Laugh of the Hyenas

by Ivan Roussetzki

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, General Milev, and congratulations on your recent promotion. How can I help you?”

  Milev’s shining smile complemented the crisp uniform, starched white shirt, silk tie, and high black boots to create a professional yet intimidating impression. They shook hands, and Belevski offered Milev a seat. The doctor wondered if this was his last day on Earth. Lopié’s advice, “When under threat, act as though nothing is wrong.” rang in his ears.

  “An old injury flaring up, I suppose,” Milev said. “I’m told you can do wonders with your hands, Dr. Belevski. Perhaps you can help me.”

  Belevski acknowledged his compliment with a small smile, but his palms began to sweat. The doctor told himself to remain calm.

  Belevski ushered Milev into the treatment room and instructed him to take a dressing gown. He wondered how much the policeman really knew. The doctor was afraid that Milev would probe and try to make him crack. However, once he got to work on the “Butcher of Sofia,” he relaxed and concentrated on loosening the tight muscles in the policeman’s back.

  Surprisingly, Dr. Belevski’s conversation with General George Milev managed to skirt the war news and politics, and instead turned to more noble topics. They chatted about art and architecture as if they were old professors. Then, Milev congratulated Belevski on his recent medical achievements.

  “I read in the newspapers that your diagnosis of the boy’s condition contradicted two rather prominent German physicians,” he said. “No doubt the fact that you were correct and they were wrong proved most gratifying, professionally, I mean.”

  “Well, let it suffice to say, General Milev,” the doctor said, “that the procedure I performed on the boy put him on the road back to good health. I’m afraid that if the German doctors had their way, he may not have been so lucky.”

  Milev lifted himself up onto one elbow and stared into the doctor’s face. “I must say, Dr. Belevski, that you look somewhat different than your picture. You look as if you’ve been working too hard. Perhaps too many late night visits to your famous patients, eh?” He paused a moment to laugh at his own joke. “Speaking of patients, how is the boy in Istanbul faring?”

  Belevski was taken aback by the policeman’s bluntness and his question, but he tried not to react.

  “Better, but,” the doctor paused, made a face, and shook his head slowly for effect, giving himself a few extra seconds before he offered the lie that he’d been instructed to tell the Bulgarian authorities.

  “General, I must return to Istanbul to reexamine the boy as soon as possible. A patient who had undergone a similar procedure has developed a serious complication. I need to make sure that the boy’s incision has healed properly. It’s most inconvenient for my family, but, alas, his life is at stake, and after all, I am his doctor”

  Belevski knew that Milev was listening for any inconsistencies. Had the doctor already said too much?

  “I see,” Milev said. “Well then, I can help you. Come to my office tomorrow. I’ll have my assistant prepare your travel visa, and you can be on your way as soon as you wish.”

  Belevski thought that Milev must have known that he was lying. The doctor swallowed hard but tilted his head downward so Milev could only see his forehead and not the beads of sweat dripping down the front of his shirt. After a silent moment that lasted too long, the doctor spoke.

  “General, that’s very kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “Not at all, Dr. Belevski. I’ll expect to see you at 3:00 for coffee, and we can have a friendly chat for a few minutes.”

  Belevski could not refuse what amounted to an order from the Chief of the Secret Police, so he thanked Milev and finished his treatment in silence. He hoped that the policeman couldn’t feel his hands trembling or detect the knot of fear that cascaded down the doctor’s throat, swirled around his stomach like a typhoon and then made his bowels turn liquid.

  These days everyone in Sofia knew of George Milev’s reputation for brutality, and a “friendly” visit to his office could end up in the dungeon, where it was said that unspeakable things took place at the hands of his henchmen.

  Belevski was scared that if Milev suspected him of being a spy, he was as good as dead. There was no way that he could hold out against his interrogators. That’s when Belevski remembered the small vile of poison that Lopié had given him. Was this how he would end his life? But where had he put it?

