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,
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,
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