Blood of Victory

by Alan Furst

  He handed the paper back to Serebin and returned to his chair.

  “Can we do it?” Serebin said.

  “Maybe.”

  Serebin imagined the river at night, rushing water, dark cliffs above, a tugboat fighting the current as sailors hung off the side and tried to fix an iron hook on a sunken barge below the surface.

  He ran his finger up the drawing and back down, pausing at the Babakai rock. “The Austrian chain,” he said. “Did it work?”

  “No,” Ferenczy said. “Betrayed,” he added. “You have to remember where you are.”

  Serebin returned to Paris the following day, arriving at the Winchester a little after five o’clock. There was a spectre standing in the doorway of the pharmacy next to the hotel. Some poor clochard, a shapeless figure in a ragged coat, just visible in the early evening light. The spectre stepped forward and called out to him in a stage whisper. “Serebin.”

  Serebin squinted at the man as he approached. He looked, face starved and narrow and white, like a martyred saint in a Spanish painting—a saint with his beard shaved off. “Kubalsky? Serge?”

  It was. He nodded, sorrowfully, in reply, understanding all too well why Serebin wasn’t sure.

  They walked together through the lobby, the night clerk watching them from behind his desk. He might, Serebin thought, report what he’d seen, but that was the way things were, lately, and nothing to be done about it.

  Climbing the stairs at Kubalsky’s side, Serebin noticed that he now walked with a limp, and, the way Serebin put it to himself, that he reeked of flight. Of mold and mildew, of dried sweat. In the room, Kubalsky sat heavily in a chair by the desk, Serebin gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, exhaled long plumes of smoke that swirled and drifted about his face, a creature whose body ran on smoke instead of blood. And for that moment, Serebin thought, he became once again what he’d been all his life—The Journalist. For the gossip papers, the timber news, the mining gazette, writing a paragraph and counting the words, showing up at an office to see about his check.

  After a long silence, Kubalsky said “Christ,” quietly, almost to himself, then, “Don’t worry, Ilya, I can’t stay here.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “An hour, maybe. No more.”

  Kubalsky started to go to sleep, cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. “Serge,” Serebin said. “Can you tell me where you’ve been?”

  His eyes opened. “Here and there,” he said. “Down every rathole in the Balkans. It’s crowded, I should warn you, in case you’re thinking of trying it, you keep running into the same people.”

  “You know, we thought you were...”

  “Yes, I thought so too. In that alley behind the theatre. One of them got a hand on me, like a steel claw, but I hit him. Imagine that, but I did. He didn’t like it, roared like a bull. Then shot at me as I ran away. I don’t think either of us believed how hard I hit him. Nothing quite like fear, Ilya, really, nothing like it.”

  “Organy?” It meant the men who worked for the organs of state security, the NKVD.

  “They were.”

  “Why, Serge?”

  “Why not?”

  That was, Serebin thought, glib, and ingenuous, but until a better two-word history of the USSR came along, it would do. Nonetheless, Serebin waited for the rest.

  “All right,” Kubalsky sighed, resignation heavy in his voice. “Sometime last year, June maybe, they showed up, one day, the way they do, and informed me that I had to talk to them. Or else. So, no choice—with these people you don’t argue. All you can do is make sure you’re never, ah, productive, so I wasn’t. Still, there they were.

  “Then, one day in November, they told me to call you and get you out of the IRU ceremony. They didn’t say why, they don’t, just ‘Here’s what we want.’ But that evening, after the bombing, one of them came to my room. He wanted to know about the Turkish authorities—had they contacted me, had they contacted anyone else? Particularly, what kind of authority? The Istanbul police? The Emniyet? If the Emniyet, who? What rank? I didn’t know a thing and I told him so. Well, he said, get in touch when it happens, because it will. Now, for some reason he was alone. It’s never like that, you know, there’s always two of them, they watch each other. But this one was alone, and he talked—the kind of talk that follows a triumph. He told me how the thing had been done; a man at the window, a signal when Goldbark went to look at his delivery, wasn’t it all too clever for words.

