An Association

With the coming of the Second World War, many eyes in imprisoned Europe turned hopefully, or desperately, toward the freedom of the Americas. Lisbon became the great embarkation point. But not everybody could get to Lisbon directly, and so, a tortuous, roundabout refugee trail sprang up. Paris to Marseilles, across the Mediterranean to Oran, then by train, or auto, or foot, across the rim of Africa to Casablanca in French Morocco. Here, the fortunate ones, through money, or influence, or luck, might obtain exit visas and scurry to Lisbon, and from Lisbon to the New World. But the others wait in Casablanca—and wait—and wait—and wait. . . .

I’ve got to hand it to you, Alexander,” whispered Osip. “This was an excellent choice. I’d quite forgotten how exciting it is.”

“Shhh,” said the Count. “It’s beginning. . . .”

Having initiated their studies in 1930 with monthly meetings, over the years the Count and Osip had met with less frequency. In the way of these things, the two men began meeting quarterly, then semiannually, then suddenly they weren’t meeting at all.

Why? you might ask.

But does there need to be a reason? Do you still dine with all of the friends with whom you dined twenty years ago? Suffice it to say that the two shared a fondness for each other and despite their best intentions, life intervened. So, when Osip happened to visit the Boyarsky with a colleague one night in early June, as he was leaving the restaurant he approached the Count in order to remark that it had been too long.

“Yes, it has,” agreed the Count. “We should get together for a film.”

“The sooner the better,” said Osip with a smile.

And the two men might have left it at that, but as Osip turned to join his colleague at the door, the Count was struck by a notion.

“What is an intention when compared to a plan?” he said, catching Osip by the sleeve. “If the sooner the better, then why not next week?”

Turning back, Osip considered the Count for a moment.

“You know, you’re absolutely right, Alexander. How about the nineteenth?”

“The nineteenth would be perfect.”

“What shall we watch?”

Without hesitation the Count said, “Casablanca.”

“Casablanca . . . ,” Osip groaned.

“Isn’t Humphrey Bogart your favorite?”

“Of course he is. But Casablanca isn’t a Humphrey Bogart movie. It’s just a love story in which he happens to appear.”

“On the contrary, I suggest to you that Casablanca is the Humphrey Bogart movie.”

“You just think that because he wears a white dinner jacket for half the film.”

“That’s preposterous,” the Count replied a little stiffly.

“Maybe it’s a little preposterous,” conceded Osip, “but I don’t want to watch Casablanca.”

Not one to be outmaneuvered by another man’s childishness, the Count pouted.

“All right,” Osip sighed. “But if you get to pick the film, I get to pick the food.”

As it turned out, once the film was flickering Osip was rapt. After all, there was the murder of two German couriers in the desert, then the rounding up of suspects in the marketplace, the shooting of a fugitive, the pickpocketing of a Brit, the arrival by plane of the Gestapo, music and gambling at Rick’s Café Américain, as well as the stashing of two letters of transit in a piano—and that was in the first ten minutes!

In minute twenty, when Captain Renault instructed his officer to take Ugarte quietly and the officer saluted, Osip saluted too. When Ugarte cashed in his winnings, Osip cashed in his. And when Ugarte dashed between the guards, slammed the door, drew his pistol, and fired four shots, Osip dashed, slammed, drew, and fired.

[With nowhere to hide, Ugarte runs madly down the hallway. Seeing Rick appear from the opposite direction, he grabs him.]

UGARTE: Rick! Rick, help me!

RICK: Don’t be a fool. You can’t get away.

UGARTE: Rick, hide me. Do something! You must help me, Rick. Do something! Rick! Rick!

[Rick stands impassively as guards and gendarmes drag Ugarte off.]

CUSTOMER: When they come to get me, Rick, I hope you’ll be more of a help.

RICK: I stick my neck out for nobody.

[Moving casually among the tables and disconcerted customers, some of whom are on the point of leaving, Rick speaks to the room in a calm voice.]

RICK: I’m sorry there was a disturbance, folks, but it’s all over now. Everything’s all right. Just sit down and have a good time. Enjoy yourself. . . . All right, Sam.

As Sam and his orchestra began to play, restoring something of a carefree mood to the saloon, Osip leaned toward the Count.

“You may have been right, Alexander. This may be Bogart at his best. Did you see the indifference he expressed as Ugarte was practically pulled from his lapels? And when that superior American makes his smug remark, Bogart doesn’t even deign to look at him when he replies. Then after instructing the piano player to play, he goes about his business as if nothing has happened.”

Listening to Osip with a frown, the Count suddenly stood and switched off the projector.

“Are we going to watch the movie, or talk about it?”

Taken aback, Osip assured his friend: “We’re going to watch.”

“Until the end?”

“Until the credits roll.”

Thus, the Count switched the projector back on while Osip paid his utmost attention to the screen.

If the truth be told, having made such a fuss about attentiveness, the Count did not pay his utmost attention to the progress of the movie. Yes, he was watching closely enough when at minute thirty-eight Sam finds Rick drinking whiskey alone in the saloon. But when the smoke from Rick’s cigarette dissolves into a montage of his days in Paris with Ilsa, the Count’s thoughts dissolved into a Parisian montage of his own.

Unlike Rick’s, however, the Count’s montage did not draw on his memories; it drew instead on his imaginings. It began with Sofia disembarking in the Gare du Nord as steam from the locomotive billowed across the platform. Moments later, she was outside the station with her bags in hand, preparing to board the bus with her fellow musicians. Then she was looking out the window at the sights of the city as they drove to the hotel, where the young musicians would remain until their concert—under the watchful gaze of two members of the Conservatory staff, two representatives from VOKS, a cultural attaché, and three “chaperones” in the employ of the KGB. . . .

When the movie returned from Paris to Casablanca, so did the Count. Setting aside thoughts of his daughter, he followed the action while noting through the corner of his eye Osip’s complete submission to the plights of the principals.

But the Count took particular pleasure in his friend’s engagement during the final minutes of the film. For with the plane to Lisbon in the air and Major Strasser dead on the ground, when Captain Renault frowned at the bottle of Vichy water, dropped it in a wastebasket, and kicked it across the floor, Osip Glebnikov, the former Red Army colonel and high official of the Party, who was sitting on the edge of his seat, poured, frowned, dropped, and kicked.