The Obedient Assassin: A Novel (26 page)

J
acques, we never went to the Bellas Artes,” said Sylvia, gazing up from her guidebook.

He hadn't heard her. He was lost in thought, the cigarette in his hand forgotten, the smoke slowly spiraling up to the pure blue sky, his eyes hidden by his dark glasses. They were having breakfast on the patio at the hotel. There were big pots of red geraniums, and fresh flowers on the tables. A platter of fruit on a sideboard looked like a Spanish still life, a papaya sliced open to reveal the dark shining seeds that clung to the flesh. The sun shone brightly but it was too cool to be outside; a distinct chill emanated from the stones of the wall and the floor.

She continued reading the book, pulling a sweater closer around her shoulders. “Jacques, a penny for your thoughts.”

He grimaced, tapping his cigarette in the ashtray. “I hate it when you say that. I wish you wouldn't.”

“I'm sorry. I won't say it again. You were so far away.”

The grimace twisted into a grudging smile. “I'm trying to work something out.”

“Something to do with Mr. Lubeck?”

“Yes, I think I'm making a mistake, and I haven't spoken up. I have to tell him what I think.”

“And he would want you to.”

He raised his eyebrows indicating how uncertain that might be.

She took a swallow of tea and shivered slightly. “It's cold out here.”

“Quema, no calienta.”

“What's that?”

“That's what they say, at this altitude the sun burns but doesn't warm.”

“You are extraordinary.” She smiled. “I know you don't feel well and are still working, but let's not waste this last day in Mexico.”

“What do you mean?”

“This might be the last time we're together here. There are still so many things we haven't seen and done. There's a tendency to give up, quit before the game is over.”

“Is there something you want to do?”

“I'd like to see the murals at the Bellas Artes. Do you have time?”

He was on the point of refusing then capitulated. “Yes, why not. I have to go to the U.S. Embassy to renew my visa, but that shouldn't take long. We can run up to the Bellas Artes then have lunch at that place you like. I'll drop you here before my appointment at three-thirty, and pick you up to drive out to Coyoacán.”

“We don't have to go out there, you know.”

“Yes. Why not?”

“It's out of the way, and, if you have a meeting at three-thirty, who knows when it will really start? This is Mexico.”

“No, this fellow's at a bank. He's prompt. We just have to sign some papers.”

O
utside, Jacques hesitated on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. The avenue was so wide, like a river with its grassy esplanades, the traffic gliding back and forth, almost too wide to cross on foot. The morning felt and looked fresh after the night's rain, the mountain sky blue, the air sparkling, but the city had a harsh smell of petrol, sewage, and shoe-shine polish. Indians dressed in white swept the gravel beneath the trees with brooms made of twigs.

A long line of people had formed in front of the embassy, Eastern Europeans, Russians, refugees from the war. But for Jacques, a businessman from Canada, there was no line. He went straight in, then waited ten minutes for a clerk to look at his passport and stamp his visa.

He crossed Reforma once more, bypassing the hotel on his way to the Ermita building on Hamburgo. He felt as if he were trying to rouse himself from a deep sleep, break the spell of hypnosis, the force of inertia. Huddled into himself, rehearsing what he intended to say, he hardly noticed his surroundings. He climbed the stairs at the Edificio Ermita, tapped three times on the door, and let himself in with his key. Suitcases waited by the door. Caridad glanced up from a file she was dumping into a trash can and studied his face. “Did you take care of your visa?” she asked.

“Yes, I just did.”

“I wish you wouldn't leave these things till the last minute.”

“Is Leonid here?”

“Yes, in the next room. Leonid! Ramón is here.”

Eitingon came in smiling, carrying a long white envelope. “Ah! There you are! I have your letter all ready for you. Now, you mustn't give this to Trotsky instead of the article, though by that time—ha, ha—it might not really matter. But should you be captured, and, of course, we don't expect that, but just in case, make sure they find this letter. It will direct the line of interrogation, make things much easier for you. It would be better if it were in Spanish rather than French, but that wouldn't have been right for a Belgian and they'll get it translated fast enough. You must stick to the story no matter what. You can say that you don't remember something or don't know, but do not vary. Do you understand?” He talked on for a bit, then turned to Caridad. “Am I missing something? Is something the matter?”

“Ramón,” Caridad said, putting down the file. “This is going to be over before you know it. By the end of the day, we'll be on a plane for the United States. You will have proved yourself. You'll be a hero. You will go down in history as one of the great heroes of the revolution. Think of it! Think of the glory!”

He shook his head. “That's not right. None of this is right.”

“Right? What isn't right?” She continued to smile but her face grew rigid and mask-like.

