Winter Palace Read Online Free PDF

heritage and many of their kinfolk lighting their way.”
    â€œSo Markov’s family was in Monte Carlo when the Revolution broke out in 1917?” Katya asked.
    â€œQuite likely,” Alexander replied. “He had an amazing house, a palace really, erected by his family around the turn of the century. It looked like an art-deco wedding cake by the sea. It was surrounded by elaborate gardens, with dozens of statues, Greek gods and goddesses. A most remarkable place.”
    â€œSo he gave this up to buy your home?” Jeffrey asked.
    â€œYes, I suppose sentimentality can only hold a person for so long,” Alexander replied, his eyelids threatening to close of their own accord. “I heard rumors that the place was bought by an Arabian prince for a positively staggering sum.”
    Katya rose to her feet. “You are growing tired. It’s time we let you rest.”
    Jeffrey stood with her. “I’ll be back as usual this afternoon.”
    â€œThank you both,” Alexander murmured, slipping away.
    Katya held on to her smile until the door had closedbehind them. Then she stopped and clung to Jeffrey with fierce strength, her face buried in his chest. Jeffrey stroked her silken dark hair. “Alexander’s going to be all right,” he said, and for the first time truly believed it was so.
    ****
    Alexander awoke in time to watch the afternoon sun emerge from behind thunderclouds and paint his hospital room with a thousand rainbow hues. Jeffrey was dozing in the chair by his bed, his neck still protected by the foam collar. Alexander stared at him, and saw how the rain-cleansed light turned the young face into that of a world-weary king, burdened with the woes of many.
    Sleep was a blanket that never entirely left Alexander’s mind, a drug that demanded ever more of him. He had turned the day into a swatch of gentle breaths, was only halfway conscious as later the nurse eased him over to bathe a body that was only partly his. He had slept during the doctor’s afternoon visit, dozed as Jeffrey and the doctor conferred, caught only snatches of the talk. But it did not matter. It was enough to lie in a sort of floating awareness and to see the world anew.
    Alexander looked around, taking in as much as he could while moving only his eyes, seeing everything as for the first time. There was a glory to each object, a burnished quality, as though reality had been polished and set on display for him to savor. But no matter where he looked or what he saw, always his eyes returned to his slumbering friend. Always.
    The sunlight inched its way across the linoleum floor as Alexander continued his inspection of his surroundings. Bit by bit, impressions came to him through reawakened senses—the sharp hospital smells, the dividing lines between pastel shadows and angled brightness, the beep of machines attached to his body, the squeak of shoes in the hallway, the sound of his own breathing, the memory of how he came to be here.
    Memories. All he had to do was shut his eyes, and the pastrose vividly before him. There was a clarity to his internal vision that made memories appear as real and fresh and immediate as the world outside. One world with eyes opened, a thousand worlds when the veils fell and his sight searched inward.
    Monte Carlo. Monte Carlo. Alexander replayed the morning’s conversation as he drifted along the edge of sleep. Monte Carlo. As a young man he had loved the place; the city had made him feel alive . All the loss and hunger and deprivation of the war years in Poland had been softened by the thrill of his times in Monte Carlo.
    There the senses surpassed themselves. The sea was an impossible blue, fringed with palm trees and sand-castle mansions. Champagne had more bubbles. Just breathing the air made a man feel rich. Alexander had lived for himself there and made no apologies to anyone.
    By 1955, Alexander’s London-based antiques trade had earned him almost