They left the bedroom for the cabin, where six movable leather easy chairs were installed. At the moment four of them in pairs, facing each other, were separated by a table loaded with breakfast dishes. Plates of brioches, muffins, bread, a mixture of continental and English, with plenty of sausages, bacon, beans, and poached eggs. Probably prepared with Elizabeth and her Saxon blood in mind. All this with Darjeeling and Earl Grey tea, milk, coffee, fresh fruit juice, oranges, as always, and to finish up, a plate of four sfogliatelle napoletane, a fine puff pastry of difficult confection, but exquisite taste, in honor of the Italian travelers. Even a butler dressed in black and white was doing the honors at the table.
JC was seated in one of the chairs, eating a sfogliatella. At his side, the cripple made do with a piece of bread and butter.
Various plasma-screen televisions were arranged around the cabin tuned into the best news and financial channels. Elizabeth watched the one with Sky News.
‘Good morning,’ JC greeted them. ‘I hope you like what I ordered.’
Raul greeted everyone and sat down. Elizabeth kept watching television.
‘Come over and sit down, my dear. There’s no news,’ JC advised. ‘Come and eat. I’ve ordered scalloped eggs and beans for you.’
Elizabeth sat in the only empty chair next to the table.
‘What would you like to drink, signora?’ the butler asked.
‘Tea with milk, please.’
‘ E voi, signore? ’ he asked Raul.
‘Coffee.’
The butler prepared the orders on a cart like those used by flight attendants.
‘Thanks. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,’ Elizabeth thanked JC.
‘Elizabeth, dear, what gets us through this life is comfort. Did you sleep well?’
‘Well enough,’ Raul replied, spreading some cheese over his brioche.
‘There was a time when I could sleep on any side and took two minutes to fall asleep,’ JC complained. ‘Now everything bothers me. I don’t know if it’s the engine noise or the altitude.’
The butler placed the drinks in front of Raul and Elizabeth.
‘Where are we?’ Raul wanted to satisfy his wife’s curiosity.
‘In the air, my friend.’
‘In whose air?’ he insisted. He hated evasions.
‘In the air of the Lord,’ JC responded in the same way.
‘Where are we going?’ Elizabeth’s turn to ask.
‘To see a friend,’ the other informed her.
He always has his answers prepared, Elizabeth thought, a little suspiciously.
‘Do you talk to the pope like this?’ Raul tried a new strategy.
‘A pope is not superior to any of us,’ JC replied, off guard.
‘He’s someone very special,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Of course he is, my dear. I’m sure he’d receive you with tea and cookies.’ The sarcasm was more than obvious in JC’s choice of words.
‘You weren’t well received by the Pole?’ Raul insisted on knowing details.
‘He was too afraid of me not to receive me well. Which is not to say he spoiled me with parties.’
‘How many times did you speak with him?’
‘Personally? Three. Enough to change the world.’ He showed no unease at his pretension. It must be how he saw himself, a savior, someone so important that he could give and take at his pleasure, bring down governments, states, and substitute one ally for another.
‘That’s a little exaggerated,’ Elizabeth considered.
‘You think?’ JC asked, making himself comfortable in the seat and sipping his Darjeeling. ‘Ask the Soviets and the East Germans.’
‘The Soviets and East Germans don’t exist anymore,’ Raul observed.
‘Precisely,’ the old man concluded with a look of triumph, the brilliance in his eyes that of a boy proud of having climbed a high mountain, looking back on what he’d done.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Raul said, completely amazed.
‘Then don’t believe it,’ the other responded simply. ‘The fact that you don’t believe it doesn’t mean it’s not true.’
They both knew that it was so. And the contrary could also be considered true.
‘Why can’t we know where we’re going?’ Elizabeth risked asking, a little fearful.
‘Who told you that you can’t? Don’t feel like captives.’
‘What friend is this we are going to see?’ It seemed like an interrogation agreed upon between Elizabeth and Raul. This last question had come from the husband, but JC was used to operating in the line of fire.
‘You’ll find out.’
They noticed the engines had slowed their rotation, and the plane was descending. A static noise was heard, followed by the voice of the pilot.
‘ Signor Dottore, we are beginning our descent into Ataturk.’
JC pressed a button. ‘Great, Giovanni. Thanks.’
‘Ataturk?’ Raul recognized the place.
‘Where’s that?’
The butler began packing up the table quickly. Security rules regulate takeoffs and landings. In no time he’d cleared everything off the cream-colored table.
‘What’s Ataturk?’ Elizabeth asked again, visibly worried.
‘It’s an airport,’ JC replied, tightening his seat belt. ‘Fasten your seat belts,’ he advised, ‘and welcome to Istanbul,’ he added with one of his rare smiles.
55
There is a barbershop in Ulitsa Maroseyka, near the Kitay-Gorod metro station, that dates from the beginning of the nineteenth century at a time when barbers performed other functions like pulling teeth and resolving family problems. In politics they organized strikes, demonstrations, political revolts, coups, among many other things. Hard as it is to believe, the simple barber, scissors and razor in hand, had more power than a president.
Ivanovsky, the owner of the establishment, who inherited it in the seventies in the middle of the Cold War from another Ivanovsky, his father, has not neglected technological innovation. He created a website on which clients could make their next appointment and choose the style of haircut, as well as the barber. In spite of the remodeling the Ivanovskys carried out, this latest descendant has never let the building lose its identity. So we can experience a museum-like enchantment inside the grand barbershop, composed of pieces ranging from the first chair used by the first Ivanovsky to unique instruments that have been used over time. Anyone can visit, even if not coming for a haircut. You can enter without disturbing the busy employees and demanding clientele since the antique objects are displayed in their own room.
Despite the tumultuous history of the city of Moscow, the Ivanovsky clan never had to worry about assaults, fires, settling bills, or anything of the kind. They’ve always known the right side to be on and enjoyed the benefits of their choice. The preference among the political class for barbers of the Ivanovsky family has provoked cries of amazement from the curious, especially among barbers. The barbershop’s location on Ulitsa Maroseyka, very near Red Square and the Kremlin, was also a factor in its popularity, since besides being near the center of politics, it was also near the most important tourist site in Russia, where thousands of people pass through every day.
‘What are we doing here?’ James Phelps asked Rafael for the hundredth time, tired, feeling dirty and out of place, like a refugee who’d left his home.
Rafael, Sarah, and Phelps were in Ulitsa Maroseyka, next to a souvenir shop in front of the Ivanovsky barbershop. Sarah no longer bothered to ask questions. This was Rafael’s way. There was nothing to do.
‘I’m going to get a shave. You can stay here. You can go in the shop and buy a souvenir to take with you,’ he said.
Without another word Rafael crossed the street and entered the barbershop. The chime of the bell could be heard announcing a customer.
Sarah and Phelps didn’t have time to react, and, in spite of Phelps taking a step in the direction of the barbershop, Sarah stopped him by grabbing his arm.
‘Let him go. If he wanted to go alone it’s because that’s how it has to be,’ she told him.