Eitingon nodded encouragement as Ramón brought a spoonful of the clear golden broth from the bowl to his mouth. They were sitting side by side at one of the banquets on the patio at the Bellinghausen. Eitingon noticed the young man’s hand tremble and worried about the color of his complexion. He’d known him as a boy, watched him mature, and was now relying upon him. For a moment, he felt that it must be Ramón who was his son rather than Luis.
“Some lime juice might improve the flavor,” he suggested. “That’s what the Mexicans do.”
“I don’t want much flavor.”
“Do you feel you’re getting stronger?”
“Yes, the cramps come less often. It’s only the nausea.”
Eitingon took a swallow of his vodka, then linked his thick hands on the white tablecloth before him. “You should have some red meat. Steak tartar on toast.”
“Or ground horsemeat with cognac?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“I don’t think so.”
Eitingon’s eyes drifted to the far side of the patio, where a famous Mexican comedian was arriving, causing a ripple to pass through the restaurant, heads turning, hands reaching out, waiters and mâitre d’ bowing and scraping,
“You must eat something solid. I’ll have them prepare eggs for you. Soft-boiled eggs and bread. Those Mexican rolls, bolillos, are quite tasty.”
“I had eggs for breakfast. I’ll be having tea soon.”
“At four o’clock, you said.”
“At four-thirty.”
“That’s good. You must observe everything. You know the physical structure. Now you must learn their habits. Does he close the door to his office?”
Ramón lifted his eyes to Eitingon’s for a moment, then had another spoonful of broth.
“How long does it take to walk from his office out to a car on the street? Unimpeded, ten seconds? Silence will be critical. It’s a large house but there are people all around him. This afternoon, talk to him about the article you’re writing. Tell him that you will need his help. That will give you the opportunity to schedule an appointment. Perhaps two.”
“I worry about being there with Sylvia. Before she left last time, she made me promise I wouldn’t go to the house without her.”
“But she knows that you are known there, that you often went to the house for the Rosmers. It’s unlikely anything specific will be said.”
“I’m afraid I’m dreading this,” said Sylvia as Jacques parked their car at an angle to the wall.
“Why? You were so eager the first time you came.”
“I know but Trotsky will want to argue politics, and I don’t feel like an argument. Or politics. Marguerite says they haven’t any money, that they’re wearing the same clothes they arrived with in Mexico. Do you think Mr. Lubeck could do something for them?”
“Mr. Lubeck?”
“Yes, couldn’t he include them in a deal?”
“I suppose if they have something to invest. Should I ask?”
“No, not today. They’re so formal, they would probably find it improper to discuss business.”
Jacques went around to open Sylvia’s door, noticing the lightning flicker in the dark clouds bunched up against the volcanoes. The machine-gun turret was empty. The garage door rolled open as they approached. “Just come through here,” said Jake Cooper, “I’m taking the Dodge out.”
Cooper greeted them, then they followed the flagstone path up to the house, entering the library beneath the canopy of bougainvillea. Otto Schüssler, Walter Kertley, who was one of the secretaries, and Ellen Reed stopped their work to say hello, asking about Sylvia’s sisters and the Rosmers in New York.
“We’re having tea on the patio,” said Natalia Sedova, coming in from the dining room, drying her hands on a dish towel. She embraced Sylvia, kissing her on both cheeks. “And Mr. Jacson,” she said, offering her hand. “My husband is waiting for us outside. I think you’ll find it pleasant.”
A small round table had been laid with a blue-and-white cloth, cups, and saucers. “Ah, Sylvia!” Trotsky said, getting up to embrace her. “You are a welcome sight and an unexpected pleasure.” He cocked his head quizzically when he looked at Jacques. “And Mr. Jacson, I understand you haven’t been well. Goodness, your color is poor and you’ve lost weight. What medicines has your doctor prescribed? You have to be so careful with the water here. That’s the first thing we tell our guests. We never drink water without boiling it first.”
“I have something for Seva,” Jacques said, touching the breast pocket of his suit. “Is he here?”
“He’s in his room, the one at the end,” said Natalia Sedova. “He’ll be happy to see you.”
Leaving Sylvia to answer questions about New York, Jacques walked to the three steps leading to the boy’s room. “Esteban,” he called. “I brought you something.”
The boy came out, looking pale and shy, still wearing his school uniform. Jacques withdrew the long narrow package from his jacket.
“A glider,” Seva said as he unwrapped the paper.
Jacques sat on one of the steps and lit a cigarette while the boy broke the thin pieces of balsam wood apart, inserting the long fragile wing into the slot cut into the body of the plane.
“Seva, what’s that you have?” Trotsky asked as he joined them.
“A glider. Mr. Jacson gave it to me.”
“Did you say thank you?”
“Yes, Grampa, of course. Thank you, Mr. Jacson.”
Seva attached the tail wing and rudder, then threw the plane, which soared for a moment, defying the force of gravity. The two men stood watching as the boy chased after the plane. A breeze moved in the eucalyptus tree, the shadows swaying on the ground. The hens clucked softly in the chicken coop, the raft of dappled shade floating beneath the tree.
“I believe I’ve thought of something to write about,” said Jacques.
Trotsky turned to him, his crystal blue eyes focusing, trying to recall what his guest was talking about. “Oh yes, tell me.”
“I thought it would be interesting to look at how the war in Europe is driving up commodity prices in Latin America and discuss the issue of profit taking as opposed to profiteering.”
“That sounds promising,” said Trotsky as he gravitated toward his rabbits and chickens, Jacques following in his wake
“I’ve never written anything like this so I’ll need your guidance—if you’re still willing to help me.”
“Of course,” said Trotsky, peering into the rabbit hutch. “Bring me your rough draft. We’ll go over that together. I can make suggestions then you can bring it back for a final read. That’s the usual procedure.” He placed his hand on Jacques’s shoulder in an affectionate way. “This is a splendid development. I’ll be happy to help you.”