by Alan Furst
He was. He’d had a letter from his sister. Life in Budapest, Teresa said, was “spoiled, ruined.” All the talk of war, suicides, an incident during a performance of Der Rosenkavalier. “Nicholas, even at the opera.” Duchazy was up to “God only knows what.” Plots, conspiracies. “Last Tuesday, the phone rang twice after midnight.”
He took Mary Day to afternoon tea at the baroness Frei’s house, the official celebration of summer’s arrival in the garden. The stars of the show were two roses that spread across the brick walls that enclosed the terrace: Madame Alfred Carrière, white flowers touched with pale pink—“a perfect noisette,” the baroness told Mary Day, “planted by the baron with his own hands in 1911”—and Gloire de Dijon, soft yellow with tones of apricot.
The baroness held court in an ironwork garden chair, scolding the vizslas as they agitated for forbidden morsels from the guests and beckoning her friends to her side. Seated next to her was an American woman called Blanche. She was the wife of the cellist Kolovitzky, a vivid blonde with black eyebrows, tanned skin from a life spent by Hollywood pools, and an imposing bosom on a body that should have been Rubenesque but was forced to live on grapefruit and toast.
“Darling Nicholas,” the baroness called out to him. “Come and talk to us.”
As he headed toward her, he saw Bolthos in the crowd and acknowledged his glance with a friendly nod. He was, for a moment, tempted to say something of his suspicions but immediately thought better of it. Silence, he told himself.
Morath kissed Lillian Frei on both cheeks. “Nicholas, have you met Blanche? Bela’s wife?”
“That’s Kolovitzky, not Lugosi,” the woman said with a laugh.
Morath laughed politely along with her as he took her hand. Why was this funny?
“At the Christmas party,” Morath said. “Is good to see you again.”
“She was at the Crillon,” Baroness Frei said. “But I made her come and stay with me.”
Kolovitzky’s wife started to talk to Morath in English, while Morath tried to follow along as best he could. The baroness saw that he was lost and began to translate into Hungarian, holding Blanche’s right hand tightly in her left and moving both hands up and down for emphasis as the conversation continued.
This was, Morath saw right away, a bad, potentially fatal, case of money madness. On the death of an aunt in Johannesburg, the cellist who scored Hollywood films had inherited two apartment houses in Vienna. “Nothing fancy, you know, but solid. Respectable.”
Kolovitzky’s friends, his lawyer, and his wife had all laughed at the absurdity of Kolovitzky going back to Austria to claim the inheritance. Kolovitzky laughed right along with them, then flew to Paris and took a train to Vienna.
“He was poor as a child,” Blanche said. “So money is never enough for him. He goes around the house and turns off the lights.”
She paused, found a handkerchief in her purse, and dabbed at her eyes. “Excuse me,” she said. “He went to Vienna three weeks ago, he’s still there. They won’t let him out.”
“Did someone encourage him to come?”
“See? He knows,” Blanche said to the baroness. “A scoundrel, a lawyer in Vienna. ‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ he said in his letter. ‘You’re an American, it won’t be a problem.’ ”
“He’s a citizen?”
“He’s got papers as a resident alien. I had a letter from him, at the Crillon, and the story was that once he gave them the buildings—that lawyer’s in cahoots with the Nazis, that’s what’s going on—he thought they’d let him go home. But maybe it isn’t so simple.”
The baroness stopped dead on cahoots, and Blanche said, “I mean, they’re all in it together.”
“Did he go to the American embassy?”
“He tried. But they don’t interest themselves in Jews. Come back in July, they told him.”
“Where is he, in Vienna.”
She opened her purse and brought out a much-folded letter on thin paper. “He says here,” she hunted for her glasses and put them on, “says here, the Schoenhof. Why I don’t know—he was at the Graben, which he always liked.” She read further and said, “Here. He says, ‘I have put the buildings, for tax purposes, in Herr Kreml’s name.’ That’s the lawyer. ‘But they tell me that further payments may be required.’ Then he says, ‘I can only hope it will be acceptable, but please speak with Mr. R. L. Stevenson at the bank and see what can be done.’ That too is odd, because there is no Mr. Stevenson, not that I know about.”
