was fighting for the establishment of a constitutional monarchy in France; and Russia, as France's ally, ought to assist her in this endeavor…
By the time the article had reached Paris; by the time they had become alarmed in the Élysée Palace and given orders to the Secret Service to carefully, so as not to quarrel with an ally, verify its authenticity-a world war had begun… The problem was set aside until a better time.
On November 11, 1918, at twelve noon, the first of a hundred and one shots rang out through Paris, proclaiming that the First World War, which had lasted four years, three months, and twenty-six days, was over. This permitted the French government to renew the search for the imperial heirs who had vanished in Russia.
With this goal in mind, a military expedition was quickly thrown together, apparently directed towards the protection of French interests. In a secret commission, given to the head of the expeditionary corps, were orders to begin an active search for the Ravelli family along the whole Black Sea coast of Russia.
Less than two weeks later (the new premier, Clemençeau, really hurried his generals), on November 23, the first French vessels visited Novorossiisk. After another three days, on November 26, troops landed at Odessa and Sevastopol. The search for the Ravellis led to a large-scale military operation. After a hundred and six years, a French soldier once again stepped onto Russian soil.
Soon, in all the newspapers printed in cities under the control of the occupying forces, there appeared announcements inviting all Ravellis, in connection with the discovery in France of the enormous legacy of Count Ravelli, to appear at the Commandant's office with documents verifying the ancestry of the bearer of the papers.
The approach was an original one. Russian Ravellis themselves responded to the honey-coated cake, providing the opportunity for the professionals, without arousing suspicion, to root around in their biographies.
In order to speed up the search, bait was placed in the prepared cage: the one who helped to find the lucky owner of the enormous fortune would also be generously rewarded. Thanks to this clause, all those who had dreamed in childhood of treasure hunts were brought in on the search for the Ravellis, and now were provided with an excellent opportunity to realize their distant dreams.
Several Ravellis, nibbling at the bait, whose biographies excited particular suspicion among the counterintelligence agents, were even conveyed on board a ship. But each time, when the engineers were ready to start the ship's engines, it was discovered that this Ravelli was not the right one.
Grandfather Shmuel did not read newspapers, and no citizen, excited by the generous reward, guessed that Shmuel Rivilis was that «heir» to Count Ravelli, for whom the occupying powers were unsuccessfully searching.
I don't know why, over the course of two centuries, precisely on the10th of April, events have occurred that reflected in one way or another on the fate of our family. That day has been both joyous and sad: each time, like the flip of a card, producing a significant outcome.
So it was in 1919. Just before dinner, Shmuel picked up boot-hose, carefully wrapped in a newspaper, from the cobbler. When he got home and opened it, he read the announcement put out by the French. He was terribly upset, being four days too late.
On April 6, the French squadron had left the Port of Odessa, abandoning hope of finding Napoleon's descendant.
That year, God was merciful, preserving my grandfather from temptation. This he came to understand later. But at the time, he cried bitterly. The opportunity to pull himself out of beggary had been so close…
By that time, he had two daughters-Khaya and Golda…but his firstborn, his only son, had died after living less than one year…
Twice more, April 10 has proven memorable. On that day, in 1944, while living as evacuees, our family found out about the liberation of Odessa. Forty-five years later, on April 10, 1989, Golda, my mother, was buried in Odessa in the Third Jewish Cemetery. Grandfather had wound up there quite a bit earlier. But he managed to leave her two notebooks, written in a minute hand.
In a language unknown to me (Grandfather, although he learned to write Russian in his old age, fearing the evil eye, preferred Yiddish), he handed down to his grandchildren the history of the family. Two years before his death, Mama translated it into Russian; and now I, Yevgeny Rivilis, have taken the liberty of telling you all about it.
Yevgeny Rivilis, great-great-grandson of Bonaparte
Rafael Grugman: After this lengthy introduction, it is time for the reader to get familiar with the manuscript. I cannot vouch for whether everything in it is accurate. It is possible that its author, Yevgeny Rivilis, deliberately changed some of the names; after all, the earth-shattering historical events he describes are not that distant, and he could not disclose the true names of existing FBI and CIA agents, which are a state secret in the United States of America. Or perhaps he chose not to do this, because he was not thinking about publication. But since I am not able to address this question to the author of these memoirs, and since I do not wish to become the next Edward Snowden by accident, I have at least changed the names of U.S. intelligence officials mentioned in his manuscript. However, the events described are authentic, with the exception of a few minor details in which I had a hand, as I mentioned previously, in order to fill the gaps in the narrative. And since the main events did in fact take place in New York, I have left the title the same as the one chosen by Rivilis: Coney Island Laughs Last.
CONEY ISLAND LAUGHS LAST
For Mikhail Godkin
PART ONE
SOME STRANGE THINGS HAVE BEEN HAPPENING RECENTLY
While having dinner once, the Almighty dropped a plate, and it shattered into many pieces. Don’t rush to pick them up. Take a closer look. Call the biggest fragment Long Island and draw the outline: Brooklyn, Queens, Nassau and Suffolk. Call the smaller fragments Manhattan, Staten Island, Roosevelt…
Now give each fragment the exotic-sounding name of «island.» Put together a mosaic and place the biggest plate right next to it, upside down. Once you have it, make it a dessert and call it «the mainland.» Since there may be several dishes, your mainland is North America. Call a tiny part of the mainland adjoining the mosaic The Bronx. Connect everything with invisible Scotch tape. And then take off!
That’s how I imagined the picture of the creation of the world when I first saw the majestic panorama of New York City from the cockpit of the police helicopter.
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
