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Alan Furst: Blood of Victory

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Alan Furst Blood of Victory

Blood of Victory: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Anna Della Corvo leaned toward Serebin and said, for him and not for the others, “Please understand, we are all exiles here.”

“Do you know,” Della Corvo said as he returned to his chair, “that I am a great admirer of La Torre Argentea?”

What the hell was that?

“You’re surprised. Not your personal favorite, perhaps.”

Oh Jesus he meant The Silver Tower. Serebin’s first book, which he’d obviously read in the Italian edition. “Well,” Serebin said, pretending that he’d been thinking it over. He then realized that given the pause for speculation, he was obliged to say something meaningful. “I was twenty-eight.”

“Should that matter?” Della Corvo raised an eyebrow as he said it, would, in a minute, have the whole pack of them howling at his heels. In a midnight blizzard, wolves chase the troika.

“It’s only that I might have done those stories better, ten years later.”

“What would be different? You don’t mind my asking, do you?”

“No, no, it’s fine. I suppose, now, I might call it Kovalevsky’s Tower. Silver was how it looked in the heat of summer, but a man named Kovalevsky built it.” He paused a moment, then explained. “A stone tower on a cliff above the Black Sea, near Odessa.”

“Why?”

“Did he build it?”

“Yes.”

“He had no reason. Or, his reason was, I want to build a stone tower. And we used to say, ‘It’s a landmark for people lost at sea.’ Which it was, for sailors, but we meant a little more than that. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Anna Della Corvo laughed. “My love,” she said to her husband, and at that moment she utterly adored him, “people don’t know why they do things.”

“Sometimes in books,” Serebin said, laughing along with her.

Madame Della Corvo rang a crystal bell and a waiter appeared with bowls of fruit on a silver tray. There was another bottle of wine, and another.

Green bottles with no label. “It’s Medoc,” she explained, “from a cru classe estate. We buy it from a ship’s chandler in Sete.”

Were they often in France?

“Oh, now and then. Not recently.”

Obliquity-the base element of life in a police state, learn it or die. Serebin had learned it in the Russian school. “So then, are you going back to Italy?”

“Well, we could.”

Was the Nereide, he wondered, a kind of Flying Dutchman, doomed to wander the seas, from neutral port to neutral port, for a fascist eternity?

Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, more of the same. “I certainly considered resigning,” Labonniere said. “But then, what?”

“A life in opposition,” Enid said. A silence, rather a long one. Then she said, “In London, with de Gaulle.”

It was Marie-Galante who answered, choked-back tears of anger in her voice. “De Gaulle hates him,” she said. “ Hates him.”

Labonniere cleared his throat. “We do what we can.”

“What can any of us do?” Della Corvo defended his friend.

Enid retreated. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I finally heard from my sister, in Copenhagen. It’s the first time since the occupation-just the fact of a postcard getting through felt like a great victory.”

“What did she say?” Madame Della Corvo asked.

“On the card, she wrote that I need not worry about her, the Danes are treated with respect by their German allies. Between the lines she’s miserable, but Denmark will never die.”

“Between the lines?”

“Yes. Someone told me to check, and there it was. Invisible writing.”

“Secret ink?” Della Corvo asked. At least three people at the table glanced at Bastien.

Enid hesitated, then answered. “Weewee.”

Hilarity. “How did you…?”

“Well, with a hot iron, there was a certain, oh, you know.”

Marrano didn’t think it was funny. “You could use plain water,” he said.

Marie-Galante started to laugh. “Oh but really, why would you?”

Two in the morning. Serebin waited on the pier at the foot of the gangway. It was immensely quiet, the water shining like metal in the light of a quarter moon. Serebin had mentioned going back on a ferry, but Anna Della Corvo wouldn’t hear of it. “You mustn’t. Andre came in a motor launch, he’ll have you dropped off at a dock near your hotel.”

Serebin heard the rumble of an engine, the launch appeared a moment later. He sat in the stern next to Bastien. A million stars above, the air cool and damp, to be out in the night the only cure for a dinner party.

Bastien lit a cigar. “Will you stay in Istanbul?”

“Forever, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“No, I’ll go back.”

“And stay out of trouble?”

“So far, the French do nothing.”

“It will come.”

“Perhaps.”

“Difficult, that sort of decision.”

“For you also, no?”

“Oh yes, like everybody else.”

They were silent, after that. Sometime later the launch slowed, and pulled in to a dock in the Beyoglu district. Bastien took a card from his wallet. Serebin read it in the moonlight, a trading company, with offices in Istanbul, then put it in his pocket.

“When you’re ready,” Bastien said.

In Haskoy, 3:20 on a rainy afternoon. Serebin watched the drops run down the grimy windows of the IRU office, a glass of pink lemonade in his hand. The larger of the two rooms was set up like a theatre-desks shoved against the wall, chairs side by side. On stage: Goldbark, General de Kossevoy, and the guest of honor, I. A. Serebin.

So far, nothing had gone right. Goldbark, hair standing out from the sides of his head, ran around like a harassed waiter. Kubalsky had not returned from wherever he’d gone, nobody could find the Welcome! banner, there was a commotion out on Rasim street that began with a beaten donkey and ended with shouted insults, and poor old Madame Ivanova dropped a tray of glasses and had to be consoled.

“My God”-Goldbark shook his head in slow anguish-“why are we like this?”

“Just enjoy it,” Serebin said. “It’s a party.”

True enough: frosted cake, lemonade, loud talk, laughter, two or three arguments, a hot, smoky room, a sad autumn day. “Like home, Chaim Davidovich. What can be so bad?”

General de Kossevoy clapped his hands, pleaded for their kind attention, and eventually got everybody to shut up and sit down. He then introduced Goldbark, who rose graciously to speak just as a Turkish porter pounded on the door and hauled in a donation from Mahmoudov’s grocery-a crate of fat, shiny eggplants. Goldbark closed his eyes, took a deep breath-at some point this afternoon the imps of misfortune were going to leave him alone. “Very well, then. Today it is my pleasure to welcome…” Applause. “And now, Lidia Markova, one of our many prize-winning students, will read a selection from the work of our dear guest.”

She was twelve, Lidia Markova, and very plain, wearing a white blouse starched within an inch of its life and a navy skirt that hung below her knees. She stood with shoes precisely together, adjusted her red-framed eyeglasses, and patted her hair into place. Serebin could only offer a silent prayer- please God let nothing embarrassing happen to her. In a tiny voice, she announced the name of the story, then began to read. “‘In Odessa…’”

“What?”

“Speak up, child.”

“Sorry. ‘ In Odessa…’”

“That’s better.”

“Not too fast, now.”

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