"Do you have a single room," she'd asked, "but with two beds?"
"A very nice one on the third floor, with an excellent view of the Baie des Anges. Very romantic," the clerk said, giving Benjamin a wink. Natalya had groaned and walked away, leaving him to accept the key with a " merci. "
Though their room was anything but luxurious-two beds, it was true, though they were tiny singles, almost cots, and a sink with a curtain that could be pulled around it, the bathroom for the entire floor being down the hall-still the clerk had been right: the view from their small balcony was magnificent. There was a nearly full moon in the sky, reflecting off the vast expanse of gray-black water in the bay. Out at sea, they could see the lights of one of the cruise liners that plied their way up and down the Cote d'Azur; and above, more stars than Benjamin could ever remember seeing before.
"You should see this," Benjamin had said, looking over his shoulder for Natalya.
"We're not here as tourists, Benjamin," she said, lying down on one of the beds, exhausted. "Try and remember that."
Benjamin had gone and stood near the bed.
"Natalya," he'd begun softly. Then, not wanting to sit on the narrow bed, he'd crouched down beside it. "I know you're worried about your father. I understand." She turned her head and looked at him. "But you're doing your best to get there as quickly as possible. Now," he said, trying to look and sound stern, "since we're stuck in this horrible place for the night, come and look at the damn view."
She'd laughed. "Very well, Commissar of Sightseeing," she'd said, and walked to the balcony.
The two of them had stood there for a while, not saying a word, just looking out and across all that darkness, a space that seemed entirely emptied of the tension and menace of the last few days. Standing there, Benjamin had wanted to put his arm around Natalya out of an instinctive urge to protect her from what he suspected was about to come. But he'd fought the urge.
"Did you know," Natalya had said finally, gazing out at that dark sea, "there is a long and deep connection for Russians with this city. There is a Russian Orthodox cathedral here, the Cathedrale Orthodoxe Russe St-Nicolas. It dates back to 1859 and is the oldest Russian cathedral in all Europe."
"I didn't know you were the religious type," Benjamin said.
Natalya laughed. " All Russians are the religious type, even during the Soviet times." She turned to him. "Do you know, I was even baptized."
Benjamin looked surprised. "Really? I thought your father-"
"He was," she said. "Not only a Party member, but even a political officer. But that did not stop him from wanting his only child christened into the church. There were a few places people could go, clandestinely, for such rituals. It was dangerous, even for ordinary citizens. For Party members it was doubly so."
"How old were you?"
"Three," she said. "I had never been in a church before. They waited until we were on vacation, visiting relatives in Dubna, far away from prying eyes in Siberia. They took me to a church in a small town outside Dubna, hardly even a village, a place called Ratmino. I had no idea what was going on. All the candles, the ornaments and icons… well, when the priest appeared, in his robes and white beard, I turned to my father and said, 'Why is Grandfather Frost here?' " She laughed. "I thought it was an early New Year's celebration."
Benjamin smiled but didn't comment, and again they were silent, looking out into the night with its vault of bright stars and vast expanse of dark sea.
Then Natalya turned to Benjamin. Her face looked sad, but very determined; again, almost regal, Benjamin thought. He sensed for a moment the enormity of secrets with which Natalya was accustomed to living, and felt himself quite young and naive. He started to say something, but she placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Thank you, Commissar Wainwright," she said, smiling. "You were right." She'd kissed him very quickly, on the cheek, and then said, "So, who goes down the hall first?"
When they were both in their beds and had wished each other a good night, Benjamin had thought he would find it difficult to sleep. But with the salt air coming through the open window and the regular sighing of the surf outside, he'd dropped off almost as soon as he closed his eyes.
***
Now, early the next morning, they were sitting on the Seminaire's impressive veranda, dotted with potted palm trees. A marble balustrade was seemingly all that separated them from the incredibly blue Mediterranean, which lay just across the Pilatte and a narrow stretch of rocky beach. They had the veranda entirely to themselves.
"Well, despite this view, we have business to worry about," said Natalya. "We are to meet this 'Guy' at eight o'clock."
"And exactly," said Benjamin, "what is supposed to happen at this meeting?"
