Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks
Page 11
«What's the point? If we're fated to meet, we'll meet.»
She planted a smack on my cheek.
«Goodbye. And don't be angry.» She turned and hurried into the Saint Lazare metro station.
To appear for a moment and then disappear-that was her habitual state. Madame Butterfly, next time, how will it please you to bring us joy?
When I got back to the hotel, Gulya was on pins and needles.
«Well?» – She grabbed me impatiently and bombarded me with questions. «What was your impression? Why don't you say something?»
«Why are you asking? You already listened to everything.»
«Just the same-maybe I missed something.»
I repeated in detail the conversation, the recording of which she had already managed to wind through a couple of times-and added a few comments in passing. Gulya listened without interrupting. When I finished, without hiding her joy, she summed up:
«The take was more than abundant. If she had told you Abdel's surname as well…How you didn't think to ask…»
«Listen, that was the last thing on my mind.»
«I understand. You still have to learn and learn. But don't be sad-you put in a good day's work.»
She hugged me and kissed me.
«I was so worried about you. Rest a little while I prepare the report for Lloyd. In an hour, we're going to the Eiffel Tower. Then we'll have dinner. And tomorrow, we're going back to Copenhagen. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.»
DENMARK SAYS: «NO»
Copenhagen. Monday. December 1, 2002
In the airport, we split up. Taking a taxi, Gulya went with the report to the American Embassy; and I, to the hotel, to sleep off nocturnal Paris. Afterwards-where did Gulya get the stamina? – She went to a meeting with Zakayev's lawyers, and then, to the BBC. I spent the whole day at the hotel, mentally chewing over my meeting with Sophia and the audible threat in her last words: «You're out of your depth, dear.»
Gulya got in about six o'clock. Tired out, with no desire to go to a restaurant. I went down to the grocery store and got a bottle of table wine and sandwiches, and we had a nice supper in the hotel room.
Gulya revived and told about her meeting with the lawyers.
«Yesterday the month allowed by the Danish authorities for presenting accusatory documents in the Zakayev case expired. Today, the Ministry of Justice went to work on evaluating the documents received from Russia and deciding the question of extradition. The lawyers think it will be in Zakayev's favor.
We went to bed early, at ten o'clock in the evening. Gulya collapsed-she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. I had had a good sleep in the daytime, and I tossed and turned: there was no sleep «in either eye.» So as not to bother her, I went down to the lobby.
The assignment was coming to an end. What next? The marriage proposal carelessly made in New York, even though Gulya had declined it, hung in the air. If not for the sudden meeting with Sophia, on returning to New York I'd have repeated the proposal again in full consciousness. But now I couldn't understand why, seeing Sophia someone else's, not belonging to me, I had become as excited as a youngster. A sudden flare-up of jealousy? Apparently so. It was enough to see another man at her side. Please God, I didn't want to break down and make a mistake!
With heavy thoughts, and still without having made any decision, I went back to the room and fell asleep long after midnight.
I woke up late. Gulya had already managed to visit the Ministry of Justice, and, while I shaved, she laid out the news of the hour.
«The prognosis was right. An announcement was passed around among the journalists.» She pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and started to read it out:
«Taking into account the character and contents of the witnesses' testimonials, and the circumstances relating to said testimonials, the Ministry of Justice of Denmark has found the evidence insufficient to permit Zakayev's extradition.»
I commented from the bathroom.
«Which was to be expected.»
«They've already freed him. In spite of the efforts of the General Prosecutor’s Office, which used government channels to exert pressure on the court.»
«That means we'll be going home soon.»
While I finished my toilet, Gulya phoned Vanessa and congratulated her on the successful outcome of the business-and in return, received an unexpected invitation: to celebrate the victory that evening among a narrow circle of friends. I was included as Gulya's husband.
There were few guests. At one moment Gulya gave up, went a little apart with Vanessa, and, as though by chance, tossed out a remark.
