08-04-2022, 12:40 AM
Her native language rolled smooth as silk. The language of romance was alluring as the lips that parted their birth. Despite his appreciation for the woman that spoke such loveliness, she uttered a language not allowed in the Kremlin. The Ascendancy did not react beyond consideration of their meaning but neither was the reminder dismissed. Noémi was new to this world of power politics. An irony in the Consulate of Propaganda, where things like cultural identity and language were smoothed to CCD uniformity. She was a good little worker bee flitting from flower to flower at the behest of another, but her oblivion was part of her charm. If he wanted a broker of power, he would turn to Evelyn who was conveniently absent.
Her hand was delicate as a flower, but ridges in the palm suggested the opposite of a pampered princess. She knew what it was to use her hands, and Nikolai was surprisingly intrigued by what that meant. In Moscow, that was a rare thing. Stunning women were bountiful in their city of Nouveau Riche, but he doubted any of them knew what it meant to wash their own dishes. The thought summoned a flash of his childhood, of his own mother at the kitchen sink while young Nik ate dinner alone. It was only a moment, but the pang that followed was stifled quickly. He smiled and led Noémi from the department from the crook of one arm. Nikolai was dressed in a dark suit, one uniform among many of the unchanging nature of his appearance. To the surprise of many given his vast wealth, the clothing was well-made and from a reputable designer, but it could easily be outdone in the throes of Moscow’s billionaire business-class. Other than the pin on his lapel featuring the sharp points of the Double Crescent symbol of his office, he was relatively unadorned. There was nothing to flaunt but himself.
Their walk through the Tsar’s palace was occupied with commentary regarding the portions of the Kremlin they passed. The building that housed the Consulates was plain in comparison to the grander palaces that he guided their journey toward. He pointed out Katherine the Great’s throne on display at the end of a corridor. The Amber Room was passed nonchalantly, an ironic afterthought following its recovery being one of the greatest long-lost treasures of the post-world war era. The grand ballrooms were empty, although the lights were kept bright to always exploit their grandeur.
Finally, an elevator carried them to the upper level. The Kremlin fortress was built on the highest hill in the area. Such were the ways of thousand-year-old fortresses, and although the upper level was only a short ride, they would be high enough to make for a stunning city view. The red walls glowed beyond windows dressed with exquisite drapes that matched the general opulence of the Tsar’s tastes. This was the same wing that Nikolai hosted other personal guests when the event required somewhere more private than the Executive Offices they previously left behind. While the quarters were his temporary home, no guest no matter how important were privy to his truer retreat. It had been severely damaged after the Regus’ attack and the basement reconstruction was only recently completed. Not even his beloved Evelyn bore witness to Nikolai’s last thread of private life.
The wing may as well have been a hotel for all the space. There were quarters for guests down the hall. The sitting rooms of the former Tsars now made for a gilded living room. There were plush seats for lounging, a formal dining room, and even a serving bar. Fuller kitchens were located elsewhere (as were the round-the-clock staff). He invited Noémi to make herself comfortable with a welcoming smile, commenting on the excessive walk to their present location and her likely innate desire to be off her feet. The Ascendancy was the perfect host, practiced in all the ways of formality that one expected as befitting his station. While the gentile charm was usually disarming of his company, it was the spectacle that followed that truly enraptured his guests. Seemingly all at once things moved around the room as if on their own. Baccarat flutes were plucked from their shelf, a champagne bottle suddenly beaded with condensation, and a heatless fire spun to life in the hearth, made solely for the dance of its mesmerizing flames. The power was as natural to him as using his own two hands and completed just as thoughtlessly.
When finished, Nikolai held one of the flutes of golden liquid, though he did not partake, and the other hovered within arm's reach of his guest. He rarely consumed alcohol, the last being a simple glass of red wine on the night of the grand ball. Neither did he indulge in espresso, having abandoned the habit following the fateful departure from Bologna all those decades ago.
When he chose to sit, it was across from whatever location Noémi selected. He felt as if he’d done most of the speaking, and now was interested in gauging her in return.
“What do you think of all this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings.
