The Obedient Assassin: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

be sturdy enough to hold up under pressure. You must remember it in your sleep and be able to cling to it should you be tortured. But let’s not dwell upon the negative.”
    He poured more wine in their glasses. “How good is your English? Could you pass for an Australian or American?”
    â€œNot with my accent.”
    â€œYou can’t be Spanish. That would wave red flags.”
    â€œI could be South American, from Argentina or Chile.”
    Eitingon put the wine bottle down in the center of the table and looked fixedly at Ramón. “No, if they hear Spanish they’ll suspect you’re from Spain. You must blot Spain from your memory and the Castilian language from your identity. You’ve never been to Spain. You don’t know a word of the language. Your mother tongue is French.”
    â€œSo, I’m from France.”
    Eitingon thought for a moment. “But if you’re from here, where is family? Friends? What schools did you attend? No, you can’t be a Frenchman,” he reasoned. “It might work in New York or Moscow, but it obviously won’t work in Paris. You must come from another French-speaking country.”
    â€œMorocco? Algiers?”
    â€œDo you feel like a Moroccan? An Algerian?”
    Ramón’s spine stiffened. “No, please! I’d rather not.”
    â€œI didn’t think so. How about Belgium! That’s the ticket! It’s just north of France, the way Spain is just south. You can be Belgian. That will explain your lack of family in Paris and any little discrepancies in your accent.”
    Ramón looked into the distance, imagining the implications of his new nationality. “And what about Trotsky?”
    Eitingon waited.
    â€œI suppose I must learn all about Trotsky if I’m going to be one of his adherents.”
    â€œNo, no, no. You’re not going to be one of them. That world is too small. You’re not going to be like them, but acceptable to them as someone quite different. In fact, you should be from a world they don’t know.”
    They finished a second round of oysters and watched with interest as the owner’s daughter presented the bottle of Pétrus. Eitingon tasted it, blinked both eyes, then handed his glass to Ramón. “Yes,” Ramón concurred. “It’s excellent.”
    The stew arrived on a large white platter, in a rich and fragrant sauce containing small translucent onions, slices of carrots, and a sprinkling of parsley. “This rabbit tastes as if it lived on wild thyme,” said Ramón after they started eating.
    â€œYes, it probably did. Remember the rabbits in Toulouse?”
    â€œHow could I forget?”
    â€œWhat about your name? You might want to keep your initials. It’s much easier with monograms and such. Something with an R ? Robert?”
    â€œMy first name is Jaime—Jaume in Catalan.”
    â€œWell, then, something with a J .”
    â€œJacques is a name I’ve always liked. I had a little friend named Jacques when we lived in Toulouse.”
    â€œJacques suits you very well, but you should get rid of those steel-rim glasses. They make you look like a soldier or a German factory worker.”
    â€œYou know what I would like to be,” said Ramón. “I’ve always wanted to be an aristocrat.”
    Eitingon, knife and fork poised in midair, smiled at the young man, pleased that he wasn’t an ideologue like his mother. “An aristocrat? Now that’s antithetical.”
    â€œAntithetical to what?”
    â€œTo Marxism, Stalinism, Trotskyism for that matter.”
    â€œBut there are natural aristocrats, people who are superior, who are simply born that way?”
    â€œMy dear Ramón, that’s exactly what aristocrats tell us, that they are our betters because of the blood running through their veins. Because of their pedigree.”
    â€œBut you know what I mean.”
    â€œYes, I