Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

by Rafael Grugman

  «Don't forget, we're in a public place.»

  «And if we're husband and wife?»

  «Really?» Gulya raised her eyebrows in surprise. «What do you mean by that? Is that a proposal?»

  An impromptu remark is not always a success. At such moments, I always skid into a turn. It’s time to step on the brakes.

  «Won't it be better if we present ourselves as husband and wife? Or engaged? Firstly, it'll make it possible for us to stay in the same hotel room, and secondly, it'll make the work easier. Think about it.»

  I went up to the counter and ordered, as usual, a latte for myself and a cappuccino for Gulya. When I came back, Gulya was sunk deep in thought.

  «And what will the Little Boss say? You know the rules.»

  «Spouses can work together. It's not recommended for lovers.»

  «That's what I'm talking about. So, are you proposing to me?»

  I was unexpectedly ensnared in a trap of my own heedless construction. Run away with by my tongue-over-ready with a kiss…Now to extricate myself.

  «Yes and no.»

  «I don't understand. Explain for the slow ones.»

  I thought feverishly.

  In what way was Gulya not a suitable mate? She was forty-four. I was forty-six. Sophia had vanished. I liked Gulya. Maybe I even loved her. And her children were no hindrance-they lived apart.

  «Yes, it's a proposal,» I let out my breath decisively.

  «Then why the 'no'?»

  Gulya was boring into me with her eyes, in dead earnest. I twisted like an eel in a frying pan, not knowing how to extricate myself and keep from offending her. What on earth had made me say, «yes and no»? Or touch on an explosive topic in the first place?

  «I don't know whether the time is right.»

  «Listen, nobody pulled on your tongue. But since you've begun, please explain. There's no point in bandying words about-we're not at that age.»

  «Okay! It's a proposal. But if we announce our engagement right now, the Little Boss will start to suspect we've been pulling his leg. It would be better to announce our decision after completing our assignment. And meanwhile we'll say that for work purposes, we're going to impersonate a married couple on the assignment. It will shield you from the persistently annoying advances of hot-blooded Chechens. And protect you from the lovesick Arab sheikhs.»

  «In other words, everything will stay as it was,» Gulya dejectedly pointed out.

  «Not completely!» I said fervidly. «We know that it's not that way!»

  «Let's change the subject. You made a proposal-I rejected it. Okay? When you get really serious about it, then we'll talk.»

  «You didn't understand what I was saying!»

  «That's enough for today. As our nation's President says, enough is enough.»

  «But, for the sake of your safety, can we say on Monday that we're going to act the part of a married couple?»

  «Well said, act the part. The Little Boss will be happy.»

  I was already sorry that I'd brought up the subject. All evening Gulya was caustic, and in bed she behaved as if she had been married to me for seventy years.

  EX-WIVES POP UP AT THE WRONG TIME

  Monday, November 11, 2002. Ten o'clock in the morning. The Little Boss's office.

  Lloyd agreed with our reasons for acting the part of spouses, and joked: «Only don't overdo it.» And he told a story about one couple who played their roles so much on an assignment that they started to enjoy them, and on their return, they held a real wedding.

  «There's no threat of that with us!» Gulya reassured him, and shot me a provocative look.

  I kept my silence-the she-devil had taken offense, and wouldn't let a chance go by to have one more dig at me.

  Lloyd suggested getting to know the video, which had been discovered in Paris at the apartment of an arrested fighter. We went into the auditorium. During the film Lloyd commented

  «It was filmed before the start of the show. The cameraman used a woman as a cover. But the camera, as you see, constantly wanders away, resting on entries and exits, and peering around at the balcony and into spots where surveillance cameras might be mounted. We don't know the woman being used as a cover. Possibly she doesn't even suspect they're making such brazen use of her.

  It would have been better if I hadn't attended that showing. From the first shots, I recognized Sophia. Much as I might have wished to, it was impossible to confuse her with anyone else. She posed coquettishly, waved her hand at the camera-but Lloyd was right. The cameraman wasn't interested in my «dear little wife.»

