Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

by Rafael Grugman

  Such detailed information, as I understood it, must be intended exclusively for me-Lloyd probably was acquainted with the Ressam affair, as his expression of polite indifference bore witness. I likewise was in no hurry to reveal my familiarity with it-the Ressam affair had been described in detail in the newspapers, with commentary to the effect that on the eve of the new century, it was only thanks to the vigilance of the customs officers that mega-terrorist acts had been averted in Seattle and Los Angeles.

  A red light lit up on the desk telephone. While Clark was talking, I glanced around his office out of the corner of my eye. After about twenty seconds, the monologue resumed.

  «Europe has become an administrative base for Muslim fanatics conducting armed warfare against the secular state in Algeria. Khalfaoui…»

  Pronouncing the Algerian's name for the second time, Clark fell silent and set to massaging his chin.

  «He's stimulating his thought processes, no less,» I thought daringly to myself, and smiled out of the side of my mouth: the idea seemed comical.

  Clark concentrated on his chin; the smoothing process continued. I waited patiently, holding back my smile.

  At last he said

  «Wouldn't you like to know what Khalfaoui's goal was when he showed up in France? Did he intend to follow in Ressam's footprints?»

  The rhetorical question went unanswered-Clark was talking to himself. But Lloyd revived:

  «Did the French manage to question him?»

  «That's the thing-they didn't. They got in a hurry and, as usual, made fools of themselves. They freed him for lack of evidence with a signed affidavit not to leave. Naturally, Khalfaoui immediately disappeared. As though they couldn't have seen that coming. With terrorists, and people suspected of belonging to terrorist groups, the principles of Western democracy should not be applied. It 's useless to negotiate. It's better to hold them for years in prison under investigation than to risk the lives of millions of people. I agree, that's not democratic! But during the Second World War, we weren't afraid to inter all the Japanese. And the result? After Pearl Harbor, there was not a single kamikadze on US territory. Right now, the situation is the same. However, it's not for us to make decisions. There is Congress and there is the President. We can only recommend that the Europeans make use of the Guantanamo experience.»

  Clark sighed heavily and shifted his gaze to me.

  «As regards your memo. I'll correct it a bit and pass it on to the Director of the FBI. Any further decision is up to him. To pass it on to the State Department; to the National Security Advisor; or to keep it under wraps. I won't hide the fact that I'm pleased with you.»

  I blushed and squared my shoulders. Clark announced objectives:

  «You haven't made a bad start, and I hope you'll do well on the physical. You don't have to set a world record, but at one point you'll have to do fifty floor push-ups. Can you do it?»

  «Yes.»

  I calculated swiftly: ten years ago, such an exercise had presented no problems. Perhaps I'd manage this time too.

  Clark smiled. Each time, he elicited more and more sympathy from me.

  «You're the first to begin work at the FBI without passing the tests. We'll see what comes of this experiment. And meanwhile-a new assignment. Try to sound out the 'Brighton Beach Islamic Center.' It's located at the intersection of Seventh Brighton and Neptune Avenue. The entrance faces Seventh Brighton.»

  «I know.»

  Lloyd threw me a reproachful look: interrupting the boss was against the rules. But I realized my mistake even without his assistance, and stopped short.

  «Did you want to ask about something?» Clark was in an amicable mood, and simply volunteered to rescue me from my blunders.

  «I don't know Arabic.»

  «You don't have to be a polyglot. We'll continue to play the same card: Yevgeny Rivilis, Bonaparte's great-great-grandson. We'll see what comes of that in Brighton.»

  I went home on the F train, absolutely drained, but satisfied: the first trial was passed. We shall consider an ice cream for me, with strawberry preserves, in the intermission between two acts, well earned.

  A VISIT TO THE «ISLAMIC CENTER»

  The trumpet sounds. The curtain rises, and the second act unfolds in Brighton. The same actor, different scenery. As I understood the boss, not much was being demanded of me at the «Islamic Center at Brighton Beach»-just that I show myself. After that, the situation would somehow clear up. Well. However rash the assignment might seem, it had to be carried out. If I didn’t want to wind up in New York State federal prison for cheating against the Immigration Service.