«I'm surprised that your assistant Sophia isn't with us today…»
Vanessa accompanied her answer with a Hollywood smile.
«Oh, this Russian mentality! She didn't want to run into you in public. After all, you're Yevgeny's second wife, and, like her, you bear the name Rivilis.»
Gulya bit her tongue-Sophia had found an excuse to get out of Copenhagen.
A lanky brunet, slightly tipsy, introduced himself to me as the Moscow correspondent of the BBC and started asking my views about Moscow's next steps.
Conversing with him, I lost sight of Gulya briefly. I started looking for her, and found her sitting in the far corner of the room with Zakayev. Both were absorbed in their discussion. I turned back to the Englishman, «engaged» him with a question about work in Moscow, and, while he shared his impressions, kept track of Gulya out of the corner of my eye.
The party ended. We went out onto the street. I didn't have a chance to ask the question-Gulya forestalled me.
«I didn't expect Zakayev to come up to me and propose that we have a talk.»
«How did you catch his eye? He didn't talk to me.»
«Is this the start of a jealous scene?»
«Excuse me, I was joking…»
Gulya let the excuse go in one ear and out the other, and, choosing her words with care, started to tell me about it.
«Besides today, we've seen each other three times. He makes a favorable impression overall.»
«I just learnt something new…»
«Appearances can be misleading at times. But it's hard to believe that he personally shot prisoners. He's calm, laconic, knows how to hear his interlocutor out. Even if he doesn't agree with him about something. You get the feeling he's an intelligent, resolute, and very put-together man. Women like men like that.»
«You haven't, by any chance, fallen in love with him? We already have one precedent-Sophia.»
«Don't be an idiot.»
«So what did he want to say to you?»
«He once more expressed a wish, when passions have cooled, to come to America and present Maskhadov's point of view on ways to settle the Chechen-Russian conflict to the Congressional Commission on Foreign Affairs. He believes that Putin is being misinformed, and maintains that Maskhadov wants peace.»
«There was no mention of an invitation to visit Chechnya?»
«Not a word.»
«Was Sophia really lying that time too, when she said that Zakayev wanted us in Chechnya? Then another question arises: how to treat all the nonsense she said to me day before yesterday. How do we separate the truth from the lies?»
«Okay!» Gulya stopped in the middle of the street, grabbed me by the arm, pulled me to a halt, and, gesticulating vigorously, began to think aloud.
«Let's sum things up. What do we have? First, deliberately or under pressure, Sophia started working with the Chechens. Evidence: the videotape discovered in the apartment of one of the fighters, and her active participation in the Chechen Congress. Second, the cameraman's name is Abdel; his nationality is Syrian, and at the present time, he's in Baghdad. She couldn't lie-it'd be senseless. What shall we call into question? The story with her mom, the story about Zakayev's aide wanting to lure you to Chechnya, and the hint at troubles awaiting you if you stay too long in Denmark. Since it's impossible to corroborate or disprove her words with facts, t
here remains only one thing to do-wait. Heavy substances settle to the bottom, light ones float. Do you agree?»
«Now I believe that you could handle running the State Department at least as well as Condoleezza Rice. But, to be honest, I'm already tired of politics.»
«What do you propose?» The question was spoken with a cunning that called for immediate action.
An adequate response followed: I hugged her and kissed her, demonstrating Don Juanish intentions. Gulya yielded, closed her eyes, and whispered sweetly,
«I want to go to Paris again. We had heavenly sex there.»
«We'll do it again tonight. The Danish way.»
«Promise?»
«Mm-hm.»
«And do you know how to tell Danish sex from Cuban sex?»
«No. Reveal the secret, if you already have the experience…»
Gulya burst out laughing, and, choking, got out between giggles,
«They're the same, except at the very end, you have to say: «Cha-cha-cha!» She snapped her fingers dashingly and, like a genuine dancer, started doing a tap dance. I was sorry I didn't have a video camera.