"We will obtain fake passports," Natalya said, sipping her coffee, as though what she'd suggested was the most natural thing in the world for one's first day in Nice. "And of course you will need a visa."
"Then we'd better stop at a bank on the way there," Benjamin said. "So, just how much is ten thousand dollars in francs?"
"He'll probably want euros," Natalya said. "But we'll need rubles for Russia. A year or so ago, everyone would have wanted dollars. But even money has become an expression of patriotism these days."
After finishing their coffee, they walked the short distance to a bank fronting the port and discovered there that the dollar wasn't doing so well: 10,000 U.S. dollars was barely 7,000 euros. So, just to be safe, Benjamin withdrew 10,000 euros. The teller had had to summon a manager for that amount; and, when he presented the stacks of currency to Benjamin, he also offered a nylon valise in which to carry the money, for which Benjamin was very grateful.
Once outside they'd hailed a cab. Natalya had given Guy's address to the driver, a number on rue Beaumont. The driver had looked a bit surprised.
"Acropolis?" he asked.
"Yes," Natalya had said simply, making it clear he wouldn't get any further information.
Guy's studio proved to be in a block of buildings that had seen better times. Set back in the old town on narrow streets not typically along a tourist's path, it was lined with dented metal trash cans, broken windows here and there, peeling paint on the stucco walls, and a general sense this wasn't a good place to come alone. Not for tourists. Especially not tourists carrying bags of money.
"Ze Acropolis, la, " said the driver, pointing farther down the street.
"Merci," said Natalya simply. Benjamin paid the driver, who shrugged and drove off.
Natalya led the way. Guy's studio was down a flight of stairs from street level, the number displayed on a very small, very weatherbeaten metal door. There was no buzzer, so Natalya knocked and they waited.
The man that opened the door was remarkable, in several ways. He was very short, very broad, with a wide, fat face. He sported an extremely thin, extremely manicured beard and mustache. His bald head was covered with a few lank white hairs combed over from the side of his head. He wore what appeared to be a velvet smoking jacket that, like the street, had seen better days and, to top it off, a paisley ascot.
"Entre, entre," he said, acting as though he was greeting old friends. "S'il vous plait, asseyez-vous," he continued, acting the perfect host.
The room looked like a small living room set for a stage play, as though the furniture, the paintings on the walls, even the books on the shelves were all props. Benjamin had the thought that indeed Guy's "studio" was all part of a performance; but whether that performance was meant to assuage their concerns, or distract them from whatever was really going on, he wasn't yet sure.
Guy and Benjamin carried on their negotiations in stilted French. Yes, Guy could provide passports and a visa of la plus haute qualite; yes, he could accomplish this with what he himself referred to as "incroyable chargez" in a few hours' time, so they could pick up their papers that very afternoon.
Guy asked to look at their real passports. He examined them for a moment, repeatedly glancing from the photos to their faces.
He spent considerable time scrutinizing Natalya's. Finally he turned to Benjamin and said a few emphatic words.
"What?" asked Natalya. "Is something wrong?"
"He says you'll have to change," Benjamin said.
"Change?" she asked. "My clothes?"
"No." Benjamin smiled. "He says you are far too beautiful, too extraordinaire to go unnoticed. And I don't think it is what you would call a compliment. He means it. You just don't blend in, Natalya."
"Should I dress as a nun, then?" she joked.
Benjamin turned and conversed further with Guy. After a few minutes of this, he turned back to Natalya.
"It turns out this is a complete studio, indeed. Apparently, besides his work for 'special' travelers like us, Guy uses this place to make certain… what he calls films d'art. I think you can guess what that means." Natalya nodded, smiling, but Benjamin noticed she didn't seem too surprised. Or too offended. He continued. "So there is a small dressing room, with makeup, hair dye, wigs, other accoutrements of that… trade."
"I see," Natalya said. "What does he suggest? Something from the Folies Bergere?" She arched an eyebrow, made her lips pouty. "Like this?"
Benjamin laughed, shook his head. "Much simpler. Monsieur Directeur suggests short, brown hair for you, perhaps some glasses. The blond is just too… blond. And the eyes-"
"Yes?"
"Are just too beautiful."
Natalya frowned. "I do not think le directeur said that."
