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
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
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