36 Yalta Boulevard

7 APRIL 1967, FRIDAY

Ersek Nanz’s party was in Kahlenberg, in a house perched beyond the woods on the last dying bumps of the Alps. The taxi driver made noises under his breath as they approached the iron gate in front of a wide, modern bilevel. Brano looked over from the passenger seat. “What was that?”

“Nothing. Just wishing I had the money to live up here.”

“One day, comrade, maybe you won’t need money to live up here.”

The driver squinted as Brano grabbed his bottle of red wine and climbed out.

A man in a tuxedo opened the gate. Brano began to reach for his documents but stopped when the man simply smiled and nodded him on, up the paved drive, to the house. Another tuxedoed man opened the front door and took the wine and Brano’s coat.

Beyond a stark white foyer, the living room opened up, rising two dimly lit floors to a glass wall that looked down on Vienna. About fifty people milled around, clutching champagne glasses and murmuring steadily. A few glanced at him. He was underdressed.

“Jesus Christ, Brano. You’re late. I thought you were different than your brethren!”

“I’m just the same, Ersek. You live well.”

The Norwegian smirked. “I wish this was mine. On loan from the Italian ambassador.” He raised a finger. “One benefit of always gravitating toward power.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Let’s get you a drink.” Ersek walked him over to a white table covered with a hundred full glasses of champagne. “Don’t worry, there’s more in the kitchen. Unless this guy already sniffed it out,” he said, nodding at Filip Lutz, who reached for another glass.

“It’s our spy!”

“That’s one thing you’re right about,” said Brano.

Lutz patted the lapel of his tuxedo. “I tell you, Nanzi, she wants it.”

Ersek looked around. “Who?”

“Who do you think? The interpreter.”

“I’d give it to her in a second.”

Their longing looks were directed through the terrace doors, to where a tall, thin-boned blonde stood; her broad, sculpted jawline suggested she had come from the Slovak provinces of their country. She held a long cigarette beside her head as she laughed at a short, bearded man’s joke.

As Brano took a second champagne and wandered past the Bosendorfer grand piano to a dark corner, he heard Ersek mutter, “Little Rolf thinks he’s going to give it to her.”

“I’d just like to see that,” said Lutz.

Some faces he recognized, though they did not know him. In late July, he’d gone through the files in order to uncover the identity of GAVRILO, and before settling on his short list of suspects, he’d come across half these faces. They were in the files because they were of use, because they could be of use in the future, or because they posed a threat. A tall man in the corner, a chain-smoker, looked familiar-yes: He’d been marked as a possible resource, because Yalta held a roll of 16 mm film of the man in a local brothel with a nine-year-old girl.

He wanted another champagne, but over by the drinks table he spotted a small, beaten-looking man hoarding glass after glass. It was Sasha Lytvyn.

He did finally talk to people, though without enthusiasm, always sidestepping the drunk man from his past who didn’t seem to recognize him. A journalist from Die Stern explained to him the intricacies of recent Egyptian-Israeli tensions, as if Brano had never heard of the state of Israel. “When Israel shot down those Syrian MiGs, it was a provocation. Now, I’m no anti-Semite, but…” Another man, young and pale, quoted Svetlana Alliluyeva from a manuscript supposedly awaiting American publication- God grants an easy death only to the just — then smiled rapturously. A gaunt woman with large glasses, originally from Sighet, described herself as an actionist painter, which to Brano meant nothing. When he asked, her explanation only confused him further.

“People like to say that painting has moved across the Atlantic to New York, but seriously, Europe is the center of art civilization as it has been for centuries. I doubt a bunch of monkeys with paintbrushes would be able to take that from us. Do you?”

“I really don’t know,” said Brano, edging away.

Lutz elbowed him in the ribs. “My friend, I’ve had a brainstorm.”

“Tell me, Filip.”

“I suggest you find yourself a Viennese girlfriend. Best way to ease into the transition. Yes, what you need is a nice fraulein.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“Well, you’ve got a very progressive mother. Does she also do this?” Lutz reached into his jacket and pulled out a small wooden pipe. He squinted into the bowl.

“What’s that?” Brano asked stupidly.

Lutz stuck the pipe in his mouth and flicked a lighter over the bowl. As he inhaled, the flame bowed, crackling the hashish inside. He held the smoke in his lungs a few seconds, then exhaled.