  “After he left, I began to suffer, there’s no other word for it. I walked the streets for hours, drank up whatever money I had in my pocket, tried to calm down, but I couldn’t. I was stuck midway between anguish and fury and I just couldn’t get free. The next day, when it didn’t go away, I understood that I had to make it go away. I mean, Goldbark had always been kind to me, to everyone, and then, I had to ask myself what came next—what else would they want? Then I realized that I had to talk to somebody, and the only person that made sense was you. Now, why they wanted you out of there I don’t know, don’t want to know—I surely don’t believe it was because you were their special friend, I know you and them far too well for that. So, I tried to meet with you, secretly, and apparently I did something wrong, because they showed up at the movie theatre. Not the ones I usually saw, others, the big ones in the baggy suits.

  “Anyhow, I got away, and I hid for a time in the city, but I figured I couldn’t do that forever, so I sold whatever I owned, maybe even a few things I didn’t own, and I ran. Up into Bulgaria, Salonika, you name it. Finally, I had some luck, met an émigré Pole who worked on a train and got a ride to Paris in a freight car. I took a chance on the IRU office on the rue Daru, and found Boris Ulzhen, who told me where you were. I should add that he asked me no questions at all, whatever that means, just acted like it was all in a day’s work. Which, come to think of it, it probably is, by now.”

  Serebin went looking for his vodka. Maybe a third of a bottle left. He poured two glasses and gave one to Kubalsky.

  “Thank you,” Kubalsky said. “Of course I need money.”

  For a moment, Serebin had a vision of his grandfather. He was laughing, which was typical of him, he did it all the time, though Serebin had been too young when he died to realize how much that meant. In this vision, he was laughing at his grandson. Think it’s a blessing? Yes? Ha, you’ll see, my dear, you’ll see.

  He saw. Rummaging in the top drawer of his bureau, then remembering to include what he had in his pocket. Still, it was a blessing, that night anyhow, to have something he could give Kubalsky. “Could be more, tomorrow,” he said, handing over the money.

  From Kubalsky, an indulgent smile. No tomorrow.

  “And so, what next?”

  “More of the same. I’ll run around like a chicken with its head cut off, like half the people in Europe, while the other half tries to hide them, and the other half is looking for them.”

  “Ah, Russian mathematics.”

  “Na zdorov’ye.”

  “You’re very popular, this week,” Ulzhen said.

  Serebin was at the IRU office to help with the newsletter—everything from correcting spelling to advice and sympathy for the tiny lady who tried to work the mimeograph machine. A small crowd stood around her as the blotchy purplish copies came through, all of them creased strangely at the upper right corner. “Fucking devil,” Ulzhen said under his breath. The tiny lady had moist eyes, wore a cross around her neck, and was known to be devout.

  “It’s the feeder bar,” she said in despair. “The tension!”

  “Popular?” Serebin said to Ulzhen. Ulzhen was not precisely chilly, lately, something else. Wary, perhaps. Anyhow different, since the afternoon at the Brasserie Heininger. Well, add that to the list of things in the world he could not fix, a list that only seemed to grow.

  Ulzhen took off his jacket and turned his cuffs up, a brawl with the mimeograph machine was guaranteed to be filthy business. Serebin’s heart
sped as he waited for an answer—he knew why Ulzhen had said that, and wondered only why Marie-Galante had chosen to make contact through the office.

  “He called himself Jean Paul,” Ulzhen said.

  “Who?”

  “Jean Claude, is it? No, Jean Marc. There’s a message in your mailbox.”

  Serebin went over to the wooden frame divided into boxes, found a poem for The Harvest, an announcement for a meeting of the Stamp Club, and a sheet of stationery from the Hotel Bristol with a phone number and a message, asking him to telephone so that they could arrange to meet and signed Jean Marc.

  For a moment, Serebin had no idea, then he recalled the balcony of the hotel in Switzerland, and Ivan Kostyka’s homme de confiance. Disappointed, he headed for the IRU telephone.

