Blood of Victory

by Alan Furst

  He saw a bar he liked and sat at an outdoor table. They didn’t have vodka, so he drank instead some kind of delicious brandy. Made of apricots, probably, the waiter drew one on a napkin for him. Then, walking again, he came to a boulevard with a fragrant breeze. A certain scent he recognized: rotting seaweed, salt, coal smoke. His heart rose. A harbor. A view of the sea. Down this hill? He would go and see.

  7:20. A warm night for the season, cloudy and soft. No stars, when Serebin looked for them, maybe later. He always took émigré officials out for a good dinner, something most of them never got, so he scouted General de Kossevoy’s neighborhood on his way to the old man’s room and found a place with a basket of cucumbers in the window. When he peered inside he saw that it was crowded and noisy, steamy and smoky, the way he liked it, with harassed waiters on the run.

  But, wrong again. “If it’s all the same to you,” de Kossevoy said, “I’ve been meaning to look in at The Samovar, do you know it? The owner was one of my officers in the Urals and he’s always asking me to drop by.”

  Sodden kasha pierogi with suspiciously sour sour cream was the result of that, but de Kossevoy had smiled beatifically as they entered, his iron foot ringing out on the tile floor of the restaurant. The general’s foot had been blown off by a mortar round in Smolensk and, when the wound healed, a local blacksmith had forged a substitute. De Kossevoy seemed to get along with it all right. He walked with a stick, and you had to watch out for him at parties—Serebin recalled a bearded luminary at an official reception, his eyes squeezed shut with agony as de Kossevoy trod on his toes, while a supernatural effort at courtesy kept him from crying out.

  “Your excellency!” A humble shuffle and bow from the owner, hurrying past his empty tables.

  “Champagne,” Serebin said.

  “An attractive place.” That was the general’s verdict.

  Red velvet, red linen, tired from the years. “Oh yes,” Serebin said. “I think he does rather well.”

  “Later at night, probably.”

  “Mmm.”

  Serebin ordered everything. Zakuski of smoked fish with toasts, sorrel soup, veal patties, and the kasha pierogi. “You can fight a war on these,” the general said, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Stalin was always recommending rusks.”

  “Rusks!”

  “Tukhachevsky told me that.”

  “Your commander?”

  “Twice. Outside Moscow in the revolution, then in Poland in ’21.”

  “And, for his trouble, shot.”

  “Yes. You were with the Whites?”

  “Damn my soul. Under Yudenich.”

  “Not the worst.”

  “Pretty close. I was sixty-two years old when they dragged me back into it, believed in order, in Christ our Lord, in life being as life had always been. I feared the rabble. I feared that, once the yoke came off, they would burn and murder. And then, in 1917, the yoke came off, and they burned and murdered. I was wrong on the scale of the thing, much grander than I ever imagined, but that’s an old man’s error.”

  “Let me fill that up for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “With the Union?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damned if I know. I expected that Kubalsky would be in touch with me, but, not a word. Heard from him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, Konev is in the hospital. Lost the sight in one eye, I’m told, but he’s got another. I expect he’ll take command, I’ll do what I can, we’ll survive, somehow, we always do. Will you stay on?”

  “I’ll probably go back to Paris.”

  The general hesitated, didn’t say what came to mind, then nodded slowly. “Of course,” he said. “I understand. You have to do what’s best for you.”

  Kubalsky’s messenger had not mentioned a time, only “tomorrow night,” so the idea was simply to be there, Kubalsky would do the rest. Serebin took a taxi to the docks, then another—Major Iskandar very much in his thoughts—to the edge of the Tatavla district, and wandered through the autumn twilight. He asked, now and then, for the Luxe cinema, which produced long bursts of Turkish, sometimes Greek, a variety of emphatic gestures—down there, around to the left, big something, you can’t miss it—and an even greater variety of encouraging nods and smiles. Going to the cinema? Yes! Good! A fine thing to do tonight!

  A poor neighborhood, crowded, with narrow, winding streets that sometimes ended suddenly, washing strung on lines above his head, small groups of men in workers’ clothing and peaked caps, talking and gesturing, silent as he went past. Then, around a corner, next to an Orthodox church, the Luxe. Serebin watched the street for a few minutes before he went in but it wasn’t much of a precaution. Perhaps he was followed, perhaps not, people everywhere, anybody could be anybody.

