Chapter Text
October 1911 - The Rozanov House on Prechistenka - Moscow, Russia
“Mr. Rozanov, your father waits for you in his office. He says it’s urgent.”
The request lights a fire inside Ilya Rozanov. Not the warm one of a fireplace; the destructive, of a conflagration. Being called to Grigori Rozanov’s office only means one thing: business. Ilya wants nothing to do with any business his father is associated with. But any member of the Rozanov family knows that personal will is always below the household’s needs.
Your last name is the first thing people will remember about you.
The motto still lingers on his skin, a never healing wound. His family has lived by it, over five hundred years. Has any of his ancestors successfully escaped the fate of being born a Rozanov? Probably not. And those who dare tried… Well, their presence in the family events was never acknowledged again. So, as rightful heir to the family wealth and fortune, he answers:
“Thank you, Baranov. I’ll be right there.”
He slowly closes the fallboard of his grand piano, shut the door of his bedroom with the key and takes a deep breath as he walks the long corridor that leads to the main stairs. The staff has already cleaned the hall on the second floor; it’s smelling of pine and ammonia. A long time ago, it smelled of flowers.
The pale morning light enters through the big skylight framed by metal ornaments, but is not enough to light up Ilya’s humour. The hallway to the right of the entrance door leads to the office of Grigori Rozanov.
As he approaches the big wooden door, he breathes deeply one more time, bracing himself for what’s to come. He listens to other two male voices, apart from his father’s, and recognizes them instantly. He opens the door to be greeted by one of them.
“Ilya, how have you been?”
“Normal, probably, yes.” Ilya answers, without meaning it.
Nikolai Obolensky is a presence known to Ilya since his early years. A friend of the Rozanov’s, Nikolai became a sort of personal advisor to Grigori. His extended knowledge of business in many different fields always comes in handy when his father fails to solve any of their issues. Which happens very often. Hence the man being at The Rozanov House almost every week.
“Third time this week. I think it’s a new record.”
Grigori shifts uncomfortably in his chair, and denounces himself. Ilya knows his comment landed exactly where he wanted.
“If you handled the business properly, he wouldn’t have to be here all the time.”
Alexei Rozanov, his brother, only opens his mouth to diminish Ilya’s work and flatter their father excessively. What Alexei defines as loyalty, Ilya defines as approval-seeking. He’s grown a thick skin against his brother throughout the years. So he ignores him.
“With everything that’s been going on with the estate, you should be glad that I’m not here every day,” Nikolai’s tone is not good.
Grigori interrupts. “Some estate managers have been funneling money to the socialists, yebanye ublyudki.”
“Nikolai, could you enlighten me? My father…” Ilya looks at his father with pity.
“These revolutionaries fight for the end of the empire. They claim society needs a new structure. Land redistribution, new laws for the workers, etc etc.”
“And how did it affect our estate?”
“During the last months, the financial officer detected anomalies on the production vs. profit reports. There were imbalances that didn’t match reality. We sent our people there and after thorough investigation, the corrupt managers confessed what they had been doing.”
“And we took care of them.” Grigori interrupts with a grunt.
Ilya is aware of what that means in this environment. And he flinches in his place.
Nikolai lights up his cigar and continues, behind a cloud of smoke. “You lost money, that’s a fact…”
On the other side of the table, Grigori Rozanov hits his closed fists on the wooden desk several times. Ilya used to be afraid of those fists, of course. With time, he noticed they demanded the respect his father could not earn. Alexei follows his lead without hesitation. But Ilya remains still, and that is answer enough.
“...and because we discovered it soon enough to stop the bleeding, you didn’t lose much. However, the Empire is being attacked. The Tsar is being threatened. Stolypin was assassinated at the Kiev Opera House. And the Rozanov family being a part of this empire… You must expand and invest in business out of Europe. As a precaution.”
“The United States sounds like the best option now, yes? They strongly protect private property and there are new sectors rising, like oil, mining, railroads, and strong connections to Canadian timber.”
“That is correct,” Nikolai observed. “So I put forward a bold plan of action a few weeks ago. You’ll play a vital role in this plan, Ilya. You may even find it... amusing.”
Ilya is anything but amused. It all seems like a trap. They already decided what to do and are now simply informing of the outcomings, like he was merely playing a part in school theater.
“I don’t approve of this, Nikolai. How have you made decisions about my life without consulting me?”
“It is mandatory that you accept it and I’ll explain to you why.”
Mandatory or not, he had no other choice but to remain seated and wait for these men to define his destiny and fate once more.
“As you said moments ago, the United States has growing business in many different fields. A feast to choose from. Weeks ago, I sent letters - on behalf of the household Rozanov - to a few of these businessmen, expressing your interest in the American market. ”
Nikolai continues. “Benjamin Guggenheim, mining investor, responded.”