  Ex-wives can inspire jealousy too. I felt a pang; the blood pounded in my head. I felt my body become wet with sweat, and it seemed as though I blanked out for a few seconds.

  «Yevgeny, are you all right?» Lloyd appeared unexpectedly next to me, holding a plastic cup of water. «What's the matter?»

  «Thanks,» embarrassed, I took a couple of swallows. «I felt a little sick. I guess from the stuffiness in here.»

  «There are no windows in here, but the ventilation's working normally. Before you leave for your assignment, go to the doctor. Check your blood pressure,» Lloyd advised in a friendly fashion, and convinced that the indisposition had passed, he returned to the viewing.

  Women who love have well-developed maternal instincts. Just as soon as we were left alone together, Gulya started probing me about what had happened while we were watching the videotape. Not getting an answer, she suggested that we go to the doctor together, and that I move to Queens to be under her observation. I refused with difficulty. I had decided to keep my discovery a secret. It might just blow over. Although the worm of doubt gnawed at my soul: nothing passes without a trace. Sophia's name was bound to come up somewhere.

  The cover under which we flew to Denmark corresponded to reality. Gulya moonlighted for Fox, was a part-time correspondent for several cable television channels, and, unlike me, was well known in journalistic circles. What with the conference's organizers burning with the desire to attract as many representatives of the mass media as possible, getting official accreditation for her presented no difficulties.

  Naturally, a correspondent for the US Government-sponsored radio station «Voice of America» likewise turned out to be a welcome guest. Once she cooled off, Gulya caught on to the advantages of the spousal role and started having fun. She ordered business cards for «Mrs. Gulnara Rivilis, Independent Television Journalist,» which, completely by «accident,» I started finding, sometimes in my wallet, sometimes in the breast pocket of my coat.

  There is no direct flight between New York and Copenhagen. Sorting through the possibilities, we settled on a flight offered by Delta Airlines, with a change in Paris. The flight time was about ten hours. Flying by way of London or Amsterdam would have taken an hour and a half longer.

  The final reconciliation between the «spouses» took place in the air-red Bordeaux, regularly poured by a stewardess, is capable of smoothing out all kinds of friction. Of course, we might have chosen stronger drinks, but we settled on the Bordeaux, and every time a stewardess passed by, pushing a cart full of bottles before her, we asked her to fill our glasses. As a result, by the end of the first leg of our flight we had thawed so much that we were ready to lock ourselves in the bathroom in the tail of the plane and make love. Who knows, if we hadn't been constrained by the knowledge, under whose aegis we were traveling, it's possible we would have given free rein to our feelings and risked it, adding to the ranks of «extreme-lovers».

  Denmark gave us a chilly welcome. A gray sky; an unrelenting, fine and stinging rain, accompanied by sharp blasts of wind-unless absolutely necessary, one had no desire to poke one's nose out onto the street and put it to the test.

  We didn't make it to the trial that was held on the twelfth of November. In the papers we read that Zakayev was still in prison as before-the judge had already extended the amount of time he was held in custody by two weeks. The next hearing was set for the twenty-sixth of November. By
that date, the General Prosecutor’s Office of Russia was supposed to present evidence corroborating the accusations leveled against him-his involvement in the seizure of hostages and in terrorist activity.

  In spite of the weather, Gulya underwent a transformation. I could hardly keep up with her-not once had I seen her so driven. She interviewed British actress Vanessa Redgrave, in whose London home Zakayev had lived before his arrival in Denmark. She got close to his lawyers, Trier and Nielsen (moreover, she dined with Trier, a specialist in the affairs of Chechens who had requested asylum in Denmark); she got to know former Minister of Justice Ole Espersen, who was attending the court sessions as an observer for the Helsinki International Group; got as far as current Minister of Justice Lene Espersen…Passionate reporting in defense of Ahmed Zakayev ran on local television. Introducing herself, she easily handed out business cards-«Mrs. Gulnara Rivilis, Independent Television Journalist.»

