“The world is full of such noses and ears.”
Andrei suddenly shifts in his seat and the two men stop talking. But they keep their eyes glued to him. Their expression is not one of hostility, but curiosity.
“I was born in Vilnius and grew up in Saint Petersburg,” Andrei says slowly. He remembers just enough Yiddish for a simple conversation. The men are overjoyed.
When did he leave Russia?
Is it true what they say, that the Bolsheviks are leaving the Jews alone?
Their mother’s brother, Uncle Isaac, fled Ukraine with his family. The Bolsheviks there weren’t murdering Jews, but they destroyed the synagogues and shut down the schools. They were teaching children to hate their fathers and not to believe in God.
“So what are you going to Antwerp for?” the two men ask.
“I’m not. I’m going to Brussels.”
The men shake their heads with a smile. “You missed your stop. We got on in Brussels and this train is going to Antwerp.”
So where was he coming from? And why?
Andrei gladly tells them everything. He always answers truthfully when people ask him questions. It’s easier that way, he’s found. Except for in jail. There he said nothing, no matter what they asked.
He shows them his ten francs.
“I don’t know what I’ll do,” he says. “Maybe write a few letters and ask my friends to send me money. I need to get back to France.”
“There is no legal way,” says one of the men. “My guess is that they won’t let you stay in Belgium, either.”
“Where do you plan to sleep?” the other man asks.
“I have no idea.” Andrei shrugs. “The train station?”
“They won’t let you. You’ll end up in jail, one two three.”
“But you can come with us,” the second man says, and the first one nods in agreement.
“Moishe,” says the first man.
“Abel,” the second man says, introducing himself.
“Moishe and Abel Kotler. Our shop is right across from the station. Maybe you know it.”
ELEVEN YEARS LATER, Louise wrote this recollection of Andrei:
A grueling tug-of-war began with immigration officials after we left Russia. I resolved my status by entering into a pro forma marriage, but that was out of the question for Andrei. At one point, he was even expelled from France, and it was only through the intervention of influential friends that we succeeded in getting him back. The state apparatus knows how to get at its adversaries. Instead of Andrei writing or editing books and articles, he was filling out forms and exhausting himself standing in line at offices. I have no doubt that this humiliating struggle for a place on earth, which is the primary and inalienable right of every person, contributed to his decision to end his life prematurely.
In reality, Andrei’s trail ended at the Antwerp train station, and none of the influential friends to whom Louise addressed her pleading letters offered any assistance. He was smuggled back into France by the diamond dealers Moishe and Abel Kotler.
6
HOW EASY IT IS FOR THE STATE BUREAUCRACY to conspire against an individual who has become inconvenient. How easily one can dictate terms to a man who, even if he has given everything up, in the end still needs some space to live. “After my death,” Andrei wrote in his will, “I wish to be cremated and have my ashes scattered. At least then I will no longer take up any space and I can escape from the cycle of applications, approvals, and rejections.”
Bureaucracy had become such an integral part of their lives that Mimi, who had been too young to travel before the war, didn’t even believe Andrei when he told her that in those days you didn’t need any special permission to cross the border and settle down in another country. Mimi joined him in Paris once he returned from Belgium, and together they left for the south.
That was one of the conditions of his being allowed to reside in France: He had to move away from the capital and cease all political activity. He stopped work, at least openly, gave up his position as secretary of the fund for the relief of Russian political prisoners, and published his articles overseas, often under Louise’s name. Louise had become a brand unto herself. Her name sold well. She had more requests to write than she could keep up with. Andrei also drew up the outlines for her lectures, and in return she sent him a percentage of the fees she received. He also promised to help her with her memoirs, and put off work on his own for the time being. His small household needed every franc it could get.
He and Mimi found a room with a kitchen on the ground floor of a house on rue de Gare, in Saint-Laurent-du-Var, a suburb of Nice.
