TWO.
Mexican Standoff
21 June 1821 – 26 August 1822
‘Lesana, please…’ murmured Boleslav from the bed.
‘Yes,
ocko,’ Lesana told him, holding his cool, frail hand firmly. ‘I’m here.’
‘Bring Vasiľ to me,’ Boleslav bade her.
Boleslav’s health had declined precipitously over the course of the spring. As the world burst into bloom outside, it seemed, Boleslav withered. Lesana did not dare gainsay any request of his that lay within her power. She nodded, left the room, and a few moments later returned with three others following behind her.
Bonifác Sebastian Hlinka, Lesana Hlinková’s eldest son, came into the
Cár a Kráľ’s chambers together with his Slovak wife, Milica Šišková. In 1806, just before the Moravian-Asturian War, the
Stavovské Zhromaždenie had, in a fit of irrational anti-German sentiment,
barred the 13⁄16 German prince Bonifác from the line of succession, and had insisted on his marriage to a Slavic woman so that his progeny could inherit instead. Milica carried in her arms now the youngest and newest member of the Hlinka clan: Vasiľ Hlinka, the one who would one day become king after Lesana.
The calm, placid six-month-old baby did not in the least object to being handed over to the dying man to handle and gaze upon. Perhaps Vasiľ, infant though he was, could sense the comfort that he was bringing to the elderly
Cár a Kráľ. The frail, failing king communed with his great-grandson for several moments before handing him tenderly back to Lesana.
Boleslav Hlinka passed from this life to the next several hours later, having received Confession and having been given the Gifts and the Anointing of the Sick. Lesana Hlinková—now
Cárovná a Kráľovna Lesana—bade her father farewell at last at the Hlinka ancestral burial ground in the Opolanie. And afterward she was conveyed to the Cathedral of Saint Gorazd in Velehrad to receive the chrism, and to receive the two crowns of Moravia and Carpathia upon her head.
Cárovná a Kráľovná Lesana had her work cut out for her from the beginning.
In foreign affairs, France had begun showing its teeth among the Western European states, drawing together its West African colonial holdings and declaring itself to be a power bloc, the
Ligue des états préférentiels. It was rather worrisome to Moravia, as they had joined the German Empire in declaring Moravia as a threat to be contained. Intriguingly enough, they stood upon the Petrine rock of Roman Catholicism for their ideological support, but worked behind the scenes to undermine the Papal State with a naval embargo outside of the Mediterranean.
That had led Great Britain under Henry 9. Gaerhirfryn (or ‘Harry’, as the Welsh ruler insisted that Lesana call him), to proclaim a guarantee of Moravia’s independence against France. Lesana found herself equally amused and annoyed by Harry’s proclamation. It was, on the one hand, clearly a friendly gesture. But it was rather impolitick, not to mention conceited, of Harry to think that Moravia needed anyone’s help but her own in keeping her borders secure from French incursions. Still… Harry was young. There were excuses to be made.
On the domestic side, things were also changing with astonishing alacrity. The
Miava Maple Arcade, Moravia’s first industrial zone, had ushered in an era of technical progress. One of the fruits of this progress was the introduction of a British invention, the
steam locomotive—and with it, the first modern rail lines. Naturally, the first major rail line was the one connecting Bratislava to Krakov through Trenčín, linking up Moravia’s industrial heartlands. But that first
Západoslovenská železnicá was quickly followed by branch lines into Moravia Proper, Bohemia and Silesia.
In the first month of Lesana’s reign, on the seventh of August, 1821, the first major railway accident occurred: on the
Volčínsky line running between Opole and Krakov. One of the freight trains carrying iron ore into Krakov—where the ore would be smelted, cast and smithed into tools for use throughout Moravia—was switched onto the wrong track, and headed for a collision with another train bound the opposite way. Thankfully for everyone involved, the locomotive engineer on the
Volčinsky freight train, a Silesian named Ryszard Górski, threw the brake and brought the train to a slow drift before the two locomotives collided. Górski himself perished, as did two men on the other train. But it was broadly thanks to Górski’s quick thinking and conscientious action that the accident didn’t claim 40 or 50 lives instead! Ryszard Górski was remembered as a hero, and rail workers in Krakov were soon dedicating work-songs to him.
