Strange Butterfly Effect
A strange butterfly effect.
In December of 1885, Waldemar returned to Berlin and spent his holiday with Alix.
Alix had hoped for sweet, languid hours with her lover, but this time Waldemar had no intention of letting her drag him wherever she pleased. He sat her down and began reviewing her studies.
At first she had been lost in daydreams of curling up against him and trading soft words; soon enough, though, she recovered her seriousness.
“So you want me to explain why grain prices are falling in Germany right now?”
“That’s right.”
Alix fell silent for a moment. She read a good deal and was by no means empty-headed, yet discussing a subject she had never cared about was harder than it sounded. She twisted her reddish-gold hair between both hands in visible distress, then finally lifted her deep-blue eyes to him.
“Russian and American grain have flooded the market, so supply has outstripped demand and the price has dropped—isn’t that it?”
German grain sold for fourteen to sixteen marks per hundred kilograms; American grain, transport costs included, cost roughly the same; Russian grain, however, came in at a crushing twelve to fourteen marks. That disparity was what pressed German prices downward.
Waldemar had taught her the curves of supply and demand in terms she could grasp, and she had remembered them perfectly. Still, it was a pity she had not recalled the Russian figures.
“Half right.”
“Only half?”
“It isn’t merely that foreign supply has increased. Russian grain is cheap, and that cheapness is what puts pressure on the price.”
Understanding dawned on her face.
“Then is this situation good for Germany or bad?”
She answered at once.
“Bad.”
“Why?”
“Because the farmers who lose the competition have nowhere left to work.”
True to her upbringing as a grand duke’s daughter, she approached the question through the lens of employment. The German government itself thought along much the same lines when it sought to protect agriculture—though the ministers also weighed food security and relations with Russia, considerations Alix had never been taught. One could hardly demand of a girl who had crammed for the occasion knowledge she had never been given.
“Exactly. When they can no longer farm, those people lose their livelihoods. That is a serious problem.”
He tested her knowledge several times more and came away satisfied that she had not been neglecting her books. There was no need to doubt her diligence. To encourage her further, he decided on a suitable reward.
“You’ve studied hard. What shall I give you as a prize?”
“Then… I would like to go to the theater with Your Highness.”
She asked neither for jewels nor for a new gown. What she wanted was a sweet outing.
“The theater? That…”
Waldemar thought first of the royal box at the Court Theater, yet something held him back. The royal box drew every eye; taking her there openly was awkward. She had not yet made her formal debut, and that fact could not be ignored.
“Is it impossible?”
Her eyes still shone with hope. He could not withstand that expectant gaze. He considered alternatives.
Seating a girl of Alix’s rank in the ordinary stalls is out of the question.
Her chaperone would never allow it. That left a box—but not the royal one.
Ah. It doesn’t have to be the royal box.
Boxes could be hired anywhere. If they avoided the Court Theater, they could also disguise their identities to a reasonable degree.
This might work.
He laid the idea before her. Alix could not hide her excitement.
“So we go to the theater in disguise?”
“Yes. Because we must hide who we are, I’d like you to play the part of my younger sister.”
“I’d love that.”
She accepted at once. Outward rank mattered little; what mattered was the sweet evening at the theater. With her consent the plan moved swiftly. Waldemar sent a servant to secure a box at the Victoria Theater, the second-largest house in Berlin.
Built in 1859, the Victoria held fourteen hundred seats, possessed private boxes, and sometimes doubled as a ballroom. He chose a quiet box and closed the contract. The rush fee was steep, but that was of no consequence.
Three days later everything was ready. Waldemar and Alix climbed into a carriage as usual. To those around them they claimed they were riding out to the country; in truth they had no intention of leaving the city. The court people, for their part, paid little attention to where the two of them went.
Midway they changed clothes inside the moving coach, then transferred to a second carriage that had been waiting and drove on to the Victoria Theater. The whole spy-like performance so delighted Alix that she could not stop smiling.
Now that I look at her, she no longer even looks like a grand duchess.
Stripped of her ornaments and dressed in a simple gown, she could pass for a banker’s daughter—though her beauty remained undimmed. Waldemar and the chaperone shared the task of drawing eyes away from her as he escorted her inside.
“The reservation is under Herr Stalin, his younger sister, and their private tutor—is that correct?”
“It is.”
“Confirmed.”
Waldemar led Alix to the private box he had hired. His bodyguards, keeping a discreet distance, took the neighboring box. Once inside, Alix looked about her. The boxes flanking the stage offered the finest view in the house.
“Your Highness, won’t someone see us?”
“No one is looking yet.”
He raised an opera glass and scanned the surrounding boxes, intending to spend the evening watching the audience rather than the play. When the performance began, however, Alix was quickly absorbed. Between scenes she still chattered to him about the plot. As time passed he too relaxed his vigilance. By the final act they were watching and talking together when a knock sounded outside the box.
Who is that?
Before Waldemar could rise, Alix’s chaperone went to the door and demanded the visitor’s identity.
“The young lady’s beauty caught my eye this evening, and I merely wished to pay my respects. If it is not an imposition, would you kindly convey my intentions to her?”
What? He wanted to court Alix? Waldemar was startled by the young man’s words. Alix’s face went paper-white. She might look a trifle mature for her years, yet anyone could see she was still a minor. That a stranger would walk up to another party’s box and try his luck was itself deeply offensive.
More than that, Alix was his fiancée. To let some lout make advances to her under his nose would leave him without a shred of dignity. For a moment he considered stepping out and demanding satisfaction as an insulted betrothed. Then he set the thought aside. They were in disguise. Making a scene would only broadcast the fact that Alix had been sitting in a public box. He decided simply to use force.
He rapped the wall of the box. The bodyguards waiting next door appeared at once.
“Hey—who are you people?”
The uninvited guest managed only a few feeble protests before he was dragged away. He vanished, yet Alix’s face remained deathly pale. Waldemar judged the evening ruined and helped her to her feet. She followed without a word.
This is the trouble with traveling incognito.
In the royal box no commoner would have dared raise an opera glass in her direction.
On the ride back to the palace Alix burst into tears.
“I never knew there were people so rude in the world.”
Raised carefully as a grand duke’s daughter, she had every right to be shocked. She wept for a long while, aggrieved that the perfect theater outing had been spoiled at the last moment. Waldemar comforted her and privately put the incident down to bad luck. In truth such approaches were common enough in theater boxes; some men, spotting an unmarried woman, simply walked over and tried their luck.
The moment he returned to the palace he received his servants’ report.
“So who was he?”
“A man named Leopold von Reinecke.”
“I don’t believe I’ve heard the name.”
If Waldemar had never heard of him, the fellow could hardly be important.
“And his station?”
“Son of a Berlin banker. His father made a fortune short-selling the ruble and has been swaggering about as one of the newly rich ever since.”
Waldemar gave a bitter smile. The very wave he himself had set in motion had lifted this nonentity high enough to challenge him—an absurd butterfly effect if ever there was one. He tapped his pen against the desk. To deal with the man personally would be humiliating; the fellow was simply too small. Yet leaving him alone left Waldemar’s temper unsatisfied.
Everything else aside, he made Alix cry.
Waldemar did not love her to the point of dying for her, yet the world knew her as his fiancée. To let a man wring tears from those eyes and then do nothing was intolerable. His pride, his sense of face, would not permit it.
“Summon Mr. John Connor.”
After a moment’s thought, Waldemar sent for his banker.