Vintage (30 page)

He was in something of a predicament. He had only his suitcase and a few hundred rubles. His airfare home had been spent.
He spoke no Russian. But for some reason he was certain that fortune had smiled upon him. Varushkin had left him something of value. Whether or not he found the Trevallier, there would at least be an answer, an end to his tale—and a small fortune in wine. He had a set of tasks ahead of him now, a few steps toward his future, which now looked brighter than it had in many years. He should translate the note, find the sommelier, secure the wine, sell two bottles for cash and then contact Morty to arrange transport and auction. Morty would want a big bite, but he could be trusted.

Bruno started walking with a primary goal of finding a Métro station. For the first time in many years he felt fortunate and filled with purpose. He tucked the note in his breast pocket next to his heart. A middle-aged woman passed him in the opposite direction and they smiled at one another. The sun behind him caught the glass side of an apartment building ahead, illuminating the street in golden light.

He didn't notice the long black car until it had pulled up alongside him. He stopped and looked at his disheveled reflection in the mirrored rear window. It rolled down and his visage was replaced with the much lovelier Katya.

“Mr. Tannenbaum!”

“Mrs. Varushkin.”

“If I had money, I'd hire you for my cook.”

“I'm flattered.”

“But, alas, the most I can do in exchange for that lovely meal is offer you a ride.”

The rear door opened and Bruno couldn't believe his continued good luck.

Katya lounged on the spacious backseat as if on a sofa. She had removed her coat and sat with her legs crossed and the tops
of her boots unzipped, revealing a smooth length of tanned calf. Bruno tried not to stare but was caught in the act. He blushed and she smiled and seemed pleased.

“These boots are so uncomfortable. I'm going to get rid of them as soon as I get home. I should burn them. That place was filthy.”

“Quite,” Bruno said, blushing more and using the excuse to inspect her footwear as license to ogle. She smelled wonderful. As the driver pulled away, she leaned close.

“So,” she said conspiratorially, “what do you think of my husband? Do you think he's gone mad?”

“Seems pretty stable, all things considered.”

She shrugged and looked out the window as they drove on. Bruno cleared his throat.

“Oh,” she said. “So where are you going?”

“You can drop me near Lomonosov Moscow State University, if you would.” He didn't want to trust her with the translation of the note, and he figured that near the university he could find someone who spoke English to help him. He knew nothing about the area other than one guidebook's recommendation of the nearby cafés.

“Are you staying there?”

“I wanted to try the restaurants.”

“There are some good ones. It's a wonderful area. Igor . . .” she said, getting the driver's attention. Then she spoke in Russian and he merely grunted in return.

They drove on in silence for a while. Bruno watched the apartments give way to an industrial landscape.

“Tell me,” Katya finally asked, “why did you go to see my husband?”

“To research a book I'm writing.”

“What is it about?”

“Wine.”

“Why him?”

“You must know that he was once known as quite a collector. To have had some of the greatest wines in the world, and then to have lost them . . .”

“Of course. How poetic and sad. So what did he tell you?”

“I've got a responsibility to my sources.”

“I'm sure you do. So what did you really think of him?”

“He seems intelligent. His eyes . . . that knowing smile. It's like he always knows more than he's telling you.”

“Exactly!”

“But he also seemed worn and tired.”

“He did, didn't he? He's the most manipulative man I've ever known. You'd be surprised how much he controls, still, even from in there. I think I loved him once. Very much.”

“I'm sure he would like to know that.”

Katya laughed. “You've fallen under his spell, haven't you? So tell me. Did you learn what you wanted?”

“I'm not sure yet. But I'm hopeful.”

“That's good. Very good.”

She slid closer to him and touched his leg. It was like a light shock, and he flinched. She smiled and he felt her breath in his ear.

“You know, you could come stay with me. For a little while. I'm fairly impoverished, but I still try to live comfortably. You could have a few quiet rooms to work on your writing. And in exchange you could cook for me. And I'm sure I could find other uses for you.”