  Serebin paid and went inside. The theatre was half full, almost all men, maybe twenty rows of wooden seats with an aisle down each wall. The projector whirred, cigarette smoke drifted slowly through the beam. On screen, along with a few excited moths, was Krishna Lal, The Tiger of Rajahstan. A champion, Serebin guessed, of his sorely oppressed people, somewhere in vast India. Pursued by the rajah’s guards, in steel helmets and red silk pantaloons, the Tiger ran through a bazaar, angering merchants as he tipped over stalls of fruits and cooking pots. Cornered at last, he looked desperately for escape.

  A pretty Tiger, with dark, liquid eyes and a sulky mouth, he slew a pair of guards with his curved dagger, climbed to a balcony, leapt to another, held a finger to his lips to quiet an old woman slicing onions into a bowl. Serebin lit a Sobranie, searched the pale faces in the audience for a sign of Kubalsky, found no likely candidates. The music changed, a single sitar now, giggling maids attending a princess in her milky bath. Poor Tiger—maybe, just maybe, lurking outside the window where a suggestive curtain stirred in the wind. The princess leaned forward to let a maid wash her back, then dismissed the girl with a flick of her hand and straightened up. Up, up—were they going to see something? A certain silence in the audience but no, not quite. She stared at the window, alerted by a noise, then gave an order and the maids appeared with a sort of royal towel, holding it stretched wide between a hundred Turkish men and the rising silhouette of a wet actress.

  Kubalsky, where are you?

  Somebody was snoring. A very fat man came down the aisle, footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. He peered down Serebin’s row, looking for—a seat? A friend? Kubalsky? Serebin? Moved away slowly, one row at a time, gave up, and walked back up the aisle. On screen, the rajah, with the drooping black mustache that always meant villainy, scolded the leader of his hapless guard. Fool! Jackass! Bring me the head of the Tiger! Reached inside his silver-embossed black vest and brought forth a vial of amber liquid. From somewhere in back, a whispered exclamation.

  Now, coming down the far aisle, encore le fat man. But here, Serebin corrected a writer’s error. He wasn’t a very fat man, he was a very heavy man. With a big face, the chin still square across the bottom despite years of baklava. Or chicken Kiev, or Sachertorte. Maybe he was just the manager. I have a right to do this. Somebody spoke a few words, snide, mocking. Whatever the line meant it sparked a ripple of laughter. Was it “she’s not here”? Something like that, Serebin guessed. The chief of the rajah’s guard hurried through the lanes of a bazaar.

  Serebin looked at his watch. The maid tried to refuse the vial of poison, but the rajah’s guard insisted. The princess, wiping away a tear, wrote a letter with a quill pen. Serebin decided that Kubalsky was waiting for him outside, where, at the end of the film, the crowd would come streaming out a single exit. Despite himself, he tried to imagine what Kubalsky might want, what he’d done, what he knew about. Twenty-three years of exile, adrift in the shadows of Europe, what arrangements had he been forced to make? The Tiger and the princess met secretly, in a moonlit rose garden, eyes alive with longing, throbbing sitar and tabla suggesting the embrace that the director could not show.


  But the lovers were not alone. The scene darkened, a spy crouched behind a hedge, and someone in the audience took advantage of this darkness to make a spontaneous exit. Serebin never quite saw him. He heard a few pounding footsteps, then turned in time to see a running shadow disappear through a side door into a black square of night. Two men followed. Amid shouts of irritation they forced their way to the aisle, threw open the door, and vanished. Just stay where you are. Outside, the flat popping noise made by a small-calibre pistol. Three or four shots, then silence. Serebin leapt to his feet and ran around the back of the theatre, arriving at the door with several men from the nearby seats. One of them tried the door, which opened an inch or two, then was slammed shut by somebody on the other side. The man was offended, tried again, harder this time, but whoever was out there was very strong and the door wouldn’t open. Serebin heard voices, indistinct, muffled, then footsteps. The lights came on in the theatre and a man who seemed to be in authority came striding down the aisle, the others made way for him. He grasped the knob firmly and opened the door.