“They won’t let him out,” the baroness said.
“May I have the letter?” Morath said.
Blanche handed it to him, and he put it in his pocket.
“Should I send money?”
Morath thought it over. “Write and ask him how much he needs and when he’ll be coming home. Then say that you’re annoyed, or show it, with how he’s always getting into trouble. Why can’t he learn to respect the rules? The point is, you’ll bribe, but the bribe has to work, and you’ll say later that it was all his fault. They’re sensitive about America, the Nazis, they don’t want stories in the newspapers.”
“Nicholas,” the baroness said. “Can anything be done?”
Morath nodded. “Maybe. Let me think it over.”
The baroness Frei looked up at him, eyes blue as the autumn sky.
Blanche started to thank him, and had already said too much and was about to mention money when the baroness intervened.
“He knows, darling, he knows,” she said gently. “He has a good heart, Count Nicholas.”
*
Seen from a private box in the grandstand, the lawns of Longchamps racetrack glowed like green velvet. The jockeys’ silks were bright in the sunshine, scarlet and gold and royal blue. Silvana tapped the end of a pencil against a racing form. “Coup de Tonnerre?” she said. Thunderbolt. “Was that the gray one with the long tail? Horst? Do you remember?”
“I think it was,” Von Schleben said, peering at the program. “Pierre Lavard is riding, and they let him win once a day.” He read further. “Or maybe Bal Masqué. Who do you like, Morath?”
Silvana looked at him expectantly. She wore a print silk dress and pearls, her hair now expensively styled.
“Coup de Tonnerre,” Morath said. “He took a third place, the last time he ran. And the odds are attractive.”
Von Schleben handed Silvana a few hundred francs. “Take care of it for us, will you?” Morath also gave her money. “Let’s try Count Morath’s hunch.”
When she’d gone off to the betting windows, Von Schleben said, “Too bad about your uncle. We had good times together, but that’s life.”
“You didn’t hear anything, did you? After it happened?”
“No, no,” Von Schleben said. “Into thin air.”
As the horses were walked to the starting line, there were the usual difficulties, a starter’s assistant leaping out of the way to avoid being kicked.
“There’s a lawyer in Vienna I’d like to get in touch with,” Morath said. “Gerhard Kreml.”
“Kreml,” Von Schleben said. “I don’t think I know him. What is it that interests you?”
“Who he is. What kind of business he does. I think he has connections with the Austrian party.”
“I’ll see what I can do for you,” Von Schleben said. He handed Morath a card. “Call me, first part of next week, if you haven’t heard anything. Use the second number, there, on the bottom.”
The race began, the horses galloping in a tight pack. Von Schleben raised a pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses to his eyes and followed the race. “Take the rail, idiot,” he said. The horses’ hooves drummed on the grass. At the halfway point, the jockeys began to use their whips. “Ach scheiss!” Von Schleben said, lowering the glasses.
“This Kreml,” Morath said. “He has a client in Vienna, a friend of a friend, who seems to be having tax problems. There’s a question of being allowed to leave the country.”
“A Jew?”
“Ye
s. A Hungarian musician, who lives in California.”
“If he pays the taxes there should be no problem. Of course, there are special situations. And if there are, irregularities, well, the Austrian tax authority can be infernally slow.”
“Shall I tell you who it is?”
“No, don’t bother. Let me find out first who you’re dealing with. Everything in Vienna is—a little more complicated.”
The winners of the race were announced. “Too bad,” Von Schleben said. “Maybe better luck next time.”
“I would hope.”
“By the way, there’s a man called Bolthos, at the legation. Friend of yours?”
“Yes. An acquaintance, anyhow.”
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but he’s hard to get hold of. Very occupied, I suppose.”
“Why don’t I have him call you?”
“Could you?”