“What does
right
have to do with anything?” said Eitingon. “We're not paid to say what is right. We're here to complete our mission.”

“What are you thinking?” asked Caridad, her alarm becoming palpable.

“I go out there this afternoon and they don't let me in. The door is closed. Someone has tipped them off. I can't get anywhere near Trotsky. What could Sudoplatov do or say?”

“That would be treason,” she hissed, “going against everything we've fought for. You know what happened in Spain. If it weren't for Trotsky, we would have defeated Franco.”

“That's propaganda, lies from the Kremlin. You've produced your share of propaganda. You should know the smell. The Old Man is harmless. What does he do after we go in and shoot up his house? He sits down to write an analysis of the attack. That's how he defends himself. He has nothing, no resources. He's broke. He has nothing except what he earns from scribbling. He keeps rabbits and chickens.”

“Ramón,” said Eitingon, “you don't want to end up on the losing side.”

“As far as I'm concerned, we've already lost. We lost in Spain. I don't have a country. I'm like Trotsky, a man without a country. I will never see Barcelona again.”

“Your brother Pablo is dead because of Trotsky,” Caridad interjected. “You know that. It is because of Trotsky that we lost our country.”

“No, I don't know that. I believed that at one time because that is what you wanted me to believe, insisted I believe. But now I'm beginning to think that you sacrificed Pablo to your ambition. You could have saved him, but you had to choose between your son and your standing in the Party. You sacrificed him, and now you're doing the same with me. “

Her eyes flaring, her hand snapped out, slapping him across the face. He felt the immediate sting, the involuntary tears in his eyes.

She brought her hand to her mouth.

“I was the one you loved,” he said. “But you betrayed me. You lied to me.”

“I didn't think it would come to this. I was trying to take care of you.”

“Yes, well now I'm going to take care of myself.”

“What are you doing? What exactly does that mean?” she demanded in a steely voice.

“It's none of your business.” He turned to the door.

“You're like your father. You're a coward. You're not a man.”

“Have it your way, because the truth is that I may not have the guts for this. Tell Sudoplatov that you made a mistake.”

“Son,” said Eitingon, his voice placating, “where are you going? The GPU will send someone after you. They will track you down wherever you go. Every time you hear a knock on your door, your heart will freeze. They will kill you. They will kill your mother. They will kill your younger brothers and your sister. And they'll probably kill me as well. They'll kill all of us.”

“What difference does it make? Isn't the revolution greater than all of us?” Ramón heard his own voice as if another person were speaking. Could he betray Eitingon and his mother? Could he choose Sylvia over Caridad?

“Ramón, they will kill Sylvia as well,” his mother warned. “She won't be spared.”

“Think about what your mother said,” Eitingon urged. “It will be over soon. We'll be on a plane together, safe, sound. Think of the welcome you'll receive in Moscow, the parades! You will be a hero of the revolution.”

“I don't want to be a hero. I don't want any part of it.”

W
hat's wrong?” Sylvia asked when Jacques walked into the suite.

“Nothing. Nothing's wrong.”

“Jacques, you're almost trembling, and your face is splotchy.”

“You know what embassy employees are. They're always slow and rude. They make you wait. I lost my temper.”

“But you got your visa renewed?”

“Yes, I got it.”

“Well, don't let a bureaucrat spoil your last day in Mexico.” She was standing over two large suitcases that lay open on the bed. “These are ready. All I have left is our smaller suitcases, and my overnight case. Do you still want to go out?”

“Why not? What else is there to do?”

“If you're not in the mood …”

“Yes, let's go. You've dressed. It will pass the time.”

The freshness of the morning had evaporated under the hot midday sun. The rows of eucalyptus trees along Reforma created a tunnel of dappled green shade. It was ten minutes by car to downtown, and at one o'clock they were climbing the steps to the Palace of Fine Arts, a mausoleum built on the backs of the peasants by the dictator Porfirio Díaz, a white marble building so ponderous it was slowly sinking into the earth. Sylvia and Jacques looked cosmopolitan climbing the steps to the entrance, both wearing sunglasses, she with her blond hair. They were sightseeing, and tomorrow they would leave. Cars roared past on the street. Indian women begged silently on the sidewalk.

The interior was cool, grand flights of stairs made of polished travertine in shades of amber. They found the murals in a large hall off a mezzanine, enormous paintings, outsize manifestations of heroic egos resting upon the backs of the working class. Sylvia's heels clicked on the polished floor as she studied the Rivera mural, a hymn to the Machine Age, at the center a godlike engineer transmogrifying by means of a turning propeller into an enormous dragonfly, an angelic creature. “See, there's Lenin,” said Sylvia, finding his face in a crowd. “That's why they tore it down at the Rockefeller Center.”