She turned to him. One hand inched up his thigh and the other was now pressed against his chest. Every cell in Bruno's body wanted to press his lips to hers, but for some reason he
exerted an unusual amount of self-control. Some small voice in the back of his brain was shouting and waving its hands in warning.

“And I haven't properly thanked you for that wonderful meal.”

Before he kissed her, Bruno thought that something in his recipe must have been misdirected: she was supposed to have these feelings for Varushkin. Perhaps Varushkin should have prepared it and Bruno merely coached him.

She sat astride his lap now, and she was touching him all over in a way that was odd but that he also quite enjoyed. Her mouth and tongue were salty, her hard breathing through her nose tickling his beard. One moment a hand was twisted in the hair at the back of his head, another by his hip and then against his chest again.

Bruno began thinking that this was the most odd, fortuitous and wonderful day he'd yet experienced.

But then suddenly she sprang off of him and scooted back to her side of the car.

“Aha!”

She held the slip of paper. Bruno didn't have time for anger; he was too bewildered. He realized that the car had stopped on a road shaded by trees. And then his door was ripped open and he fell halfway out.

Standing above him was the driver, the man's face fully visible for the first time. He recognized the square jaw, the short blond hair, the scar along the side of his face. It was the man from Germany. From Chicago. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together in Bruno's mind: the accountant, the locker, Scar . . . It must have been Katya hunting Varushkin's treasure all along. And Bruno had led her right to it . . .

He now saw a small leather club, looking silly in the driver's thick fingers, descending rapidly toward his temple.

A flash.

And the world went dark.

*      *      *

There are moments in your life when you awake with a splitting head, not knowing where you are, or anything at all, really, beyond the suspicion that something momentous had transpired. And Bruno had had many such moments over the years. Some of these had fueled the decline of his marriage.

After one evening that began with a panel tasting of Burgundies (Bruno did not believe in spit buckets) at a hotel in San Francisco, he'd awoken stuffed into a double sleeping bag under a row of Gewürztraminer vines in Sonoma County with a member of the waitstaff, a hearty ranch girl originally from western Nebraska named Lorrie who had a thick waist and a lovely snore and who smelled nice and kept him warm as he watched the ocean fog slowly seep out of the river valley with little idea of what had happened between hotel and vineyard. On the other end of the spectrum, after a book signing at some minor Midwestern state university, he'd awakened alone in a dorm room wearing clown makeup and a pirate suit stolen from the theater department. After his ensuing discovery by the floor RA and arrest, he swore off binge drinking with college students.

But this time was different. This time there had been no alcohol employed. And this time he couldn't call Anna to come bail him out.

The first sensation he experienced was sound. Children's laughter. Wistful music. Then there was the splitting pain as he cracked open his eyes to see cement, and, in shallow focus, a wad
of spent chewing gum hardened and smeared across a crack, the imprint of the sole of a tennis shoe on its surface like the pattern of a fossil.

Then came the sinking realization that something was wrong. An overwhelming sense of loss. A pair of blinking toddler's shoes ambled past. The wheels of a stroller. The elderly shuffle of loafers.

He opened his eyes all the way and lifted his head, and the world spun around him, a stabbing pain between his temples. Between bright flashes of light he could see that he was in a well-lit park just after dusk. The music came from a carousel that spun lazily in the periphery. People circled a fountain.

He stood carefully. He was in a copse just at the edge of the park, and as he stood and brushed leaf litter from his jacket, a nervous mother picked up her toddler and edged away. An old man paused and jabbed his cane in his direction, muttering.

Once he'd gained his balance, everything came back to him. He was in Moscow. He'd been to the prison. He'd fixed a meal for Varushkin. Katya had picked him up. She had been sitting on his lap . . . and then suddenly it struck him: he'd been mugged. He rifled through his jacket pockets just to be sure, but it was true . . . the slip of paper that held the code, the key to his treasure, was gone.

Nowhere to be found.

All was lost.

He stalked into the plaza surrounding the fountain, unsteady on his feet like the drunk that he sometimes was, though wasn't at the moment. More people moved out of his way.