There was a good deal of consternation among the general populace about the safety and viability of travelling by rail after that. Some editorialists in the liberal-leaning Praha press did correctly and factually point out that statistically, Moravians in general were more likely to be kicked to death by horses or die in carriage mishaps, than expire in train accidents. But the high visibility and yellow publicity afforded to the
Volčinsky rail accident of 1821 assured that such voices were effectively drowned out. Lesana did what she could to reassure her people after the
Volčinsky accident, and had promised a thorough investigation both of the accident itself, and of railway safety in general.
Then there was the matter of Fr Havel Daxner.
Father Havel, a young and dynamic Orthodox priest who was the rector of Saint Nicholas Church in Bratislava, was also the foremost voice in the
Stavovské Zhromaždenie for the causes of the Church. He happened also to be remarkably forward-thinking. Although he wore the neat black cassock that marked him for a member of the clergy, he was also determined to groom himself almost like a dandy, to dress in fashionable top hats and ride in well-appointed carriages. He had, Lesana soon discovered, also a certain sympathy for the cause of women’s emancipation.
‘If you read the homilies of Saint John Chrysostom on the subject of
marriage and family life,’ Father Havel spoke eloquently to the
Cárovná a Kráľovna, pouring her a cup of tea, ‘he quite clearly holds that the man and the woman in the marriage are meant to be equals in dignity and honour. From such a stance, should it not follow that women
generally ought to have the equal right to hold property in their own name?’
‘I’m sure it will be argued,’ Lesana Hlinková answered, her aged cheek dimpling mischievously as she received the teacup from the priest’s hands, ‘not least by bishops of clerical honour outranking yours, that the man of the house, being the primary breadwinner, has the greater responsibility and thus the greater entitlement to the custodianship of the shared property.’
‘And I’m all but equally sure,’ the lightly-bearded blond young priest riposted, ‘of the stock—or rather, the lack thereof—which
you,
vaše Veličenstvo, place in such an argument.’
‘Careful, now,’ Lesana’s dimple deepened. Her tone was playful as she warned him: ‘I learned quite well from my father how to deal with the
impudence of certain priests.’
‘It’s only impudence if I’m wrong,’ Fr Havel answered. ‘And I’m not.’
Lesana set the teacup gently in its saucer. ‘I dearly hope you’re not saying such things simply because
I am a woman! But as it happens… you’re
not wrong. Not in the slightest. However—I hope you will understand, it will take some time to draught such a proposal in language that will stand a chance of passing the
Stavovské.’
‘I’d be happy to help in that particular matter,
vaše Veličenstvo,’ said the priest.
‘I’m sure you would,’ said the
Cárovná a Kráľovna smoothly. ‘But I’m afraid that the way you can best be of help to me in this particular matter, is to exercise that most excellent theological virtue of
patience. You have my word that this proposal
will appear before the
Stavovské. But you must leave the timing of it in my hands.’
Fr Havel Daxner frowned slightly.
‘It would,’ Lesana ventured, ‘well behoove a man who has argued so eloquently for women to be entrusted with property, to entrust
this woman, his Empress and Queen, with the politics of allowing it to them.’
Fr Havel Daxner broke into a broad grin. ‘Well put. I shall endeavour to bear meekly that which is laid to my charge, as my Lord—
and my Lady—command.’
Lesana watched him go, and reflected.
That priest was a charmer and a half together. No doubt that if he had chosen the diplomatic corps rather than the clerical collar for his vocation, he’d be a tomcat in and out of half the court ladies’ beds. Yet celibacy was the rule among Roman Catholic, not among Orthodox, priests—and it was somewhat strange that a priest with as much power and clout as he had, and as much natural
savoir-faire, should also be a bachelor.
And finally, there was another aftershock of the
Moravian-Asturian War of 1806.
Formally, it was called the
Spoločnosť pre spravodlivé reparácie z Bieleho mesta, but everyone knew that the true purpose and aims of the political Society were in fact aimed at fostering a belligerent and combative stance toward the new Asturian Sultanate, and so it was generally called the
Anti-Asturian League—a name which stuck. Lesana was not particularly keen on giving this political lobby any real say in affairs. Firstly: she rather liked the new Spanish Sultan, on a personal level, from the few meetings they’d had together at the end of the War. Secondly: as far as she was concerned, the Asturians had already paid dearly for their ill-fated Revolution, whether in land, in cash, in prestige. And thirdly: she simply felt it was
unsporting, to kick the Asturians again after they had been
so resoundingly defeated.
