 by Dr. Jeffrey Lant Author's program note. It came by courier about two months ago. I was at home, feeling poorly. I signed for the package, but confess I didn't open it right away; I felt so terribly. I shall always wonder if it would have made any difference in the end. Of course, I shall never know now. When I opened the package, I saw it contained several pieces of memorabilia; but whoever had sent these riches wanted to make sure he controlled my excavation. "Open this first!" It was a command that could not be denied. Inside was a letter addressed to me and what appeared to be a bill of lading listing the complete contents in what I soon learned was priority order. I began, as instructed, with the letter. The envelope was hand addressed, the stationery engraved with the arms of one of Boston's oldest and proudest families. "Dear Doctor Lant." And here the tale began... The letter was beautifully written, the hand copperplate... as expected. As these great families dwindled and died, they insisted on the niceties... and still got them, even when they contemplated scandal which this grandee was about. "Honored sir," he said. "You, historian and revered commentator that you are, you know to your fingertips the saga of my family, high aristocrats in Europe, descendants of kings, the earliest of Pilgrims to a land we made our own. There have been black sheep ere now on the family tree; now about to harbor another, though not in Boston, for my kinsmen, with such rectitude and sanctity, deserve better... and shall at least in this get it." He then told me in the minute detail favored by punctilious antiquarians how he lost control of his acquisitive habits and could not regain it. In my mind's eye, I saw the millions required for his astonishing acquisitions seeping from his bleeding resources but what he acquired was breathtaking: the autograph letter from Abraham Lincoln to the man who called himself President of the Confederate States of America, Jefferson Davis. In it Lincoln offered to cut any deal to save the Union. It had to be worth $20,000,000, if not more. And what of the Abdication of King-Emperor Edward VIII? Each brother had been given a copy signed by all of them, the King, York, Gloucester, and Kent. It was doubtless worth a king's ransom, but how had he got it? It seemed clear, these were accompanying him on his travels... and he gave no clue of where those might go. And so I read through the stages of the night, until the dawn -- and the paper boy -- broke on my incomplete researches. As usual he announced his presence with as much noise as possible. There was the usual front page murder, this time decapitated, head gone missing. Really, this might be Mexico City... So I spread out the complete contents on the floor of the Red Drawing Room, its chandeliers bringing a room of artifacts to brilliant light. There, right at the top, was a cashier's check made payable to me for $25,000 "for services." My correspondent now had a claim on me... whilst I wondered who knew what about all this, always a factor in such matters. The file was marked in bold pencil "A. Akhmatova, Russian Poet (1889-1966)." There were three portrait-style photographs, each carefully marked. These were autographed wedding portraits of Akhmatova's three husbands; Nikolay Gumilev (divorced, later executed); Vladimir Shilejko (divorced, later died of tuberculosis); finally, Nikolai Punin (divorced, later died of starvation and exposure at state labor camp). There was also a photograph, again signed, of her only son, Lev. Akhmatova's standard Wikipedia entry indicates he, too, had been consistently harassed by the Cheka, precursor of the KGB. To save him, she had cut a deal with the regime to write propaganda... lalentable understandable. Parents, what would you have done? There were autographed first editions of two of her volumes of poetry, a 1958 program autographed by Akhmatova and Van Cliburn and several more highly collectible pieces, but nothing in the stratospheric range to entice my correspondent. But there was still more in the box... "I am Akhmatova's Cat. Treat me well." It was carefully packed in tissue paper and as I unwrapped it, it caught the light and glittered as good silver does. It was no doubt the extravagant gift of some wealthy admirer indulging Akhmatova's lifelong love of cats, always a potent symbol to her of home and hearth. She -- and the favored pet -- had been lucky in her admirer; it was lovely work, engraved, de luxe indeed. There was a photo of Cat, black and white, grainy, artfully shot in shadow; Cat proud, condescending, exactly poised to look at any king. At the bottom of the box. Dynamite. I sorted the papers into what seemed logical order. With what had already been removed from the box they covered the plush carpets. There was a batch in Cyrillic. The second batch was in English and was a clear translation of the first. I was punchy now... my illness still hung heavy on me; I had been up for over 24 hours; I had no choice but to call it a day. But before quitting I did something unusual. I took sheets and covered everything while carefully checking to ensure the door was locked. Why did I do this? Perhaps because the English version clearly said TOP SECRET. FOR EYES ONLY. I fell into a fitful sleep, no rest, just unanswered questions and nameless