“Here.” Lutz handed him the pipe.

In another situation, Brano would have declined, but nothing so far had helped him relax. Even the champagne seemed of a light variety. And when Lutz exhaled, that pungent aroma reminded Brano of the few times he’d smoked it, back in Tel Aviv. It had been available everywhere, sticky clumps in a wooden box in everyone’s home. When he’d smoked it there, his heartbeat had settled as he warmed into an easy languor, in which everything-even the complexities and brutalities of his job-seemed manageable.

“Are you coming Monday?” asked Lutz after they had finished.

“Where?”

“To my lecture. ‘The Lies Behind the Communist Dove of Peace.’ Didn’t Nanzi tell you?”

“Where is it?”

“The Committee for Liberty in the Captive Nations, over on Schulerstra?e.”

Brano snorted, then covered his mouth. Half laughter, half surprise.

Lutz leaned closer. “ What? ”

“The Committee for Liberty?”

“Yes.”

“The Christians?”

Lutz frowned, and Brano covered his mouth again as the stoned, monotone laughter rolled out of him.

“You don’t understand,” said Lutz. “They sound a little crazy sometimes, but they’re not. No, not at all.” Lutz made an expression that looked similar to pain. “Like many opposition groups, they have their use. They have money, influence. If you have their ear you have …”

Brano nodded, but he wasn’t listening anymore. The tingle at the base of his neck had spread over his scalp, and his blank smile no longer meant a thing.

Frustrated, Lutz sneaked off after the interpreter, and Brano took another champagne to the glass wall, staring at the dancing lights of the city down below. From this height he found himself thinking mystically, like Dijana Frankovic, as if the lights were stars to be read. In them he read the truth of Vienna’s underbelly: conspiracies. There were so many conspiracies going on in that city-simultaneously, often bumping into one another. In neutral Vienna the intelligence services of the entire world converged to talk and trade and do battle, and up above it he was stoned, drinking expensive champagne.

By the time the pianist started, he was deep in a padded chair, trying to see if there was anything left in his glass. There wasn’t. It was a Bach piece, a-if an overheard voice could be believed- Fantasia, the one in C minor, and it played in his muscles and bones, the high notes tickling his shoulder blades. He peered past the thin, tuxedoed man swaying at the keyboard, past smoking groups, into the darkness under the staircase leading to the second floor. He thought he saw the reflection of water there, maybe plants, but wasn’t sure. And why plants in a dark spot? So he closed his eyes. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was-this was the first time he’d really relaxed since he had left Bobrka, a world away. A family that hated-

The piano played and he tapped his foot, unsure if he was keeping time but not caring. Through the notes, a voice said, Brani? but he didn’t look to see who it was. The music was warm and excellent, and he didn’t want inane conversations destroying something that perfect. He sank deeper into the chair and tried to ignore the hand shaking his shoulder.

“Brani, you is sleeping?”

For the second it took his drug-stunned eyes to adjust, he tried to imagine what she would look like. All that came to him was a moment during their one night together, when he opened his eyes to find her head at the foot of the bed. He’d first noticed her feet by his face, then the long calves that disappeared beneath folds of white sheet. Then he’d sat up and looked at her sleepy face beside his feet, puffy cheeks covered by a splay of dark hair, the light from the scarf-muted lamp lighting the soft down on her cheeks. He’d paused then, staring, before realizing he should leave.

But the dim light here was entirely different, and when she came into focus she looked like another woman. The down was gone from her cheeks, and her hair was different; it was short, cut like a boy’s. Her mascara was thick. And unlike in sleep, she was smiling a smile he knew was not authentic.

She blinked three times. “I am in the shock!”

Then all relaxation left him, as if through a hole in his foot. He stood. But the hashish was still with him, fiercely, and he wobbled as he kissed her cheeks and awkwardly hugged her, taking in the aroma of some Viennese bottled scent.

“Oh, Brani,” she said, and looked down at her champagne glass. “I have so much for to tell you.”

He was flushed; the blood beat in his head, and everything was too warm. The piano player didn’t notice the change in temperature; he tapped on. Then, for an instant, he could see through her eyes and mouth to the dark staircase behind her that hid an entire forest. That was when he decided she was not there. She was an illusion.