“It is, indeed, a bold plan. What did Guggenheim say?” Ilya asks.
“He stated he’s interested in meeting you. He’s heard about your companies and investments in mining here and around Europe. However, and this is where you step in, Ilya.”
For the first time, Ilya acknowledges the bottle of vodka standing next to Alexei. He stands up and indulges himself with a shot. And then another one.
“Grigori, you have a…,” Nikolai stops, choosing his words carefully. “Somewhat compromised reputation outside of Russia.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow and smiles discretely to his shot glass.
Grigori huffs and grunts. “These Americans are afraid of the Russian power. They can’t look me straight in the eye out of fear. Of course my reputation is compromised. And that’s what I want it to be.”
Nikolai doesn’t react, much too accustomed to Grigori’s barking. Ilya often questioned himself how a man like Nikolai Obolensky became friends with a man like Grigori Rozanov.
“Your reputation, Ilya, on the other hand, is the reason why he agreed to have a meeting with you. But there’s a trick to it.”
“A trick? Is this when I'm supposed to find it amusing?”
“You are familiar with a company called White Star Line, yes?”
“Of course. It is based in the United Kingdom and it is owned by Thomas Ismay. They build ships and—”
“Is this the bastard whose ships fill your eyes, empty your pockets and leave you praying she’ll hold it all together at sea?” Alexei says, surprising Ilya and Nikolai.
“What do you mean?” Nikolai asks.
“That his ships are built to impress, not to last.”
“And who told you that?” Ilya questions. “Your drunk and reliable friends at the chess club?”
Alexei grunts, mirroring his father’s attitude.
“Nikolai, please, do continue.” Ilya glances at Alexei, silently ordering him to keep quiet.
“Yes. The White Star Line is launching a new ship. And her inaugural trip is going to be in April of the following year. Mr. Guggenheim and many other investors will be on this trip. Southampton, in England to New York.”
Ilya could see now. The plan architected by Nikolai would have him on this ship, engaging in conversations, strengthening bonds. A luxury prison, a Fabergé egg afloat in the ocean.
“Your task, Ilya, is to travel and gain terrain with them. Make contacts, find out the rumors about their business, understand their personalities. Since I contacted them and I’ve been studying their profiles, I’ll go with you.”
That should feel comforting, a friendly face among foreign names.
“And so will Alexei.”
“What?” Alexei stands up, surprised with the invitation.
“Ilya will need a bodyguard. But one of ours, one of us. We can’t risk ourselves.”
Serving himself another shot of vodka, Ilya thinks about all the compromises he’s had to make in the name of the Rozanov household. It’s a burden. What’s he to do?
His options in Russia were running low. The risk of an attack is imminent. Soon, if the revolution succeeds — which it was likely too —, the foundation of their beliefs would vanish like sandcastles in the wind. He had to think about his future. Whether he would build his own path or walk away from its ruins.
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March 1912 - Angel Court - Trinity College - Cambridge, England
Thin flakes of snow fall outside, covering the grass with a white layer of ice that soon will melt. Inside his room at Angel Court, Shane Hollander shares a breakfast with his colleague, Hayden Pike.
“So Fitzroy and Whitmore invited us to have lunch at The Eagle. I think we should go, since these are the last weeks of vacation. I’ve been practicing—”
“No! Don’t bet against Fitzroy again at crib, Hayds. I’m not going to lose more money because you drink like a fish and bet like a bloody five year old on a Christmas morning.”
Hayden chuckles. “It’s not losing; it’s an investment in your reputation.”
“How can that possibly be an investment in my reputation?”
“You stepped in for me!" Hayden squeaks. "They value being loyal more than knowing the economics of supply versus transport capacity.”
Hayden's intentions are those of a joke, but it his a nerve on Shane. He doesn’t answer because he knows the truth lies somewhere in those lines.
“Come on, Shane, I’m not making fun of your abilities,” he apologizes. “Your father believes in you. The business is solid, you’ve got all the skills well sorted.” Hayden kindly pats Shane on his left knee.
Shane takes a sip of his coffee and watches the snow swirling in front of the window.
“I’m aware of that. It's what you said about what’s more important to them. I’m not worried about the business. Nor the money.”
Hayden leans back on the chair. “No?"
“I know how to deal with numbers, how to read contracts, good manners, etiquette.” He exhales. “That part makes sense.”
“Then what is the problem?”
He stands up and collects their dish from the small table only to keep his hands busy. “Everything else.”
Hayden smirks. “Thank you for not being completely vague.”