anxiety. I resume. I failed to show up at my online job the next day, saw no one, took no calls. I needed clarity, no interruptions and so I found myself with pure, unadulterated destruction. It was a report commissioned by President Putin. He had requested detailed financial and personal data on the top 100 ex-Soviet Communists who had, through deft manipulation of their official positions, become the richest and most extensive property owners under Putin, most all billionaires. The report concentrated particularly on the Members of the Ozero Dacha Condominium, their yachts, palaces, homes, cars and, of course, their mind-blowing sexual deviances, including two slaves enchained on a gilded galley, available at any hour for the fortunate, whatever their desires and proclivities. It was all there, enough ammo to polish off the entire gilded elite of the "new" Russia and its gimcrack "democracy". With it, Putin could control his following and grind them with his inexorable power. And when they lost their usefulness the state controlled press could expose and dispose, thereby helping to achieve Putin's only heartfelt objective: to maintain his malign control of Russia. But as he must have known, this information untimely used could also destroy -- him. And that is why the documents I had were starkly marked, ONE OF ONE EXCLUSIVE. Why then were these documents, with their possibility for felling Putin and bringing about acute strategic change, in my drawing room... and what did that mean to me? Brainstorming. These were the key elements: Akhmatova, Cat, Putin, my correspondent, and now me. It was now time for me, with a Harvard Ph.D. in Modern European History, once recruited by the C.I.A. to research emerging European leaders, to solve this conundrum. But what I would do then was the greatest puzzle of all. I went back and reviewed each item, every artifact over and over again. New, more careful review meant more detail. And so I discovered that Cat in its picture wore the silver collar. Thus Akhmatova owned it at least until her death (1966). Thus it might well have been purchased by some well heeled fan, a person, for instance, like my correspondent. How it came to Putin is easier still. For all his untrammeled greed, vicious, pernicious and soul-destroying politics, Vladimir Putin, like Akhmatova, loved cats, especially those with antique Russian collars, whose value had skyrocketed. What's more, he admired her poetry, partly because of its lyric depictions of the Mother Russia he extolled but violated with impunity. And he admired the woman, for her grit, her fortitude and her "abiding patriotism." His hypocrisy was breathtaking. Thus was a playful tabby kitten resplendent in sterling insinuated into the president's office by the simple expedient of a gift, like the ancient Greeks at Troy. No security check needed, its comfortable bed unobtrusively placed, transmitting information of the highest value 24/7/365. And so my correspondent became one of the most powerful people on earth... The body identified. Today's "Boston Globe" identified the headless murder victim as my correspondent. I own to feeling fear, like a goose had walked across my grave. The game suddenly grew more serious. What should I do now? Put it all away and hope everyone forgets? Find a suitable middleman to shake down Putin for a billion or two? What is Holy Russia worth after all? And who could I trust? Give it to the C.I.A. and destroy my life by preserving it in the Witness Protection Program? Give the documents to the Russian Opposition and hope they use it with unwonted lethal precision? For solace. I have taken to reading Akhmatova in the evening, hoping for tranquility and succor, especially in poems like "So many stones are thrown at me"; "Now no one will listen to my songs", and "Oh, I've not locked the door", and particularly when she writes about cats as in "I've learned to live in wise simplicity" where she says "the downy cat will lick/my palm, purr sweetly". Then against my weakened will, I think of my now dead and mutilated correspondent, his body violated, his house and possessions, a lifetime of careful work and study, vandalized in hot pursuit of what is... here? These vandals y had left one precious document after another, now their murderous search has moved on. An empire hangs in the balance and my own neck. Envoi. I have put everything I received in a bank vault in Harvard Square. This report is to be released if there is any suggestion of foul play in my demise. I wonder if I shall ever know peace again and where a knock at the door is nothing more than a knock, not the precursor to premature eternity. God help me. Musical accompaniment. "The Cat" composed by Lalo Schifrin for the 1964 film "Joy House" (Les Felins) was recorded by the great jazz organist, Jimmy Smith, for his Verve album of the same name, arranged and conducted by Lalo Schifrin. The album reached number 12 on the Billboard Pop Albums chart and is available on CD on Polygram Records. It is at once chic,smooth and entirely self-congratulating and casually supercilious, as all true cats most assuredly are. You'll find it in any search engine. Do not listen to it with only a cat as companion. At such moments their perfected hubris may get out of hand with considerable breakage the result. They will not care. |