Saint-Laurent was an independent commune with its own town hall and a downtown centered around the place Vieille, with streets so narrow that when you spread your arms you could easily touch the unplastered stone walls on either side. Rents were cheaper there than in the city. On Wednesday and Saturdays there was a market, and the beach was a short walk along the river Var. Not only that, but they had a yard of their own with a lemon tree and a miniature garden that Mimi was very proud of, where she grew parsley, basil, and thyme.
The only drawback compared to a larger city was that everyone in Saint-Laurent knew everyone else and they didn’t like outsiders, even when they weren’t nearly as suspicious as an elderly Jew with a limp, an accent, and a German mistress young enough to be his daughter.
MIMI HAD NEVER WANTED to get out of bed when they lived in Berlin, but here she rose at dawn, when the birds awakened her. She would creep into the kitchen and put water on for coffee. Then sweep the yard, water her herbs, and dash off to the baker’s, all before Andrei opened his eyes. She loved the smell of Andrei’s first cigarette, which he would smoke outdoors, with a mug of hot, sweet coffee in hand.
In summer they would walk to the beach early in the morning. Mimi would pack a basket with their breakfast, towels, a blanket, and pull on her swimsuit under her clothing. At around ten, when the sun began to get unpleasantly hot, they would go back home, close the shutters and open the windows to set up a breeze, and get down to work. Typically, Andrei would either write, edit, or translate, while Mimi looked up words in the dictionary, typed up his handwritten drafts, wrote letters, and, later, prepared lunch. After they ate, they would lie down for a bit before returning to work in the cool of the house and continuing through until the end of the afternoon. By that time there was shade in the yard and they could sit outside again. Just before sunset, they would make another trip to the sea. If they happened to be in the black, they would stop off at a bistro on their way back for a pastis, and if not, they would have some white wine at home. Their suppers were simple: bread, tomatoes, cheese, and fruit. At night they left the windows open, as well as the door that gave on to the yard. Mimi would listen to the buzzing of the cicadas and think about the stars. They seemed so incredibly close in the south, whereas in Berlin she had barely been able to see them. She bought herself a star map and learned the constellations. Everything about the seaside fascinated her: the plants, the fish, the recipes, the customs of the locals.
After the hustle and bustle of Berlin and their long separation, she finally had Andrei all to herself. They were already practically married. The only thing left was to go to town hall and make it official, but Andrei always had a reason to put it off. She had pressured him in Berlin, but now she didn’t even mind so much that they weren’t married, as long as he didn’t leave her again. Taking care of him, she was peaceful and happy. Here the ghosts of Berlin—friends and especially former lovers—were safely far away. All Andrei could do was write to them.
7
ANDREI HAD BEEN CONSTANTLY IN DEMAND in Berlin. Guests had come calling at all hours, even after midnight. He would brew tea, pour wine, and argue politics, all still in his pajamas. Mimi couldn’t stand when people “interfered with Andrei’s rest,” but there was no escaping it. In Saint-Laurent, on the other hand, they made it through almost the whole first summer without a single visitor.
It was eight in the morning. Mimi had just gone for a swim and was stretched out in the sun. Andrei lay on his side, head propped in his hand, smoking a cigarette as he gazed out at the sea. They could track the passing of time by the shadow of Andrei’s cane, plunged upright in the sand. The beach and promenade were almost empty. Guests were just waking up in the hotels along the coast. Nothing but open space in every direction. Sailboats were setting out from the port of Saint-Laurent, white birds drowned in a sea of blue, vanishing over the horizon, slowly or quickly, depending on how strong the wind was blowing.
Andrei was speaking, half to Mimi, half to himself. “Rosa Luxemburg was wrong. I was wrong. Man can’t be reduced to his role in the hierarchy of economic relations. The problem lies elsewhere. Money is just a derivative evil. It isn’t enough to change the economic order! Whether it’s God or the state, we have to abolish the patriarchal apparatus. As we found out in Russia, it can’t be destroyed by violence. One power system just replaces the other. We have to declare disobedience to it, ignore it, mentally dissolve it. Stop playing the game!”