But she did not dissolve into mist.

So he told her she looked good. She stared at him as if she didn’t understand. “Really, you do.”

“Why you are here?”

“I’ve left.”

“Left?”

“I’ve moved to Vienna.”

“You-” She squinted at him over the rim of her glass. Then she lowered the glass. “Here now?”

“Pa da,” he said.

She exhaled. “We go to the terrace, no?”

When she turned and he followed, he saw that it was true; she did look good. Where on that August night she had been clumsy and drunk, now she seemed to have gained many years. Maybe it was the sobriety, or the haircut, that had smoothed the movement of her hand when she stopped by the table and lifted a fresh glass, that made her new smile seem easy and unaffected. Maybe it was simply that over the last months she had grown accustomed to a life with no word from him.

Or maybe it was the easy idealization that comes from a vivid, drug-induced hallucination.

There was a drunk man with his own champagne bottle sleeping against the steel railing; he didn’t wake as they closed the glass doors and Brano lit a cigarette. She watched him inhale, rubbed her arms against the cold, and shook her head.

“You looking very good, Brano.”

“No I’m not. I look old.”

“Like strong old man. Is very attractive.”

The dancing lights from the city blurred in his periphery. He wondered why she had cut her hair like that. Before, it had reached her shoulders, a loose bundle she would tug behind her ear. Now she looked like a little boy. He wondered if he should ask, then wondered how he could wonder such stupid things at his age. Cerny had spelled it out for him. No matter the haircut, she remained what she had always been, from the beginning. A spy. Who met with Russian agents in her apartment. “Don’t lie to me anymore, okay? I’ve had enough of that.”

She furrowed her brow, then relaxed. Then, with effort, she furrowed again. “I not know what you saying.”

It was strange, how easily she lied, how her inept grammar gave the illusion of innocence. “I almost came back here,” he said. “I did. Almost. I almost had the ticket.” He stopped; he was rambling.

“What you mean?”

“I’m not a fool, Dijana. I don’t like being used.”

“What?” Her teeth were gritted behind her lips. “What you say?”

He didn’t answer. He waited. If this was a hallucination, he had a better imagination than he thought.

“Why you are here?”

“Because.”

“Because?”

“Because.”

Her glass was already empty, so she set it on the railing, then smiled thinly-yes, another false smile. “Maybe we have coffee when you not so drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” he said, but when he turned to the cityscape he almost tumbled.

“I think it not a bad idea I go.”

He looked back at her and, seeing her green-edged eyes again, felt the air leave him. Quietly, he said, “Am I really that stupid?”

“Now-yes.” She squeezed his arm. “But tomorrow, what knows?”

She smiled and leaned forward, her lips brushing his cheek. He could not hear the kiss, but he felt it.

The drunk man was waking up. He slid a little to the left, hanging on the railing. And she was walking away.

Brano wasn’t sure what had happened. He felt an urge to grab her arm, or to shout some stupid lie like I love you — any cheap trick to keep this remarkable illusion a little longer.

Through the terrace doors, Brano watched her glide across the floor, find her coat on a rack, and leave.

“Everyone’s stupid,” said the drunk man. He slid a little more to the left, trying to rise, and knocked Dijana’s glass off the railing. After a second they heard the crash against the concrete patio below.

Brano fought an urge to throw Sasha Lytvyn over the railing as well.

Day 20. The Subject left the party at one in the morning, meeting a taxi by the front gates. This agent followed the car into the center, but it did not take the Subject to his apartment. Instead, he was delivered to the Volksgarten, the Dr. K. Renner Ring entrance. As the park was closed, the Subject was forced to climb over the gate-a difficult maneuver, as the Subject appeared to be very drunk. This agent followed him to the Temple of Theseus, where he circled the structure a few times, then stood in front of the statue and spoke to it. He spoke primarily in his own language, though occasionally he switched to German. Phrases included: “Find a nice girl for me, will you?” and “Paperwork, yes, and a bad conscience.” This agent is unable to make sense of the words.

By three, the Subject had passed out, and this agent carried him to the Hofburg gate, then radioed for assistance. This agent then took the Subject home. He said little on the ride, but did thank this agent for his assistance, asking at his door if he was really alone. “No,” this agent told him. “You’re not alone.”

The Subject seemed very pleased with that answer.