Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks
Common sense whispered to the aces of counterintelligence that the story about Ravelli was most likely a cover for some other, more refined operation. But if the efforts of one secret service were directed toward the abduction of Ravelli, then it was in the interest of the other to protect him until circumstances were fully clarified.
These were precisely the instructions that the police chief of Odessa received. But, to find the true reasons for the French Secret Service's anxiety and the recruitment of Ravelli, the head of the Third Police Department himself, trusting no one, traveled in person to Odessa.
But Ravelli had disappeared. A preliminary interrogation of his business associates yielded nothing. Ravelli had dissolved into thin air, and had not reappeared in Odessa.
The search for him went on for more than a year, and what a surprise it was for the chief of the Secret Police, Colonel Zubatov, when it was reported to him that Yosif Ravelli, firstly, was no longer a Ravelli; and, secondly, had given up the ghost three years since. And Colonel Zubatov decided to interrogate his son, Grigory.
This is how Grandfather Shmuel records Grigory Rivilis' talk with Colonel Zubatov in his diary. The translation, I repeat, from Yiddish to Russian was done with Mama's assistance. And polished by his grandson-that is, by me:
«Wouldn't you like, young man, to go to Paris?» in an insinuating voice, the Colonel began his talk with Grigory Rivilis. «The Lord Emperor is preparing to go there soon on an official visit…hunh? Wouldn't you like to associate with Himself?»
Grigory's heart sank into his boots. He felt as though he were just about to fall off his chair.
«Why have you turned so pale?» the colonel inquired politely. «Do you smoke?» He popped open a silver cigarette case and proffered a cigarette.
Grigory started to stretch out his hand, but then refused.
«Thank you, Your Excellency, but I don't smoke.»
«As you know, as you know…perhaps you'd like some water?» and, without giving him time to catch his breath, he inquired with seeming carelessness, «And, by the way, why did your late father change his name?» He bored into Grigory with his gaze. «We, of course, are guessing…,» he added, and fell silent.
«Y-your Ex-excellency,» stuttering in his agitation, Grigory at last managed to say sorrowfully, «how should we know that?»
«Well, think it over. I won't hurry you. Try to remember, if you don't want your wife and father-in-law to find out the honest truth. That you are not a Jew, but a respectable Christian. A Catholic, what's more.» He felled Grigory with this last sentence. «So, let's work together, if you don't want complications for yourself and your family.»
«Y-your Excellency,» Grigory quickly began crossing himself, «I swear by Christ the Lord, by the Blessed Virgin Mary, this is all a mystery to me. Spare me- and he began to cry-I have a son-,»
«By the way, about that son,» continued the Colonel, «why did you make a Jew out of a Christian? And there was probably a circumcision, according to their laws…»
Grigory nodded in agreement.
«I love her, Your Excellency. And, after all, emperors have married commoners before. Nicholas the First's older brother, Grand Duke Constantine, the heir to the throne-,» he babbled, but the Colonel made a face and interrupted him:
«Stop. We will not touch the imperial name. We are talking about you. So, Mr. Ravelli, I am waiting for explanations. And soon. I've wasted too much time on you as it is.»
Grigory arrived home only the next morning. Rakhil, catching sight of him, simply threw up her hands.
«Gotenu, why do I have such tsures! Girsh,» she called him by his Jewish name, «what have they done to you?»
Grigory collapsed wearily onto a chair and, slowly enunciating the words, got out: «Things are bad for us. Bad,» and repeated the conversation.
Women are usually more resolute than men. And, without thinking about consequences, they make decisions rashly.
«Girsh, get all our documents in order, and let's go to America. They're never going to leave us in peace.»
After deliberating, the couple decided that Grigory should go to Kishinev and begin petitioning to get a passport for foreign travel. And, at the same time, try to find out whether it would be possible, in the near future, to secretly get on any ship leaving Odessa, and illegally travel abroad. And, once he was there, send for his family.
That very day, without waiting for another summons for questioning, Grigory headed for Kishinev; and a week later, sad news made it back to Tiraspol.