Andrei sat up in excitement. “Mimi, I figured it out!”
One of the sailboats was coming toward them. Already it was close enough for them to decipher the name of the boat, spelled out in white against the red hull: FIREFLY.
“Any farther,” said Andrei, “and it’s going to run aground.”
The captain must have realized the same thing, because he dropped anchor and the crew began taking in the sails. Mimi watched the sailors at work, counting three of them on board; then she noticed a female figure dressed in white who had climbed onto the railing and was waving both hands and shouting something.
The idyll was over. Mimi could feel it in her gut. She was ready to pack her things and run away, but Andrei had other plans. She looked at him: shading his eyes with his hand, watching the woman on the railing with curiosity. He was smiling.
“Who could that be?” Mimi asked.
With one swift movement, the woman pulled her dress over her head, tossed it onto the deck, executed a graceful swan dive into the water, and began swimming to shore.
Andrei sat up in anticipation, then propped himself up to a standing position with the help of his cane and walked toward the water’s edge. Mimi wondered whether he had known the Firefly was coming. It seemed like he and the woman had some kind of arrangement.
“Who is that?” Mimi asked again.
Andrei shrugged and stepped into the water.
The woman was a good swimmer. Within a few minutes, she was wading through the shallows toward Andrei, breathing heavily, but with a smile on her face. She was young, tall, and thin, with a tanned, athletically toned body. Her short brown hair was plastered to her skull. She held out her hand to Andrei. “Nancy. Nancy Harwood. We knew you would be here. You must be Andrei. I read your Notes from Prison. Quite remarkable, if I may say so.”
Andrei took her hand and squeezed it affectionately.
From where she sat, Mimi could hear every word. Like every American she had met, this one was very loud.
“We set sail from Saint-Tropez last night,” Nancy said. “And we have a pleasant surprise for you. At least I hope it will be pleasant. Besides that, we have plenty of champagne on board. Will you join us for a glass? Or have you already had breakfast?”
She laughed at her own joke, and just kept laughing and laughing.
Andrei waved to Mimi. “Come here.”
Mimi didn’t move. She didn’t want to drink champagne with strangers. She wasn’t curious about their surprise. She didn’t like the woman. There was something dangerous about her. The way she flattered Andrei. And Andrei, who normally couldn’t stand flattery, didn’t raise a word of objection. From the looks of it, he enjoyed it. Him and his women, Mimi thought angrily to herself.
Andrei waved to her again. She would have to go meet this vulgar American woman.
A small dinghy detached itself from the side of the sailboat. There were two people sitting in it: a man, and a woman in a straw hat with a red ribbon. The woman was waving.
“That’s the surprise.” Nancy theatrically unfurled a long, tanned arm. “We’ve brought you your girlfriend.”
“I thought she was still in Canada,” said Andrei, shaking his head in delight. “Why didn’t she write?”
“It wouldn’t have been a surprise then,” said Nancy.
THE MAN AT THE OARS is Nancy’s husband, Jack. He anchors the boat in the sandy shallows, rolls up the legs of his linen summer trousers, and makes his way to shore, in one hand a basket of food, in the other a bucket of ice with three bottles of champagne sticking out of it. As Andrei helps Louise from the boat, she plunks into the water, soaking her skirt up to the waist. She has aged even more in the two years since he last saw her. Her hair now is totally gray, and she has also put on weight. But she laughs, giving Andrei a hug like in the old days, and addresses him as “boy.”
“So, my boy, how are you doing here?”
Once on shore, she greets Mimi, spreads out her skirt on the sand to dry, and delivers the news that Nancy has bought her a house in Saint-Tropez, a beautiful little villa on a hill overlooking the sea, with a garden and a small patch of vineyard. That means there are no more obstacles to keep her from starting work on her memoirs. She has a place to write now, and finally, too, she’ll have her own home. She also has the resources, since her friends took up a collection, so she can pay Andrei, too. She’s counting on him to help with the writing. She’s already started sending out letters. There are so many facts to verify, old documents to request.