  Serebin and the others stepped out into a long alley, lit by a streetlamp at the far end. There was a high wall three feet in front of them, the noise of the streets, nothing else. In the faint light, Serebin could see a stain on the cobblestones. Old? New? Somebody laughed. The theatre manager shrugged, then opened the door and waved his customers back inside. What oddities in this grand city, who could know, from one minute to the next, what people might do. Serebin changed seats, moving along the far aisle to a row toward the front of the theatre. There was a belted raincoat folded carefully on one of the empty seats. He waited until the end of the movie, the crowd shuffled out, but nobody claimed the raincoat.

  He stopped at a lokanta on the way back to the Beyoglu, he wanted to drink something, maybe eat, and bought a French newspaper to keep him company at the table. A woeful dinner companion, it did nothing but talk about the war, in varying shades of the Vichy point of view, Churchill called “that Shakespearian drunkard” and all the rest of it. The Italian divisions in the Pindus mountains of Greece failing nobly, poor boys, and the Italian fleet attacked—in fact destroyed, Serebin and everybody else knew that—at Taranto by Royal Navy Swordfish torpedo planes. However—an implicit however, the deftly made sneer a felicity of French diction—the industrial city of Coventry had been successfully assaulted by the Luftwaffe. Set ablaze by thirty thousand incendiary bombs. Serebin recalled the look on Major Iskandar’s face when he spoke of wooden Istanbul.

  The newspaper’s correspondent in Bucharest reported on damage to the Roumanian oil fields caused by the recent earthquake. Then, following Hungary on the 22nd of November, Roumania had signed the Tripartite Pact with the fascist powers, though Bulgaria had refused. Civil war continued in Roumania, sixty-four officials of the former King Carol government had been executed by the Iron Guard, who were also fighting units of the Antonescu regime in the city and some of the towns.

  Bon appétit, monsieur.

  But the paper didn’t lie, not so much that you couldn’t read the truth if you wanted to. Endgame in southern Europe. Mopping up in the Balkans to create a harmonious German continent. No, they hadn’t gotten across the Channel to finish off the nation of shopkeepers, but the shopkeepers weren’t going to cross either. So, they bombed each other and fired caustic epithets over the airwaves. Churchill noble and stoic, Goebbels sarcastic and sly. A stalemate, clearly enough, that could easily enough wind down over time to a brutal peace, punctuated by the oppression of the Jews and the unending political warfare that flowed from Moscow.

  Poor Kubalsky. Poor Kubalsky—maybe. And wasn’t that what they excelled at, the Bolsheviks. Not sure, don’t know, too bad, life goes on. “Molotov in Berlin for Important Talks,” said the newspaper. A fine alliance, teaching the world, if nothing else, what the term realpolitik actually meant.

  Serebin’s long day wasn’t over. At the desk of the Beyoglu, a note for effendi. A sentence, painfully carved onto a sheet of paper with a blunt pencil, every letter wavering and hesitant. From one of the Ukrainian sisters: “Please, sir, we beg you with all respect not to leave the city without saying good-bye to Tamara Petrovna.”

  He was there an hour later. Not quite midnight yet, but close to it.

  She was in bed, wearing two sweaters and a wool cap, eating licorice drops and reading Bulgakov’s White Guard.

  “Ilya! What’s wrong?”

  “Why should anything be wrong?” He sat on the edge of the bed.

  She shrugged, used a scrap of paper to mark her place in the book. “It’s late.” She stared at him for a moment, face flushed and pink. “Are you all right?”

  “I was supposed to meet Kubalsky, earlier, but something happened.”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t appear, that’s the short version. What about you?”

  “A little fever. It comes and goes.”

  “And of course you don’t tell the doctors.”

  “I do! There was one here this morning.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Humpf, harumpf.”

  “Just that?”

  “Drink liquids.”

  “Do you?”

  “What else to do with them? You can have a cigarette if you like, clearly you want one.”

  “In a while. I’ll go outside.”

  “No, have one here and now. And give me one.”

  “Oh sure.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Tamara, behave.”