According to eyewitnesses, he was walking down the street. Not far away, students had come out onto the thoroughfare. They were shouting antigovernment slogans, smashing glass in wealthy stores, and breaking signposts.
Cossacks, gathered in the side streets to break up the student demonstration, came out unexpectedly. If Grigory had known about riots, he would have managed to dodge them and run into an entryway. But the janitors, expecting the dispersal of the rioters, had prudently locked the gates. When the Cossacks burst out in an avalanche onto the street, smashing every living thing beneath them, he was unable to hide and was trampled by their horses.
Zubatov found out about it sooner than Rakhil. Ravelli's corpse happened to be recognized by a doctor in the city hospital, who had once known, not only Grigory, but his father as well.
That was how it came about that Grigory was not buried as a nameless victim. As for the fact that no family members were present at the funeral-no one is to blame for that. Where Tiraspol is, and where Kishinev is…you have to understand.
For lack of a prime suspect, Zubatov closed the investigation and went away to Petersburg. Ravelli's widow, as he supposed, was ignorant of her husband's secret. And his sisters… Two had died in childhood. The third was a revolutionary. A fugitive. And had long ago severed family ties with her brother.
Zubatov was mistaken. Probably because he had never really loved anyone. And, therefore, had never trusted anyone. Rakhil knew Grisha's secret. If she could make up her mind to deceive her father and marry a Catholic, passing him off as a Jew, then she could keep a secret.
She understood that the police would leave neither her, nor her son, in peace; and, as soon as an opportunity arose, she went away with Shmuel to Gaisin.
At the police department, she represented herself as the victim of a fire, in which all her documents had burnt up; and, in return for a small bribe, she obtained new ones. (In this, she was helped by her cousin, the owner of a barbershop). In any case, she wrote down a different person as Shmuel's father. Her own cousin. Thus my grandfather became Shmuel (Samuil) Solomonovich.
The family's subsequent history was not as unclouded as might be wished, but the police did not trouble them.
The French Intelligence Service, having rooted around for an unspecified amount of time in the Odessa area, and spent no small sum of money, received information regarding Ravelli's death. And calmed down…until 1912…
That year, the centennial of the Battle of Borodino was celebrated. In one of the Petersburg newspapers information appeared-obtained, God knows where-about Napoleon's secret visit to Russia-that is, to Odessa. They wrote about the appearance in 1808 of an heir, who later lost himself in Russia's vast spaces.
The author (his pseudonym was very soon exposed) was fighting for the establishment of a constitutional monarchy in France; and Russia, as France's ally, ought to assist her in this endeavor…
By the time the article had reached Paris; by the time they had become alarmed in the Élysée Palace and given orders to the Secret Service to carefully, so as not to quarrel with an ally, verify its authenticity-a world war had begun… The problem was set aside until a better time.
On November 11, 1918, at twelve noon, the first of a hundred and one shots rang out through Paris, proclaiming that the First World War, which had lasted four years, three months, and twenty-six days, was over. This permitted the French government to renew the search for the imperial heirs who had vanished in Russia.
With this goal in mind, a military expedition was quickly thrown together, apparently directed towards the protection of French interests. In a secret commission, given to the head of the expeditionary corps, were orders to begin an active search for the Ravelli family along the whole Black Sea coast of Russia.
Less than two weeks later (the new premier, Clemençeau, really hurried his generals), on November 23, the first French vessels visited Novorossiisk. After another three days, on November 26, troops landed at Odessa and Sevastopol. The search for the Ravellis led to a large-scale military operation. After a hundred and six years, a French soldier once again stepped onto Russian soil.
Soon, in all the newspapers printed in cities under the control of the occupying forces, there appeared announcements inviting all Ravellis, in connection with the discovery in France of the enormous legacy of Count Ravelli, to appear at the Commandant's office with documents verifying the ancestry of the bearer of the papers.
The approach was an original one. Russian Ravellis themselves responded to the honey-coated cake, providing the opportunity for the professionals, without arousing suspicion, to root around in their biographies.
