Blood of Victory (19 page)

“After the armistice, of course, there was hell to pay. Questions in Parliament, newspapers saying rude things. So up jumps Lloyd George, and he claims that the government didn’t want the war to end with a destroyed industrial base in France and mass unemployment. That leads to comm-u-nism. Which was major bloody nonsense, you know? Because what it really was, was money, getting what it wanted, which it always does. No shock to anybody over the age of five, I suppose, but British soldiers died from those shells, just like they’ll die from Panzer tanks running on Roumanian oil.”

A brief silence, in honor of the way things were, then Serebin said, “I’m sure you’re right.”
Though it doesn’t matter if you are.

Which Carr perfectly understood. “Doesn’t change anything, does it.”

“No.”

It meant
of course not,
the way he said it, and Carr perfectly understood that as well, because in a very particular way they were the same.

“Who are you?” Carr said. “I mean, as much as you can say.”

“Russian émigré. A writer, sometimes.”

“Well,” Carr said, “I wish I could help you...”

“But?”

“But...” He hesitated, wanted to say something he knew he shouldn’t say. Finally he wheeled the swivel chair forward as far as it would go and leaned on the desk. “It’s no secret,” he said quietly, “you could ask around, the right people, and they’d tell you, because there
are
no secrets in this place, that I’m already doing what you want me to do.”

Serebin was amused. “The same people?”

“Maybe different offices in the same building,” Carr said. “Hell, I don’t know.”

“It’s the war.”

Serebin put his cigarette out and rose to leave.

“Want some advice?” Carr stood up and walked Serebin toward the door. “Watch out for yourself. All right?”

“Always,” Serebin said. “Story of my life.”

“No, I mean now, tonight. This whole thing, Antonescu, the Legion, it’s about to explode.”

“You’re sure?”

Carr shrugged. “Just be careful where you go. Who you’re with.” They shook hands in the reception area. The secretary was on the phone, speaking rapidly in Roumanian. She looked up at them, then went back to her conversation.

“Well, good luck.”

“Thank you,” Serebin said. “To both of us, I think.”

It was restless, the city, Serebin felt it, yet not a sight or a sound explained anything.
Race of ants. Telepathic—we know, we just know.
It was cold, he raised the collar of his coat, people hurried past, eyes on the ground. A policeman on the corner took a moment to admire himself in a pocket mirror. Not unusual in Bucharest, Serebin had seen it often.

Polanyi had told him to stay off the street, to work at night, if he could. He came to a movie theatre, paid, and went in. It was practically empty, a romantic comedy on the screen. He dozed, then woke suddenly at the sound of a newsreel—somber music, a voice taut with melodrama. A destroyer stood bow up in the sea, black smoke pouring from its deck. Then an auto race, a man at the finish line waving a checkered flag.
Valentina.
When did she arrive at the club? Eight? Nine? She would be early, he thought.
Maybe she likes you,
Marie-Galante had said, teasing him. But women never joked about things like that, not really.

Idly, he considered it. She was dark and serious, an
artiste,
likely capable of fierce excitements once she broke free of herself. But not at his hands. Because she would never go after a man that way. Never. No, this was something else. What? She knew virtually nothing about him, except that he’d come from Paris and, presumably, was going back there. Was that it?

He looked at his watch. On the screen, two women spoke confidentially in a parlor, one of them dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, a man, about to enter, his hand on the doorknob, overheard them, and stood there, eavesdropping. What did he hear? Serebin couldn’t understand a word of it. Once again, he looked at his watch. He would try in an hour—he could always occupy himself for an empty hour. Then what? Go to the nightclub? Alone? Have his hair ruffled by a Zebra? No. Foolish, dangerous. Stage door, then. There was always a stage door, even at the Tic Tac Club.

He came out of the theatre into swirling snow and white streets. Two women held on to each other, taking timid steps on the slippery pavement. Usually, the sidewalks were shoveled right away. But not tonight. On the other side of the avenue, Floristi Stefan, a light in the window shining on the flowers. He waited while an army truck rolled past, then crossed the street and entered the shop.

