"I'm sorry," I said. And then, remembering with guilt my long delay on the road, I added, "You understand, Mr. Berri, I thought you were one of them, with them. That's why I didn't come sooner."
He nodded; and then I saw his fingers tighten in the mesh of the torn cage. I looked away, toward the foxes. I could see why he loved them. They were beautiful, exquisitely so, their wild, golden eyes shining forth from dark, delicate faces. They moved like cats, with a slinky, elegant grace, and though I wouldn't have said they were tame, they looked friendly, pushing their muzzles up to the mesh for a sniff. They varied in color. Some, like the dead fox, were pure white; others, almost black, were overlaid with a sparkling silver sheen.
Beside me, Berri cleared his throat. "They were bastards, you know. Real sons of bitches. You can kill a fox so it doesn't feel anything. Grab them by their hind legs, and turn them over — they'll just lie there — and then step down lightly over their hearts. They don't feel a thing. Just go to sleep___I think they even knew that. At least they knew how to handle her. But instead they…" He leaned back on the cage. A moment passed. "Sons of bitches," he murmured again. Then, as the animals began barking at the far end of the row, he shrugged himself off the mesh and began moving along. I fell into step.
"Let me tell you again, Mr. Berri. I have nothing to do with those men."
"I understand."
"I'm a friend of Harry's. I'm a friend of his daughter's, May Brightman."
"She has nothing to do with this. I told you, you've got it all wrong."
"There was a child. You know there was a child."
"Maybe. Maybe. I'm just saying it doesn't make any difference."
Stopping in front of a cage, he drew his hand up into the sleeve of his sweater, then pushed the loose end of wool through the mesh. The little fox inside was black as midnight. He ran over and tugged at the wool and started to suck. I waited. Up this close, the smell was very strong, though it was hard to be offended by anything produced by such beautiful creatures. They seemed calmer now, crying less, and even these cries were more like a bark. But most were still pacing up and down in their pens, and I could hear the quick scratch-scratch of their paws on the boards. After a moment, Berri pulled the sleeve back, then moved along to the next cage and did the same trick again. The fox chewed, licked, grunting softly all the time. And then, with his face pressed up to the mesh — as if addressing someone at the far end of the cage — Berri started to speak. Later, I sometimes wondered why he'd chosen that moment; maybe he was more comfortable out with his foxes; or maybe it was just because the choice was his. In any case, the words came out of him easily. I almost had the impression he wasn't speaking to me but was setting the record straight for himself.
"To understand," he began, "you've got to know something about Russia, Russia back then—1930, let's say, 1940. In those days, the Bolshevik had all sorts of problems, but his biggest was the one everyone's got. He was broke. But for him that had a special twist, because even the money he did have was worthless. All the rubles in the world didn't add up to a dollar. Actually, it was even worse, because when he did get a little together, he still couldn't go near a bank, on account of how Lenin, when he took over, had refused to pay off on the old Czarist bonds. Banks all over the world were holding them, and every time the Bolshevik tried to open up an account or sell sometning, they'd like as not send the sheriff around. So, all in all, the Bolshevik was in a real fix, and he tried everything he knew to get out of it. He confiscated every bank safe in the country to get foreign currency, he tried to sell the Crown jewels — damn near worthless, he found — and in 1923 he took all the gold and silver out of the churches. Now, gold, of course ¦ ¦. that was the one thing they did have. For egalitarian, proletarian, Red Revolutionary Communists you might say they took a keen interest in the stuff. In fact, first thing after the Great Revolution — first things first, you might say — they got the mines open again. But even that didn't do them much good. The Americans stopped them — in 1920, along with the Brits and the French, they passed a law making it illegal to bring Russian gold into their countries. You can see what that meant. No one would give the Bolshevik credit, he had no money — and what money he had wasn't worth anything — and people wouldn't even go for his gold. Just to get the most ordinary things, he had to pull all sorts of tricks. You follow me this far?"
I did. And I knew that everything he'd been saying was true. But I said, "I follow you, Mr. Berri. I'm just not too clear where you're going."
"That's okay. I'm almost there." But in fact he now paused, pulling the wet, ragged sleeve of his sweater back from the cage and moving along to the next one. The fox inside it ran over, and as it started to suck, Berri went on. "Just remember what I'm saying. It was almost impossible for the Bolshevik to get regular things, locomotives, machine tools, even food. Now think: what about those other things so dear to the Bolshevik's heart? Certain scientific supplies, for instance. Or military items. And what about the Red Revolution? They believed in it then, you remember — the World Revolution that would make the Bolshevik safe. These days, of course — when they don't give a damn — it's no problem. They want to support the French CP, they just slap some money into a bank account. They want to finance their friends over in Africa, they use the Swiss banks. Their gold's good enough now. So's their natural gas. Even the goddamned ruble's worth something."
"What are you trying to tell me? That Brightman smuggled gold out of Russia in the furs he was buying?"
"Think a minute. The furs were the gold. And year after year, Harry went over to Leningrad and brought it back."
"I don't understand. Those trips were no secret."
"That was the beauty of it. Everything was out in the open."
"And everyone knew he was doing it, Mr. Berri. There was no law against selling Russian furs."
"Well, time to time, place to place, that hasn't exactly been true. But it isn't the point."
"Mr. Berri, I'm asking. What is the point?"
"It's so simple, no one ever did see it. Year after year, Harry brought those furs back, and year after year he sold them, bale after bale. But the Russians never sent him a bill. That was his secret. They gave those furs to him. And though they made Harry rich, he had to use the money just like they told him." Berri chuckled then, an old man's laugh, deep in his throat. "You ever hear that expression, Mr. Thorne, 'Moscow gold'? Well, this was the real thing. That's what it was all about, you see. The Bolshevik's gold. Poor Harry's moneybags."
Overhead, the moon finally pressed a disk of silver light through a patch of clouds and beside me one of the foxes shoved its snout against the mesh.
"They are cunning," he'd say… he especially loved the natural reds.
Harry Brightman: a red fox with golden eyes.
"I'll be damned," I whispered.
13
All.
Everything.
Now I knew it too, just like Travin. Yet, for a moment longer, I still couldn't take it in, let alone "believe" it.
As Berri reached through the cage to stroke the fox, he laughed again at my incredulity. "I always wanted to tell someone that story, just to see the look on their face… and, if you don't mind my saying, it's been worth it."