to do it's thing. You know how rough leaping a few decades or centuries can be, even in the smoothest forms of transport. And traveling by samovar, is definitely not the easiest way I've ever blasted through to the past. I'm still turning stray Keemun tea leaves out of my pockets. From the smell of it, I think it's that mix they call Russian Caravan.

I stopped writing and put down my fountain pen,  leaned my head against the edge of the window frame and let my thoughts drift dreamily back to the events following my crazy journey back through time to, a certain palace in Russia in the year 1896.

The redheaded woman had been sitting beside me on the garden bench, where I found myself once the world stopped spinning. The fact that she was totally nonplussed by the sight of me in my nylon jacket, tee shirt and kahki trousers told me something about her right away. Do-it-yourself time travel is all well and good for some people, and in some situations, but there are services that are really worth paying for. Tour guides are one of the nicest features about Period Pilots. She introduced herself as 'Alina' and told me that I had arrived safely in 1896 St. Petersburg.

That news coupled with an impression of luxurious surroundings, helped me emerge from my time-lag lethargy. The last days of Imperial Russia, and the last of the Romanovs aren't a travel itinerary that's easy to achieve. I might get a chance to see Nicholas and Alexandra at the height of their reign!

"You're ready to go now?" her voice had a lilt that told me she might be a native.

I nodded, unsure as to whether or not my vocal chords were fully functional yet.

" Xорошо, good. You need to change quickly. People will be coming through here soon. Put this over your clothes in case anyone sees you."

"This" was a long cape of midnight blue velvet that covered me from head to toe. Securely wrapped in this confection, I stumbled after Alina through a small side door off the courtyard and into a maze of dimly lit halls that seemed to go on forever. I took in none of the details of the palace around me, other than the fact that the ceilings were high and the lighting was poor. And then we opened another door and found ourselves in an intricately decorated rococo marvel. A domed ceiling was lit by a dusky light that filtered in through the windows that students of architecture call 'lunettes'. Saintly images were highlighted in their half-moon glass and the light  of the setting sun, that passed through them, made the gold embossed plaster walls beneath them glitter.

"You'll need to change in here." Before I had a chance to protest that I wanted to spend more time enjoying the scenery, Alina pulled me into a tiny chamber of much more plebian origin than the Grand Church of the Winter Palace.

"I studied the small barren room. Not much in comparison, is it?"

"Well, Princes Alixi primped here before she married the Tsar two years ago. How many women can say they’ve shared a dressing room with an empress?"

I agreed that there was something to be said for that, and we got down to business.

Luckily for both of us, I have the kind of long, thickly curling hair that's a natural for pompadour-type styling. I might not be able to compete with more elaborate courtly coiffures, but I'd pass muster.

"So what are the plans? Some kind of court function tonight I take it? And then what?"

Alina was expertly wielding a wet brush. She spoke through a mouthful of hairpins. "A court function, yes, evening tea here in the Winter Palace. Their imperial highnesses are at home in the Alexander Palace, so we were able to accommodate you. You will have a chance to visit with some of the locals and take in the atmosphere. But after that, you must go on. We have arranged another portal for-"

"That sounds like a cruise ship stopping in port for five hours! I want to spend more time here and really see something of the place."

She poked a hairpin into my scalp and turned me around to face a small, dark mirror. "Things are unsettled even at this time. We can't be assured of your safety."

"But the revolution's not for twenty-one years."

She shrugged again. "Now it is time to deal with your underpinnings."

The batiste lingerie with it's delicate blue ribbons and fine Brussels lace insertions was a delight to slide into. It was followed, however, by pure torture. Corsets are one of the nastier aspects of past times. I'll take fully functioning ribs and organs over a narrow waist any day. The laces were every bit as horrid as I'd imagined and I emerged gasping for air. My tour-guide laughed.

"I always forget that you twentieth century women have no skills when it comes to boning. Don't gulp and don't move too quickly. You don't want to hyper-ventilate when you're wearing stays," she advised.

And then there was the dress and it made everything that had gone before worthwhile.

"Is this Worth?"

She shrugged. "No, but it's a good copy. We've got a seamstress who can mimic anybody. She's been doing very well for herself back in the Renaissance, and she's about to start working on a contract with, oh I always forget her name-," she snapped her fingers, "-you know, she was Tutmose II's wife. I went back and drew up the terms for her myself."

"Oh, I know just who you mean. And now I can't think of her name either! What a great job you have. It must be wonderful to travel so much."

"The travel is good, but it makes it hard to have a relationship and a life in my own time. But for a few years I am doing it while I save for my dowry. The money is very good."

"I imagine it's not easy for Period Pilots to find people with the right skill set. Have you- Oh I remember the wife's name now, Hatshepsut!"

"That's it! Talk about palace intrigue. Those Egyptians have the Romanovs beat." She was clearly conversant in the English of more than one era.

"Have you spent some time in twentieth century America, Alina?"

"Mostly the sixties. I love the colors and the mini skirts. So much prettier, and more flattering than what comes afterwards."

"I know. The skirts look like feed sacks."

She nodded seriously and pulled the gown all the way out of the armoire.

The gown that emerged was a delectable rose-colored silk confection with a low square neckline and a detachable train. The bodice and sleeves were embroidered with bouquets of lilies set with tiny pearls.

I fingered the jeweled embroidery. "Are these real?"

"Yes. And to answer your next question," she smiled showing a lovely full set of teeth, "you do have to give it back at the end of the evening." Now let's get you into it.

Getting into the dress was more work than I'd imagined. There was more boning to fight with in the bodice and layers where layers shouldn't be. The slippery silk bunched up and needed to be coaxed down over the unfamiliar underpinnings. These duds were clearly a job for more than one woman.

I breathed a sigh of relief when the edges of the rose pink skirts were finally settled just above the floor. "And now we have only to hook you up behind." Alina had just bent to begin this task when the door rattled. I froze but she jumped to her feet quickly. "It's probably Sergei. This is the time when he comes to light the evening candles. He doesn't know about you though, so I will just slip-"

The door opened then and a dark form came in, shutting the door cautiously behind him. When he turned to face us, I saw an extremely tall man with dark, hair curling against a long neck. He seemed unsurprised to see two women, one in a state of deshabille. I put up one hand to the gaping bodice of my Worth-like costume, in almost a parody of feminine modesty, feeling suddenly breathless, and not only from the corset. It was as though an electric current had passed through me with the entrance of this man.

To Be Continued

Followers