  And she got herself noticed. At the Danish Committee of the Chechen Diaspora, where I was invited as the husband of the famous television journalist, after the official part was completed, a middle-aged Chechen (his beard made it impossible to determine his age) came up to me and surprised me with the question:

  «By the way, isn't Sophia Rivilis a relative of yours?»

  I choked and blushed deeply. The change in my appearance didn't go unnoticed.

  «Don't worry-you're among friends.»

  «She's…my ex-wife,» I said, getting control of my agitation. «Do you know her?»

  My interlocutor smiled mysteriously and was silent. I composed myself and began to put on the pressure.

  «Our relations are in the past, but in the business of defending Zakayev we have interests in common.» And, just in case, I lied, «Sophia met him when she was visiting Ichkeria.» The bearded man was silently turning over what was said, and I decided to throw one more little weight on the scale. «She went to Chechnya at General Dudayev's invitation.»

  The pointer on the scale swung around-my interlocutor pronounced several polite phrases and extended an invitation to a closed evening press conference («for journalist friends,» he explained), put on by actress Vanessa Redgrave, Zakayev's London patroness. The question about Sophia went unanswered. I didn't press him-I was afraid of scaring him off.

  I told Gulya about the strange conversation. As it seemed to me, she let the story about Sophia go in one ear and out the other. Gulya had also received an invitation to the press conference and was intending to invite me. I was upset and knocked off balance-the Chechen clearly had not been forthcoming-and, remembering the videotape, started to ask Gulya to stay at the hotel.

  Gulya was indignant. Her first words, spoken in an emotional fit, I will skip over.

  «I couldn’t care less about your former feelings-we are at work. But if you can't forget your old love, then what the hell did I get together with you for! We'll go back to America and split up! But here, since you undertook this comedy about being married, please play it to the end! Just think, he's afraid of the mention of his ex-wife's name!»

  As a result, confirming the meaning of the well-known joke: «What do wives in different countries do to keep their husbands by their sides?…Jewish women do it with a shriek,» we went to the press conference together. I was prepared for the very worst: my ex-wife-an accomplice to terrorists.

  An old acquaintance, who had the experience of two unsuccessful marriages, after the third wife started making jealous scenes at the mention of the ex-wives' names, pronounced this monologue-aphorism: «Former wives are never former. Even if the marriage was childless and it seems there is nothing tying the spouses together, sooner or later, ex-wives pop up again. Like a curse, a splinter in one's memory, like a needle in the bladder. Frequently with a revival of love. Or, which also happens pretty often-with children born seven or eight months after the divorce.»

  But like this?! On a videotape seized from international terrorists. A highly significant cue in Zakayev's scandalous extradition trial. I wouldn't be in a laughing mood if it turned out Sophia was in romantic relations with him as well.

  * * *

  Copenhagen. The Sheraton Hotel. November 25.

  Exactly at the appointed time, Vanessa Redgrave, accompanied by two men and a woman, appeared in the conference room. I recognized Sophia right away. She looked lovely, although she had gotten slightly thinner. A short haircut made her look younger, while a dark suit and high-heeled shoes emphasized the image of a businesswoman.

  I got up involuntarily from my place and raised my right hand, as though I meant to ask a question. What, I still hadn't decided. But I achieved the desired result-our eyes met.

  Sophia turned pale, covered her face with her papers, turned her head towards Vanessa, and quickly started saying something into her ear. I continued to stand, drawing fire on myself. Sophia got up from the table and, without looking around, hurriedly left the room.

  I didn't know what to do-to go out after her, or stay in the room. I looked hopefully at Gulya. Although she was absorbed in the press conference, she quickly caught on and whispered, «Her?»

  «Yes.»

  «Stay where you are.» The abrupt order cooled me down. According to our instructions, I was obliged to subordinate myself to her.

  While Redgrave was reading a statement, a sealed envelope was passed up to me from the back rows. Inside lay a note: «Leave immediately. Your life is in danger.» The handwriting was sprawling, swift-it felt like Sophia was hurrying and was stressed out to the limit.

  Even by the end of the press conference, she hadn't reappeared. When we went out onto the street, I showed Gulya the note. She took in the text at a glance, and looked severely at me, awaiting an explanation. In her eyes was the demand: «Fess up, what a mess you've made already!»