  “Tired of behaving. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter. Now give me a cigarette or I’ll send my ladies out to get them the minute you leave.”

  “Who says I’m leaving?”

  “Don’t torment me, Ilya. Please.”

  “You are impossible.” He lit a cigarette and handed it to her. She inhaled cautiously, suppressed a cough, lips tight together, then closed her eyes and blew the smoke out, a blissful smile on her face.

  “Very well, you’ve had your way, now give it back.”

  Slowly, she shook her head. She was, he knew, afraid of infecting him.

  “So,” he said, “it’s only you who gets to say the hell with everything.”

  “Only me.” She tapped the Sobranie on the edge of an empty glass on her bedside table. “Why did God make us love so much what we mustn’t do?”

  He didn’t know.

  She sighed. “Do you leave soon?”

  “In a while. The police don’t really want me here.”

  “They told you?”

  “Yes.”

  She inhaled once more, then put the cigarette out in the glass. “Did they mean it?”

  “A suggestion, for the moment.”

  “So you could stay, if you wanted to.”

  “Maybe, yes. It would take, some work, but I probably could.”

  “You can’t do what you’re doing now, Ilya.”

  “I can’t?”

  “No.”

  He was tempted to ask her what she meant by that but he knew what she meant.

  “It’s, there,” she said, “this terrible war. It will come for you.”

  After a moment he nodded—he didn’t like it, but she wasn’t wrong.

  “So,” she said.

  They were silent for a time, the wind rattling the windows, the sea in the distance. “When France fell,” he said, “that day, that day I was Parisian, more than I’d ever been. We all were. Exiles or born in the 5th Arrondissement it didn’t matter. Everyone said merde—it was bad luck, bad weather, we would just have to learn to live with it. But we would all stay the same, so we told each other, because, if we changed, then the fascists would win. Maybe I knew better, in my heart, but I wanted to believe that that was enough: hold fast to life as it should be, the daily ritual, work, love, and then it will be.”

  “That is sweet, Ilya. Charming, almost.”

  He laughed. “Such a hard soul, my love.”

  “Oh? Well, please to remember who we are and where we
’ve been. First you say you’ll pretend to do what they want, then you do what they want, then you’re one of them. Oldest story in the world: if you don’t stand up to evil it eats you first and kills you later, but not soon enough.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So now, tomorrow, next day, you’ll find a way to fight.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “No, never. I fear for you.”

  He stood up and walked to the window. Tamara yawned, covered her mouth with her hand. “We weren’t meant to live long lives, Ilya.”

  “I guess not.”

  “I don’t care so much. And, as for you, you will die inside if you try to hide from it.”

  “It?”

  She gave him a look. “You’re the writer, go find a name.” She was silent for a time, he came back to her and sat on the end of the bed, she turned on her side and rested her head on her arm. “Do you know what matters, these days?”

  He spread his hands.

  “You did love me, Ilya. I wasn’t wrong about that, was I?”

  “With all my heart.”

  She smiled and closed her eyes. “Women like to hear those things. Always, I think. It always makes them happy, God only knows why.”

  SYSTÈME Z

  REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

  MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR

  BUREAU OF STATE SECURITY

  Special Investigation Service

  DATE: 2 December, 1940

  TO: Major H. Y. Iskandar

  FROM: M. Ayaz—Unit IX

  Subject: I. A. Serebin

  At 10:35 on 30 November, Subject left Hotel Beyoglu and proceeded by taxi to the Beyazit district, exiting in front of the Hotel Phellos and proceeding on foot to 34 Akdeniz street, taking the stairway to the second floor where he entered the office of the Helikon Trading Company. He remained at that office until 11:25. Subject returned to the Hotel Phellos where he took a Number Six tram to the Beyoglu district and checked out of the Hotel Beyoglu. Subject proceeded by taxi to Sirkeci station, purchasing a first-class ticket to Izmir on the Taurus Express, Istanbul–Damascus. Subject boarded at 13:08, sharing a compartment with two unrelated travelers. Subject got off the train at Alsancak station, Izmir, at 23:40 and took a taxi to the Club Xalaphia, a brothel, in Hesmet street off Cumhuriyet square.