Inside it was warm and fragrant, and two young girls in blue smocks said,
“Buna seara, domnul.”
There was a radio playing softly at the end of the counter, a string quartet, Mozart, or maybe Haydn, he could never tell them apart. One of the clerks came over to help him and he pointed to a tall bucket of long-stemmed red roses. He held up ten fingers, then two, she nodded with approval and said something like “Ah, she’s lucky, your lady friend.”

She drew a length of gold paper from a long roll, spread it on the counter, and began to make a bouquet, now and then adding a branch of small green leaves. Suddenly, the music stopped. The other clerk went over to the radio and began to work the tuning knob but, wherever she paused, there was only a low, steady hum. She kept trying, then decided the problem was in the radio and gave it a hard slap on the side of the case. That didn’t work either, and the girl making the bouquet said a few sharp words, so she gave up and returned to the counter. When the roses were securely wrapped, the paper folded cleverly into itself, Serebin paid, and left the shop.

Where was he? The next cross street was the strada Roma, he thought the club might be somewhere to his left, maybe not too far. He wandered for a time, then spotted a corner of the Athenée Palace. He immediately changed direction, but at least he knew where he was and, a minute later, headed off toward the nightclub.

The street he took was unlit, and unnaturally silent, any sound of life lost in the hiss of the snow. There were only a few shops and they were closed for the night, wooden shutters rolled down and locked. On some of them, the owners had nailed hand-printed placards. He stopped to have a look, and discovered that the words were close to French.
Roumanian Shop,
the first one said. Then, next door,
Christian Property.

Fifteen minutes later, the Tic Tac Club. No cabs, no customers in sight, only the generalissimo doorman, hands clasped behind him, rocking back and forth as he waited for his night to begin. Serebin walked past the club, then turned right into the side street until he found the alley he was looking for. Halfway down the alley, a triangle of yellow light illuminated falling snow and an iron door. The door was set inside a small alcove, and Serebin stood in its shelter and tried to brush the snow off his roses.

A few minutes later, a man hurried down the alley, one hand holding on to his hat in the stiff wind. He turned into the alcove, breathed a soft “Ach” in disgust at the weather, saw the flowers, and gave Serebin a conspiratorial wink. He pulled the door open, letting out a powerful gust of roasting meat and garlic, and disappeared inside.

Next to arrive, Momo Tsipler and one of the Wienerwald Companions, a violin case under his arm. Catching sight of Serebin and his bouquet, Tsipler said, in German, “Tonight she will be his,” and the violinist laughed. He threw his cigarette into the alley and Tsipler opened the door, holding it ajar so that Serebin could go in. “You’ll freeze it off, out here,” he said.

Serebin shook his head and smiled.

As the door closed behind them, Valentina turned the corner at the end of the alley. Serebin left the alcove and met her halfway. She was wearing an old fur coat, and a wool muffler as a head scarf.

“Valentina,” he said.

She peered at him, then seemed startled when she figured out who he was. “Oh, it’s you.”

He offered her the bouquet.

“What’s this?”

“Can we get out of the snow?”

The building across the alley from the club had a matching alcove and there was just enough room for them to stand facing each other.

“I had to have a reason to wait here,” Serebin said.

Relieved, Valentina said, “Oh,” and took the flowers from him. “You surprised me,” she said. “Anyhow, thank you. They’re beautiful.” Then, “What are you doing here? The hotel operator said you’d left.”

“We did. But we got your note.”

“It’s Gulian,” she said. “He wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

“Well, to offer his services.”

“To do what?”

“Maniu talked to him, before he had to leave. He thinks you’re here to work against the fascists. He’s wrong?”

“No. Where is he?”

“Home. He’ll be along later, but you shouldn’t wait.”

“I can.”

“No, don’t. Something’s going on. There was a murder, earlier today. A German major was sitting in a café and a man walked up to him and shot him dead. The man was arrested, a former boxing champion, called Axiotti.”

“Why did he do it?”

“Maybe provocation. It’s the Legion—don’t try to understand, just get off the street.”

“What about you?”

“I have to be here.” She looked at him for a moment, then said, “Well, that’s how it is.”

“Can I contact Gulian?”