  Staying at the luxurious Bristol, Jean Marc had chosen a curious place for a meeting, a café in a small street in the 19th Arrondissement, by the St.-Martin canal—the abattoir district. Still, Serebin thought, watching unfamiliar Métro stops slide past, there wasn’t a square foot of Paris that didn’t have cachet for somebody. For those with a particularly elevated approach to their slumming, the onion-soup bistros over at the Halles markets had become passé, and, before the occupation had redrawn the social geography of the city, tuxedos and gowns had begun to appear at dawn in the neighborhood.

  Serebin had a hard time finding it—even the streets liked to change their names up here. A common, local café, a bar, really, narrow and unlit, and virtually empty. Only two Arab men, drinking milky pastis, the proprietor, reading a newspaper by the cash register, and Jean Marc, sitting at a corner table in the back. He was as Serebin remembered him: young and handsome, tall, with an aristocratic stoop, face cold and aloof. “I hope you don’t mind this place,” he said, standing to greet Serebin. “It’s private, and I’m meeting friends later on, at Cochon d’Or. Good steaks from the district, and the Germans haven’t found it yet.”

  When Serebin ordered a glass of wine, Jean Marc held up a hand. “They have scotch whiskey here, of course you’ll join me.”

  “They do?”

  “A good marque as it happens.” A sudden smile, all warmth and charm, as he rested the hand on Serebin’s arm. “A Parisian discovery, eh? Don’t go telling the world.”

  “Two scotch?” the proprietor said.

  “Oh, bring the bottle,” Jean Marc said.

  A good idea for a February night, Serebin realized, the taste dry and smoky, anything but sweet.

  “Baron Kostyka sends his regards,” Jean Marc said. “And hopes his, contacts in Roumania have turned out to be worthwhile.”

  “Some of them, certainly. He’s in London?”

  “He is. And delighted to be English, a new man. You’d be surprised how much he’s changed.”

  Serebin had imagined, on getting Jean Marc’s note, that he’d been stationed on the continent, in charge of Kostyka’s European office. But, clearly, that wasn’t the case. “You came here from London?” he said.

  “Long way round. The only way to do it, these days. Passenger steamer to Lisbon, then up from Spain. No problem—as long as you don’t get torpedoed. You do have to have British connections to get a place on the ship, and German connections to get into Paris, but, for Kostyka, everything is possible. It’s commerce, you know, both sides need it, so, at least for the moment, business transcends war.”

  Serebin was impressed. From his own experience, he knew what it took to move around Europe, but this was a level of freedom well beyond that.

  “I’m here for a week,” Jean Marc said, “then off to Geneva and Zurich—those meetings will go on for a while—and, eventually, back to London. What about you, will you stay in Paris?”

  “For the time being.”

  “Not so bad, is it?” Jean Marc refilled his glass, then Serebin’s.

  “Can be difficult—it seems to depend on how the Germans are doing. When they’re content, when they think they’re winning, life gets easier.”

  That made sense to Jean Marc. “But now, as I understand it, you’re about to make them feel a great deal less content.”

  Serebin shrugged. “Oh, who knows,” he said.

  “No, really,” Jean Marc said. “If your operations in Roumania work out, they’ll be in some considerable difficulty.”

  “Well, it’s not up to me,” Serebin said. He began to feel, for no particular reason, the first stirrings of some vague, intuitive resistance.

  “I can’t imagine why they’d call it off,” Jean Marc said, “after all this time and effort. Germany runs on that oil. If I were in charge, I wouldn’t stop until I’d done something about it.”

  “Well,” Serebin said. It was all very complicated, wasn’t it. “Anyhow, the war goes on. Now there’s something they call the Afrika Korps, to campaign in North Africa. That’s been in the newspapers.”

  “Yes, with Rommel in charge—which means they’re serious.”