In order to speed up the search, bait was placed in the prepared cage: the one who helped to find the lucky owner of the enormous fortune would also be generously rewarded. Thanks to this clause, all those who had dreamed in childhood of treasure hunts were brought in on the search for the Ravellis, and now were provided with an excellent opportunity to realize their distant dreams.
Several Ravellis, nibbling at the bait, whose biographies excited particular suspicion among the counterintelligence agents, were even conveyed on board a ship. But each time, when the engineers were ready to start the ship's engines, it was discovered that this Ravelli was not the right one.
Grandfather Shmuel did not read newspapers, and no citizen, excited by the generous reward, guessed that Shmuel Rivilis was that «heir» to Count Ravelli, for whom the occupying powers were unsuccessfully searching.
I don't know why, over the course of two centuries, precisely on the10th of April, events have occurred that reflected in one way or another on the fate of our family. That day has been both joyous and sad: each time, like the flip of a card, producing a significant outcome.
So it was in 1919. Just before dinner, Shmuel picked up boot-hose, carefully wrapped in a newspaper, from the cobbler. When he got home and opened it, he read the announcement put out by the French. He was terribly upset, being four days too late.
On April 6, the French squadron had left the Port of Odessa, abandoning hope of finding Napoleon's descendant.
That year, God was merciful, preserving my grandfather from temptation. This he came to understand later. But at the time, he cried bitterly. The opportunity to pull himself out of beggary had been so close…
By that time, he had two daughters-Khaya and Golda…but his firstborn, his only son, had died after living less than one year…
Twice more, April 10 has proven memorable. On that day, in 1944, while living as evacuees, our family found out about the liberation of Odessa. Forty-five years later, on April 10, 1989, Golda, my mother, was buried in Odessa in the Third Jewish Cemetery. Grandfather had wound up there quite a bit earlier. But he managed to leave her two notebooks, written in a minute hand.
In a language unknown to me (Grandfather, although he learned to write Russian in his old age, fearing the evil eye, preferred Yiddish), he handed down to his grandchildren the history of the family. Two years before his death, Mama translated it into Russian; and now I, Yevgeny Rivilis, have taken the liberty of telling you all about it.
Yevgeny Rivilis, great-great-grandson of Bonaparte
Rafael Grugman: After this lengthy introduction, it is time for the reader to get familiar with the manuscript. I cannot vouch for whether everything in it is accurate. It is possible that its author, Yevgeny Rivilis, deliberately changed some of the names; after all, the earth-shattering historical events he describes are not that distant, and he could not disclose the true names of existing FBI and CIA agents, which are a state secret in the United States of America. Or perhaps he chose not to do this, because he was not thinking about publication. But since I am not able to address this question to the author of these memoirs, and since I do not wish to become the next Edward Snowden by accident, I have at least changed the names of U.S. intelligence officials mentioned in his manuscript. However, the events described are authentic, with the exception of a few minor details in which I had a hand, as I mentioned previously, in order to fill the gaps in the narrative. And since the main events did in fact take place in New York, I have left the title the same as the one chosen by Rivilis: Coney Island Laughs Last.
CONEY ISLAND LAUGHS LAST
For Mikhail Godkin
PART ONE
SOME STRANGE THINGS HAVE BEEN HAPPENING RECENTLY
While having dinner once, the Almighty dropped a plate, and it shattered into many pieces. Don’t rush to pick them up. Take a closer look. Call the biggest fragment Long Island and draw the outline: Brooklyn, Queens, Nassau and Suffolk. Call the smaller fragments Manhattan, Staten Island, Roosevelt…
Now give each fragment the exotic-sounding name of «island.» Put together a mosaic and place the biggest plate right next to it, upside down. Once you have it, make it a dessert and call it «the mainland.» Since there may be several dishes, your mainland is North America. Call a tiny part of the mainland adjoining the mosaic The Bronx. Connect everything with invisible Scotch tape. And then take off!
That’s how I imagined the picture of the creation of the world when I first saw the majestic panorama of New York City from the cockpit of the police helicopter.
