Greetings from the Vodka Sea Read Online Free PDF

majestically, then suddenly stopped, embarrassed. And in the silence that followed, that’s when it struck me: I had a family now; I had a crazy circus. An urge overcame me, the urge to hunt and gather. The urge to collect.
    The most celebrated piece in the coroner’s collection is a suicide note by none other than Sir Winston Churchill. The great statesman never in fact killed himself, but that does not diminish the value of the piece in the eyes of a collector. Churchill was hounded most of his adult life by the Black Dog of Depression and drafted at least seven suicide notes. The coroner’s is considered to be Churchill’s finest. It is written on ivory vellum and still has, if you hold it close to your nose, the raw scent of leather, like a magnificent leather-backed chair from, one imagines, Churchill’s study. While most of his other notes are pathetic, he simpers in a most unChurchillian manner, the coroner’s note is beautiful. I’ve copied a passage, which I keep in my wallet. I have wallowed in the trenches; I have whined in the streets and mewed on the hilltops and in the lowest valley; I have suffered You to make this bleak wind kiss my lips and comfort me with the cold; I do not ask much, my Lord, just the comfort of the cold. You can almost hear the great man’s voice as you read. The coroner picked up the Churchill note while he and his wife were on holiday in Zurich. (She, by the way, is completely aware of his hobby and finds no malice in it; she is happy he has an interest outside his work, which can be very consuming, and has on several occasions presented him with suicide notes for his birthday or at Christmas.)
    The coroner had the good fortune to come across an antique dealer who specialized in suicide notes — the Europeans, as always, being much more tolerant. The owner, a Pole, first tried to sell the coroner Adolph Hitler’s authentic suicide note, which, to a collector, is suspect, in the same league as a sliver from the true cross or a deed to the Statue of Liberty. Once the Pole figured out that he wasn’t dealing with a rube, he got out the real goods. The coroner picked up the Churchill note, along with a certificate of authenticity from Sotheby’s, for just under twenty-five thousand Swiss francs, which is, I can assure you, a bargain. While I haven’t anything as exciting as the Churchill note in my collection (the coroner has given me a certified copy, under the stipulation that I neither sell nor reproduce it), I have a couple of pieces of which I am justifiably proud. Of some historical significance is a note from Edwin Miles, the only survivor of the Charge of the Light Brigade (in truth, the validity of this piece is in some doubt). My favourite piece is a note by one Günter Polphner, Herman Goering’s personal chef. Written on the back of a recipe for stuffed green peppers, it says simply, “Dear Lord, turn me over when I’m done.”
    I think it’s true what you said, that every man must spend time in the company of strangers. It was years ago, I know, but every time I look at you I hear you saying it again. We were on the sand by the lake, and the moon’s light fell across your face; I could see your cheeks and lips; your eyes were shadows. You had just revealed to me the first of your secrets — how you concealed it from me I’ll never know. It seemed at first only a small bump on your chest, but when I looked more closely I could see that it was in fact a third nipple, just as you said. “It’s not so uncommon, really . . .” But you didn’t need to apologize. I kissed this and all your nipples, and, enjoying the compression of you above me and the warm sand below, I fell into a kind of sleep. In the distance I could hear your sister talking as always. What colour was her hair then? Black or white? In my near-sleep I remember the sound of the paddles as they stirred the water, and I