“I’ll ask him.”
“I’d certainly appreciate it. We have interests in common, here and there.”
Silvana returned. Morath could see she’d freshened her lipstick. “I’ll be on my way,” he said.
“Expect to hear from me,” Von Schleben said. “And again, I’m sorry about your uncle. We must hope for the best.”
Shoes off, sleeves rolled back, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine by his side, Morath stretched out on the brown velvet sofa and read and reread Kolovitzky’s letter.
Mary Day, wrapped in one towel with another around her head, came fresh from her bath, still warm, and sat by his side.
“Who is R. L. Stevenson?” Morath said.
“I give up, who is he?”
“It’s in this letter. From Kolovitzky, who played the violin at the baroness’s Christmas party. He managed to get himself trapped in Vienna, and they allowed him to write to his wife—just once, I think, there won’t be another, to see if they can get anything more out of him before they throw him in a canal.”
“Nicholas!”
“I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”
“The name is in the letter?”
“Code. Trying to tell his wife something.”
“Oh, well, then it’s the writer.”
“What writer?”
“Robert Louis Stevenson.”
“Who’s that?”
“He wrote adventure novels. Terrifically popular—my father had all the books, read them when he was growing up.”
“Such as?”
“Treasure Island.” She unwound the towel from her head and began drying her hair. “You’ve never heard of it?”
“No.”
“Long John Silver the pirate, with a peg leg and a parrot on his shoulder. Avast there, maties! It’s about a cabin boy, and buried treasure.”
“I don’t know,” he mused. “What else?”
“The Master of Ballentrae?”
“What happens there?”
She shrugged. “Never read it. Oh, also Kidnapped.”
“That’s it.”
“He’s telling her he’s been kidnapped?”
“Held for ransom.”
8:30 P.M. The Balalaika was packed, smoky and loud, the Gypsy violins moaning, the customers laughing, and shouting in Russian, the man down the bar from Morath weeping silently as he drank. Balki glanced at him and shook his head. “Kabatskaya melankholia,” he said, mouth tight with disapproval.
“What’s that?”
“A Russian expression—tavern melancholy.”
Morath watched while Balki made up a diabolo, a generous portion of grenadine, then the glass filled with lemonade. Balki looked at his watch. “My relief should be here.”
A few minutes later, the man showed up, and Balki and Morath headed for a bar up in the place Clichy. Earlier, during a lull in business, Morath had laid out the details of Kolovitzky’s letter, and the two of them had discussed strategy, coming up with the plan that couldn’t go wrong and what to do once it did.
In the bar, Balki greeted the owner in Russian and asked him if they could use the telephone.
“Maybe we should go to the railroad station,” Morath said.
“Save yourself the trip. Half the White Russians in Paris use this phone. Mercenaries, bomb throwers, guys trying to put the czar back on the throne, they all come here.”
“The czar is dead, Boris.”
Balki laughed. “Sure he is. So?”
Morath asked for the international operator and got the call through to Vienna almost immediately. The phone rang for a long time, then a man said, “Hotel Schoenhof.”
“Good evening. Herr Kolovitzky, please.”
The line hissed for a moment, then the man said, “Hold on.”
Morath waited, then a different voice, sharp and suspicious, said, “Yes? What do you want with Kolovitzky?”
“I just want to talk to him for a minute.”
“He’s busy right now, can’t come to the phone. Who’s calling?”
“Mr. Stevenson. I’m in Paris at the moment, but I might come over to Vienna next week.”
“I’ll tell him you called,” the man said, and hung up.
He called Von Schleben from the Agence Courtmain. A secretary said he wasn’t available, but, a few minutes later, he called back. “I have the information you wanted,” he said. “Gerhard Kreml is a small-time lawyer, basically crooked. Barely made a living until the Anschluss, but he’s done very well since then.”
“Where is he located?”