Nancy and Jack leave them alone to talk in peace. They can entertain themselves just fine. Nancy lies on her stomach, playing with a glass of wine. She has buried it in the sand and circled it with a ring of shells. Jack reads the newspaper, smoking.
Nobody paid any attention to Mimi. Louise had always looked right through her. In Berlin, she had treated her as nothing but an appendage of Andrei, someone who had to be counted only when setting the table. Louise didn’t take any of Andrei’s lovers seriously. She classified them all either as pampered princesses or secretaries, which in her experience were even worse. But she couldn’t be jealous of them. She had known Andrei too long for that. His lovers were interchangeable.
Mimi could sense all of this, which was why she didn’t like Louise. She wasn’t Andrei’s lover, she was his wife, whether or not they had a paper saying so. Andrei belonged to her, and even Louise had to accept that.
Nancy finishes her drink and sits up. She crawls over to Jack on her knees, wraps her long arms around his neck, and gives him a kiss on the ear.
Jack bristles. “You’re covered in sand.”
She sticks out her chest. “Then clean me.”
“Oh, stop it. Why don’t you put some clothes on.”
Nancy turns away, dejected.
“So where are we going for lunch?” Jack yawns.
8
IT WAS A LONG DAY. By the time they finally got home, around sunup, Mimi felt several years older. She was tired, dirty, and filled with tears she had been holding in.
It started with lunch on the terrace at the Hotel Imperial (the white-coated waiters pretended not to notice Mimi’s old summer dress, in which she had run to the beach that morning) and ended with an exhausting trek from bar to bar.
The more they drank, the darker Jack turned, and at three o’clock in the morning, at the Blind Dog bistro, with the electric fans spinning lazily on the ceiling, he flung himself on Nancy. He would have beaten her to a pulp if Andrei hadn’t stepped in. The only other people there besides them were a couple of prostitutes with their pimps, and they weren’t about to get involved. They wer
e used to scenes like that.
“She’s a whore,” Jack told Andrei as Louise rocked the sobbing Nancy in her massive arms. “And ugly besides. And whose fault is that? Dr. Schrer from Minnesota. Go ahead, ask her, she’ll tell you. Stupid bitch! Dumbest millionaire I know. You know what that doctor did to her? He promised to cut off a piece of her nose, then didn’t do it. He just left it the way it was. Didn’t want to lay a hand on little Nini’s schnoz. Little Nini, you know that’s what they used to call her at home? Now she’s got to live with a nose like a cucumber for the rest of her life, poor girl. Can you imagine? People are dying of hunger and little Nini’s all upset about her nose. What can comfort her now, except champagne and cocaine? Just ask, she’ll tell you herself. Little Nini wants to be loved. Admired. But not for her money.” Jack laughed. “As long as you’re making eyes at everyone, why don’t you just go right ahead and strip?” He reached across the table, grabbed a handful of Nancy’s silk dress, and ripped it in half down to her waist. Nancy was too stunned to try to hide her tiny white breasts. She just went on crying while Louise took off her summer scarf and wrapped her up in it.
Andrei ran outside to find a taxi. The Firefly was anchored in the harbor. Louise said she could sleep on the boat with Nancy and Jack and sail back to Saint-Tropez with them the next day.
Having reduced Nancy to tears, Jack finally calmed down. He was in a good mood again for the first time since morning. He moved over next to Mimi and pressed up against her, wrapping one hand around her shoulders and resting the other on her thigh.
“Come back to the boat with me,” he whispered. “I’ll show you my cabin. Nancy’ll sleep like a log. I know her. Your eyes are so . . . blue.”
Andrei came back with a taxi and they all walked out together. Jack kept a tight grip on Mimi’s hand; she couldn’t get away. He pulled her into the open car, but Andrei didn’t notice. He was too busy talking to Louise, who was propping up Nancy.
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