  Again, time for more scotch. Had the bottle been full when they started? It seemed that Jean Marc was in no hurry to meet his friends. Not a bad drinking companion, when all was said and done, the whiskey had a good effect on him, made him less guarded and distant. “I grew up in this city,” he told Serebin. “In the Seventh. A soft life, you would think, but not really.” What made it difficult, he explained, was that people envied privilege. And, in truth, why shouldn’t they? They saw a fine house in Paris, a château in the countryside, a stable, a cellar of old vintages, aristocracy. “Everything but money,” he said, “which is why I work for Ivan Kostyka.” Still, nobody knew about that, and one had to keep up appearances, one had to play the part. Which meant you had to think before you spoke, you had to be conscious, always, of who you were and what that meant. Really, you couldn’t trust people, that was the lesson learned by generations of nobility. People took advantage, didn’t they. Once they thought you were rich and powerful, it was your obligation to help them out. Not only with money, with influence, connection. Suddenly, you were their best friend.

  Now maybe it didn’t matter so much, day by day, just something you learned to live with, and who really cared. But, when women were involved, well, then it was different, because the heart, the heart, had its own reasons.

  Yes, they would drink to that. To women. To the heart.

  What else, Jean Marc asked the world, made life worth living? What else mattered, compared to that? Yet even there, in that most private chamber—forgive the double entendre—even there, spontaneity, that wondrous, uncaring, ah, freedom, abandon, proved difficult to reach. So then, in those affairs, you paid for who you were, for what you were. For what you had to be. For example, Nicolette...

  Serebin followed along. Yes, he understood. Yes, that was the way things were. Outside the café was Europe and all its sorrows, but Serebin tried not to think about it. After all, even with everything that went on out there, people still struggled with matters of the bed, matters of the heart.

  Had he been in love with Nicolette? Jean Marc wasn’t sure. Well, maybe, in a way. At what point did desire become something more? She wasn’t the stableman’s daughter, far from it. Still, they belonged to different worlds, different worlds, and it made anything beyond a liaison impossible. Yet that innocence, that carefree giving, had taken him prisoner. So many times they were together for the last time! What could he have done differently? What? And, the longer it went on, the harder it was to let go of it. Did Serebin see that? Did he understand?

  The homme de confiance unburdened his heart, the scotch whiskey sank low in the bottle. Could it be stronger than vodka? Across the table, Jean Marc’s face grew blurred and soft, and Serebin found himself slightly dizzy, leaning hard on the table. Jean Marc drank right along with him, but maybe he was used to it. And if Serebin got a little drunk, so what? I am being murdered, he thought.

  What?

  Where had that come from? Madness, no? See what a life of secrecy does to you!

  He stood up, gestured toward the door at the back of the
café. A visit to the petit coin, the little room.

  Once there, he caught himself looking around for a window. His head swam—what was he going to do? Climb out into the alley? Run off into the night?

  When he came back out, Jean Marc wasn’t at the table. Serebin couldn’t believe he’d simply left. At the bar, maybe. No. At, for whatever reason, another table? No. Only the two Arab men, now playing dominoes. Nothing unusual about them—heavy and dark, in the slightly mismatched coats and trousers they all wore. Serebin stared a moment too long—one of them glanced up at him, then looked away.

  “Did my friend leave?” he asked the proprietor.

  “He said he was late,” the man told him. “To tell you he was sorry, but he had to be off.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s all paid for.”

  Well, no point in staying there by himself. Serebin said good night to the proprietor, then went out the door. Now where? He remembered the trouble he’d had finding the place—a maze of unfamiliar streets, this one went off at an angle, that one cut across the other. He should have paid attention, on the way, but he hadn’t. The Métro was this way? He wasn’t sure. As he walked to the corner—maybe the name of the street would jog his memory—he heard a door close, somewhere behind him. When he turned around, he saw the two men standing in front of the café, talking. Just two friends, out for the evening.

  He started walking. In Paris, you always found a boulevard, sooner or later. Follow the boulevard and you would eventually come to a Métro station. Or, he thought, ask somebody. But there was no one to ask. It was probably very busy here during the day—the men who worked at the abattoirs, the local people. But not now. Everybody had gone home.

  The rue Mourette. All right, we’ll take that.

  The two men came along behind him. Headed for the Métro? Well, ask them. No. But they were walking a little faster than he was, not so much, just a little. So, give them time, let them catch up, and then he could ask them if they knew where the Métro was.