Today’s flight is a routine necessity: traffic jams are the plague of the multimillion-strong anthill. We are taking off from a heliport next to the Coney Island beach. The helicopter should land in Westchester in half an hour. New York City is under us. A multitude of islands and a piece of mainland. Why did I ask you to use Scotch tape when you created it? So that the islands wouldn’t yield to temptation and float out to sea. But let’s return now to Long Island, New York’s most populous island. It’s so large that only Brooklyn and Queens are within the city limits. Nassau and Suffolk are suburbs.
* * *Some strange things have been happening recently in my apartment, which is on the sixth floor of a prestigious co-op in the southern part of Brooklyn. As you can see, I’m not going to give the address.
To be rigorously precise, the trouble started exactly two weeks ago. When I came home from work that day, a few minutiae-or so it seemed-indicated that someone had been there and had left traces that you couldn’t avoid noticing even if you wanted to.
Cups and saucers had appeared on the dinner table even though their regular location was the kitchen cabinet, second shelf on the left. But what was most surprising was that despite the fact that I lived alone, and because of my line of work I try not to have guests, the table was set for three people. No fewer and no more. Finally, there was tea residue in the cups-yet I didn’t have the bad habit of leaving dishes unwashed when I left home.
In my search for the teabags I even examined the garbage can, but there was nothing unusual in it; I checked the fridge, but the food was untouched. Other than the unwashed cups that had found their way to the dinner table God knows how, I found no traces that anyone had visited my apartment.
I left the cups on the table, and the next day I encountered part two: the dishes, washed clean, were in the cabinet. On the third day the miracles recurred as the cups moved themselves back to the table. Someone was not only having fun with the dishes, but was taunting me by drinking tea in my apartment to boot. While enjoying the occupant’s helplessness.
I carefully inspected the apartment. At first glance, nothing was missing. So there was no need to call the police. But even if something had disappeared, the police wouldn’t have been able to do anything to help. They would have come over, prepared a report, which at the end of the year I could use only for tax deductions, and that would have been the end of it. No one in the police deals with such trivialities. And if someone demanded an investigation and began to make a nuisance of himself, they might decide that the complainant is off his head and send him to the loony bin. Forget it! I won’t provide any excuse to get rid of me!
First I began to recall women who had visited my apartment and could have keys. Who knows, maybe they’d decided to settle scores with me this way. Just to be safe I changed the locks, but even that didn’t spare me from surprises-the brazen tea-drinking continued. And this time there was an incomprehensible note in the most prominent place: «Stick your nose in the fridge and don’t take it out before you’re supposed to.» An unambiguous threat.
I didn’t have a chance to react-it would have been interesting to know what my «benefactors» were alluding to-and I even tried to get wacky in front of the mirror, asking, «I wonder, what don’t you like about my precious nose?»
The following day came the lightning bolt-an attempt on my life. Let’s write down the date: July 20, 2003.
I stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the first floor as usual, but the elevator rocketed upward, reached the twenty-third floor, jumped a little, then dropped like a rock to the first floor. If I were a woman, I definitely would have gone into premature labor-even without being pregnant. Even then, the elevator didn’t think about stopping. It tore upward, then kept whizzing up and down without end. I was almost out of my mind with fear. I remembered Ted’s unsolved murder in my apartment last year, and I saw my life flash before my eyes. What was worse, I couldn’t sound an alarm, because none of the buttons on the panel worked. After half an hour the light went out and the elevator came to a stop. It seemed to freeze between the eighth and ninth floors. Within minutes, I began to gasp for air. When the rescuers pulled me out of the booby trap, I was unconscious. They administered CPR to me, apologized and attributed the incident to defective electronics. I pretended to believe them. Maybe that would have been true if not for what had happened eighteen months ago, when I became an FBI agent. That is probably where I should begin.
Oh yes, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Yevgeny Rivilis, if my name means anything to you. I’ve lived in New York for eight years, since August 1996, and I’ve been in this apartment for almost three years, since October 2000. And I had never gone through an inconvenience like this one.
Today is July 24, 2003. Two weeks ago, someone I don't know yet began following me in a strange manner. But before starting the investigation, a little background. I don’t know if it’s pertinent to what’s going on, but I must be completely honest. Only by emptying out my memory can I hope to find a key to the truth.
A VISIT TO THE PAST
I landed in New York in August 1996. The customs officer carefully studied my passport, which had been issued in the name of Leonid Nevelev, compared the photo with the original, and waved me through. Starts like a mystery novel, doesn’t it? But I’m not going to hold back any secrets. As I mentioned, my real name is Yevgeny Rivilis. The alias is something I was forced to do, a ruse that enabled me to cross the border without any problem. You’re probably baffled and have a bunch of questions. Well, I have nothing to hide. Just don’t rush-the story of how I left isn’t worth a hill of beans.
At that time (I’m talking about the early 1990s) newspaper ads such as «Seeking commercial marriage to a woman moving permanently to the U.S.» were not a rarity in the Ukraine. A lot of my ex-countrymen were trying to move to America by making use of the female factor. I wasn’t any different. A marriage, even a fictitious one, would enable me to cut the knot called Sophia. When that name is uttered, please remove your hat, because my wife is onstage. Just for a short time, I hope, because it’s really because of her that I decided to emigrate. Our marriage had run out of steam, and it seemed to me that the best way out was to secretly move (you can call it «flee»-that’s probably what it looked like) overseas.
First Sophia vanished with some Chechen, and for a few weeks I was beside myself, searching for her among friends and acquaintances. Then she came back, acting as if nothing unusual had happened. She announced that she had been on a peacemaking mission to the Caucasus, and had even met with General Dudayev, the president of Chechnya at the time. She couldn’t come up with a better alibi! I hadn’t yet recovered from the shock when, without even catching her breath, she touched off a flirtation with Doroshenko, who was staying with me. Then the Chechen suitor resurfaced. What normal man would endure that kind of abuse! Cling to a nonexistent marriage? It’s stupid. Everything comes to an end. If Sophia had decided to test my patience, she got the result she was looking for: it had limits.
I put an ad in the newspaper under the rubric, «I’D LIKE TO MEET A WOMAN.» The text was straightforward: «Seeking a woman…,» followed by the usual list of attributes, including the main one-a ticket to the U.S.
A man responded, somebody named Leonid Nevelev. The routine questions of a phone interview, «Are you still interested in a commercial marriage?» and «How old are you?», didn’t put me on my guard. What I was secretly thinking was, some discreet young woman had decided to use a middleman.
«I’ve hit forty.» I wanted to ask, «How old is the bride?», but I held back.
The man happily replied, «That’s terrific! You and I are the same age!»
I ignored his remark-the law doesn’t recognize marriages between men, even if you have an American visa-and I continued mentally to «digest» the portrait of the bride.
As the Russian saying goes, the wood grouse in the mating ground hears nothing but himself. I had gotten stuck on the image of a discreet young woman, and when Leonid suggested, «Would you like to meet?», I immediately bit, honestly assuming that Leonid was the «bride’s» commercial agent who was supposed to negotiate the terms of the contract. Deep down in my soul I heard a cherished hope sing out in a tiny voice: «A discreet, intellectual woman, a shy and devilishly sexy cutie.» If the image I had conjured up matched reality, then goodbye Sophia. I would get married without a second thought. Really.
The Pushkin statue is a perfect meeting place. It’s hard to get lost. After we exchanged greetings and sized each other up, the surprises began. Leonid said he had won a green card and was to go to the American Embassy for an interview in two months. If I had $5,000, he was prepared to sell me his prize. He would also take care of obtaining a domestic and international passport from the police in his name, but with my photograph.
I refused on the spot. The prospect of being Leonid Nevelev for the rest of my life didn’t please me. «What if I’m caught? Then what?»
«Who? Where? When?» Leonid was sincerely surprised. «Your documents will be authentic. Both the passport and the birth certificate. And when the time comes in five years to become an American citizen, go change your name to anything else if you want. Even George Washington. Or remain Nevelev-what do you care? You’ll have achieved your objective. Or do you have other options available?» he said tartly. «Are brides just besieging you, one prettier than another, and you don’t know which one to marry?»
I didn’t answer-I was wavering-and Leonid continued to goad me. «Do you have a long waiting list? Maybe you’ll share it?»