“And the Germans?”
“Of course they’re included, but it’s not so bad. They’ve worked out a kind of unspoken courtesy for the occupation, a sort of wistful regret. Now and then, of course, you get a real Nazi, and that makes for a long evening, especially when they drink.”
The song ended, there was applause and a drunken shout or two from across the street. “Not so bad, the Luna,” she said. “Comes with free nightclub.”
He moved so that his lips were on her shoulder. She put her hand on the back of his neck and, very gently, began to comb his hair up with her fingers.
By wireless telegraph:
09:40 15 January, 1941
Helikon Trading / Akdeniz 9 / Istanbul / Turkiye
Carlsen / Poste Restante / Buro di Posta e Telegramma/
Strada Traian / Bucuresti / Romania
Shipment arrives 18 January / Pier 5 port of Constanta
Saphir
The owner of the Hotel Luna had a brother-in-law who, it turned out, drove a taxi and he, for a thick wad of lei, took them ten miles east of the city to the town of Branisti, where they could catch the 8:22, the last train to Constanta. “One place we cannot go is the Gara de Nord in Bucharest,” Marie-Galante explained. “You may be sure that, since last night, when we didn’t return to the hotel, Petrescu and all the little Petrescus are looking for us, and that is the one place they are sure to look.”
In Branisti, they sat in the taxi, across the street from the station, until 9:50, when the 8:22 finally showed up, then ran for the train. A bribe to the conductor in the first-class car produced tickets and a reserved compartment which they shared with a well-dressed woman and an elderly cat in a wicker basket. The woman was exceptionally polite, and spoke to them, and to the cat, in a language that neither Serebin nor Marie-Galante could identify. This, however, did not deter her for a moment, and she continued the conversation for quite some time. Eventually, she wrote the number three, and a word that could have been January, with her finger, in the film of grime that covered the window. She had, apparently, been traveling for two weeks, and Serebin and Marie-Galante were relieved when she got off the train at the next stop, leaving them alone in the compartment for the five-hour trip to Constanta.
The train moved slowly across the plains of Dobrudja, the waning moon hidden by cloud, the fields dusted with snow, a long way from everywhere. When they asked for something to eat, the conductor summoned a dining car steward, who brought them coffee and wine and warm brisket sandwiches on thickly buttered rolls. The man seemed apologetic, perhaps wanted to serve them a grand Roumanian supper, but Serebin and Marie-Galante ate like wolves and had to fight hard not to fall asleep once the dishes were taken away.
They talked idly, for a time, then Serebin said, “By the way, I don’t think you ever told me what was in the letter.”
“What letter?”
“That came to the hotel.”
Marie-Galante swore, horrified at the lapse.
“There was a lot going on,” Serebin said.
“No excuse,” she said, hunting through her purse. She took it out, a thick envelope that implied invitations to formal dinners or weddings, tore it open, then turned on the lamp by the window in order to read it. “From Valentina,” she said. “She’s performing tomorrow night at the Tic Tac Club and has reserved a table for us.”
“That’s it?”
She turned the letter over to reveal blank paper. “That’s it.”
“What could she want?”
“I can’t imagine. Maybe she liked you. Anyhow, we’ll never know.” Deliberately, she ripped the letter and the envelope into smaller and smaller pieces, saying, “Better not to have this with us.”
Serebin took the handful of torn paper off down the corridor, walked silently past the snoring conductor, opened the door at the end of the car and stood over the coupling. The steady hammering of the locomotive was loud in the open space between the cars, and the icy air, scented with coal smoke, felt good on his face and woke him up. They passed a village, a cluster of shadows by a dirt road, gone in a moment. Then he extended his arm and opened his hand, the bits of paper were taken by the wind, and fluttered away into the darkness.
18 January.
At dawn, in the port of Constanta, gulls circled the winter sky, their cries sharp and insistent in the morning silence. There was a heavy sea running, out beyond the jetty, and the yacht Nereide rocked gently on the harbor swell. In the forward cabin, the writer I. A. Serebin opened his eyes, took a moment to figure out where he was, then sat up in bed and lit a Sobranie cigarette.
His life, he realized, had come round again, circling back to the Constanta waterfront, where he’d boarded a Bulgarian freighter some two months earlier, and he once more found himself in a ship’s cabin with the woman who slept beside him. Carefully, he slid out of bed, retrieved his glasses from the night table, put on his shirt and pants and shoes, and climbed a stairway to the upper deck.
To Serebin, the day was familiar. Rolling cloud in gray light, stiff wind, sea breaking white against the jetty rocks. He knew this weather, it meant he was home. Or as close as he was ever going to get. Rust-dappled freighters, broad-beamed fishing boats-nets slung over their bows, seagoing tug, Arab dhow, oil tanker; a Black Sea harbor, an Odessa harbor. Not quite the same, of course; two patrol boats, gunmetal gray, flew the swastika. And, also different, the lone figure leaning on the Nereide ’s railing. It struck him as odd, somehow, a Hungarian count wrapped in a sailor’s duffel coat, his hair blowing in the breeze. Polanyi turned toward him and nodded, Serebin joined him, they shook hands in silence.
The gulls were fishing. One of them landed on the rocks with a herring and had company right away.
“How was it?” Polanyi said.
“ Bordel. ” Whorehouse.
“It’s the war.”
“Is it.”
Polanyi spread his hands. “Not so good for your view of human nature, this work.”
“There were exceptions.”
“Well, one, anyhow.”
“More.”
Polanyi reached into a flap pocket on his coat and handed Serebin a telegram, wired care of Andre Bastien, with an Istanbul address. It had been sent to Marie-Galante a week earlier, and it was from Labonniere. Dry and to the point: he had been appointed second secretary at the French legation in Trieste, he needed her by his side.
Serebin handed the telegram back to Polanyi.
“Officially, you haven’t seen that,” Polanyi said. “But I thought you should see it.”
“When will you give it to her?”
“Right away.”
Serebin watched a fishing boat in the channel, its engine pounding as it fought the incoming tide.
“Working together like that,” Polanyi said. He looked over at Serebin, wondering if he needed to say more and saw that he didn’t. “She’ll have to come back to Istanbul with us.”
“When?”
“Late tonight, I think. We plan for you to leave Constanta tomorrow, by train.”
“Yes?”
“Back to Bucharest.”
Serebin nodded.
“You can say no, of course.”
He didn’t bother to answer.
“You should buy clothing, whatever you need, in Constanta. We’ll have someone take you to the store. But, before you do that, we’ll talk about everything that went on. You’ll find it tiresome, everybody does, but that can’t be helped. Would eleven suit you?”
