Russia
Rah Rah Rasputin, Lover of the Russian queen. -Boney M
The Mad Monk (Continued)
Sandwiches in hand, we clambered out of the car to meet the modern-day mystic. He extended a grubby hand to me. I had no choice but to give him my sandwich, which he grabbed with two paws and devoured.
Viktor had a mangy head of dark hair and a full black beard. Both were peppered with sticks and leaves and other unidentifiable scraps. He was dressed too warmly for the spring day in heavy boots and a worn, quilted jacket that was tied with a rope belt. His smile glinted with gold, and he reeked of body odor and alcohol.
The only characteristic that was not consistent was that Rasputin was known to be some six and a half feet tall, while this guy, at five-foot-four, was shorter than I. He ushered us into the gated yard and stood up on the doorstep.
Now he towered a head above us: `That’s more like it,’ we agreed.
There lived a certain man in Russia long ago
He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow
Most people looked at him with terror and with fear
But to Moscow chicks he was such a lovely dear.
From his perch on the doorstep, Viktor proceeded to regale us with stories about his licentious look-alike. `This is where Grigory Yefimovich was born,’ announced Viktor. `It was actually his aunt’s house, but his mother gave birth in this room right here.’ He pointed to a window on the second floor, through which nothing was visible except an empty vodka bottle sitting on the sill. Apparently, the communists - fearing competing cults - had long since torn down Rasputin's home, which had been across the street.
`It is no coincidence that I resemble Grigory Yefimovich,’ our friend explained. `You see, my great-grandmother was a maid in the Rasputin family house.’ His eyes twinkled. `So more than likely, he is my biological great-grandfather.’ I couldn’t tell if he really believed it, but it was hard to argue this claim.
Rasputin is notorious for being a ladies' man. That he was the `lover of the Russian queen’ may not be historically documented fact, but there is no question that he had a cotillion of classy chicks – high-society types – who were seduced by his animal magnetism and charismatic personality. And perhaps by some other charms.
Viktor lowered his voice. `Of course you have heard about his penis?’ We shook our heads; we had not heard. Viktor’s eyes widened. `The penis of Grigory Yefimovich was 30 centimeters long,’ he claimed. We all paused while mentally calculating the conversion from the metric system. I will spare you getting out your calculator: it’s 11.8 inches, just a hair under a foot long. Jimmy let out a low whistle.
We were all impressed but I was skeptical: `How do they know that?’
Viktor smiled. It was the perfect segue to the gory tale of Rasputin’s demise. The holy man’s scandalous behavior and his influence over the queen had invoked the ire of some of St Petersburg’s aristocracy. The powerful Prince Yusupov and a few other upper-crust cronies decided that the Siberian peasant must be stopped. They invited him over and plied him with wine and cakes that were laced with potassium cyanide. Strangely, the poison had no apparent effect. The murderers then resorted to Plan B, shooting the mystic three times and leaving him to die. But Rasputin still managed to rouse himself and attempt escape. Finally, Plan C, he was bludgeoned, tied up in a sheet and dropped into the icy Neva River, where he finally drowned.
We all knew this story; but we didn’t know that the dirty deed also involved castration. Apparently, the Yusupov’s maid found Rasputin’s oversized organ when cleaning the apartment after the murder. As Viktor astutely observed: `It was not only political power that Prince Yusupov was jealous of…’
`This man’s just got to go!’ declared his enemies
But the ladies begged `Don’t try to do it, Please!’
No doubt this Rasputin had lots of hidden charms
Though he was a brute they just fell into his arms…
Finally, Viktor offered to take us inside the house. `There is not a lot of see,’ he warned. `The house has been ransacked repeatedly, ever since the Bolsheviks did it the first time.’ He led us around back, where the door was hanging off its hinge. He pushed his way through the narrow doorway and we followed, emerging into a dark, dusty, nearly empty room. Sunlight filtered through a window and reflected off the particles that floated through the air. A shaft of light fell on one piece of furniture in the room: an old, decrepit wooden armchair.
`It’s amazing,’ Viktor observed, `Of everything that was taken over the years, that this chair remains.’ It did not seem amazing to me that nobody would bother to take a rickety old chair. The seat was badly worn and several rungs were broken; it looked like it would hardly withstand my weight.
`This is one of two chairs remaining from a set made by Grigory Yefimovich,’ Viktor explained. `The other is on display in a museum in Tyumen. They say,' he paused dramatically, `that is imbued with Rasputin’s magical powers.’ I could hardly imagine how this chair might heal hemophilia but we listened intently as our raconteur continued. `A sportsman was in Tyumen for a wrestling tournament. He was not competitive and kept losing his matches. After the first day, he visited the museum, where he sat in the magical chair; only a few moments infused him with the strength of an ox. After that, he won every match and he won the tournament.’
We were mildly amused. Viktor continued: `This chair guarantees not only physical strength but also sexual prowess. Anyone who sits in this chair will never have trouble with the ladies.’ He raised his eyebrows. `Nu, shto? How about it, gentlemen? One hundred rubles?’ Bob rolled his eyes and walked away. Viktor turned to Jimmy. `What about you, my friend? For fifty rubles, you will have all the ladies in your lap!'
`What about the guys?' Jimmy asked mischievously. Viktor was stumped. `I think I'll pass.'
`Now it is time to leave,’ Viktor announced. `But first, we must pay our respects to Grigory Yefimovich.’ He motioned to Bob, who was carrying the remains of our picnic lunch. Bob looked confused. `Tradition says we must drink a toast,’ Viktor implored, eyeing the bag of goodies. Bob acquiesced by pulling out a bottle of vodka and cracking it open. Viktor’s eyes lit up. `Who will give a toast?'
Graceful as always, Lady Caroline volunteered. She looked at me knowingly, and together, we burst into song:
Rah Rah Rasputin, Lover of the Russian Queen
They put some poison in his wine
Rah Rah Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine
He drank it all and he said `I feel fine.’
So ended our brief encounter with `Russia’s greatest love machine'. Viktor requested a tip for his efforts. Impressed with his entrepreneurial spirit, we gave him 100 rubles and the remainder of the vodka bottle. At the time, 100 rubles was worth about $18, so we thought it was a generous offering. But Viktor was not impressed and he pressed us for more – a harsh reminder that this was post-Communist Russia, and 100 rubles did not go as far as it did in Rasputin’s day. So things come full circle. With the passing of communism, clever capitalists profit from a newfound fascination with Russia’s pre-Revolutionary roots.
So I was not surprised when I read the story in the Moscow Times about the so-called museum of erotica, recently founded in St Petersburg by the head of prostate research at the Russian Academy of Sciences. (Apparently the Academy is also exploring some alternative sources of funding.) The exhibit’s prize artifact is indeed Rasputin’s preserved penis, reappearing after all these years. Remarkably, even in its detached state, the Mad Monk’s massive member is still making headlines.
Rah Rah Rasputin, Lover of the Russian Queen
They didn’t quit, they wanted his head
Rah Rah Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine
And so they shot him till he was dead.
Mara Vorhees is a writer and photographer who blogs about food, music and adventure around the world.She has written guidebooks about Belize, Brazil, Costa Rica, Morocco, New England and Russia for Lonely Planet. Click here to read more about Mara.