Still, the League made considerable headway in the
Stavovské, for reasons that were fairly clear to anyone who would care to observe. The League was popular among the so-called
‘Trenčianski Tejlurovci’—the umbrella term for the factory-owners, industrialists and financiers in the Miava Maple Arcade who were largely of British and Bourguignon Protestant extraction—as well as the rural landowning class in Nitra, and certain circles of the Orthodox Church as well. They had deep pockets, and those pockets readily emptied themselves for lavish dinners to entertain members of the
Stavovské Zhromaždenie. This vulgar practice was not long in becoming known to the
Cárovná a Kráľovná before she decided that it was to end
at once: she publicly castigated both the members of the
Stavovské for having allowed themselves to be bought off, and forbade the League (or any other political pressure group) from engaging in such flagrant graft.
Fr Havel Daxner, although his name was associated fairly closely with several other churchmen who were in the League, was not implicated in this scheme himself. His name was soon, however, to be blackened by another, very different scandal.
‘Bless, Father,’ the older, brown-skinned man bowed deeply and kissed Fr Havel’s fair-skinned hand. Fr Havel Daxner was clearly not displeased with the man’s display of piety.
‘God bless you, sir!’
‘Would you please give a word to a traveller?’ asked the man. Fr Havel scrutinised his brown, strong-cheeked face and tried to place his melodic accent. ‘It is not with ease that I reached here, and there are not many who follow the Original Faith where I come from.’
‘Well, I can’t pretend to be a holy elder,’ said the young priest with a smile, ‘but I do have some time before I must make my next little house call. Won’t you join me, rest your feet, have a coffee? It’s on me, and Abou Šarif’s
does happen to be one of the best cafés in Brno. What’s your name?’
‘I’m Tristan,’ said the swarthy man as he sat down. ‘Tristan Franklin.’
‘Not… Welsh?’ asked Fr Havel.
Tristan gave a rather gap-toothed smile. ‘Partly, though I fear the Welsh would likely rather not take ownership of me. I’m what they would call a
“half-caste”: mixed British and Maaya parentage.’
‘And what brings you here?’ asked Fr Havel.
‘Pilgrimage,’ said Tristan Franklin. ‘To the relics of Saint Methodius, at the Cathedral of Saint Gorazd. I hear that the great saint touches the hearts and lives of people
of all races and heritages. I wish to see if that holds true in my own case.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it shall,’ said Fr Havel. ‘God bless you for your pious intention! Yet I can’t help but wonder. You said you were half-Maaya: what draw does the Orthodox Faith have in Mexico?’
‘Well, it has a certain draw for those of us who love Christ,’ said Tristan Franklin, ‘but who see every day the collusion that the Roman Catholic Church engages in with the British colonisation of our Mexican lands. Orthodoxy doesn’t colonise.’
Fr Havel wasn’t about to correct Tristan on that point, though he was well aware that the Sámi (Orthodox though most of them were)
might have a word or two to say about that. As might the denizens of
the Caucasus about Byzantium. In the broad strokes, though, and considering his own perspective, he wasn’t wrong: the Orthodox Christian powers had never expanded at all into the New World, let alone as viciously and voraciously as the various Catholic and Sunnî Muslim powers had done… Indeed, Moravia and Sápmi in particular had been not only well-wishers but
active patrons of the independence and tribal sovereignty of New World Indigenous tribes.
‘And what is it that you do professionally, Tristan Franklin?’
‘I design things,’ Tristan answered diffidently. ‘My greatest ambition is to design church architecture in the Byzantine style with New World and Maaya motifs. But there is little call for that back home.’
Fr Havel considered Tristan carefully. ‘I’d love to see some samples of your work,’ he said. ‘Lord knows we could use some fresh design principles here in Moravia. If you would forward some sketches or prints to St Nicholas in Bratislava, I’m sure I could put in a good word for you.’
‘Would you truly?’ asked Tristan, pleased beyond measure. ‘That’s remarkably generous of you.’
‘Not at all,’ said Fr Havel. ‘Like I said: the Moravian Orthodox Church could use good engineers, and particularly those with honourable intentions. Let me see a few of your draughts, and I’ll send word to the relevant parties to ensure that you’re invited here formally. I don’t mean to boast, but I do have the ear of the
Cárovná a Kráľovna.’
And so it was that Tristan Franklin applied for permanent residency in Brno. And with rather perfect timing, too, because Fr Havel Daxner’s ‘next little house call’ came with some rather disastrous ramifications.