Benjamin smiled but didn't answer her implication. "There's something else," he said. "Another of Guy's suggestions."
"And?" asked Natalya.
"Well… he asked if it would be all right to make us a married couple. He said that's less likely to attract attention than if… well, if some of the people we'll be dealing with think you're single."
Natalya looked directly at him. "And what did you say?" she asked.
"I said, for me, it would be an honor, but that I could not speak for mademoiselle. "
Natalya didn't respond for a minute, and Benjamin started to get worried Guy had gone too far. But then Natalya nodded and said, "I guess that would make me madame, not mademoiselle. "
It was hard for Benjamin to tell exactly how she meant that, but he turned and told Guy to get started.
The next half hour found them sharing the small dressing room. First Benjamin cut Natalya's hair, trying not to chop it up too badly; then she dyed it with a chesnut-auburn mix she hoped would make her hair sufficiently "ordinary." Then, while the dye was setting, she cut Benjamin's hair, making it very close-cropped and what she called "properly Russian." They found a pair of prop glasses for Natalya-something, Benjamin suggested, Guy probably used in the schoolgirl fantasy epics, which made Natalya laugh out loud. But at least they helped to dim her brilliant blue-green eyes.
When they exited the dressing room, Guy pronounced their transformations tres magnifique, and set about taking photos for their new passports. He took down all of Benjamin's information for his visa and then, rubbing his hands together, said there was nothing left to do but settle their account.
"Ah," Benjamin said. He explained that their ami mutuel had told them the passports would be ten thousand dollars. Guy looked very sad. He went on at some length about the mounting expenses of this sort of business, the very high risks, the exorbitant costs for bribes… finally Benjamin said, "Combien?"
"Hmmm," Guy said, stroking his beard as though in deep, deliberate thought. "Twenty thousand?" He held up a finger. " Euros. "
In fact, Benjamin didn't care how much the passports cost. But he felt he had a certain role to play here, or Guy might become suspicious.
"Fifteen thousand," he said.
Guy shook his head. "Eighteen, minimum absolu, " he said, trying to make his flabby chin look resolute.
Benjamin shrugged, tried to look disappointed but resigned. "D'accord," he said. He leaned over and said to Natalya, "For that much money, remember to take the glasses, all right?" Natalya nodded.
Benjamin took the valise into the dressing room to count out the money. He figured he wasn't really concealing anything from Guy, but better to at least appear cautious, or else Guy might feel he was being insulted as insufficiently threatening.
He returned, counted the money into Guy's fat palm, and then added another thousand euros "pour votre discretion." Guy smiled, nodded appreciatively.
Guy escorted them to the door, told them to return in two hours' time. Before they left, Benjamin turned and asked Guy another question, to which Guy gave a somewhat prolonged answer. Then they shook hands good-bye, Guy bid them "Jusqu'a plus tard" and closed the door.
When they reached the street, Natalya turned to him.
"What did you just ask him?" she said. She sounded a bit suspicious.
"I was curious. I've seen enough films to know such people as Guy use the names of the deceased for fake passports."
"Yes," said Natalya. "Like Gogol's seller of dead souls."
Benjamin laughed. "I also know databases of such names have improved the last few years, and that they're international. Believe me, I've dealt with enough such lists to know. But he assured me he's well beyond such shopworn techniques, that his methods were thoroughly moderne."
"Then where does he get the names?" Natalya asked.
"From a friend in the prefect's medical office. But not names of the dead. He uses the names of the near -dead-people who are in comas. Still alive, but unlikely to turn up at an inconvenient moment."
Natalya blanched. "You mean, we will be using such names?"
Benjamin nodded. "Try not to be too superstitious about it," he said. "Think of it as giving them a vicarious adventure."
"I will try," Natalya said. But she didn't look convinced.
CHAPTER 38
When Benjamin and Natalya left Guy's studio, they walked west toward the avenue de la Republique. As they approached the small park set between boulevard Risso and avenue Gallieni, the buildings became older but more respectable, displaying more of the Italian influence in their arches and white stone and carrying their history with a certain grace and confidence. The day was still bright and warm and, as they strolled, Natalya linked her arm through his.
"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.
The shadow war Page 24