I watched Gulya with admiration-she was goofing off, playing the passionate islander, and she was devilishly seductive. Thoughts of Sophia were pushed aside. Whatever the critics might say, the Russian proverb is right: the night cuckoo will always out-sing a day-bird.
…On the evening of December fifth, in total secrecy, accompanied by Vanessa Redgrave, Zakayev flew out to London. We didn't participate in seeing him off, and, apparently, at that time were dreaming away at a height of eleven thousand meters, on the way back to New York.
Peace had settled once more over the State of Denmark.
A BRIEF INTERLUDE
On Saturdays, following what is now an established tradition, I am to be found in Queens. The seventh of December was no exception. After our return from the assignment my fridge was as empty as a drum. Gulya's was too. She didn't want to bother with cooking. Instead, she ordered shrimp egg rolls, squid salad and sweet and sour chicken by phone from a Chinese restaurant, and, while waiting for the delivery, glanced through the New York Times. My occupation was no less important- I was comfortably settled on the sofa channel surfing in search of a movie.
«Listen up!» – exclaimed Gulya.
I turned around. Gulya was holding the paper in her hands. From a distance, I saw a big photo of Zakayev and Vanessa Redgrave.
«The latest news. Want to hear it?»
I turned off the sound. With glowing eyes, Gulya recounted the news story.
«On his arrival in London, Zakayev was arrested at Heathrow Airport, and let go the same day. Vanessa laid out fifty thousand pounds sterling in bail for him. The General Prosecutor’s Office is trying to get him extradited. The charges are the same: participation in the seizure of hostages, murders, and being a leader of illegal militias. They've taken his passport away, and, until the court has made its decision, forbidden him to leave England. However, as the judge announced, the hearing won't begin until summer at the earliest.»
I was inclined to be complacent-I turned my head towards the television, turned up the volume, and laughed it off.
«To Paris, to London…With you, even to the ends of the earth. Just tell me when to pack the suitcases.»
Gulya was not about to keep up the humorous mood.
«Better watch a movie. In London the Zakayev case can be dropped. The blarney will go on for a long time, and all the same, Russia won't get him. England isn't about to give Russia a present for anything. So I don't think in the next few days we'll be sent to England.»
«Let’s survive until summer first. And then we’ll see what Lloyd says about it.»
«I bet it'll be the same.»
«What if Sophia turns out to be there? Through her, after all, we might track down the cameraman.»
«I don't think so. I'm sure she won't agree to go on working for Vanessa Redgrave. She'll be scared.»
I answered with a grimace that could be read in different ways, according to one's wishes-from «We'll see» to «That has nothing to do with me.»
The meeting with Lloyd was set for Monday at ten in the morning. Two days was sufficient to recuperate after the European battles and prepare for new feats. As for the weekend, we will draw the blinds over the windows. Until tomorrow morning, the door to our bedroom is locked. All the more so, since someone has rung loudly on the buzzer downstairs and announced: «Delivery!» Gulya went to open the door, and I, to set the table.
Part of yesterday's food remained untidily on the table. We got up late-the hands of the wall clock had almost reached twelve. Breakfast time was gliding smoothly towards lunch.
Gulya took a shower, put on a Chinese robe-silk, bright red (do the Chinese intuitively know how to provoke a bull?), made coffee, and began making plans for the second half of the day.
«Let’s go to Manhattan this evening. You and I haven't been once to Greenwich Village. There are these little restaurants there…Theaters, artists' studios, and the people-you'll be amazed.»
«Only if you'll be the tour guide.»
Gulya was happy to do so, and right at breakfast, she started enlightening me.
