Free Nightingale by Aleksandr Voinov Page B

dead from a broken heart, reaching out to her retreating beloved with her last breath, Yves sat there stunned, like he’d grasped at something profound without truly understanding it. It, too, vanished into the distance as Heinrich stood and applauded, and, belatedly, he scrambled to his feet, his mind a whirlwind of half-formulated insights, his own voice shaken from the impact of another’s.
    “Did you enjoy it?” Heinrich asked him when they were making their way out of the opera hall. His smile spoke of pride more than enjoyment, or maybe those were the same for him.
    “Yes. Thank you for the invitation.” He lit a cigarette when they’d stepped outside, and breathed the smoke deep into his lungs, as far as it would go, while the other members of the audience streamed past, some talking about the performance while others had already fully returned to the banality of life.
    Heinrich waited with him, accepting salutes from lesser soldiers, then ushered Yves to the car when his driver brought it around. Only when the door closed behind them did Heinrich touch him again. Yves half-closed his hand when Heinrich brushed the back of it. “I’ll get you home, but don’t wait for me. I have a feeling it will be a long night.”
    Yves nodded and sucked on the cigarette. He was restless and fully expected to be tossing and turning, a condition that would have been tamed by the German’s strong presence in his bed. Heinrich calmed him—despite being part of the reason for the agitation. This was only one of the many absurdities that Yves had not yet grown used to. Maybe he could instead go to the Palace for a chat with Maurice. But while he felt unable to deal with the silence of his bedroom, facing Maurice’s riot and laughter seemed almost like the more unbearable option.
    When they arrived, Heinrich reached for a brown-wrapped package settled next to the door and took it with him when they stepped out of the car. Yves led the way and pointedly looked at the package under Heinrich’s arm, but if he’d expected an explanation, he’d been mistaken. Von Starck kept a thoughtful silence, maybe still feeling the music vibrate in his soul, or steeling himself for the meeting with von Grimmstein.
    Yves unlocked the door and paused in the dark hallway, leaving von Starck to fumble for the light switch. When the light came on, he was facing the large, gilt-framed mirror in the hall, and he thought he looked inappropriately tired and haunted for bringing an illicit lover to his apartment.
    Von Starck lifted the package under his arm. “I’ll need to store these here for a little while.”
    “What are they?”
    “Just gifts.” Von Starck looked around, as though searching for something, then advanced into the living room. His gaze swept the room; then he lifted one of the heavy curtains away from the wall and slotted the package into the space between. “Keep an eye on them for me, will you?”
    “If they are valuable, you could rent a box at the bank.”
    Heinrich shook his head. “They aren’t. In fact, they are all but worthless.”
    The denial came too fast. Yves kept looking at the folds of the curtains, saw that the heavy drapes were a little scuffed around the edges and looked dusty in the light. He should really hire somebody to clean up, beat the dust out of the upholstery and wash the curtains; somebody who’d remember to do it regularly unprompted. Yet the idea of having his privacy invaded by a stranger—someone with keys, who might spy or notice something—held no appeal and, in fact, a great deal of revulsion. He nodded, mechanically, without looking into Heinrich’s eyes.
    “Very well, then.” Heinrich straightened in that gesture that said he was readying himself for something, then stepped closer and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I shall sup with much less pleasant company.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “Tour d’Argent, I believe. It’s neutral ground; everybody goes there, Wehrmacht,