  There was nowhere to hide. Up until that day, I'd hoped I'd manage to avoid the very worst, but now I was forced to confess:

  «Did you recognize the woman on the videocassette in the theater where Chicago was playing?? That's the same interpreter who accompanied Vanessa Redgrave today.»

  «Well!» Gulya said impatiently.

  «That's my ex-wife, who ran off and left me two years ago. The note was written by her too,» I resumed sadly.

  Gulya held her head in her hands.

  «And you didn't say anything?! You hid the fact that you had identified a terrorist?»

  «She's an innocent victim.»

  «That still remains to be proven! There could have been a version of the 'Nord-Ost' hostage seizure on Broadway. At any show!»

  «But after all, there wasn't,» I made a dispirited attempt to justify my behavior, feeling the hundred-percent correctness of Gulya's accusations.

  «Wow! That's something else!» Gulya couldn't calm down. «So, Clark turned out to be right. We didn't come here for nothing.»

  «Enough gasping. Instead, tell me what to do. I'm perplexed…It's…unbelievable…»

  «More of the same. We keep calm. And keep up the act. I'm sure that within the next few days Sophia is bound to reveal herself.»

  «And what then?'

  «I am not exactly pleased with your contact; but if, through Sophia, we come upon underground al-Qaeda cells… Or at least the cameraman. Imagine what a stroke of luck that would be!»

  I joylessly confirmed, «You're right.» A heavy presentiment of catastrophe weighed me down. As though the lid of a coffin had just slammed down on top of me.

  I don't know how it was with Gulya-I had a restless night. Two years had gone by since Sophia had lost herself in a sea of humanity. I had regained my composure, and the last thing I expected was to meet her in Copenhagen. Her behavior had always been unpredictable. What if, seeing that Gulya was using the surname Rivilis, she should take a notion to expose me? Or create a scandal. She was like a volcano. You never knew when to expect an eruption.

  In the morning, I couldn't tear my head away from the pillow, and, after several unsuccessful attempts to rouse me, Gulya went to the tri
al alone. As was expected, the session ended quickly-Judge Christensen extended the period for which Zakayev would be held in custody by another nine days. Gulya submitted a request to the court and obtained permission to visit the detainee from Judge Christensen. She went to the Copenhagen Police Department jail together with Vanessa Redgrave.

  From what Gulya said, the prison where Zakayev was being held reminded her of a Soviet-era health resort. The prison was designated for temporary, and exclusively daytime, prisoners awaiting assignment to other correctional facilities. For Zakayev, at the insistence of the Russians, they made an exception-he was the only one who was kept in the jail round the clock. The schedule was almost that of a resort. Evenings, he could watch television without any restrictions, and follow the ballyhoo raised around his name.

  He met Gulya affably. He thanked her for her support and expressed a wish to pay a future visit to the United States. He had, it seemed, an invitation from the American Committee for Peace in Chechnya, which had organized his meeting in Lichtenstein with some famous Russian parliamentarians and public figures: Ivan Rybkin, Ruslan Khasbulatov, Aslanbek Aslakhanov, and Yuri Shchekochikhin.

  I was sorry I hadn't gone with Gulya. It would have been wholly opportune to inform Zakayev that the conference in Lichtenstein had been conducted on my initiative, and to boast of my acquaintance with Glen Howard and Ilyas Akhmadov.

  «Is he planning to arrive as a member of a shahid brigade?» I commented on Zakayev's wish to visit the States.

  «That's not funny.»

  «Perhaps not, but I'm tired. The stress is unbearable. My head is splitting. Let's get out of here for a couple of days and have fun.»

  «Where?»

  «In Paris. For three days. Believe me, over the weekend, nothing's going to happen in Copenhagen.»

  Gulya perked up.

  «Sometimes intelligent thoughts do enter your head.»

  «You're insulting me, boss.»

  «Just for that I suddenly have work to do. You're not planning to go to Paris to spend the night on a bench, are you?»