The Unreal Life of Sergey Nabokov by Paul Russell Page B

worry. Franz.” And on the sole remaining wall of a devastated house: “Everyone here survived.”
    There is an odor of gas and decay everywhere.
    When I get to Budapesterstrasse my heart sinks: as far as I can see along the block there are nothing but gutted buildings, or in some instances merely piles of rubble. But I press on, and to my surprise I find the Hotel Eden standing virtually intact
and open for business, though there are few customers in the restaurant and all the windows are shattered. Heavy drapes do not entirely keep out the cold. Bundled, Felix is waiting for me at a table set for two in the far corner.
    â€œYou’ve chosen a rather public place for a private meeting,” I note.
    â€œI’ve always found it best to hide in plain sight.”
    â€œLook,” I tell him, “before we venture any further I wish to know: how did you discover my address?”
    â€œOh,” he says, “It’s quite simple. I followed you home that day. Quite frankly, I was concerned about your mental state. I was afraid you might do away with yourself. I trailed you till I saw you enter your building. I thought of knocking, but then I lost my nerve.”
    â€œAnd then you regained your nerve two days later.”
    â€œYes,” he says—quite carefully, as if it matters that we both understand this—“Two days later I regained my nerve.”
    There is something a bit maddening about him, I decide, and am about to excuse myself when our waiter arrives, a crisp linen towel folded over his forearm. He bows quite formally. In a city where few young men are left, he is a very beautiful young man, sixteen or seventeen. A daring lock of hair hanging down over one eye identifies him as a “swing boy,” that much-reviled and mostly eradicated reproach to the stern norms of the Reich. I always used to imagine that in a bombed-out city there must be fantastical license. What my fantasy never took into account was that only the aged and the infirm, the women and children would be left, that young healthy attractive men would all be either dead or away at the front.
    â€œSince I happen to know what’s available and what’s not, I’ll take the liberty of ordering for both of us,” Felix says, not bothering to glance at the miracle of our waiter. “Lobster,” he says briskly. “Champagne. I trust that will suit you? It’s one of this war’s smaller ironies, don’t you think, that beer and sausage
are in such scant supply while occupied France continues to provide us with her unrationed luxuries.”
    Our food arrives quickly, on elegant plates, and I could easily be back in Michaud’s in Paris, or Coutant’s in St. Petersburg, were it not for the ghastly odor that seeps even into the restaurant at the Hotel Eden. We both eat with conspicuous appetite. My years of fastidious vegetarianism are yet another casualty of war. That this meal will be expensive I have no doubt; I am by no means well-off, but my time will run out long before my reichsmarks do.
    â€œMy house was destroyed two nights ago,” Felix remarks, as if mentioning a recent birthday.
    â€œMy God,” I tell him. “Is everyone…”
    He waves his hand dismissively. “I appreciate your concern. My wife and daughter are perfectly safe, staying with her parents in Dresden, which I am told presents no military or industrial targets whatsoever for the RAF. So on that score I rest easy. As for my house…” He shrugs. “I had a simple life. I cherished a modest collection of Meissenware which I had put together over the years. I had recently purchased a very fine Biedermeier escritoire . Given the magnitude of the ruin about us, I shouldn’t even think twice about those meager material losses, but I do. I somehow think it my duty to grieve them. Every night that passes takes with it something else of our heritage. What will be left, I