  

  The next afternoon, General Milev invited Belevski into a large sunlit office whose walls were lined with books, paintings, maps, and artifacts. A fine collection of swords mounted in glass cases decorated one complete wall. A Byzantine painting showed a figure of the Virgin Mary in a beautiful, complex design of gold lines, wrapped in a blue robe and a red cloak, and seated on a finely carved golden throne. The baby Jesus she held was not a baby at all, but a tiny man offering a blessing. The shiny wooden floors of Milev’s office were strewn with several oriental rugs, each of which must have cost a year’s salary for a typical Bulgarian.

  “My new office,” Milev said. “How do you like it?”

  If the doctor hadn’t known better, he might have thought he was in the office of a diplomat or an art collector. Milev shook his hand and motioned for him to take a seat on a plush velvet couch near the window. Two exquisite bone china cups, a silver coffee pot, sugar bowl, creamer, and matching tray sat atop a table with floral designs of marble, semiprecious stones, and inlaid wood.

  “A beautiful table. Italian, sixteenth century?” Belevski asked.

  Milev smiled and handed the doctor a cup of coffee. As Dr. Belevski sipped the drink, he looked around the elegant room. A dozen or so strange, colorful, yet dark and foreboding paintings lined the walls. The mocking faces, twisted bodies, and everyday objects in the pictures looked like they had been blown apart and then jammed together in bizarre and unnatural ways. Dr. Belevski moved closer to the canvases to get a good look at the signatures: Max Beckmann, Salvador Dali, Marc Chagall, Paul Klee, Henri Matisse, and Pablo Picasso. Dr. Belevski had read about a controversial exhibition in Germany that featured several of these artists and wondered what some of their paintings were doing in General George Milev’s office.

  “Your office is like an art gallery,” Dr. Belevski said. “I’m curious, where did you get these paintings?”

  “These artists and others were banned in Germany by Hitler in 1937. He said their art was ‘un-German’ or ‘Jewish Bolshevist’ in nature. He called them ‘degenerate artists’ and ordered their paintings destroyed. Fortunately, I have a contact in the unit who was supposed to burn this lot, so I got them …let’s say, at a good price. What do you think, Dr. Belevski, are these artists degenerates or visionaries?”

  “I’m sorry, General, I don’t know, but the paintings are … ah … unusual.”

  Dr. Belevski couldn’t help but feel a certain kinship for someone who clearly had a passion for art, antiques, and beautiful objects. Belevski thought to himself that perhaps General George Milev was not such a demonic bastard after all.

  When Milev asked Belevski about his family’s well-being and safety during his time away and even offered to have the police keep an eye on them, the doctor knew the policeman was fishing, trying to make him nervous, trying to find something. Belevski thanked Milev for his concern, but said that his family would be just fine while he was away.

  “I’m sure that I’ve taken up enough of your precious time, General,” the doctor said, hoping that the policeman would produce the promised visa and allow him on his way. Milev stared at the doctor for a long moment before saying what was really on his mind.

  “Istanbul is a nest filled with spies who prey on innocent and unassuming foreigners,” Milev said. “Be especially wary of any contact with English and French women traveling alone.”

  Unfortunately, his warning was too late, but Belevski managed to make a little joke. “My wife gets upset if I even glance at a woman. She’s the
jealous type, I’m afraid.”

  “Just stick to your business,” Milev said, “and return to Sofia as soon as you’re finished examining the boy. And oh, by the way, come visit me again when you return.”

  Milev offered his regards to Belevski’s wife and the Turkish Vice President, wished the doctor a safe journey, and dismissed him with a nod.

  As Belevski left the building, he was confused by Milev’s combination of cultural refinement and obvious intimidation. On his way back to the hospital, without warning, the doctor felt his stomach spew a bile substance that forced him to stop the car, open the door, and vomit into the street. The fear Belevski had successfully buried deep inside his gut gushed out along with the sweet coffee. The doctor wiped his mouth with an expensive handkerchief.

  “Thankfully, I’m not strapped to a chair being tortured—at least not yet,” he thought to himself.

