“We’re at the Athenee Palace,” Serebin said. “Buying folk art for our shop on the rue de Seine.”
“Yes? That must be interesting.”
They managed to make small talk, just enough, Marie-Galante coming to the rescue each time it faltered, then Valentina excused herself-she must have a few minutes before the next show started.
When they’d gone, Serebin said, “Who is he?”
“A businessman,” Maniu said. “Very rich, one is told. And very private.”
Conversation continued, but Serebin’s mind wandered, here and there. The evening was winding down, he could feel it. Madame Maniu glanced at her watch and Colonel Maniu mentioned that he had a car and driver and offered them a ride back to the hotel, but Marie-Galante caught Serebin’s eye and he declined. Not long after that they said good night, and Serebin asked for the check.
As they headed for the door, Serebin looked back at the table. The waiter had collected what remained of the bottle of champagne, and the half-empty glasses, and was carrying them, very carefully, back to the kitchen.
It was long after midnight when they left. Snow was falling, soft and heavy in the night air, and the street lay in the still silence that comes with snow. A trasuri, a horse-drawn cab, stood alone in front of the Tic Tac Club.
Serebin helped Marie-Galante up the step. “The Athenee Palace,” he told the cabman. They sat close together on the old cowhide seat, and Marie-Galante rested her head on his shoulder. The cabman, in heavy mustache and crushed hat, flicked the reins and they moved off down the street.
It was so quiet they did not speak. The cold night smelled good after the smoky cellar. Serebin closed his eyes and, for a time, there was only the squeak of the turning wheels and the steady trot of the horse on the snow-covered pavement. When the horse slowed, abruptly, Serebin looked up to see where they were. They had come to an intersection, where the strada Rosetti met the Boulevard Magheru. Not far from the hotel, he thought. The horse went a little further, then stopped, its ears pricked for a moment, then flattened back against its head. Now what? The cabman made a clicking sound but the horse didn’t move, so he spoke to it, very gently, a question. Suddenly, Marie-Galante’s hand went rigid on his arm, so tight he could feel her fingernails, and he smelled burning. In the distance, a muffled snap, then another, and a third.
The cabman turned and looked at them. Calmly, Serebin waved him on, saying “Just go ahead” in French. The cabman called the horse’s name and it took a few steps, then stopped again. Now the cabman spoke to them. They didn’t understand the words but they could see he was frightened-of what lay ahead but, also, of disobeying well- dressed people who came out of nightclubs. “It’s all right,” Marie-Galante said. “It’s all right.”
He tried once more, this time cracking a green leather whip above the horse’s withers. The horse lowered its head and moved off at a fast trot. A minute went by, maybe whatever was going on, a few blocks away, was over. But it wasn’t. Somewhere in the next street, a sharp crack and a rolling echo, cut by the rhythmic thump of a machine gun, followed by shouted orders. The air above the cab sang for an instant and the horse twisted in its harness and reared up as the cabman fought the reins. The cabman’s eyes were wide when he turned around. “ Va rog, domnul, ” he pleaded. Serebin knew at least this much Roumanian, it meant “please, sir.” Up ahead, Serebin saw two shadows, running low from one doorway to the next. “ Va rog, domnul, ” the driver said, pointing to his horse. He repeated it, again and again, and Serebin could see he was crying.
“We have to get out,” Serebin said.
He climbed down, and helped Marie-Galante, who tried a few steps in the snow, then took her shoes off and walked quickly beside him. Behind them, the cabman turned the trasuri in a wide circle, then disappeared back down the street.
“I hate Bucharest this time of year,” Marie-Galante said, breath coming hard.
“Are you all right?” he said.
“For the moment.”
“Over there,” he said, heading toward the arched entryway of an apartment building. The arch covered a porte cochere, which ran some thirty feet back to a massive door with a griffon’s head on the iron ring that served as a handle. Serebin tried the handle, then pounded on the door.
He gave up, after a while, and they settled against the wall that supported the arch, deep in shadow. “I better put these back on,” Marie-Galante said, hanging on to Serebin and forcing one wet foot at a time into the suede heels. There was a brief silence, then the machine gun started up again, a series of three-round bursts that went on and on, and were joined first by scattered rifle shots, then a second machine gun, sharper and faster than the first.
The smell of fire intensified until Serebin’s eyes began to water, and a drift of black smoke floated over the snow. Across the street, a window on the top floor was cranked open, the creak of rusty metal absurdly loud against the background of gunfire. A silhouette with rumpled hair thrust itself out the open window, shook its fist, and shouted angrily. A second voice, a woman’s voice, shouted even louder, the silhouette disappeared, and the window was cranked shut.
Serebin laughed. Marie-Galante said, “And don’t ever, ever, let me catch you doing that again!” Then, a moment later, “You don’t suppose it’s going to be a long coup d’etat, do you?”
“What we want now is daylight, that usually makes a difference.” He looked at his watch. “Almost two, so…”
“Three hours. Want to beat on the door again?”
“No.”
“Sing ‘Frere Jacques’?”
A beam of yellow light appeared on the street. It swept from one side to the other, returned, and went out. From the same direction, back toward the nightclub, came the irregular beat of an old car engine. “ Merde, ” Marie-Galante said. “We’re on the wrong side of this thing.”
The car crawled toward them, they pressed themselves against the icy stone wall beneath the arch, as far as possible into the shadow. “Don’t cross over,” Serebin said.
The car came into view, then stopped almost directly in front of the entryway. Painted on the door was a fiery crucifix crossing a dagger. “The Iron Guard cavalry,” Serebin said.
“Shh.”
The searchlight was mounted on the roof. As the car idled, it snapped on, probed the entryway, crept up the side of the building, then went off.
“They know,” Serebin whispered. The door. A telephone call.
The car door opened, the dome light went on, somebody swore, and the door slammed. They heard footsteps crunching in the snow.
He was sixteen, Serebin thought. With a strange, elongated face-something wrong with him. Hair cut high above the ears, armband with symbol. He carried a rifle and, when he saw them, he lazily pointed it at Serebin’s heart and spoke a few words, his voice edgy and tight. They raised their hands. He beckoned, they stepped toward him, and he backed up until all three were just under the edge of the arch.
He stared at them for a moment, swung the rifle back and forth, from one to the other, then worked the bolt.
“’Bye, ours. ”
The boy spoke again, irritated. And again.
“What’s he want?” Marie-Galante said.
Serebin had no idea.
Pointed to his eyes, then away.
“He means,” Serebin said, “don’t look at me while I do this.”
“Fuck him.”
A voice from the car, a question.
An answer, fast, thick with tension.
Again, the voice from the car.
The boy with the rifle answered, querulous this time.
The car door opened, then slammed shut. Somebody spoke, and the searchlight hit Serebin full in the face. He had to close his eyes.
But he’d seen that the second one was older, and had a pistol of some sort in his hand. That meant command. “Lei,” the man said. “Francs, pounds.”
