The Leopard was originally called the Café des Artistes. When I was in my early twenties, not having the resources to dine at such a place, I would sometimes ask to use the restroom just to get a glimpse of its celebrated interior, including massive murals of wood nymphs. Marcel Duchamp and Isadora Duncan had dined there and no place in the city seemed more emblematic of a poetic past from the nineteenth century to the twenties. Now as the Leopard, a fine Italian restaurant, it ventures to evoke another age, that of Visconti, of innocence unmasked, blooming with desire. An age occupied by the unleashed passions of the young.
I dressed carefully, wondering if the old murals were still on view. I hailed a taxi giving me some feeling of stature on arrival. Entering I was not as intimidated as I had been decades before. I was buoyed by the prospect of seeing again one I thought lost in another dimension. I tried to picture her but her image as always remained elusive, if not eccentrically anonymous; she was known within our alliance simply as the Secretary. She was the lifeline of the CDC. Our intermittent communication ceased when it disbanded in 2014, so the prospect of seeing her again filled me with happiness.
I was received with a smile and taken to a nice table, flanked by the infamous incandescent nymphs. There was a package on the table tied with red string. The waiter smiled, presented a menu and told me that my dinner companion was unable to attend but my meal including wine was paid for in advance.
- And the package? I said feeling more than a little crestfallen.
- A messenger brought the package for you, with this note.
The note was in an unsealed envelope. It was brief and I read it again and again, in hopes that a whole other message might appear between the lines, but it yielded nothing more. My dear, there has been an urgent change of plans. Please have a nice meal and think of me. I will be waiting for you in Berlin at the usual place. I am solemnly hoping you will not refuse. I felt the subject of a friendly conspiracy.
The package contained two books. Journey to the East and an impressive French edition of The Prince of Anarchy. There were also several faxes stapled together which on first glance seemed to be environmental data. In a separate envelope there were logistical instructions, several hundred Euros and an open plane ticket to Berlin.
An older gentleman evoking another world entered the Café alone. He brought to mind Count Luchino in Visconti’s The Leopard, who favored the sleeping dream of former elegance to the wakening blare of the modern world. He smiled wanly and requested a wine list. I had ordered mixed lettuces and the conchiglie with roasted corn and white truffles. A glass of a fine Barolo. He glanced at me briefly and I thought to speak to him as I was leaving but he then seemed too deeply immersed in his own thoughts. I walked for a while before hailing a cab. Christmas was in the air and I felt a wave of melancholy. Perhaps it was the general atmosphere mingled with a bit of disappointment. Like the gentleman, I was obliged to dine on my own, without the pleasure of the anticipated reunion with the Secretary.
That evening I examined the thick paperback she had sent, a biography of Peter Kropotkin. I considered that Kropotkin might be a new target of study, but the book the Secretary sent me was in French. Perhaps she sent it because of its aesthetic beauty. Tucked within its pages were two documents, one in hand, perhaps in Russian, the other typed single-spaced on fragile onionskin, definitely Russian. I would have to ask S. to translate. It then occurred to me that he had sent me a copy of Kropotkin’s Triumph of Bread only days before. Could that possibly be a coincidence? I was beginning to sense an interconnectedness of all things before me. I gave her Kropotkin a place of prominence on my desk, next to the Polaroid husky blur that seemed to be gaining clarity in the passing days.
We were in the heart of winter, but the weather felt more like the end of Spring, calm and unnatural and in the morning I went out without a coat or cap. It was mild and increasingly humid and I felt uneasy as if a wild and dangerous patch of weather loomed. There was no one on the street and my usual café, a drab but familiar place with a cactus plant in the bathroom, was empty. I ordered coffee and scrambled egg whites, sprinkling them with black pepper and turmeric. As I ate I opened the copy of the other book the Secretary had sent me: Journey to the East. The trim was quite small which suited me, as it easily slipped into the pocket. I reread the note inside. The book was printed by an acquaintance in Bath, a small press making small books, she wrote. And I could hear the tinkling of her laugh, like a small bell in a large dollhouse. I am certain that you have already read this, she continued, but it’s such a nice presentation, and I will most likely refer to it during our next meeting, which I hope will be soon. Outside the weather changed abruptly. A dark sky punctuated by heavy winds and a sudden vortex of horizontal rain. I ran my fingers over the words she had written and suddenly was struck by the image of a white sky, a white terrain and the shadow of a muscular leopard, with dark black spots, felled in the snow.
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