that some yachts never called at their home ports. A flag of convenience — the legal words better, for a change, than poetry.
One of the sailors led him onboard, down a corridor, and into the salon. The 16th Arrondissement. At least that, Serebin thought. Black lacquer tables, white rattan furniture. The cushions had red tulips on a pale red background, there was lemon-colored Chinese paper on the walls. People everywhere, a mob, chattering and yammering in a dense fog of cigarette smoke and perfume.
The aristocrat who hurried toward him-he could be nothing else-wore blazer and slacks. Trim body, sleek good looks, ears tight to the head, graying hair combed back and shining with brilliantine. The Duke of Windsor, as played by Fred Astaire. “Welcome, welcome.” An iron grip. “We’re honored, really, to have you here. It must be Serebin, no? The writer? God I thought you’d be, older.” The language French, the voice low and completely at ease. “I am Della Corvo,” he said. “But Cosimo to you, of course, right?”
Serebin nodded and tried to look amiable, was a little more impressed by the whole thing than he wanted to be. His life drifted high and low, but up here he found the air a trifle thin.
“Marie-Galante!” Della Corvo called out. Then, to Serebin: “A Bulgarian freighter. Extraordinary.”
Marie-Galante broke through the edge of the crowd, a drink in each hand, a cigarette held between her lips. “You’re here!” His stunning caramel. Little black dress and pearls. She raised her face for bisoux and Serebin kissed each cheek in a cloud of Shalimar.
“We’re having Negronis,” she said, handing Serebin a glass.
Campari and gin, Serebin knew, and lethal.
“You’ll take him around?” Della Corvo said.
Marie-Galante slipped a hand under his arm and held him lightly.
“We must talk,” Della Corvo said to Serebin. “All this…” A charming shrug and a smile-he’d invited all these people, now, here they were. Then he disappeared into the crowd.
“Shall we?” she said.
The beau monde of emigre Istanbul. Like a giant broom, the war had swept them all to the far edge of Europe.
“Do you know Stanislaus Mut? The Polish sculptor?”
Mut was tall and gray and irritated. “So nice to see you.” How about I choke you to death with my bare hands?
Why?
Marie-Galante introduced him to the woman at Mut’s side. Oh, now I see. Mut had found himself a Russian countess. Anemic, a blue vein prominent at her temple, but sparkling with diamonds. She extended a damp hand, which Serebin brushed with his lips while waiting to be throttled.
As they escaped, Marie-Galante laughed and squeezed his arm. “Does romance blossom?”
“I think it’s glass.”
A short, dark man spread his arms in welcome.
“Aristophanes!”
“My goddess!”
“Allow me to introduce Ilya Serebin.”
“Kharros. Pleased to make your gububble.”
“I often read about your ships, monsieur. In the newspapers.”
“All lies, monsieur.”
A tall woman with white hair backed into Serebin, a red wave of Negroni burst over the rim of his glass and splashed on his shoe.
“Oh pardon!”
“It’s nothing.”
“Better drink that, ours.”
“What in God’s name did that man say?”
“Poor Kharros. He’s taking French lessons.”
“From who?”
She laughed. “A mad language teacher!” Laughed again. “How would you know?”
Monsieur Palatny, the Ukrainian timber merchant.
Madame Carenne, the French fashion designer.
Mademoiselle Stevic, the Czech coal heiress.
Monsieur Hooryckx, the Belgian soap manufacturer.
Madame Voyschinkowsky, wife of the Lion of the Bourse.
Doktor Rheinhardt, the professor of Germanic language and literature. Here there was conversation. Rheinhardt had come to Istanbul, Marie-Galante explained, in the mid-’30s migration of German intellectuals- doctors, lawyers, artists, and professors, many of whom, like Doktor Rheinhardt, now taught at Istanbul University.
“Serebin, Serebin,” Rheinhardt said. “Have you perhaps written about Odessa?”
“A few years ago, yes.”
“The truth is, I haven’t read your work, but a friend of mine has spoken of you.”
“What subject do you teach?”
“Well, German language, for undergraduates. And some of the early literatures-Old Norse, Old Frisian-when they offer them. But my real work is in Gothic.”
“He is the leading authority,” Marie-Galante said.
“You are too kind. By the way, Monsieur Serebin, did you know that the last time anyone actually heard spoken Gothic it was not far from Odessa?”
“Really?”
“Yes, in 1854, during the Crimean War. A young officer in the British army-a graduate of Cambridge, I believe-led a patrol deep into the countryside. It was late at night, and very deserted. They heard the sound of chanting, and approached a group of men seated around a campfire. The officer, who’d taken his degree in philology, happened to recognize what he’d heard-the war chant of the Goths. It went something like this…”
In a singsong voice, in the deepest bass register he could manage, he intoned what sounded like epic poetry, slicing the air with his hand at the end of each line. A woman with an ivory cigarette holder turned and glanced at him over her shoulder.
“Oh, formidable!” Marie-Galante said.
From Doktor Rheinhardt, a brief, graceful bow.
Serebin finished his drink, went to the bar for another. Where he met Marrano, a courtly Spaniard from Barcelona, and a nameless woman who smiled.
Then there was a man, who was wearing a sash, and a woman in a black feather hat.
Finally, at last and inevitably, he thought, an old friend. The poet Levich, from Moscow, who’d gotten out of Russia just as the Yezhovshchina purge of ’38 was gathering momentum. The two men stared at each other for a moment, then embraced, astonished to discover a lost friend at the Istanbul yacht club.
“You know Babel was taken,” Levich said.
“Yes, I heard that, in Paris.”
“You’re still there?”
“For the moment.”
“We may go to Brazil.”
“You all got out?”
“Thank God.”
“Why Brazil?”
“Who knows. Another place, maybe better than here.”
“You think so?”
“Only one way to find out.”
All around them, people began to say good night. “We have to meet, Ilya Aleksandrovich.” Levich wrote an address on a slip of paper and went off to find his coat. Serebin turned to Marie-Galante and thanked her for inviting him.