  Ironically, as Belevski regained his composure, he saw George Milev more as an intellectual equal than as an adversary. He had to admit that the policeman’s art collection and antiques were quite impressive. The doctor was sure that women found the man’s power and charm attractive, too. Was this the same man who caused the Bulgarians to quake in their boots?

  Belevski wondered if everything he had heard about Milev’s horrendous deeds was true. One rumor going around Sofia suggested that Milev tortured the children of Bulgarian Communist Party members. Another one said that he gouged the eyes from the sockets of spies who failed to reveal their contacts. Perhaps his sadistic henchmen were involved in such depraved activities, but had Milev—a man who loved art the way he did—personally approved of or taken part in such brutal methods of interrogation?

  Yes, Dr. Belevski knew that there was probably at least a kernel of truth inside every rumor, but he was not totally convinced that George Milev was the demon others made him out to be. He wondered if the General’s refined exterior concealed a dark and corrupt heart. It was true that Milev was the commander of a department of bloody thugs, but perhaps he was not what he appeared. By the time Belevski had arrived back at the hospital and finished packing his medical bag for the trip to Istanbul, he wasn’t sure what he thought about George Milev.

  CHAPTER 32

  I rub my lips over her breasts and run my tongue in circles around her erect nipples. They are brownish pink floating on her white velvet skin … the space between them is slightly wet with small drops of sweat. She smells sweet like a flower—maybe roses or jasmine—I can’t tell which, but it doesn’t matter. Her tongue outlines her stained red lips … she gently bites the skin on my neck, chest and stomach… I’m instantly hard … She reaches down between my legs and pulls me into her mouth and… We are naked, embracing, making love on the bed in the hotel room… I’m happy. What’s that knocking…knocking…knocking? What do you want? Go away. Leave us alone! Helen? Where are you?

  Lurid dreams filled Dr. Belevski’s troubled sleep for much of his trip to Istanbul. When he got off the train, he saw her standing alone and away from the platform. She looked as beautiful as ever, dressed in a dark fashionable suit, probably from some expensive store in Paris. Her black hair was cut short. My God, she was an exquisite creature! He had forgotten just how beautiful Helen Noverman was.

  For several seconds the doctor just stood and stared at her. His heart thumped and his groin stirred when his thoughts returned to the night they spent together. But then a siren went off in Dr. Belevski’s head, and he heard Milev’s tardy warning. The doctor turned and glanced over his shoulder. Was he about to be arrested? Had he walked into another of Noverman’s traps? Where was Lopié?

  No one approached him. There was no one to be afraid of. The doctor saw only travelers rushing about, collecting their luggage or running to catch the train before it chugged from the station on its journey westward.

  If Noverman was surprised by the change in Belevski’s appearance since they had seen each other last, she didn’t show it. She smiled and stepped closer, holding out her hand. His thoughts boomeranged between kissing her and strangling her.

  “You’re the one who got me into this mess! I was a bloody fool before, but not now,” Belevski said to himself.

  He kept his hand at his side and looked past her for Jean Lopié or anyone who might be a threat. The smile fell from her face. Neither said a word as he followed her to a parked car.

  After Helen told Dr. Belevski his itinerary for the following day, they drove in silence, barely looking at each other. There was plenty he could have said to her. He could have told her how crushed he was that she had deceived him. That he would have given her anything she wanted. That he loved her and even considered leaving his wife for her. That, in a bizarre way, he still loved her, even after what she had done to him.

  But what would have been the point of saying these things now? Agreeing to work for Jean Lopié had changed everything. Belevski could never trust her, or anyone else, again.

  They pulled past a hotel. She parked the car and turned toward him. When she spoke his name, he heard the regret in her voice. She reached out to take Belevski’s hand and offered to stay with him. For a few seconds, he became aroused and remembered the two of them naked, embracing, making love on the bed in the hotel room. He was happy again—all was forgiven. Then he imagined Jean Lopié leering at them from behind the two-way wall mirror, beside him the odious photographer snapping pictures, and that joyous image quickly disappeared.

