Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks. Rafael Grugman

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СКАЧАТЬ 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? СКАЧАТЬ