Jacques flinched when he saw Siqueiros's gigantic mural surging off the opposite wall in a violent wave of adolescent energy. Angelica, Siqueiros's wife, stood bare-breasted at the center of the painting, an Amazon warrior in a leather helmet, breaking her chains.

“Did you meet Rivera while you were here?” asked Sylvia.

“Only Frida.”

“My sisters say he's charming.”

“He has a way with women.”

They were leaving the building, walking down the white marble steps in the midday sunlight, when Jacques, blinded by the glare, felt a man grab him from behind. Wheeling around, he came face-to-face with Trotsky's secretary, Otto Schüssler. Heart racing, Jacques knew that it had happened. They had sent someone to stop him. He had been apprehended.

Then he heard Sylvia saying,
Oh, Otto! What a nice surprise!
And Otto was grinning at him like a fool.

Furious, trembling from the shock, Jacques stalked away, pausing at the bottom of the steps, his hands shaking so badly he could barely light a cigarette. He watched Sylvia and Otto chatting happily, completely innocent of his reality.

“Sorry,” she was saying to Otto, smiling apologetically. “Jac's not quite himself. He has to close some sort of deal and this is our last day in Mexico.”

“Oh, I shouldn't have surprised him. I didn't know you were leaving.”

“Yes, Jacques is trying to wrap up the last of his business today. What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for Trudy. I've got the day off. I'm on my way to a bookstore to get the newspapers from Germany. Then I'm going to the Alameda for an art exhibit.”

“How lovely!” Sylvia gazed longingly at the park, the paths and fountains shaded by lush subtropical forest. “I'd love to see Trudy. We're going out to Coyoacán later in the afternoon for a last farewell, but it sounds as if you won't be there.”

“No, not this afternoon.”

“Sylvia!” Jacques barked. “We don't have time for this!”

Her eyes followed him down to the street. “I'm sorry I can't tell Trudy goodbye.”

“You're coming back into town, aren't you? If you don't have plans, we could meet for dinner. We're going to La Blanca. It's right there on the corner at Madero and San Juan de Letran. Everyone says it's cheap and very good. But perhaps another time.”

She could see Jacques waiting impatiently. “Otto, there might not be another time, and I do want to see Trudy.”

“At seven?”

“That's a little early for Jacques, but we probably won't eat. He's having so much trouble with his stomach. But, yes, seven should be fine. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

By the time she got to the Buick, Jacques was sitting behind the steering wheel. She considered asking him for an explanation but decided to say nothing. They had to get through the day. Tomorrow, everything would be better. “We can go back to the hotel, if you want,” she offered as they pulled away from the curb.

“What about Salon de Quijote?”

“That's all right. I know you have no appetite.”

“No, we have to eat.”

He tried to make conversation, to make amends, as though he wanted Sylvia to enjoy the outing. The Quijote was a restaurant she liked. The interior was dark and romantic, pretending to be Spanish. A mural on one wall depicted Don Quixote jousting against a windmill, and the menus had little line drawings of Quixote and Sancho Panza. Jacques encouraged Sylvia to order a cocktail. “Will you?” she asked.

“No, I can't. My stomach. But perhaps a little beer.”

She talked about New York, looking for an apartment, neighborhoods she liked. “You'll feel so much better after a long stay up at the lake. There's nothing to do except swim and lie in the sun.”

At the hotel, Jacques told the doorman to hold his car; he would be right out. He took Sylvia's hand as they walked into the lobby, held her close in the elevator. He unlocked their door, then went into the bedroom. He still didn't know what he would do, but he returned with his raincoat and gray fedora. “Oh!” She gave a sudden start, putting her hand to her heart. “I just had the strangest feeling!”

“What was that?”

“I'm not sure, a premonition I suppose—that I wouldn't see you again.”

He smiled sadly. “I won't be gone long.”

“I suppose it's because it's our last day.”

“Yes, and you always think I'm disappearing.”

“Jacques, where are you going?”

“I told you, I'm meeting a man at a bank to sign a contract.”

“I want to know where you're going. What's the man's name? Which bank?”

“Sylvia, what difference does it make?”

“I want to be able to find you if I have to. This is our last day in a foreign country. You could disappear.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“Please, just tell me. I want to know how to find you.”

“If it will make you feel better.” Jacques got out his agenda and a slip of paper on which he wrote two telephone numbers and an address on Reforma.

“I know I'm being silly.” Holding the paper, she followed him to the door.

“It's having everything up in the air.” He leaned down to embrace her, placing his face next to hers, feeling her arms tighten around him. “Yes, that's right! A good hug until I come back.”