  The first words to enter my head when, the next Sunday, with a sinking heart, I opened the door of the «Islamic Center» and went inside, were absurd, drawn from a song by Lyuba Uspenskaya: «Behind the casino's green cloth… bets are placed, bets are placed, bets are placed, Gentlemen…»

  Behind the doors, there turned out to be an empty room. By the entry were strewn several pairs of sandals. On the wall opposite was a daily prayer schedule. Next to that, a reminder to the worshippers was a wretched wall clock. Along the wall, on the left-hand side, there were shelves with prayer-books, covered here and there with long-unlaundered curtains. If not for the prayer schedule, the room would have resembled a gym for wrestlers. Only, instead of mats and sports equipment, thanks to poverty, there was the green rug.

  A doorway led into the next room; it was the same picture. The green rug and naked walls. Looking around, I noticed a stairway leading downwards. I approached closer to it; heard, carrying up from below, men's voices conversing in a language unfamiliar to me, and decided not to risk it. I returned to the front door.

  I stood lost in indecision, not knowing what to undertake. The office expected to be on the premises did not seem to be there. At least, not on the first floor. Was it permitted, without offending the hosts' religious sensibilities, to descend the stairs wearing shoes? Or would each successive step be the equivalent of Sharon's visit to the Temple Mount, and provoke a new intifada-in New York, yet? Eschewing rashness, I preferred to stay by the entrance, hoping that some visitors of the «Center» would soon show up.

  The wait lasted no more than five minutes. The front door opened. Two respectably dressed young men with neatly trimmed beards stared at me in surprise.

  «Come in,» I invited them in as affably as I could.

  Which sounded, I suppose, just as it would if a burglar, unexpectedly caught by the occupants of the house, invited them to relax and make themselves at home.

  The bearded men closed the door behind them, while continuing to peer warily at their guest and apparently expecting to see in him a representative of the authorities.

  «May I speak with the boss about something?» I addressed the one I thought looked most imposing, and refined my request, «With the director of the Center.»

  «There is no boss here. This is a house of prayer.»

  «But someone must be in charge,» I insisted, not having mastered the first lesson of Islam.

  He repeated:

  «We have no boss.»

  I was obliged to change tactics:

  «Perhaps you could help me?» and, without waiting for an answer, I introduced myself: «Yevgeny Rivilis. Unemployed computer programmer. And before that…You wouldn't, by the way, be familiar with my name?»

  The bearded man shook his head no.

  «Right now, it is of no significance. But, just so you'll trust me, I'll tell you frankly: I'm the great-great-grandson of Bonaparte.»

  He did not react (apparently Bonaparte was unknown to him), and, awaiting the continuation, remained silent. I had to roll out a prefabricated story:

  «My visit is in pursuit of commercial goals. (The bearded man perked up). I'm looking for a location to open a private computer school, which will provide several levels of training, from short courses for beginners to four-month ones for professionals. Since there are quite a few Turks and Pakistanis living in the houses around h
ere, it's in my plans to include the Muslim community.»

  «But this is a house of prayer.»

  «I'm interested, not just in a place to rent, but also in business partners»-I continued to work my charm on the bearded men-«who, when necessary, would fill the role of translators, check out advertisements in Arab-language newspapers, and search for new students.»

  The monologue was ended skillfully-with a business proposition. Business is the only word capable of uniting humanity. Or, pronounced at the wrong moment, it's capable of instantly setting us at loggerheads. The bearded one admitted that he was a network engineer; asked a couple of purely professional questions (probing my level?), and summed up:

  «Not a bad idea. Worth thinking over. Leave me your address-I'll call you.»

  I didn't persist. All that Clark had required of me-to show myself-had been done.