He had successfully made a pass some time ago at one of his deacons, Dcn Eberhard Kollár. And they had scheduled an assignation at what they thought was a nice, out-of-the-way little hostel in residential Brno, where they could indulge the forbidden desires of the flesh in the needed seclusion. But they were discovered in the act by a member of the press who would not keep quiet, and who produced proofs in the
Stavovské of Daxner’s trysts with Dcn Eberhard which could not be refuted.
Homosexuality was not unknown among the Orthodox clergy; broadly considered, the sin rather was being caught at it. And, of course, being a public figure of considerable secular power and wielding that to his advantage over a lowly deacon of his parish—Fr Havel Daxner was not in a very good position to weather the scandal. The
Cárovná a Kráľovna demanded his immediate resignation, which he tendered during the following session of the
Stavovské Zhromaždenie.
Yet Tristan Franklin, the British-Mexican pilgrim with certain architectural talents, was given the
Cárovná a Kráľovna’s explicit permission to stay in Moravia, on the strength of Fr Havel Daxner’s recommendation alone.
~~~
‘Up there again?’ asked Širin Abasovna Mustafaeva of her niece, who was already perched on the rooftop of the byre, on top of the thatched eaves, her legs folded neatly under her.
‘Just watching the sunset,’ replied Fara Mironovna.
Sunset on the Volga River
Širin joined her niece—her elder brother Miron’s daughter—on top of the byre, and watched the sun set in the distance behind the birch trees, beyond the banks of the Kizaň River on the Volga Delta, over the road that would lead to Rostov-on-Don. Although they were aunt and niece, there was a closeness of age between them that rendered Širin more like an elder sister to Fara, owing mostly to her father ‘Abbâs’s late reunion with his Cossack wife Anastasiya after the Russian-Byzantine war of the 1780s.
‘And
must you always come up here after chores, and gaze out on the setting sun with an expression like your heart’s about to break?’ asked Širin with a playful swat. ‘Who knew we had a
bona fide tragic heroine at home?’
‘Nonsense,’ Fara answered quietly. ‘I’m no one’s tragic heroine.’
‘Not even Andrei’s?’ Širin said slyly.
Fara blushed and answered (entirely unconvincingly), ‘I’m well over him.’
Širin wisely decided not to press the matter, but sat beside Fara looking out at the sunset.
‘I’m thinking about going into town,’ Fara told her aunt. ‘Work in a shop. I’m decent at sewing; and I hear they always need good seamstresses in Astrakhan. I could make money there.’
Širin took a few moments before answering. ‘Fara—
please tell me you’re not—
čeh nââmid kunandeh, this
better not be about Father’s and Mother’s conversation last weekend!’
‘And so what if it is?’ Fara flung her head back defiantly. ‘I haven’t the right to worry?’
‘We’re
all worried,’ Širin lay a bracing hand on her niece’s shoulder. ‘
All of us are. Money has always been tight around here. But that isn’t an excuse to leave! And to
become a mill girl—? Fara, haven’t you seen the hands and faces of the girls who
come back from there, hoping to make a little money?’
‘No great sacrifice in my case,’ Fara muttered. ‘I’m no beauty.’
Širin gave her niece an incredulous look. That sounded
dangerously close to self-pity.
Fara Mironovna Mustafaeva, ‘no beauty’? True, Fara wasn’t the sort of rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed Russian blonde that Andrei had preferred in the end. But beauty comes in all hues! Fara’s sable-brown eyebrows were of a typically-Iranian heaviness, but each one was a shapely high arch. The dark, wide lips upon her slender face were expressive and mobile. And her wide, down-slanted, liquid brown eyes were as expressive and sad as a puppy’s, or a doe’s. In addition, her healthy, well-defined cheeks had a healthy caramel lustre, and—when she chose to deploy such a doomsday weapon—a brilliant, broad, white dazzler of a smile that rendered moot all other standards of conventional beauty.
But Širin wasn’t about to point out her niece’s obvious physical advantages: such praise would have the opposite of the effect desired. Instead she took a different tack.
‘Fara: Father and Mother rely on you here. Miron relies on you. We all do. You’re the eldest grandchild, full-grown, with a strong back and legs. The cash you’d send back in remittance simply wouldn’t be worth the loss of those green thumbs of yours, even temporarily!’
‘You mean it?’ asked Fara.
‘I
do mean it,’ said Širin bracingly. ‘If
anyone around here is bound for the mills, it will be me or Dunya or Dani—
in that order. And we’re not at such a hard pass yet.’