“I don’t know another way to describe it." He inhales deeply and begins explaining. "It's the way they move and act around each other. How they already know the answer to a question you haven’t even asked yet,” he pauses. “Their meeting rooms are not for decision-making, Hayds, you know it better than me. It’s for confirming you align with the version they created of you.”
“Good heavens, Hollander, you’re overthinking.”
“Maybe I am. But the aspects I’m overthinking about, for them, is second nature, a lifestyle. At this point, they won’t test my technical knowledge or ask for my bank statement.”
Shane sits on the edge of his bed, and looks at Hayden.
“They’ll test me based on my perception, on what I notice. And I don’t know how to prepare myself for that. They don’t teach that in books. ”
The room goes silent for a moment. When Shane’s father sent him to Cambridge to study Political Economy, he was entirely sure he’d pass with merits. He understands the markets and predicts outcomes based on reports. He’s built on precision and goal-orientation. Only none of those characteristics matter when they evaluate you by qualitative aspects.
Suddenly, Hayden raises himself as if Newton’s apple has fallen right on his head. “Not in books, no. But there is a way to teach you.”
He quickly opens Shane’s drawer and gets a pencil and a piece of paper. He draws a big triangle in it.
“Hayden…,” he says, anxiously.
He writes one word on each corner of the triangle.
“I may be only a few years older than you, but I’ve already had my fair share of cigar rooms and polo games to understand a little about how it works.”
Shane can see the words written on the triangle. Observant. Witty. Kind.
“These men already have an opinion of you. We’re not trying to read their minds. That’s nearly impossible and you’ll go insane if you try.”
“I already am.”
“Exactly,” and he continues explaining. “What you need is to be trusted. Trust is built on consistency. Whenever you enter a room, they must know what to expect from you. And how you’ll behave in different environments, with different people."
“I see that, but—”
“Listen, Hollander,” he interrupts. “We’re building your new personality right this instant."
And he points to the triangle again. Observant, kind, witty.
“You choose two out of these three. You can’t be all three because they’re all of these three. At least they think they are,” they both give a small sarcastic smirk.
“By being one step behind, my dear Hollander, you’ll actually be two steps ahead.”
“So what if I choose to be… Observant and witty?”
“You’ll be quiet all the time, holding your glass, greeting people with a nod and a gentle smile.” Hayden moves in a lousy imitation of someone holding a glass of wine and nodding. “But, in a cigar room, you’ll know exactly when to land a clever comment, a joke, even. Not one to diminish them; one to show you can—”
“I don’t like this,” Shane immediately interrupts. “I’ll say all the wrong things in the wrong moments.”
“Well,” Hayden scratches the option out. “Could you be witty and kind?”
“The problem is the wit. To be witty, it demands I perceive the room in a certain way I can’t. Scratch witty out of it.”
“We’re left with being observant and kind.”
“How does it work?”
“Basically being there for them, attending to their needs before they think of them,” he clarifies. “Imagine you’re in a cigar room and someone’s cigar goes out. You’ll be the one who’ll quietly relight it from him, without him asking and before he reaches for the lighter.”
Shane has an idea of his own. “If their glasses run out of brandy, I could be the one to fill them.”
“In a meeting room,” Hayden continues, excitedly. “You reach the board a document as soon as it’s mentioned.”
“I think I can do that.”
“Great! You’re Shane ‘Observant and Kind’ Hollander. You’ll do just fine, bud.”
For the first time in months, Shane feels confident about stepping into this world he’s been eager to explore but didn’t find the right path to trail. Now, Hayden offered him a map.
“One last recommendation. In every one of these rooms, always, always, look for the leader. It’s an unspoken rule; they’ll not state it directly, but he’s there.”
“How do I recognize him?”
“You could say it’s the wealthiest one. But in a room full of men you may not know, search for the man no one interrupts, who shifts a conversation entirely and everybody follows without questioning.”
“When I identify the leader, it is his glass I’ll fill first. It's his jacket I’ll retrieve from the coat room.”
“Excellent. You’re ready, my man.”
“Hayden,” Shane hugs him. “How do I ever repay you?”
“Just be there for me when I lose to Fitzroy in crib.”
Shane smiled and nodded affirmingly. “I only hope this class comes at handy in the Titanic.”
“Wait… Titanic?”
“Yes, you’ve heard of it. They’re calling it the ship not even God can sink. The inaugural trip is in April—”
“Tenth?” Hayden’s eyes are wide and he has the biggest grin on his face. “Hollander, get ready for the trip of a lifetime. I’ll be aboard too.”
“What? Impossible!”
“It means I’ll witness first hand the pupil overcoming the master,” he taps Shane on the shoulder.
“And as a well instructed pupil, your glass will always be kept full."