“He has a one-room office in the Singerstrasse. But he’s not your problem, your problem is an Austrian SS, Sturmbannführer Zimmer. He and Kreml have a swindle going where they arrest Jews who still have something left to steal. I suspect your friend was lured back to Vienna, and I should also tell you that his chances of getting out are not good.”
“Is there anything you can do?”
“I don’t think they’ll give him up—maybe if it was Germany I could help. Do you want me to try? There would have to be a quid pro quo, of course, and even then there’s no guarantee.”
“What if we pay?”
“That’s what I would do. You have to understand, in dealing with Zimmer you’re dealing with a warlord. He isn’t going to let somebody come into his territory and just take away what belongs to him.”
Morath thanked him and hung up.
“Liebchen.”
Wolfi Szubl said it tenderly, gratefully. Frau Trudi turned at the wall, gave him a luscious smile, and walked across the room, her immense behind and heavy thighs wobbled as she swung her hips. When she reached the end of the room, she turned again, leaned toward him, shook her shoulders, and said, “So, what do you see?”
“Paradise,” Wolfi said.
“And my discount?”
“Big discount, liebchen.”
“Yes?” Now her face beamed with pleasure. Even her hair is fat, he thought. A curly auburn mop, she’d brushed it out after wriggling into the corset, and it bounced up and down, with all the glorious rest of her, as she walked for him.
“I take all you have, Wolfi. The Madame Pompadour. My ladies will swoon.”
“Not just your ladies. What is that I see? Did you drop something, over there?”
“Did I? Oh dear.” Hands on hips, she walked like a model on the runway, a shoulder thrust forward with every step, chin high, mouth set in a stylish pout. “Two dozen? Sixty percent off?”
“You read my mind.”
At the wall, she bent over and held the pose. “I don’t see anything.”
Szubl rose from his chair, came up behind her and began to unsnap the tiny buttons. When he was done, she ran to the bed with baby steps and lay on her stomach with her chin propped on her hands.
Szubl began to undo his tie.
“Wolfi,” she said softly. “Not a day goes by I don’t think about you.”
Szubl took off his underpants and twirled them around his finger.
The apartment was above her shop, also Frau Trudi, on the Prinzstrasse, next to a ba
kery, and the smell of cookies in the oven drifted up through the open window. A warmish day in Vienna, the beastly Föhn not blowing for a change, Frau Trudi’s canary twittering in its cage, everything peaceful and at rest. By now it was twilight, and they could hear the bell on the door of the shop below them as the customers went in and out.
Frau Trudi, damp and pink after lovemaking, nestled against him. “You like it here, Wolfi? With me?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“You could stay for a while, if you liked.”
Wolfi sighed. If only he could. “I wonder,” he said, “if you know anybody who needs to make a little money. Maybe one of your ladies has a husband who’s out of work.”
“What would he have to do?”
“Not much. Lend his passport to a friend of mine for a week or so.”
She propped herself on her elbow and looked down at him. “Wolfi, are you in trouble?”
“Not me. The friend pays five hundred American dollars for the loan. So I thought, well, maybe Trudi knows somebody.”
He watched her. Fancied he could hear the ring of a cash-register drawer as she converted the dollars into schilling. “Maybe,” she said. “A woman I know, her husband could use it.”
“How old?”
“The husband?” She shrugged. “Forty-five, maybe. Always problems—she comes to me for a loan, sometimes.”
“Is it possible tonight?”
“I suppose.”
“I’ll give you the money now, Liebchen, and I’ll stop by tomorrow night for the passport.”
28 June. A fine day with bright sunshine, but not a ray of it reached the hunting lodge. Three stories, thirty rooms, a grand hall, all sunk in dark, musty gloom. Morath and Balki had hired a car in Bratislava and driven up into the wooded hills north of the Danube. They were in historical Slovakia—Hungarian territory since 1938—and only a few miles from the Austrian border.
Balki looked around him in a kind of dispirited awe—trophy heads on every wall, their glass eyes glittering in the forest light. Tentatively, he settled himself on the leather cushion of a huge wooden chair with hunting scenes carved into the high back.