36 Yalta Boulevard

5 APRIL 1967, WEDNESDAY

Perhaps because of Ludwig’s encouragement, on Wednesday Brano watched a film, an English film. It was dubbed into German and concerned an English spy who wore horn-rimmed glasses. From what he understood, the spy was in fact a thief who had been coerced into working for the queen under the threat of being returned to prison. He didn’t know if this was the filmmaker’s criticism of British intelligence services or simply narrative flavor.

Most of the action took place in Berlin, which was part of the title; some scenes were set along the Wall. He’d seen the Wall up close enough to know these scenes were filmed in a studio, but the effect was not bad. There was a Russian general who reminded him of the Comrade Lieutenant General he’d known before his last return from Vienna-all jokes, drinks, and backslapping, which cloaked his darker intentions. In fact, some of the more opaque scenes seemed, in retrospect, to have been comic, but Brano was unable to quite find the humor in them at the time.

Although he did not want to return to the Carp, he felt it was his duty. He was in a foreign city, and his only order-from both the Austrians and Cerny-was to wait. And there was always the possibility that useful information would pass by him, so he should be there to pick it up.

The world of the affluent political exile, it seemed to Brano, was cursed by two deficiencies: its miniscule size and its inflated sense of self-importance. While a great city surrounded them-be it West Berlin or Tel Aviv or Vienna-the exiles consistently walled themselves off from their new homes in well-heated bars and cafes and dinner parties, and occasional visits to the brothels; expatriate communities were always very masculine. In these small ponds, medium-sized fish seemed enormous, and the largest were those with the most fluid tongues. And because they lived outside their native language and country, these exiles no longer felt responsible for what they said. They lived entrenched in their narrow-minded theories and petty jealousies, never quite part of the real world. So they spoke endlessly, adapting to the quick-step of empty dialogue. And any words they uttered were assumed to be as valuable as a piece of china, pristine and vague.

Of course, for Brano Sev there was a level of insecurity beneath his harsh judgment. Linguistic cleverness had never been his strong trait, and he could remember many times in West Berlin falling silent as his fat acquaintances spoke over him, provoking laughter and table slaps. When Brano chose to speak, there was seldom a reaction. Silence, maybe; sometimes a nod of agreement. But only rarely laughter, for Brano had never been, and never would be, an entertainer.

He considered this as he walked from the cinema to the Carp. Why would he never feel part of these expatriate cliques? Was it really that he had no humor about him, that he was always heavy, without the idle buoyancy that makes a born entertainer?

But this was not the right question for him to ask himself, and he soon realized this. The real question was, Why should he care?

He mounted the stairs at Sterngasse as the sun was beginning to set and understood why he cared. When he was with the exiles, he felt as if his documents and rank and even the medals he’d garnered over the years were just pieces of paper and iron. It was as if he, like them, had just been born when he entered the West and now had to start all over again. It was as if the scars and sweat of his long past were no longer of any consequence.

Monika served him beer, then settled her elbows on the bar. “How are you making out?”

“It’s a difficult transition.”

“Of course it is.” She lit a cigarette. “The thing I’ve noticed over the past twenty years is that those who do well are those who recognize the situation.”

“How do you mean?”

She took a drag and considered her words. “Well, we’re all in a foreign country. We didn’t choose to come here because we’re in love with Austria. We came because it was convenient. Maybe we want to be back home, maybe we don’t. It doesn’t matter. The thing is, we’re all here for the same reason.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re all running away from something. That’s the only reason anyone leaves his home.”

Brano sipped his beer and looked into the mirror. Behind him, two old men played backgammon by the wall. “I know someone who left Yugoslavia. She wasn’t running from anything. She simply decided she didn’t want to be in that country anymore. She told me that it had become a country of losers, and she didn’t want to become a loser herself.”

Monika shrugged. “And what’s that? She was running away from boredom or emptiness or whatever. And if she’s been here long enough, she’s probably come to terms with the fact that she can’t escape any of those things. Certainly not here. You know what’s interesting?”

“What?”

“Ask anyone around here for their story. Ask what happened to them. If they just arrived, you’ll find that their story goes on for a long time, with details on top of details, and you can watch them get upset-I mean, visibly-as they tell it to you. Ask someone who’s been here a few years, and they’ll have it condensed down to a sentence, maybe two, and that’s it.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s inevitable,” she said, then put out her cigarette. “Over here, your past is just a story. It gets smaller with time, until it’s just a haiku. Until it’s got no more emotion in it.”

“Until it’s cold.”

“Until your past can’t touch you anymore,” said Monika. “Watch out you don’t turn cold, too.”

Rather than wait for the cold exiles to fill the bar, Brano returned home. He was unsurprised by another piece of propaganda in his mailbox. The Committee for Liberty in the Captive Nations explained that, because of its godless nature, the believer in Communism could not feel emotions beyond fear and pride. “Little more than animals,” Dr. Ned Rathbone argued. He had studied the Communist Menace since 1938, and the one thing he knew above everything was that the Christian faith and the Communist faith could never exist in harmony on the same planet. And the martyrs of the side of Right demanded that the war be brought to the steps of the Kremlin itself.

Brano unfolded the pamphlet in his living room, flattening it with the side of his hand. He folded it down the long midpoint, then folded it a few more times until he had it right. Then he opened the French windows and tossed out his paper airplane. A breeze held it aloft for a moment; then it began to spin and plummet to the street, where Ludwig’s old white-bearded shadow leaned on his Volkswagen and watched it crash into the sidewalk.