  While the bearded man rummaged in his pockets in search of a pen, and afterwards, under dictation, wrote down my e-mail address, I descried a placard hanging on the wall, calling on people to gather in Manhattan the next weekend for a demonstration against the aggressive policies of Israel and the USA. The text was in two languages: English and Arabic. Lower down was an appeal to donate money in support of the righteous struggle of the Palestinian People…For every orthodox Muslim, contributions to Palestine were pronounced a sacred cause.

  We parted amicably, and I went outside with a feeling of relief.

  After going two blocks along Neptune Avenue, before reaching the gas station, I noticed the tail-the second bearded man had cut short his prayers and followed me. If anyone thought that was funny, it wasn't me-it's not very pleasant to play the role of bait dangling on a hook. To jump off a hook without visible trauma is not easy. However, keeping in mind Clark's instructions, I pretended to notice nothing, and made my way home at a leisurely pace.

  Stop! Are the marvels occurring in my apartment Islamic extremist handiwork? The camera, after all, clearly recorded the appearance of a man. The first working draft has appeared. Let us write it down and move on.

  CAMILLA WANTS TO GET MARRIED

  Time to switch over to cultivating a new version and talk a little about the vicissitudes of love. It has long been known-if, in an investigation, there are no leads, cherchez la femme. The search will lead somewhere. Following this logic, we will begin with Camellia-my first American love. I switched over to her three weeks after Sophia's disappearance. The best method for healing spiritual wounds is to follow the principle: like cures like.

  Her name was actually Camilla, but since the girl liked the name Camellia better, I wasn't about to object. After using the word «girl,» for those who strictly keep track of every word's being used purely as intended, I'll have to explain-it's slang. Along with other bad habits brought from Odessa to New York. Where Camilla is concerned, if one is to be a pedant, it bears no relation to the facts-she's divorced and raising a twelve-year-old daughter.

  Besides, for a forty-year-old woman who puts the following notice on the internet page «Russian New York: «Evenings, I am alone, and for a start, I invite you to a candlelight supper,» the term «girl» sounds insulting.

  A beginning that promises much and commits one to nothing, isn't it? Even if the next line in the announcement is a warning: «And please, do not hurry to my kitchen if you are married, illegal, or outwardly unprepossessing.» Only a blind man would not notice the bait-candlelight supper with a hint at a follow-up: «breakfast in bed.»

  The reason for the appearance of such a bold invitation was revealed in the location of the kitchen-in a little town in northern New Jersey. Clearly the bachelors of New York would not rush thither, having access to the thrilling bride market in each of the Big Apple's five boroughs.

  Be that as it may, in order to wash away the irritation that had settled on the inner walls of my blood vessels after Sophia's demarche, breakfast in bed was precisely what I needed. Although…»a candlelight supper» does not commit one to anything. If need be, one can always turn down «breakfast»-be too full.

  The brown-eyed dark-haired man begins a new life.

  The internet correspondence didn't last long: first off, I wanted to exchange photographs and make sure that Camilla was not bad looking, and was capable of soothing a broken heart.

  Candy and flowers-I wasn't original-are the standard complement to a dinner. Camilla had also made preparations-she'd sent her daughter to her grandmother's. A bunch of obligatory remarks, signifying nothing, summoned up to fill the pause. A glass of Moldavian wine-to the future, which was in our hands. Pronounced significantly, eye to eye. And after that, as in figure skating, after the required program follows the long-awaited free program. Camilla did not trip up in either sense-she entered, at a minimum, the first quintet of my former girlfriends.

  During a period of spiritual crisis, it is desirable to undergo psychotherapy on a daily basis. The hour and a half by car, if there are no traffic jams, between southern Brooklyn and northern New Jersey, is not among life's pleasures. After such journeys the doctor- recommended dosage schedule of medicines needs adjusting. The main medical procedures were carried out on Sundays. On weekdays, a compress is applied to the ear in the evening: a telephone receiver with Camilla’s comforting voice.

  «Miss me?»

  The treatment began to work-I fell for her. The fury provoked by Sophia's disappearance dissipated, aided by the banal phrase, many times repeated for purposes of autosuggestion, «If your bride leaves you for another, there's no way of telling who got lucky.»