By this time, the general response was one of astonishment and slack-jawed marveling. Indeed, it was remarkable to live in history and sharing champagne with the most powerful man in the world. What everyone always overlooked was the complete and utter lack of himself in his surroundings. That it was all a charade, a façade meant to elicit a reaction. Would Noémi be the first to notice? He wouldn’t mind if the river of oblivion continued to wind its way wherever it wanted, including through his guest. A disappointment, perhaps, but it wouldn’t make a difference to him by the end of the night anyway.
But he did wonder.
Her hand was delicate as a flower, but ridges in the palm suggested the opposite of a pampered princess. She knew what it was to use her hands, and Nikolai was surprisingly intrigued by what that meant. In Moscow, that was a rare thing. Stunning women were bountiful in their city of Nouveau Riche, but he doubted any of them knew what it meant to wash their own dishes. The thought summoned a flash of his childhood, of his own mother at the kitchen sink while young Nik ate dinner alone. It was only a moment, but the pang that followed was stifled quickly. He smiled and led Noémi from the department from the crook of one arm. Nikolai was dressed in a dark suit, one uniform among many of the unchanging nature of his appearance. To the surprise of many given his vast wealth, the clothing was well-made and from a reputable designer, but it could easily be outdone in the throes of Moscow’s billionaire business-class. Other than the pin on his lapel featuring the sharp points of the Double Crescent symbol of his office, he was relatively unadorned. There was nothing to flaunt but himself.
Their walk through the Tsar’s palace was occupied with commentary regarding the portions of the Kremlin they passed. The building that housed the Consulates was plain in comparison to the grander palaces that he guided their journey toward. He pointed out Katherine the Great’s throne on display at the end of a corridor. The Amber Room was passed nonchalantly, an ironic afterthought following its recovery being one of the greatest long-lost treasures of the post-world war era. The grand ballrooms were empty, although the lights were kept bright to always exploit their grandeur.
Finally, an elevator carried them to the upper level. The Kremlin fortress was built on the highest hill in the area. Such were the ways of thousand-year-old fortresses, and although the upper level was only a short ride, they would be high enough to make for a stunning city view. The red walls glowed beyond windows dressed with exquisite drapes that matched the general opulence of the Tsar’s tastes. This was the same wing that Nikolai hosted other personal guests when the event required somewhere more private than the Executive Offices they previously left behind. While the quarters were his temporary home, no guest no matter how important were privy to his truer retreat. It had been severely damaged after the Regus’ attack and the basement reconstruction was only recently completed. Not even his beloved Evelyn bore witness to Nikolai’s last thread of private life.
The wing may as well have been a hotel for all the space. There were quarters for guests down the hall. The sitting rooms of the former Tsars now made for a gilded living room. There were plush seats for lounging, a formal dining room, and even a serving bar. Fuller kitchens were located elsewhere (as were the round-the-clock staff). He invited Noémi to make herself comfortable with a welcoming smile, commenting on the excessive walk to their present location and her likely innate desire to be off her feet. The Ascendancy was the perfect host, practiced in all the ways of formality that one expected as befitting his station. While the gentile charm was usually disarming of his company, it was the spectacle that followed that truly enraptured his guests. Seemingly all at once things moved around the room as if on their own. Baccarat flutes were plucked from their shelf, a champagne bottle suddenly beaded with condensation, and a heatless fire spun to life in the hearth, made solely for the dance of its mesmerizing flames. The power was as natural to him as using his own two hands and completed just as thoughtlessly.
When finished, Nikolai held one of the flutes of golden liquid, though he did not partake, and the other hovered within arm's reach of his guest. He rarely consumed alcohol, the last being a simple glass of red wine on the night of the grand ball. Neither did he indulge in espresso, having abandoned the habit following the fateful departure from Bologna all those decades ago.
When he chose to sit, it was across from whatever location Noémi selected. He felt as if he’d done most of the speaking, and now was interested in gauging her in return.
“What do you think of all this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings.
By this time, the general response was one of astonishment and slack-jawed marveling. Indeed, it was remarkable to live in history and sharing champagne with the most powerful man in the world. What everyone always overlooked was the complete and utter lack of himself in his surroundings. That it was all a charade, a façade meant to elicit a reaction. Would Noémi be the first to notice? He wouldn’t mind if the river of oblivion continued to wind its way wherever it wanted, including through his guest. A disappointment, perhaps, but it wouldn’t make a difference to him by the end of the night anyway.
But he did wonder.