Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

Today’s flight is a routine necessity: traffic jams are the plague of the multimillion-strong anthill. We are taking off from a heliport next to the Coney Island beach. The helicopter should land in Westchester in half an hour. New York City is under us. A multitude of islands and a piece of mainland. Why did I ask you to use Scotch tape when you created it? So that the islands wouldn’t yield to temptation and float out to sea. But let’s return now to Long Island, New York’s most populous island. It’s so large that only Brooklyn and Queens are within the city limits. Nassau and Suffolk are suburbs.

* * *

Some strange things have been happening recently in my apartment, which is on the sixth floor of a prestigious co-op in the southern part of Brooklyn. As you can see, I’m not going to give the address.

To be rigorously precise, the trouble started exactly two weeks ago. When I came home from work that day, a few minutiae-or so it seemed-indicated that someone had been there and had left traces that you couldn’t avoid noticing even if you wanted to.

Cups and saucers had appeared on the dinner table even though their regular location was the kitchen cabinet, second shelf on the left. 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? Where? When?» Leonid was sincerely surprised. «Your documents will be authentic. Both the passport and the birth certificate. And when the time comes in five years to become an American citizen, go change your name to anything else if you want. Even George Washington. Or remain Nevelev-what do you care? You’ll have achieved your objective. Or do you have other options available?» he said tartly. «Are brides just besieging you, one prettier than another, and you don’t know which one to marry?»

I didn’t answer-I was wavering-and Leonid continued to goad me. «Do you have a long waiting list? Maybe you’ll share it?»

The outlandishness of the proposition made me wary. Thinking about it was agonizing. Leonid sensed a change-the customer was coming around-and modified his tactics.

«Don’t worry, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last. This arrangement has been well tested. And you must agree, it’s a lot cheaper than a commercial marriage. But most important, it’s easier. Get involved with a woman?» He curled his lips with contempt. «They’re unpredictable creatures. Change their minds a hundred times a day. How can you trust them?» And without waiting for a reply, he summed up: «A woman says one thing one day, another thing the next.»

I had no comeback. There was nobody to choose from, because all of the desirable «brides» had been snatched up long before the summons to the American Embassy. Leonid hinted that he was prepared to lower his figure (within reason, of course), and after a prolonged discussion we shook on it: we agreed on $4,500. I don’t know how it is now, but at that time in the Ukraine everything for which there was the slightest demand was for sale. And if you had connections, getting new documents done by the police was no problem. But we digress.

Knowing Sophia, or to be more precise, since I didn’t know her completely, I executed Operation Green Card in secret. This was not a major offense, considering that Sophia had had her eye on Doroshenko. For a while now the word «family» for her existed only on paper. Security is first and foremost, and the only way to protect yourself from needless blowups is to keep your mouth shut. This rule applies to anything you do.

As a result of the successful transaction, I found myself in New York, where the Russian-speaking area of Brooklyn had been selected for a start. But no sooner had I heaved a sigh of relief than I received a jolt: Sophia appeared at my door. Since she and I were not officially divorced, I don’t know what to call her. It’s still a mystery to me how she tracked me down, but there she was, with two steamer trunks and a bag flung over her shoulder, at the door of the house on West 12th Street. She had a grin from ear to ear, as though clothespins were holding it up, and fire in her eyes-a portrait of Napoleon after his victory at Austerlitz.

My delight and amazement vanished in a split-second. Hovering quietly behind Sophia was her aide-de-camp, Grishenka Doroshenko.

«We’ve come on student visas!» she burbled as she threw herself around my neck and, despite my timid protests, gave me a couple of pecks on the lips. Having made sure that she was in control of the situation, Sophia glared at Grisha and with a tone that brooked no argument ordered him, «What are you doing standing there like a statue? Pick up the suitcases and bring them into the house!»

I won’t lie: I once made a blunder, believing Grisha’s rubbish about a hoard of gold buried on the banks of the Missouri River, put my trust in him, let him into my house for a short time-and I don’t even want to think about what followed. I had personally let the fox into the chicken coop.

Now, it would have been better to kick them out. There were plenty of vacant apartments in Brooklyn. But once again I weakened, and opened the door. Sophia had arrived acting like a queen. Plus she had with her $60,000 that she had received from Chechen friends, maybe to work as their representative, maybe to set up a Chechen information center in New York-I couldn’t figure out from her explanation what the money was for. But as soon as Sophia saw my tiny room, she snorted. «You couldn’t find a better shack to live in? It’s impossible to live here!» And three days later she rented a spacious one-bedroom on Emmons Avenue. With a view of the canal.

