jacket, and extracted the passport.
Andreas Panea.
Late in the afternoon, he walked to the post office. The Czech postal clerks wore blue uniforms. On an envelope he had written
Malko, Poste Restante, Uzhorod.
Inside, a meaningless note—a sister had been ill, now she was better. The actual message was the address: the same as “Malko’s”, with a different name.
Now, to wait.
Morath lay on the bed and stared out the cloudy window. The finest room was bent at a strange angle; a low ceiling of wooden boards, whitewashed long ago, went in one direction, then another. When he stood up, it was only a few inches above his head. In the street, the steady sound of horses’ hooves on cobblestone. Ruthenia. Or, affectionately, Little Russia. Or, technically, Sub-Carpathian Ukraine. A Slavic nibble taken by the medieval kings of Hungary, and ever since a lost land in the northeast corner of the nation. Then, after the world war, on a rare day when American idealism went hand in hand with French diplomacy—what Count Polanyi called “a frightening convergence”—they stuck it onto Slovakia and handed it to the Czechs. Somewhere, Morath speculated, in a little room in a ministry of culture, a Moravian bureaucrat was hard at work on a little song. “Merry old Ruthenia / Land we love so well.”
At dinner, the proprietor and his wife served him jellied calf’s foot, buckwheat groats with mushrooms, white cheese with scallions, and thin pancakes with red-current jam. A bottle of cherry brandy stood on the plank table. The proprietor nervously rubbed his hands.
“Very good,” Morath said, pretending to wipe his mouth with the napkin—it had certainly been a napkin, once—and pushed his chair away from the table. He’d meant the compliment, however, and the proprietor could see that.
“Another blini, sir? Uhh,
Pfannkuchen? Crêpe? Blintz?
”
“Thank you, but no.”
Morath paid for the dinner and returned to his room. Lying there in the darkness, he could sense the countryside. There was a stable attached to the hotel, and sometimes the horses whickered and moved around in their stalls. The aroma, manure and rotted straw, drifted up to Morath’s room. Still cold, at the end of April. He wrapped himself up in the thin blanket and tried to sleep. Out on Krolevska Street, somebody got drunk in a tavern. Singing at first, then the argument, then the fight. Then the police, then the woman, crying and pleading, as her man was taken away.
Two days later, a letter at the post office, an address on the edge of Uzhorod, he had to take a droshky. Down streets of packed dirt lined with one-story log houses, each with a single window and a thatched roof. A woman answered his knock on the door. She was dark, with black, curly hair, wore crimson lipstick and a tight, thin dress. Perhaps Roumanian, he thought, or Gypsy. She asked him a question in a language he didn’t recognize.
He tried her in German. “Is Pavlo here?”
She’d expected him, he could sense that; now he’d arrived and she was curious, looked him over carefully. Morath heard a door slam in the house, then a man’s voice. The woman stood aside and Pavlo came to the door. He was one of those people who look very much like their photograph. “Are you the man from Paris?” The question was asked in German. Not good, but serviceable.
“Yes.”
“They took their time, getting you here.”
“Yes? Well, now I’m here.”
Pavlo’s eyes swept the street. “Maybe you’d better come inside.”
The room was crowded with furniture, heavy chairs and couches covered in various patterns and fabrics, much of it red, some of the fabric very good, some not. Morath counted five mirrors on the walls. The woman spoke quietly to Pavlo, glanced over at Morath, then left the room and closed the door.
“She is packing her suitcase,” Pavlo said.
“She’s coming with us?”
“She thinks she is.”
Morath did not show a reaction.
Pavlo took that for disapproval.
Andreas Panea.
Late in the afternoon, he walked to the post office. The Czech postal clerks wore blue uniforms. On an envelope he had written
Malko, Poste Restante, Uzhorod.
Inside, a meaningless note—a sister had been ill, now she was better. The actual message was the address: the same as “Malko’s”, with a different name.
Now, to wait.
Morath lay on the bed and stared out the cloudy window. The finest room was bent at a strange angle; a low ceiling of wooden boards, whitewashed long ago, went in one direction, then another. When he stood up, it was only a few inches above his head. In the street, the steady sound of horses’ hooves on cobblestone. Ruthenia. Or, affectionately, Little Russia. Or, technically, Sub-Carpathian Ukraine. A Slavic nibble taken by the medieval kings of Hungary, and ever since a lost land in the northeast corner of the nation. Then, after the world war, on a rare day when American idealism went hand in hand with French diplomacy—what Count Polanyi called “a frightening convergence”—they stuck it onto Slovakia and handed it to the Czechs. Somewhere, Morath speculated, in a little room in a ministry of culture, a Moravian bureaucrat was hard at work on a little song. “Merry old Ruthenia / Land we love so well.”
At dinner, the proprietor and his wife served him jellied calf’s foot, buckwheat groats with mushrooms, white cheese with scallions, and thin pancakes with red-current jam. A bottle of cherry brandy stood on the plank table. The proprietor nervously rubbed his hands.
“Very good,” Morath said, pretending to wipe his mouth with the napkin—it had certainly been a napkin, once—and pushed his chair away from the table. He’d meant the compliment, however, and the proprietor could see that.
“Another blini, sir? Uhh,
Pfannkuchen? Crêpe? Blintz?
”
“Thank you, but no.”
Morath paid for the dinner and returned to his room. Lying there in the darkness, he could sense the countryside. There was a stable attached to the hotel, and sometimes the horses whickered and moved around in their stalls. The aroma, manure and rotted straw, drifted up to Morath’s room. Still cold, at the end of April. He wrapped himself up in the thin blanket and tried to sleep. Out on Krolevska Street, somebody got drunk in a tavern. Singing at first, then the argument, then the fight. Then the police, then the woman, crying and pleading, as her man was taken away.
Two days later, a letter at the post office, an address on the edge of Uzhorod, he had to take a droshky. Down streets of packed dirt lined with one-story log houses, each with a single window and a thatched roof. A woman answered his knock on the door. She was dark, with black, curly hair, wore crimson lipstick and a tight, thin dress. Perhaps Roumanian, he thought, or Gypsy. She asked him a question in a language he didn’t recognize.
He tried her in German. “Is Pavlo here?”
She’d expected him, he could sense that; now he’d arrived and she was curious, looked him over carefully. Morath heard a door slam in the house, then a man’s voice. The woman stood aside and Pavlo came to the door. He was one of those people who look very much like their photograph. “Are you the man from Paris?” The question was asked in German. Not good, but serviceable.
“Yes.”
“They took their time, getting you here.”
“Yes? Well, now I’m here.”
Pavlo’s eyes swept the street. “Maybe you’d better come inside.”
The room was crowded with furniture, heavy chairs and couches covered in various patterns and fabrics, much of it red, some of the fabric very good, some not. Morath counted five mirrors on the walls. The woman spoke quietly to Pavlo, glanced over at Morath, then left the room and closed the door.
“She is packing her suitcase,” Pavlo said.
“She’s coming with us?”
“She thinks she is.”
Morath did not show a reaction.
Pavlo took that for disapproval.
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