Rather than wait for the cold exiles to fill the bar, Brano returned home. He was unsurprised by another piece of propaganda in his mailbox. The Committee for Liberty in the Captive Nations explained that, because of its godless nature, the believer in Communism could not feel emotions beyond fear and pride. “Little more than animals,” Dr. Ned Rathbone argued. He had studied the Communist Menace since 1938, and the one thing he knew above everything was that the Christian faith and the Communist faith could never exist in harmony on the same planet. And the martyrs of the side of Right demanded that the war be brought to the steps of the Kremlin itself.
Brano unfolded the pamphlet in his living room, flattening it with the side of his hand. He folded it down the long midpoint, then folded it a few more times until he had it right. Then he opened the French windows and tossed out his paper airplane. A breeze held it aloft for a moment; then it began to spin and plummet to the street, where Ludwig’s old white-bearded shadow leaned on his Volkswagen and watched it crash into the sidewalk.
7 APRIL 1967, FRIDAY
Ersek Nanz’s party was in Kahlenberg, in a house perched beyond the woods on the last dying bumps of the Alps. The taxi driver made noises under his breath as they approached the iron gate in front of a wide, modern bilevel. Brano looked over from the passenger seat. “What was that?”
“Nothing. Just wishing I had the money to live up here.”
“One day, comrade, maybe you won’t need money to live up here.”
The driver squinted as Brano grabbed his bottle of red wine and climbed out.
A man in a tuxedo opened the gate. Brano began to reach for his documents but stopped when the man simply smiled and nodded him on, up the paved drive, to the house. Another tuxedoed man opened the front door and took the wine and Brano’s coat.
Beyond a stark white foyer, the living room opened up, rising two dimly lit floors to a glass wall that looked down on Vienna. About fifty people milled around, clutching champagne glasses and murmuring steadily. A few glanced at him. He was underdressed.
“Jesus Christ, Brano. You’re late. I thought you were different than your brethren!”
“I’m just the same, Ersek. You live well.”
The Norwegian smirked. “I wish this was mine. On loan from the Italian ambassador.” He raised a finger. “One benefit of always gravitating toward power.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Let’s get you a drink.” Ersek walked him over to a white table covered with a hundred full glasses of champagne. “Don’t worry, there’s more in the kitchen. Unless this guy already sniffed it out,” he said, nodding at Filip Lutz, who reached for another glass.
“It’s our spy!”
“That’s one thing you’re right about,” said Brano.
Lutz patted the lapel of his tuxedo. “I tell you, Nanzi, she wants it.”
Ersek looked around. “Who?”
“Who do you think? The interpreter.”
“I’d give it to her in a second.”
Their longing looks were directed through the terrace doors, to where a tall, thin-boned blonde stood; her broad, sculpted jawline suggested she had come from the Slovak provinces of their country. She held a long cigarette beside her head as she laughed at a short, bearded man’s joke.
As Brano took a second champagne and wandered past the Bosendorfer grand piano to a dark corner, he heard Ersek mutter, “Little Rolf thinks he’s going to give it to her.”
“I’d just like to see that,” said Lutz.
Some faces he recognized, though they did not know him. In late July, he’d gone through the files in order to uncover the identity of GAVRILO, and before settling on his short list of suspects, he’d come across half these faces. They were in the files because they were of use, because they could be of use in the future, or because they posed a threat. A tall man in the corner, a chain-smoker, looked familiar-yes: He’d been marked as a possible resource, because Yalta held a roll of 16 mm film of the man in a local brothel with a nine-year-old girl.
He wanted another champagne, but over by the drinks table he spotted a small, beaten-looking man hoarding glass after glass. It was Sasha Lytvyn.
He did finally talk to people, though without enthusiasm, always sidestepping the drunk man from his past who didn’t seem to recognize him. A journalist from Die Stern explained to him the intricacies of recent Egyptian- Israeli tensions, as if Brano had never heard of the state of Israel. “When Israel shot down those Syrian MiGs, it was a provocation. Now, I’m no anti-Semite, but…” Another man, young and pale, quoted Svetlana Alliluyeva from a manuscript supposedly awaiting American publication- God grants an easy death only to the just — then smiled rapturously. A gaunt woman with large glasses, originally from Sighet, described herself as an actionist painter, which to Brano meant nothing. When he asked, her explanation only confused him further.
“People like to say that painting has moved across the Atlantic to New York, but seriously, Europe is the center of art civilization as it has been for centuries. I doubt a bunch of monkeys with paintbrushes would be able to take that from us. Do you?”
“I really don’t know,” said Brano, edging away.
Lutz elbowed him in the ribs. “My friend, I’ve had a brainstorm.”
“Tell me, Filip.”
“I suggest you find yourself a Viennese girlfriend. Best way to ease into the transition. Yes, what you need is a nice fraulein.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Well, you’ve got a very progressive mother. Does she also do this?” Lutz reached into his jacket and pulled out a small wooden pipe. He squinted into the bowl.
“What’s that?” Brano asked stupidly.
Lutz stuck the pipe in his mouth and flicked a lighter over the bowl. As he inhaled, the flame bowed, crackling the hashish inside. He held the smoke in his lungs a few seconds, then exhaled.
“Here.” Lutz handed him the pipe.
In another situation, Brano would have declined, but nothing so far had helped him relax. Even the champagne seemed of a light variety. And when Lutz exhaled, that pungent aroma reminded Brano of the few times he’d smoked it, back in Tel Aviv. It had been available everywhere, sticky clumps in a wooden box in everyone’s home. When he’d smoked it there, his heartbeat had settled as he warmed into an easy languor, in which everything-even the complexities and brutalities of his job-seemed manageable.
“Are you coming Monday?” asked Lutz after they had finished.
“Where?”
“To my lecture. ‘The Lies Behind the Communist Dove of Peace.’ Didn’t Nanzi tell you?”
“Where is it?”
“The Committee for Liberty in the Captive Nations, over on Schulerstra?e.”
Brano snorted, then covered his mouth. Half laughter, half surprise.
Lutz leaned closer. “ What? ”
“The Committee for Liberty?”
“Yes.”
“The Christians?”
Lutz frowned, and Brano covered his mouth again as the stoned, monotone laughter rolled out of him.
“You don’t understand,” said Lutz. “They sound a little crazy sometimes, but they’re not. No, not at all.” Lutz made an expression that looked similar to pain. “Like many opposition groups, they have their use. They have money, influence. If you have their ear you have …”
Brano nodded, but he wasn’t listening anymore. The tingle at the base of his neck had spread over his scalp, and his blank smile no longer meant a thing.
Frustrated, Lutz sneaked off after the interpreter, and Brano took another champagne to the glass wall,
