irony.
As Eitingon and Sudoplatov proceeded, Ramón had the sensation of doors sliding shut. Other than the occasional da or nyet , the language was impenetrable to him. He wondered how difficult it would be to learn Russian. He had no memory of learning French. For him, Spanish, Catalan, and French were all the same on the inside. Shifting from one to another was subtle and effortless, a response to exterior circumstances, to people. English, which he had learned in the first grade at a British school in Barcelona, felt different in some fundamental way he couldnât quite describe. A shift into English started some place deeper, took longer to reach the surface.
Ramón smoked a cigarette and finished his eau-de-vie, looking up when Eitingon translated a question about Trotskyâs residence in Mexico for Siqueiros. Siqueiros, who had been languishing in boredom, accustomed as he was to being the center of attention, responded to the attention like a dry plant to water. Of course he knew the exact house, which belonged to friends, and no, he didnât think it should be a problem. Like every house in Mexico it had a wall, but, as walls went, it wasnât very high or sturdy.
âHow many men will you need?â Eitingon translated once more.
âTwenty should be enough.â
And would Siqueiros be able to assemble the men?
Siqueiros shrugged. âOf course. If there is money, there will be no problem.â
Eitingon and Sudoplatov entered into a longer discussion that Ramón followed by watching their faces and listening to the tone of their voices. At one point, Sudoplatov appeared to be unhappy, asking several sharp questions, but in the end he relented.
âHe wants to know if youâre satisfied with the plan,â Eitingon told Caridad.
âYes.â She nodded and smiled at Sudoplatov. âTell him yes.â
A burning log popped in the fireplace.
âAnd the operation is fail-safe?â
âYes,â Caridad answered. âExactly as Stalin ordered.â
FOUR
E itingon picked up an oyster from the bed of ice and slid it into his mouth, closing his eyes to taste the cold ocean waves and appreciate the exquisite texture. He gave his head the slightest shake, then took a swallow of the Sancerre to wash away the faint metallic taste of the oyster. âThese Portugaises are very good. Should we have another dozen?â
âYes, but I wish weâd ordered a different wine.â
âYes, this is modest. Weâll drink the Pétrus with the civet de lapin .â
The restaurant was Eitingonâs discovery, a storefront with a zinc bar and paper tablecloths, a proprietor chef who wore a white toque and shouted at his daughter when she didnât serve the plates fast enough.
âHere, suffer the last of this,â Eitingon said, filling Ramónâs glass. He wanted to loosen Ramónâs tongue, to find out what he was thinking. He took another swallow of wine, remembering the old stone farmhouse outside Toulouse, a ruin with the vines and arbor. Records playing on a wind-up gramophone, they had eaten at a table beneath an oak tree. Caridad was such a beauty. He assumed she was a wealthy Spanish bohemian, looking for a new life with her children in France.
âYou know about Pablo,â said Ramón.
Eitingon studied Ramónâs face.
âHe didnât deserve such a death. I donât understand how she let that happen.â
Eitingon looked down at his wineglass, which he turned slightly on the table. âWhat could she do? She wasnât there. Pablo left a corpse on the street.â
âA father,â he hesitated, biting his bottom lip. âA father would have saved his son.â
âPerhaps. You canât be sure. Caridad knew she was being watched, that her loyalty was being tested.â
âAnd she passed the test.â
âAnd this is her reward. I wasnât there, so I couldnât help her.
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley