at the hotel bar. He knew that when Feltrinelli arrived the next day, his employer would know exactly where to go to celebrate the procurement of Pasternak’s novel; he’d have secured the best tables at the finest restaurants and the best Chianti moments after stepping off the plane.
* * *
—
After a breakfast of liverwurst, a boiled egg, herbed cheese, and a roll with marmalade, Sergio double-checked with the man at the front desk to ensure that Feltrinelli’s presidential suite would be ready for him.
“Do you have the cognac?”
“Ja.”
“The cigarettes?”
“We’ve located a box of Alfa cigarettes for Mr. Feltrinelli.”
“The sheets…they’re untucked at the end as he prefers?”
“I believe so.”
“Can you check then with the maid?”
“Ja. Can we do anything else for you?”
“Taxi?”
“Of course.”
At Tempelhof Airport, Sergio watched Feltrinelli’s plane touch down and come to a stop. A mobile staircase was driven up to its door. He stepped out with a newspaper tucked under his arm and paused at the top of the stairs to survey the Fatherland. His tan suit jacket opened and his tie flew back behind his shoulder with a gust of wind. Spotting his agent waiting for him below, he descended.
The publisher greeted Sergio warmly, kissing him on both cheeks, then shaking his hand. Sergio had met Giangiacomo Feltrinelli only a handful of times, but he had always been struck by his magnetism. Slimly built with dark hair styled back to reveal a high widow’s peak, Feltrinelli was the kind of man both women and men found themselves drawn to. Even his signature thick black glasses did nothing to hide the vitality in his eyes. Maybe it was his enormous wealth that earned him such attention. Or maybe it was the confidence that accompanied that wealth. Or it could be his collection of fast cars and custom-made suits, or the beautiful women who flocked to him. Whatever it was, Feltrinelli had it in spades.
Sergio took Feltrinelli’s calfskin bag and Feltrinelli took his arm as though they were school chums. Sergio suggested they go to a restaurant for lunch, but Feltrinelli shook his head. “I’d like to see it right away.”
* * *
—
Feltrinelli paced the hotel’s burnt-orange carpeting as Sergio fetched the manuscript. He handed Doctor Zhivago to his boss, and Feltrinelli held it in his hands as if he could feel its significance by its weight. He flipped through the novel, then held it to his chest. “I’ve never wanted to be able to read Russian more than now.”
“It is sure to be a hit.”
“I believe it will be. I’ve arranged for the best translator to take a look at it as soon as I get back to Milan. He’s promised to give me his honest opinion.”
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
Feltrinelli waited for him to continue.
“Pasternak believes the Soviets will not allow its publication. I couldn’t say this in my telegram, but he thinks it doesn’t fit—how did he put it?—their guidelines.”
Feltrinelli brushed it off. “I’ve heard the same, but let’s not think of that now. Besides, once the Soviets find out I have it, they might just change their mind.”
“There was something else. He mentioned he was giving himself a death sentence by handing over the novel. Surely he was joking?”
Feltrinelli put the book under his arm without answering. “I’m here for only two days. We must celebrate.”
“Of course! What would you like to do first?”
“I want to drink good German beer, and I want to dance, and I want to find a few girls. And I’d like to purchase a pair of binoculars from a shop in Kurfürstendamm I’ve heard makes the best in the world.” He took off his glasses and pointed to his nose. “They take the measurements from the bridge of your nose to the outer corners of your eyes to create the exact fit. They’ll be perfect for my yacht. I must have them.”
“Of course, of course,” Sergio said. “I suppose my job is done, then.”
“Yes, my friend. And mine is just beginning.”
CHAPTER 11
The Muse
The Rehabilitated Woman
THE EMISSARY
My train pulled in to the station after four fruitless days in Moscow, after more fruitless attempts at persuading publishers to print Zhivago. I saw Borya sitting alone on a bench. It was late May and the sun had just begun to dip below the tree line. In the golden light, his white hair looked blond and his eyes seemed to sparkle even through the dirty train window. I felt a pain in my chest. From a distance, he looked like a