He had to think. He'd lost the paper. But Varushkin could simply share the location again, right? He paused. With only a handful of rubles remaining, he couldn't bribe his way back
into Butyrka. And even if he could, Katya was already minutes, hours maybe, ahead of him.

What could he do? Who did he know? Perhaps Aleksei could help? No. There was no time. What else? What had Varushkin said? Any hints or clues?

Of course. There'd been one.

You've had the answer in your hand the whole tim
e
,
Varushkin had said.

What answer? What had been in his hand?

He sifted through his pockets. A few coins. Some wadded ruble notes. The business card Parker Thomas had shared with him.

And then, of course, the corkscrew.

He pulled it from his pocket. He extended the gleaming screw and turned it over, examining it in the lamplight. Inscribed on the handle were words. Cyrillic letters. They said something.

“Excuse me,” Bruno shouted, staggering toward passersby with the corkscrew thrust before him. People parted. One woman shrieked. “Excuse me . . . does anyone here speak English? English? Translate? I need a translator.”

He wasn't having much success when he heard a voice behind him.

“I speak English. Some,” said a thin, youngish fellow with a backpack and headphones draped around his neck. He looked to be a high school student.

Bruno showed him the handle and he inspected it carefully.

“It says here,” the student said, tracing the words, “Two Eagles . . . Two Eagles Café. Yes. Is from a café. From a restaurant.”

“Do you know it?”

“Yes. Is not so far. Four streets this way.” He gestured with
his hand in one direction. “And three, maybe four streets this way.” He gestured in a perpendicular direction.

“Thank you!” Bruno said, kissing him on both cheeks.

He was off at a sprint, light on his feet now. He threaded the sidewalk traffic, dashed across busy streets. Drivers honked and people turned. The world streaked past, but he didn't care about anything other than his target. It was a refuge, as Varushkin had said. A small café where he hid from the world. And it was close.

Bruno counted off streets in his head. He turned. He raced on and then slowed to a jog, finally stopping because he recognized the place now. It was just as Varushkin had described it. He needed only that one word: refuge. A warm light radiated from a pair of windows flanking a set of stairs descending to a terrace-level café. Outlines of diners filled the windows, and even from outside and across the street he caught the scent of a good, working kitchen, a combination of aromas that always reminded Bruno of roasting game hens and baking bread.

He descended the stairs as if in a trance. He could feel heads from the diners turn to watch him. The café was perfect. It was Hemingway's clean and well-lighted place, or even Joel Berteau's cozy restaurant under the El station in Chicago. It was the stool in the corner behind his mother's deli where, after his father's death, he would sit as a young boy and read Jack London and Robert Louis Stevenson stories, and later scratch poems onto the backs of sheets torn from the receipt pads.

The place was narrow, with only a few tables along either side. A small bar stood at the back with a pair of stools and a selection of wines in a rack. He looked for stairs or doors in the back but there was nothing, so he pushed his way into the kitchen.

An assistant cook stood dicing at a stainless-steel counter, and a large man with tattoos rolled a pan of mushrooms in oil at the stove, flames licking the underside of the pan. Bruno nodded to him and pointed to the pan, kissing his fingers, and the man nodded back, not asking questions.

Bruno scanned the room quickly and saw a narrow hall at the back of the kitchen, and so slipped through past an office and down a set of stairs that breathed of cool, earthy air and had the clean and slightly sour must of a good cellar.

At the bottom of the stairs was a long corridor lined with cans of kitchen stock and a door to a walk-in cooler, and then around another bend it opened into a vaulted room that felt more ancient, as if it had a different provenance than the rest of the building.

Here there were wooden wine crates, all stamped with names that Bruno recognized, stacked in neat rows, and then alcoves along the far wall, each with a formidable, thick-timbered door set into it. One of these doors stood open and two burly men were carrying out unmarked and antique wooden cases and stacking them onto a hand truck while others watched. Two of the faces Bruno recognized immediately, with Nikolai from the hotel holding a clipboard and pen, making notes. And Parker Thomas stood to the side, observing, hands on his hips and a wide grin on his lips.