Kingdom of Shadows

connections.

He went up to the Balalaika the following afternoon and drank vodka with Boris Balki.

“A shame,” Balki said, and drank “to his memory.”

“Looking back, maybe inevitable.”

“Yes, sooner or later. This type of man lives on borrowed time.”

“The people responsible,” Morath said, “are perhaps in Moscow.”

A certain delicacy prevented Balki from saying what he felt about that, but the reaction-Balki looked around to see who might be listening-was clear to Morath.

“I wouldn’t even try to talk to them, if I were you,” Balki said.

“Well, if I thought it would help.”

“Once they do it, it’s done,” Balki said. “Fated is fated, Slavs know all about that.”

“I was wondering,” Morath said. “What’s become of Silvana?”

“Living high.” Balki was clearly relieved to be off the subject of Moscow. “That’s what I hear.”

“I want to talk to Von Schleben.”

“Well …”

“Can you do it?”

“Silvana, yes. The rest is up to you.”

Then, the last week in May, Morath received a letter, on thick, creamy paper, from one Auguste Thien, summoning him to the Thien law offices in Geneva “to settle matters pertaining to the estate of Count Janos von Polanyi de Nemeszvar.”

Morath took the train down from Paris, staring out at the green and gold Burgundian countryside, staying at a silent Geneva hotel that night, and arriving at the office, which looked out over Lac Leman, the following morning.

The lawyer Thien, when Morath was ushered into his office by a junior member of the staff, turned out to be an ancient bag of bones held upright only by means of a stiff, iron-colored suit. He had a full head of wavy silver hair, parted in the middle, and skin like parchment. “Your excellency,” the lawyer said, offering his hand. “Will you take a coffee? Something stronger?”

Morath took the coffee, which produced the junior member carrying a Sevres service, countless pieces of it, on an immense tray. Thien himself served the coffee, his breathing audible as he worked.

“There,” he said, when Morath at last had the cup in his hands.

On the desk, a metal box of the kind used in safe-deposit vaults. “These papers comprise a significant proportion of the Polanyi de Nemeszvar estate,” Thien said, “which, according to my instructions, now, in substance, pass to you. There are provisions made for Count Polanyi’s surviving family, very generous provisions, but the greatest part of the estate is, as of this date, yours. Including, of course, the title, which descends to the eldest surviving member of the male line-in this case the son of Count Polanyi’s sister, your mother. So, before we proceed to more technical matters, it is my privilege to greet you, even in a sad hour, as Nicholas, Count Morath.”

Slowly, he stood and came around the desk to shake Morath’s hand.

“Perhaps I’m ignorant of the law,” Morath said, when he’d sat back down, “but there is, to my knowledge, no death certificate.”

“No, there is not.” A cloud crossed Thien’s face. “But our instructions preclude the necessity for certification. You should be aware that certain individuals, in their determination of a final distribution of assets, may presuppose, well, any condition they choose. It is, at least in Switzerland, entirely at their discretion. We are in receipt of a letter from the Paris prefecture, an attestation, which certifies, to our satisfaction, that the legator has been officially declared a missing person. This unhappy eventuality was, in fact, foreseen. And this office, I will say, is known for the most scrupulous adherence to a client’s direction-no matter what it might entail. You have perhaps heard of Loulou the circus elephant? No? Well, she now lives in splendid retirement, on a farm near Coimbra, in compliance with the wishes of the late Senhor Alvares, former owner of the Circus Alvares. In his last will and testament, he did not forget this good-natured beast. And she will, one might say, never forget Senhor Alvares. And this law firm, Count Morath, will never forget Loulou.”

The lawyer Thien smiled with satisfaction, took from his drawer a substantial key, opened the metal box, and began to hand Morath various deeds and certificates.

He was, he learned, very rich. He’d known about it, in a general way-the Canadian railroad bonds, the estates in Slovakia, but here it was in reality. “In addition,” Thien said, “there are certain specified accounts held in banks in this city that will now come into your possession-my associate will guide you in completing the forms. You may elect to have these funds administered by any institution you choose, or they can remain where they are, in your name, with payment instructions according to your wishes.

“This is, Count Morath, a lot to absorb in a single meeting. Are there, at present, any points you would care to have clarified?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Then, with your permission, I will add this.”

He took from his drawer a sheet of stationery and read aloud. ” ‘A man’s departure from his familiar world may be inevitable, but his spirit lives on, in the deeds and actions of those who remain, in the memories of those left behind, his friends and family, whose lives may reflect the lessons they have learned from him, and that shall become his truest legacy.’ “

After a pause, Thien said, “I believe you should find comfort in those words, your excellency.”

“Certainly I do,” Morath said.

Bastard. You’re alive.

On his return to Paris there was, of course, an ascension-to-the-title party, attended, as it happened, solely by the count and the countess presumptive. The latter provided, from the patisserie on the corner, a handsome cake, on top of which, in consultation with the baker’s wife and aided by a dictionary, a congratulatory phrase in Hungarian was rendered in blue icing. This turned out to be, when Morath read it, something like Good Feelings Mister Count, but, given the difficulty of the language, close enough. In addition-shades of Suzette! — Mary Day had pinned paper streamers to the wall of the apartment, though, unlike Jack the handsome sailor, Morath had not been there to steady the ladder. Still, he saw far more than Jack was ever going to and got to lick frosting off the countess’s nipples in the bargain.

There followed a night of adventure. At three, they stood at the window and saw the moon in a mist. Across the rue Guisarde, a man in an undershirt leaned on his windowsill and smoked a pipe. A spring wind, an hour later, and the scent of fields in the countryside. They decided they would go to the Closerie de Lilas at dawn and drink champagne, then she fell asleep, hair plastered to her forehead, mouth open, sleeping so peacefully he didn’t have the heart to wake her.

They went to the movies that night, at one of the fancy Gaumont theatres over by the Grand Hotel. The loveliest fluff, Morath thought. A French obsession-how passion played itself out into romantic intrigue, with everybody pretty and well dressed. His beloved Mary Day, hardheaded as could be in so many ways, caved in completely. He could feel it, sitting next to her, how her heart beat for a stolen embrace.

But in the lobby on the way out, all chandeliers and cherubs, he heard a young man say to his girlfriend, “Tout Paris can fuck itself blue in the face, it won’t stop Hitler for a minute.”

Thus the Parisian mood that June. Edgy but resilient, it fought to recover from the cataclysms-Austria, Munich, Prague-and tried to work its way back to normalcy. But the Nazis wouldn’t leave it alone. Now there was Danzig, with the Poles giving as good as they got. Every morning it lay waiting in the newspapers: customs officers shot, post offices burned, flags pulled down and stomped into the dirt.

And not all that much better in Hungary. Quieter, maybe. The parliament had passed new anti-Semitic laws in May, and when Morath was solicited by Voyschinkowsky for a subscription to a fund for Jews leaving the country, he wrote out a check that startled even “the Lion of the Bourse.” Voyschinkowsky raised his eyebrows when he saw the number. “Well, this is terribly generous of you, Nicholas. Are you sure you want to do all that much?”

He was. He’d had a letter from his sister. Life in Budapest, Teresa said, was “spoiled, ruined.” All the talk of war, suicides, an incident during a performance of Der Rosenkavalier. “Nicholas, even at