The truth is a lie that has been repeated over and over. Sophia swore that Grisha was a traveling companion, and exclaimed with feeling: «How could a defenseless woman like me cross the ocean by herself?»

Then came the rebuke. Since I had left her (I wonder who left whom first!), Grisha would live with us for a while, until he got a job. And finally, a new vow (thank God, she had no need to sin or to take the vow with her hand on a Bible): she loved me and so forth. The Song of Songs. Again I swallowed the bait-for the last time, I told myself-and resigned myself to the idea of Grisha’s staying temporarily.

They both enrolled at Kingsborough Community College and began to conscientiously attend English classes. The idyll didn’t last long. Within a short time Sophia disappeared, without even leaving a note. I decided not to notify the police, because I didn’t want to attract attention to myself. Besides, where was she going to go? New York City has a bewitching effect on newly arrived young women, and maybe she found herself a wealthy sponsor, an American, and packed her bags. Hello to you, husbands and traveling companions!

Like me, Grisha was completely in the dark about where she had moved. He was still preoccupied with the crazy notion of a buried treasure. So he moped around for a while-a broken heart, after all, does deserve to be nursed with Stolichnaya-he abandoned his studies and took off for Kansas City to be close to the Missouri River. I breathed a sigh of relief. Good riddance!

Sophia suddenly turned up, by phone from Maryland. She reported that she was working as a nanny for an American family. The reason she went into hiding was about as unoriginal as you can imagine: money. A representative of Chechen leader Aslan Maskhadov had found her at Kingsborough Community College and demanded that she return the money immediately. She had spent it all, and in order to avert any trouble, which could have also been in store for me, she made the only correct decision-and she disappeared. And that’s that. You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to.

Our relationship hit the skids; I don’t feel like getting into it. There’s no point in dredging up the past and going through dirty family laundry. To this day, thinking about her escapades makes me ill.

To be candid, I loved her, and I forgave a lot, even though I could see that she had no equals when it came to scheming. Consider, for example, the business with the old lady for whom Sophia later worked as a companion.

First of all, you have to be lucky enough to find a rich grandmother who doesn’t have a dozen heirs hovering over her, and second, you have to distinguish yourself in a such a way that the millionairess doesn’t forget you in her will. Sophia succeeded in both aspects of the program. When the grandmother died, it turned out that the companion had been left a five-room condominium on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan worth $10 million.

I thought that once she received this money that tumbled from heaven she would ease up. For a time, that’s just what happened. Once again she came back to me. She bought an apartment and registered it in my name. Her student visa had expired, but she didn’t want to change her immigration status. She would have been required to remarry me and become Mrs. Nevelev.

We lived under the same roof for slightly more than six months, after which Sophia vanished again. Frankly, I was fed up with her erratic behavior and sudden comings and goings. I didn’t give a damn whether she was sleeping with Grisha or, as she did with me, was taking him for a ride. I came unglued. Just like before, Sophia was in no hurry to give notice of her whereabouts after she disappeared. So in order to forget her as soon as possible, I got involved with a woman. Then with another one…

In August 2001, I marked five years since my arrival in the States. At the time I was working as a programmer for a small Internet company in Lower Manhattan. Life was like the exuberant song of my childhood: «Orange sky, orange sea, orange greenery, orange camel…»

On September 11, the world became different: New York City saw Pearl Harbor. I was late to work, and I arrived when the first plane crashed into the North Tower. Amid the throng of gawkers I watched a slow-motion rehearsal of the end of the world. In the finale, I thankfully survived. I saw tiny figures on the upper floors of the skyscrapers waving their handkerchiefs, then jumping out of the windows. May God spare me from ever seeing anything like it again. America was at war.

I didn’t work for a week after the attack on the World Trade Center, because the company had suspended operations. Overnight I had lost everything: my job, confidence in the future. Lower Manhattan, the pride of New York City, was shut down up to 14th Street. I took advantage of the hiatus and in an hour prepared the required package of documents in Brighton Beach to apply for citizenship. Until Sunday I was completely in the dark. There was the milky haze-the ashen sky, the ashen sea, the ashen greenery and the ashen camel-and the phrase, like a slap in the face, that came by e-mail on the evening of September 11: «Wait until things clear up, then we will let you know…» Wait how long? A day? Two days? A month? On Sunday a ray of hope peeked through as I was summoned to work. The company had found space at the Brooklyn Business Center and… lasted a month. The market collapsed, re-enacting what had happened to the twin towers. Millions of Americans lost their jobs. I was one of them, as the wave of layoffs killed the Internet company and smashed a prosperous business to bits.