«Greenwich Village occupies a unique place in American history. In the fifties, the hippie movement was born here; in the sixties, representatives of sexual minorities chose it; in the seventies, along with the anti-war movement, it became the center of the battle for gay and lesbian civil rights; in the eighties, it was caught up in the fight against AIDS. You'll see, in spite of the proximity of the university, the reputation of visitors to Greenwich Village is not exactly academic. Historically, its crowd is varied-from artists and actors to college professors. The flamboyant public tries to stand out in every way, with hairdos-every color in the rainbow-clothes, mannerisms. Adjoining the university, Washington Square, a location for public performances by Greenwich Village inhabitants, is full by day…
«You've convinced me,»-I interrupted her monologue. «Let's go about eight.»
«I don't think we'll find a table in a restaurant at that time. Let's go about seven. So that we can still manage to stroll around a little.»
«In that case, if nocturnal orgies await us,» I looked attentively at the clock, then turned a sly gaze on Gulya-«after breakfast-to bed. We need to save our strength.»
Gulya remarked playfully:
«Are you sure?»
The European vacation went on…
…Monday arrived. Lloyd was glowing-he met us almost with open arms (he was smiling from ear to ear), congratulated us on our excellent work, and, after some routine remarks (health, weather, mood), went on to the most important thing-the analysis of the information received.
«We checked: on the sixteenth of January of this year, Sophia Rivilis did actually pass through Customs at Kennedy Airport and fly to Marseilles. The customs inspector was shown a Ukrainian passport with the expired American visa that she entered the USA with in ninety-six. At the Marseilles airport she applied for political asylum. And so on, according to the standard procedure: a month later, she acquired the status of candidate for political asylum and received a monetary allowance and free medical care. Next were French language classes and a work permit. It takes from one-and-a-half to three years for consideration of the application; and, until acquisition of the status of permanent resident of France, for her to leave the country is not recommended. Conclusions: no matter how much she may wish to, she can't fly to London and participate in Zakayev's defense, and there's nothing for you to do there, either.
Gulya glanced at me and smiled in a satisfied way: see, what did I tell you?
I didn't share her optimism. If, after Lloyd's explanation, everything was clear to her, I still had some questions.
«How come she risked going to Denmark, if it's not recommended for her to leave the country she's requesting political asylum in?»
Lloyd patiently explained.
«A brief trip within the b
oundaries of the Schengen area, she can do. For example, as a tourist. She arrived in Denmark on a tourist bus and stayed on by invitation of the Danish Committee of the Chechen Diaspora. In England there are many legal delays; the case will go on for a long time. A year or more. If she's attempting to get refugee status, leaving the country for that long a time is not recommended.»
«Tough luck. How long did she spend in Denmark?»
«A month. Then she returned to France. Another thing is interesting, though. Simultaneously with the search for Sophia Rivilis, we started gathering information about Abdel. Sure enough, not a single passenger flying from New York to Marseilles on the sixteenth of January was registered under the name of Abdel. It's possible that the Syrian, if he really is a Syrian, had a passport under another name. Sophia might not have known about that. In any case, we compiled a list of all the male passengers with Arabic names who were on that flight. And we've asked the French criminal police: do they have Syrian named Abdel anywhere on their books.»
«It wouldn’t hurt to begin tapping her phone. Remember, she said that he called her once a week at the minimum from Baghdad.»
«It's already been done. You're doing great-soon you’ll send me into retirement,» Lloyd joked, and transferred his gaze to Gulya: «By the way, about Iraq. Are you following the current news? You know what's going on there?»
«You know that I know Arabic at least as well as English, and read more than just the English-language press.»
«I know, I know…»-Lloyd answered good-naturedly, «You're worth your weight in gold to us.»
«I thought I was worth more!» – Gulya frowned and puffed out her cheeks like an offended infant.
Laughing, Lloyd pulled a document case out of his desk and handed it to her.
«Familiarize yourself with this. It's part of the Iraq dossier. A chronicle of events. I'll expect you day after tomorrow at ten o'clock. Both of you. By the way, husband and wife,» he broke into a smile again and, his eyes twinkling playfully, asked, «you didn't forget my warning? You're not really planning to get married?»