  After three months-this is a critical period for the majority of women-Camilla began nudging me in the back. First unobtrusively, then insistently:

  «Aren't you tired of living on sandwiches? In my opinion, you feel comfortable in my kitchen.»

  I caught on right away which way the wind was blowing, and turned the conversation into another channel.

  «At cooking you have no equal. If you get fired, you won't have to beg. With the profession of chef to hand, you can open a salon, 'Zosya Sinitska's Home Dinners.' Like in The Golden Calf. Remember?»

  «Don't try to wriggle out of answering.

  «Three months is enough time to determine whether we're suited to one another.»

  «Hold your horses.» I made an attempt at pacification, «When the apple is ripe, it will fall into your hands of its own accord.»

  «How long can we go on meeting on weekends? I want stability. If we're suited to one another, let's get together. I'm not talking about marriage-let's try living together.»

  «Don't be in such a hurry.»

  «There's no reason to pull one another's legs. I'm not a little girl. Sex on weekends doesn't work for me.»

  «Is that an ultimatum?»

  «Understand it however you wish. I won't hurry you, but I don't intend to wait three years to see if you ripen. I am, by the way, still capable of bearing a child»-She threw in an additional argument, summoned to soften the abruptness of the attack, «but the time is running out catastrophically fast. I'm not a twenty-year-old. If you don't want to get together, it's time to go our separate ways.»

  Straightforward enough, with knife to throat. After an agonizing pause, I choked out:

  «Give me time. For some, making a decision takes three months, for others, six. We're not talking about three years.»

  «Tell me right out, if there's some way I don't suit you. Or in your eyes, am I not the woman you could make a family with? Tell me, tell me, don't be shy.»

  A scene was imminent. I had to conclude an agreement of the sort called in diplomacy a non-binding «protocol regarding intentions.»

  «I've almost ripened. The fruit is barely clinging to the branch. Wait just a little, and I'll fall at your feet.»

  Camellia held off for a month, and then took decisive action. On Friday evening there was a saucy:

  «You can stay away tomorrow.»

  It sounded unequivocal, but I «played dumb.»

  «And on Sunday?»
/>
  «You can stay away for good. I warned you. Those kinds of relationships don't work for me.»

  For about ten minutes, I tried to argue her out of it. Camilla was adamant.

  «You know my conditions. I'm not some prostitute, to gratify you on the weekends. I need a family. You still have time to make the right choice-,» and, breaking off the conversation, she hung up.

  I didn't try to call her back. Sad as it was to part with her. To begin with, we had different goals. A single woman is looking for stability. One shouldn’t blame her if such a desire is associated with being married.

  To return to Camellia's talents, I must note one additional one-ESP. She could normalize blood pressure at will, get rid of headaches…but move dishes? No, no such marvels were observed in her presence. The art of telekinesis-the ability to move object with thought power-was one she hadn't been taught. Besides, let us not forget that the camera caught a man.

  Enough time had passed since our break-up. I decided to give her a friendly call, hoping that she would spill the beans if she felt guilty of any sin.

  The conversation took place. Camilla was sweet and affable-she had a new boyfriend and was happy. So, we will scratch Camilla off the list of suspects. Happy women are incapable of dirty tricks.

  NICE FBI AGENT SEEKS WOMAN

  Let us continue on the subject of women. A workspace romance. Named Gulnara Kuliyeva. Or, as she introduced herself to me the first time we met, Gulya. In order to ward off the coming questions about where a Jewish girl got such a weird name, we will divulge a secret: Gulnara's from Baku.

  Her biography is atypical, and connected in many respects with the career of a diplomat husband, who worked in different years on Azerbaidjan's Trade Delegations in Iraq, Iran, and Turkey. Gulnara, a Russian language teacher, was naturally with her husband all those years; she worked at the Soviet embassy school. Having a complete mastery of Azerbaidjani, Arabic, Persian and Turkish, she not infrequently helped her husband: she made excerpts from the periodical literature, typed business letters, prepared reports-he didn't always trust his secretary, and often turned over part of the work to his wife.