The Final Fabergé Read Online Free

fish, no meat.”
    â€œThis comes at the right time,” Pavlenko said, pointing to the package of sausage.
    Karsalov said somewhat irritably, “Explain why you’re here. Why me?”
    Pavlenko unbuttoned his coat, reached inside for a cigarette case, opened it, and held it out to Karsalov, who looked first at the broad smile on Pavlenko’s face before he took one and lit it by the match Pavlenko was holding in his other hand. Pavlenko sat in a straight wooden chair next to the table and crossed his legs comfortably. He also lit one of the cigarettes, inhaling the aromatic smoke and blowing it out in a steady stream. He held out the cigarette case to Karasalov. “Do you know what this is?”
    â€œA cigarette case, of course,” Karsalov said sharply, and lowered himself into the chair across from his guest.
    â€œNo doubt about that,” Pavlenko said. “But do you know who made it?”
    Karsalov took the case and looked at it carefully. He had seen cigarette cases like it before, when he had been in the service of Prince
Yusupov, when all the gentry and high government moguls had carried a snuff or cigarette case as grand as the case he was holding, its heavy silver skillfully chased with a military scene. He turned it over. On the back was imprinted G. FABERGÉ. Karsalov said, “Expensive . . . when it was new,” and gave it back to Pavlenko.
    â€œIt’s still worth a good deal, not because it’s a Fabergé, but for the silver and gold. Not now, not in this city. Nothing has any value except food.”
    Karsalov savored the cigarette, tasting the smoke and allowing the sting of it in his throat and lungs to grow more intense as the tobacco burned hotter. It made him dizzy but it was so different a feeling from the boring discomfort of cold and hunger that he didn’t want it to stop. He consumed nearly all of it, until the hot ash burned his finger. Then, reluctantly, he put the remains in a tin and let it smolder. When the last bit of smoke was gone, he looked up and said, “You haven’t answered my question. Why have you chosen to come here?”
    Pavlenko sat back, his right arm resting on the table, his hand holding the cigarette case, which, very gently, even tantalizingly, he tapped on the table every several seconds with the insistent precision of a metronome.
    â€œI’ll explain,” he began. “Petersburg is under siege and if Hitler has his way, the Panzers will crush every one of us. There are no means to bring large quantities of food or fuel into the city, no trains, the highways are blocked, and only when Lake Ladoga freezes over can our truck convoys deliver supplies. Even then the German air force may destroy that hope. So the trick is to survive, and to survive we must have food, good food. The bread you got today was made from substitutes . . . wood dust and tree bark.” Pavlenko reached for the bottle of vodka and poured a generous helping into each glass. He raised his for a toast. “To your son.” He waved his glass in the direction of Vasily. “May he be warm and have a full stomach.”
    Karsalov sipped from his glass, then he drank it all in a gulp. He was immediately warmed by the strong drink, and looked enviously at the cigarette case. Pavlenko snapped it open and offered it to Karsalov, who took a cigarette and immediately struck a match.
    Pavlenko turned over the case and pointed to the name. “Does G. Fabergé mean anything to you?”
    â€œIt was one of the best shops in Petersburg. Expensive, I couldn’t afford to go there.”

    â€œBut you do have something that was made by Fabergé. Isn’t that so?”
    Karsalov inhaled again. “No,” he said softly.
    Pavlenko poured more vodka into the glasses. He smiled and said, “Let us drink to an improvement in your memory.” They both drank and Pavlenko continued. “Near the end, the man who employed