  Helen knew that Manol despised her for what she had done to him. Who could blame him? Even so, she wanted to tell him that she hadn’t been lying when she said she loved him as they lay in each other’s arms. Of course he would never believe her, so she said nothing.

  Without another word, Belevski opened the car door. As he stepped out of the car and into the street, Helen said, “Be careful Manol. Istanbul can be a dangerous place.”

  Manol Belevski sat alone in his plush hotel room, feeling strangely serene. For the moment, he was far away from the probing Sofia police and barking dogs of the Gestapo. Lopié had said that the first two months would be the most dangerous, and he had survived and, in fact, even provided the Frenchman with some choice bits of intelligence. Plus, the doctor had made a lot of money. While he stared at the ceiling on the eve of receiving what Helen called “a vital assignment,” Belevski almost felt optimistic about the future. For the first time in months, he slept undisturbed by nightmares, perverted sexual dreams, or cold sweats.

  

  Belevski’s examination of the boy the following morning at the palace took less than an hour. When he pronounced the lad in excellent health, the Vice President was visibly relieved but a little confused. He asked the doctor to sit down beside him.

  “Doctor, excuse me if I am mistaken,” he said, “but why do I feel that you are involved in some foreign business in Istanbul and that is the real reason behind your visit here today?”

  “But your Excellency,” Belevski said, “I’m here to see your son. That’s all, I assure you!”

  “I apologize if I have offended you, Doctor, but to be candid, my recent invitation to you was actually someone else’s idea. Dr. Belevski, forgive me, but Istanbul has many unscrupulous and dangerous people. Please take care. I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to the great doctor who saved my son’s life.”

  Another warning! First from Spasia, then General George Milev and Helen Noverman, and now from the Vice President. Belevski thanked him for his concern, again assuring him that his visit to Istanbul was completely in the interest of the boy.

  Belevski left the palace for his rendezvous with Jean Lopié. The doctor’s mind was swamped with frightening thoughts. He recalled the painting of the Last Supper in the Boyana church. He wondered if he, too, would be betrayed by someone close to him, just as Jesus had been.

  The doctor looked at the piece of paper Helen had given him. On it was the name of a small upstairs café located on the street, the Passage of the Flowers, in the shopping area called the Beyoğlu.
Oddly, there were no flowers to be seen on this street, which was more like a dark and dirty alley.

  Thousands of people, shoulder to shoulder, inched their way between rug merchants and bread sellers with sesame-flavored rolls so hot that they burned your fingers. Peddlers sold pistachio nuts, aromatic spices, and curly-toed slippers fit for a sultan. The black marketers sold nearly everything, from French perfume to antique swords. Loud waiters stood in countless restaurant doorways shouting out the day’s specials. It was among these eateries that Dr. Belevski found Mustafa’s Café. Before he climbed the stairs to go inside, he turned around to see if anyone suspicious had followed him.

  A beaded curtain served as the doorway to a smoke-filled and chaotic room, crowded mostly with Turks and Kurds eating great platefuls of black mussels and drinking huge steins of beer. A colorfully dressed bowlegged dwarf did a handstand on a rickety wooden chair—the first in a row of ten. At the clamorous urging of the audience, he hopped on his hands from one empty chair to the next. Each time he landed the patrons cheered. When he reached the last chair, the dwarf sprang back on his feet to wild applause and a shower of coins.

  All the while, a voluptuous gypsy woman outfitted in countless copper bells and bangles danced on a table as the patrons clapped to the beat of her incessant tambourine and stomping feet. People shouted at the waiters, “More mussels! More beer!” No one even noticed the doctor as he sat on a stool in the corner and waited. After a few minutes, Jean Lopié appeared from a shadow, grabbed his arm, and whisked him down the back stairs to a waiting car.

  The overflowing street seemed quiet compared to the café. They drove over a bridge to another section of the city, past dozens of musicians and actors who stood outside the stage door to the Istanbul State Opera. Dr. Belevski and Jean Lopié left the car in an alley near the Spice Market and walked to the back door of a dilapidated house. Lopié knocked twice. The door opened, and they entered.