'So, we have two hours to kill,' Benjamin said. ' Now can we be tourists?'
'And will you be my guide, Commissar?' she asked.
'Well, I happen to know there is a museum just down the street, in the place Garibaldi. The Musee d'Art Moderne. It's supposed to be quite a beautiful building. And they have Warhols, Lichtensteins. All the 'old masters,' ' he said, smiling.
'Western decadence.' She smiled, but then she grew serious. 'On such a day, in such a place, I would rather spend what little time we have here outside. I would much rather find a cafe, sit and have a coffee, and watch the ocean. Do you mind?'
Benjamin didn't mind at all. They continued walking on, through place Garibaldi with its beautiful baroque-style eighteenth-century Chapelle du Saint-Sepulcre and its famous statue of Giuseppe Garibaldi, the 'Hero of the Two Worlds' according to a plaque on the monument. They turned on rue Cassini, with its wine shops and cafes, and followed it until they reached quai Lunel, which formed the western edge of the three-side Port Olympia, where fewer of the enormous pleasure yachts were anchored than the night before, their masters out at sea, taking advantage of the clear and warm fall weather.
They chose a cafe near the water, ordered two coffees.
'Last night,' Benjamin said, 'you mentioned there was a long history of Russians in Nice?'
'Well, yes. During the Tsar years, Russians considered Nice the prime spot to vacation, after the Crimea. By the time of the Revolution, there was a large Russian community here.'
'And then I suppose many of the Whites came here?' Benjamin asked.
'Not just the Whites,' Natalya said. 'Even the Revolution has roots here. In 1905, inspired by the St. Petersburg revolution, a rich emigre, Savva Morozov, wrote a will leaving his entire estate to the Communist Party. Then he shot himself. Or at least that is the official story. But it did not stop there. His nephew, Nikolai Schmidt, did the same thing.'
'Shot himself?' Benjamin asked. Natalya nodded. 'How convenient,' he said.
'Wait, it gets even more… convenient,' she said. 'The nephew left no will. Now, the bequeathment was to the entire Communist Party, but there were factions within the Party: Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, Socialists… Each wanted the money only for itself. And each was expecting the others to cheat. Lenin knew this. So, ignoring the Socialists completely, he made an extraordinary proposal to the Mensheviks: they would each send a loyal member to the nephew's two sisters, to court and try to marry them and thus gain their inheritance. If both succeeded, fine, each faction would get half the money. If only one succeeded, well, the luck of the draw, whoever 'won,' that was fate. Understandable?'
'Yes,' said Benjamin. 'Not particularly admirable, but understandable.'
Natalya smiled, continued. 'So, our two political paramours make their way to Nice. They find the sisters-who, I believe, were not known for their charm or beauty-and they court them. Then even marry them. Both have succeeded! Both factions will get their share, yes?'
'That was the agreement.'
'But for one thing: the Menshevik 'volunteer' was not really a Menshevik. He was secretly a Bolshevik, planted in the other faction by Lenin.'
'So the entire inheritance-'
'Went to Lenin and the Bolsheviks. You see, they were always like that. Plots within plots within plots. Like matryoshka, nesting dolls.'
At the mention of plots, Benjamin grew pensive, sat staring out over the ocean.
Natalya reached over, put her hand on his. 'Enough ghost stories,' she said. 'Let's keep walking.'
And so they'd spent the next hour strolling along the quai des Etats-Unis, with its stretch of luxurious modern hotels fronting the white-sand beach, and the Musee Masenna, housed in an ornate nineteenth-century villa, surrounded by elaborate and colorful gardens. Benjamin wanted to go in, but their two hours playing normal tourists was nearly up; it was time to return to Guy's studio and the reason they were really here.
They hailed a cab and were soon descending the stairs to Guy's weathered door. But taped to the door they discovered an envelope, with MONSIEUR BENJAMIN written on the outside. Benjamin took down the envelope and opened it. Inside was a note, in French, with Guy in a florid signature at the bottom. Benjamin quickly scanned its contents.
'What does it say?' asked Natalya.
'Well, it says that he is terribly sorry- terriblement desole -but that he had to meet someone in Cannes this afternoon. He asks that we meet him there around three o'clock.'
'In Cannes?' Natalya said. 'Is he serious?'
'Actually, it's not that far,' Benjamin said. 'Just twenty-five kilometers or so down the coast. But not actually in Cannes. He says there's an island, just off the coast. St. Honorat. He wants us to meet him there, as it's more approprie for our kind of business.'
Natalya looked suspicious. 'This makes no sense. Perhaps it would be wise not to go.'
'And then what would we do for passports?' asked Benjamin. 'Have you decided to risk using your own?'
Natalya frowned, shook her head. 'I think you believe this is as strange a request as do I.'
'Yes, I do,' he agreed. 'But I don't see any option. And I've heard of this place. There's a monastery there, a very old one. It's supposed to be quite… scenic,' Benjamin finished with a smile. 'Consider it another triumph of the Commissar of Sightseeing.'
CHAPTER 39
During the twenty-minute ferry ride from Cannes to the island of St. Honorat, Benjamin read aloud from a guidebook they'd purchased, the better to blend in with the other tourists.
'The Isle St. Honorat had begun its long history as an outpost fort, part of the southern coast's defenses against Saracen pirates. The Abbot of Lerins, Aldebert, brought his small flock of monks to the windswept promontory of the island and established a monastery that shared its primitive shelter with a military garrison. The first square, thick-walled fortifications were begun in 1073, built on the even older foundations of a Roman outpost. When the military left, the monks stayed, managing over the centuries to construct an impressive walled monastery at the center of the island. Its interior guards a vineyard where the monks produce an excellent wine, as well as a brandy famous in the region for its sweet taste and high alcohol content. Over the centuries, the twin towers of the original Norman fort had fallen into disrepair, but recently they were partially restored, and now they rise up again, proud reminders of St. Honorat's ancient and rich past.'
They looked to the island and saw those very towers: square, blunt, older it seemed than the island itself-and the tallest objects visible for miles. It was easy to imagine Norman soldiers standing guard atop them, watchful eyes turned to the vast ocean beyond.
Benjamin and Natalya disembarked at the small dock on the island. There were paths leading both left and right, and a small building up the low hill where, it appeared, one could buy food and refreshments.
'What now?' Natalya asked.
Benjamin looked at his watch. 'We have a little time before our appointment. I suggest we walk around and try to appear like a married couple on vacation.'
Natalya took his arm, snuggled up against him, put a wide smile on her face.
'Like this?' she said.
Benjamin laughed. 'Perfect,' he said. 'Now, if only we had a camera.'
'Perhaps we can buy one in that shop,' she said, pointing up the hill.
Once that was done, they continued on along the path that ran around the edge of the island, edged on one side by a rocky beach and the stretch of the transparent blue waters of the bay, and on the other by groves of Aleppo pine trees. Here and there were the remains of ancient walls and foundations of long-ruined buildings. They stopped now and then, one or the other of them posing before the ocean or the trees, trying in every way to appear like unconcerned tourists enjoying their honeymoon on an exotic Mediterranean island.
But as three o'clock approached and they made their way out toward the promontory with the Norman-style towers where they were to meet Guy, Benjamin felt the knot in his stomach tighten. He had a very bad
