Angelopolis(34)

support. In exchange for paint and brushes, he accepted their work. At the time, this was a more or

less even exchange. Now, as you can imagine, they hold a certain historical, as well as a sentimental,

value. These images are a record of an era that has disappeared. When I see them I recall what it was

like to be in exile, the long lunches in the garden with my parents and their friends, the low murmur of

Russian, with its elegant, yet biting, resonance. These icons form a museum of my youth.”

As if remembering that she was not alone, Nadia turned and led them onward, taking them through a

succession of narrow rooms filled with birdcages and marble busts. A cabinet of butterflies stood

against a wall with hundreds of colorful specimens pinned to boards inside, a copper plaque naming

the collection as belonging to Grand Duke Dmitri Romanov. When Verlaine drew closer to examine

them, the rows of powdery wings cast a sinister sensation over him, a kind of illusion of perspective.

Suddenly he realized that the specimens were actually feathers from the wings of angels. He saw the

bright yellow wings of Avestan angels, those beautiful but toxic creatures whose wings dripped with

poison; the iridescent green wings of Pharzuph, the dandies of the angel world, whose feathers

blanched blue and purple in a certain light, like the scales of a fish in an aquarium; the lavender and

orange wings of the Andras scavenger angels; the pearlescent white wings of the Phaskein

enchantress angels, whose voices invoked daydreaming and listlessness; the flat green wings of the

Mapa parasite angels, who occupied the souls of human beings, feeding off the warmth of the living.

Verlaine himself had a Linnaean catalog of many of these varieties stored in his mind—only he’d

never had the nerve to preserve them. The thought of killing and cataloging the creatures both

fascinated and sickened him.

“The Grand Duke Dmitri Romanov was a very special man,” Nadia said, noting Verlaine’s

interest. “With the help of a Russian chemist, he made a preservative that could envelop an angel’s

feather and fix it, a marvelous feat, something along the lines of being able to encapsulate the contours

of a scent or of an illusion. Dmitri gave these feather samples to my parents, who knew him during his

time in exile. Indeed, that was the same period that Dmitri assisted his lover, Coco Chanel, in the

creation of her perfumes, most notably her famous No. 5. Some people say he gave her the idea to use

a secret ingredient: the wing fibers of a Phaskein angel. Ms. Chanel had connections with many

Nephilim, and so this is not startling information. More interesting is that she managed to keep her

perfumes in production for so long, and that the secret ingredient is used still in limited-edition

batches of the perfume. It is the favorite scent of Nephilim everywhere. It was no coincidence that

Chanel was embroiled in intrigues during the Nazi occupation. She had connections with Nephilim

that went back to the Russian Revolution.”

Verlaine was at a loss for how to interpret this information. The imperial family’s Nephilistic

lineage was well-known—their downfall was celebrated by the society as a great victory—but he

had never imagined how this might manifest among their descendants. If Dmitri Romanov was a

Nephil, what in the hell was he doing collecting feather specimens from fellow angelic creatures?

What sorts of people were Nadia’s parents that they had associated with him? How did his

connection with Chanel, and the Nazis, play into his family history? He wanted to press Nadia to

tell him more, but a look from Bruno signaled that he should let it drop, and so he followed Nadia in

silence to the far end of the room.

After unlocking a wooden door, she ushered them into a larger space. It took a moment for Verlaine

to get his bearings, but soon he realized that they had just walked through the back door of the antique

shop. An enormous brass cash register sat on a polished oak table, its gleaming keys reflected in a

large plate-glass window that opened onto the street. The scent of tobacco hung heavily in the air, as

if the residue of decades of cigarette smoke coated the walls.

Verlaine maneuvered through the room. It had been filled to capacity with curiosities: a barometer,

a mannequin displaying a large muscovite headdress, and Baroque chairs upholstered in silk. One

wall had been hung with mirrors in gilded frames. There were porcelain figurines, oil paintings of

Russian soldiers, an engraving of Peter the Great, and a pair of golden epaulets. Verlaine noted the

irony of a French-born Russian woman selling prerevolutionary Russian antiques to post-Soviet

Russians in twenty-first-century St. Petersburg. Painted across the glass window in inverted letters