“Do you have something to write with?”

Serebin found a pencil and gave it to her. She tore a corner off the gold paper on the bouquet and began writing. “I give you his home and his office. But please, be careful.”

“Why is he doing this?”

“He hates them. Since ’33, when Hitler took over. Hates what they’ve done to the Jews, what they’ve done to Europe. It’s just the way he is.”

She handed him the scrap of paper. She’d written two addresses and two telephone numbers. No name.

“Can you read it?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“All right, good. Go with God.” She kissed him on the cheek and walked quickly across the alley to the door of the nightclub.

Serebin needed the Number Six tram to reach his apartment. He walked north until he found a boulevard, then east to a tram stop—a bench on an island in the middle of a broad avenue. A small crowd of men waited impatiently, stamping their feet to keep warm, peering down the track into the snow. Serebin stood next to a tall, spindly man with professorial briefcase and umbrella. A narrow face, ascetic and prim.
The professor,
he thought. A conjecture supported, perhaps, by the fact that the man spoke reasonably good French.

“Waiting a long time?” Serebin said.

“Almost an hour,” the man said. “It’s later than usual, tonight.” He took an apple from his briefcase and began to eat it. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang. Once. A church bell, Serebin thought, its voice deep and heavy as the echo faded away.

“Did you hear that?” Serebin said.

The professor chewed his apple for a moment, then swallowed. “Excuse me,” he said. “It’s called the Great Black Bell.”

“A church bell?”

“Yes. The church is occupied by the Legion, and one ring means that one legionnaire has died in battle.” He ate another bite of his apple. “A huge bell,” he said, “it takes twenty-nine men to make it ring.”

A man standing nearby said, “They must be fighting.”

“Somebody said they were. This afternoon, in Vacaresti.”

“Oh.”

“Where is that?” Serebin said.

“The south end of the city,” the professor said.

Looking down the track, Serebin thought he saw the dim glow of a light. Somebody said, “Here it comes.”

The light grew brighter, and Serebin could hear the motor.

“It’s about time.”

On the other side of the boulevard, a figure appeared from the shadow of the buildings, walking quickly, almost running, toward the tram stop. He paused to let a car go by, its wheels sliding in the snow as it passed, then crossed the street. An older man, with a full beard, and the broad-brimmed hat and tight leggings worn by Orthodox Jews. He was breathing hard, and his face was white. He stood at one end of the island, pressed a hand to his side, then examined it, squinting as though he had lost his glasses.

The tram approached going full speed, swaying around a curve, its bell ringing wildly. Serebin stepped back from the track as it rushed past, half empty, to angry shouts and curses from the crowd.

Serebin watched it disappear. “Maybe there’s another one.”

Some of the men began to leave.

“Doubtful,” the professor said.

“Are you far from home?”

“Far enough.”

Serebin looked around for the bearded man, but he was gone. “I guess we’ll have to walk,” he said.

They set out together, following the tram track in the middle of the boulevard. “Where do you live?” the professor said.

“Out this way. About a mile or so.”

“My wife will be frantic,” the professor said.

“Can you telephone? From a café, perhaps.”

“I tried earlier, but the phones aren’t working.”

They trudged along in silence. The snow was well over the tops of Serebin’s shoes and his socks were wet and cold against his skin. All along the boulevard, people were walking home—apparently the city’s buses and trams had stopped running. Sometimes a car passed, very slowly, its hood and roof capped with snow. The amber light of a café appeared in the darkness, but the owner was closing up for the night. “Sorry, gentlemen,” he said.

A block further on, Serebin stopped. “Is that, singing?” They were men’s voices, a lot of them, strong and confident.

The professor muttered something that Serebin didn’t hear, sped up for a moment, then began to run. Serebin ran after him, saw that he was headed for the cover of the buildings.
Christ, he’s fast.
The professor ran with stiff back and long strides, snow flying in his wake. He pumped his arms, briefcase in one hand, furled umbrella in the other, his hat bobbing precariously on his head, finally tumbling off. They were both breathing hard when they reached the brick wall of an apartment house.

“My hat.”

“Leave it.”