An hour after bidding the Count good-bye, he boarded the Helsinki-bound train wearing the journalist’s hat and coat with the Baedeker in his pocket. When he disembarked in Vyborg, he tore out the maps and left the guide with the other items on a counter in the station’s washroom. Then he traveled back on the next train bound for Moscow empty-handed.
It was almost a year later when Viktor finally had the opportunity to watch Casablanca. Naturally, when the scene shifted to Rick’s Café and the police began closing in on Ugarte, his interest was piqued, because he remembered his conversation with the Count in the railway station café. So with utmost attention, he watched as Rick disregarded Ugarte’s pleas for help; he saw the saloonkeeper’s expression remain cool and aloof when the police dragged Ugarte from his lapels; but then, as Rick began making his way through the disconcerted crowd toward the piano player, something caught Viktor’s eye. Just the slightest detail, not more than a few frames of film: In the midst of this short journey, as Rick passes a customer’s table, without breaking stride or interrupting his assurances to the crowd, he sets upright a cocktail glass that had been knocked over during the skirmish.
Yes, thought Viktor, that’s it, exactly.
For here was Casablanca, a far-flung outpost in a time of war. And here at the heart of the city, right under the sweep of the searchlights, was Rick’s Café Américain, where the beleaguered could assemble for the moment to gamble and drink and listen to music; to conspire, console, and most importantly, hope. And at the center of this oasis was Rick. As the Count’s friend had observed, the saloonkeeper’s cool response to Ugarte’s arrest and his instruction for the band to play on could suggest a certain indifference to the fates of men. But in setting upright the cocktail glass in the aftermath of the commotion, didn’t he also exhibit an essential faith that by the smallest of one’s actions one can restore some sense of order to the world?
And Anon
On one of the first afternoons of summer in 1954, a tall man in his sixties stood in the high grass among some ragged apple trees somewhere in the Nizhny Novgorod Province. The beginnings of a beard on his chin, the dirt on his boots, and the rucksack on his back all contributed to the impression that the man had been hiking for several days, though he didn’t look weary from the effort.
Pausing among the trees, the traveler looked a few paces ahead to where he could just make out the suggestion of a road that had become overgrown long ago. As the man turned onto this old road with a smile at once wistful and serene, a voice came down from the heavens to ask: Where are you going?
Stopping in his tracks, the man looked up as—with a rustle of branches—a boy of ten dropped to the ground from an apple tree.
The eyes of the old man widened.
“You’re as silent as a mouse, young man.”
With a look of self-assurance, the boy took the man’s remark very much as a compliment.
“I am too,” said a timid voice from among the leaves.
The traveler looked up to discover a girl of seven or eight perched on a branch.
“Indeed, you are! Would you like a hand coming down?”
“I don’t need one,” said the girl. But she angled herself to drop into the traveler’s arms, just the same.
Once the girl was on the ground beside the boy, the traveler could see that the two were siblings.
“We’re pirates,” the boy said matter-of-factly, while looking off toward the horizon.
“I could tell,” said the man.
“Are you going to the mansion?” the little girl asked with curiosity.
“Most no one goes there,” cautioned the boy.
“Where is it?” the man asked, having seen no sign of it through the trees.
“We’ll show you.”
The boy and girl led the man along the old, overgrown road, which turned in a long, lazy arc. After they had walked about ten minutes, the mystery of the mansion’s invisibility was solved: for having been burned to the ground decades before, it consisted now of two tilting chimneys at either end of a clearing still dusted here and there with ash.
If one has been absent for decades from a place that one once held dear, the wise would generally counsel that one should never return there again.
History abounds with sobering examples: After decades of wandering the seas and overcoming all manner of deadly hazards, Odysseus finally returned to Ithaca, only to leave it again a few years later. Robinson Crusoe, having made it back to England after years of isolation, shortly thereafter set sail for that very same island from which he had so fervently prayed for deliverance.
Why after so many years of longing for home did these sojourners abandon it so shortly upon their return? It is hard to say. But perhaps for those returning after a long absence, the combination of heartfelt sentiments and the ruthless influence of time can only spawn disappointments. The landscape is not as beautiful as one remembered it. The local cider is not as sweet. Quaint buildings have been restored beyond recognition, while fine old traditions have lapsed to make way for mystifying new entertainments. And having imagined at one time that one resided at the very center of this little universe, one is barely recognized, if recognized at all. Thus do the wise counsel that one should steer far and wide of the old homestead.
But no counsel, however well grounded in history, is suitable for all. Like bottles of wine, two men will differ radically from each other for being born a year apart or on neighboring hills. By way of example, as this traveler stood before the ruins of his old home, he was not overcome by shock, indignation, or despair. Rather, he exhibited the same smile, at once wistful and serene, that he had exhibited upon seeing the overgrown road. For as it turns out, one can revisit the past quite pleasantly, as long as one does so expecting nearly every aspect of it to have changed.
Having wished the young pirates well, our traveler made his way into the local village about five miles away.
Though he didn’t mind seeing that so many of the old landmarks had disappeared, he was greatly relieved to find that the inn at the edge of town was still there. Ducking his head as he came through the front door and taking his rucksack from his shoulder, he was greeted by the innkeeper—a middle-aged woman who appeared from the back wiping her hands on her apron. She asked if he was looking for a room. He confirmed that he was, but said he’d like to have something to eat first. So she gestured with her head toward the doorway that led to the tavern.
Ducking his head again, he went inside. Given the hour, there were but a few citizens seated here and there at the old wooden tables, eating a simple stew of cabbage and potatoes, or drinking a glass of vodka. Offering a friendly nod to those who bothered to look up from their meals, the man headed to the little room with the old Russian stove at the back of the tavern. And there in the corner, at a table for two, her hair tinged with gray, the willowy woman waited.