Jan had no desire to attend a boring embassy party, but knew that he should not be a recluse. And if he got to talk to Bruno it might be worthwhile. The man was a genius and responsible for the whole new range of memory blocks. Probably wouldn’t even be able to get near him in the press of social butterflies. He must check his evening suit to see if it needed pressing.
The crush was just what he had expected. Jan had the cab drop him a street away from the embassy and he walked the rest of the distance. All of the beautiful people were there. The ones with rank and money and no ambition other than social position. They wanted only to be seen with Bruno, to have their faces appear with his in the social columns, to talk about it afterward to acquaintances with equal interests. Jan had grown up with these people, gone to school with them, and they shared a mutual dislike one for the other. They tended to look down their noses at his family because they had a tradition of working in the sciences. There was no point in telling them that this was because of Andrzej Kulozik, a distant and revered ancestor, a physicist who had actually worked on the original and successful development of fusion power. Most of them had no idea of what fusion power was in any case. Now Jan was enveloped by them again and he did not like it. There were many familiar and half-familiar faces among the crowd in the front hall, and when he passed his coat over to the waiting porter, his own face was also fixed in the cold and distant expression he had learned in prep school.
“Jan, that is you, isn’t it?” a deep voice said in his ear and he turned to see who was talking to him.
“Ricardo! A sight for sore eyes indeed.”
They shook hands warmly. Ricardo de Torres, the Marquis de la Rosa, was a not too distant relation on his mother’s side. Tall, elegant, black-bearded, and suave, he was about the only relative that Jan ever saw. They had been in school together and their friendship had even outlived that experience.
“Not here to meet the great man?” Ricardo asked.
“I was until I saw the receiving line for Professor Bruno. I’m not charmed in the slightest by the prospect of queuing for a half hour to press his gloved hand and hear him murmur a few words in my ear.”
“How forthright your brash, island-living race has always been. I, product of an older and more leisured culture, will join the queue.”
“Social obligation?”
“Right with the first guess.”
“Well, while you’re doing that, I am going to beat this lionizing crowd to the buffet. I hear the kitchen here is the best.”
“It is, and I envy you. For me there will be nothing but cold meats and bare bones.”
“I hope not. If you live through the scrum I’ll see you in there.”
“Let’s hope.”
It was perfect; Jan had had the display of food almost to himself. A few figures wandered in front of the lengthy linen-covered table, but were far outnumbered by the servers behind it. A swarthy, white-hatted chef sharpened his knife hopefully when Jan looked at the roast; his face fell when Jan went on. He could have roast beef every day of the week. Now he was more interested in the octopus in garlic, the snails, the pate with truffles. Filling his plate with delicacies was an easy matter. The small tables against the wall were still empty and he seated himself at one to get the utmost pleasure from his food without having to juggle it on one knee. Delicious! However, a little wine was very much in order. A servant in a black dress, carrying a tray of glasses, was passing and he waved to her.
“Red. A large one,” he said, his attention focused on his plate.
“Bardolino or Corvo, your honor,” the waitress said.
“Corvo, I believe… yes, Corvo.”
She handed him the glass and he had to look up to take it. For the first time he saw her face. He almost dropped the glass so she took it from his hand and placed it safely on the table before him.
“Sitalom,” Sara said, speaking very quietly. She gave him a quick wink, then turned and was gone.
Jan started to rise and go after her — then sank back into his seat. Her presence here could be no accident. And she certainly wasn’t Italian. Or was she? If she were the whole story about Israel had been a hoax. For all that he knew the submarine could have been an Italian one. What was going on? His thoughts chased themselves in circles and he slowly ate the plate of delicacies without tasting one of them. By the time he had finished, the room was beginning to fill up and he knew exactly what he had to do.
