Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks. Rafael Grugman

on board a ship. But each time, when the engineers were ready to start the ship's engines, it was discovered that this Ravelli was not the right one.

      Grandfather Shmuel did not read newspapers, and no citizen, excited by the generous reward, guessed that Shmuel Rivilis was that «heir» to Count Ravelli, for whom the occupying powers were unsuccessfully searching.

      I don't know why, over the course of two centuries, precisely on the10^th of April, events have occurred that reflected in one way or another on the fate of our family. That day has been both joyous and sad: each time, like the flip of a card, producing a significant outcome.

      So it was in 1919. Just before dinner, Shmuel picked up boot-hose, carefully wrapped in a newspaper, from the cobbler. When he got home and opened it, he read the announcement put out by the French. He was terribly upset, being four days too late.

      On April 6, the French squadron had left the Port of Odessa, abandoning hope of finding Napoleon's descendant.

      That year, God was merciful, preserving my grandfather from temptation. This he came to understand later. But at the time, he cried bitterly. The opportunity to pull himself out of beggary had been so close…

      By that time, he had two daughters-Khaya and Golda…but his firstborn, his only son, had died after living less than one year…

      Twice more, April 10 has proven memorable. On that day, in 1944, while living as evacuees, our family found out about the liberation of Odessa. Forty-five years later, on April 10, 1989, Golda, my mother, was buried in Odessa in the Third Jewish Cemetery. Grandfather had wound up there quite a bit earlier. But he managed to leave her two notebooks, written in a minute hand.

      In a language unknown to me (Grandfather, although he learned to write Russian in his old age, fearing the evil eye, preferred Yiddish), he handed down to his grandchildren the history of the family. Two years before his death, Mama translated it into Russian; and now I, Yevgeny Rivilis, have taken the liberty of telling you all about it.

      Yevgeny Rivilis, great-great-grandson of Bonaparte

      Rafael Grugman: After this lengthy introduction, it is time for the reader to get familiar with the manuscript. I cannot vouch for whether everything in it is accurate. It is possible that its author, Yevgeny Rivilis, deliberately changed some of the names; after all, the earth-shattering historical events he describes are not that distant, and he could not disclose the true names of existing FBI and CIA agents, which are a state secret in the United States of America. Or perhaps he chose not to do this, because he was not thinking about publication. But since I am not able to address this question to the author of these memoirs, and since I do not wish to become the next Edward Snowden by accident, I have at least changed the names of U.S. intelligence officials mentioned in his manuscript. However, the events described are authentic, with the exception of a few minor details in which I had a hand, as I mentioned previously, in order to fill the gaps in the narrative. And since the main events did in fact take place in New York, I have left the title the same as the one chosen by Rivilis: Coney Island Laughs Last.

      CONEY ISLAND LAUGHS LAST

      For Mikhail Godkin

      PART ONE

      SOME STRANGE THINGS HAVE BEEN HAPPENING RECENTLY

      While having dinner once, the Almighty dropped a plate, and it shattered into many pieces. Don’t rush to pick them up. Take a closer look. Call the biggest fragment Long Island and draw the outline: Brooklyn, Queens, Nassau and Suffolk. Call the smaller fragments Manhattan, Staten Island, Roosevelt…

      Now give each fragment the exotic-sounding name of «island.» Put together a mosaic and place the biggest plate right next to it, upside down. Once you have it, make it a dessert and call it «the mainland.» Since there may be several dishes, your mainland is North America. Call a tiny part of the mainland adjoining the mosaic The Bronx. Connect everything with invisible Scotch tape. And then take off!

      That’s how I imagined the picture of the creation of the world when I first saw the majestic panorama of New York City from the cockpit of the police helicopter.

      Today’s flight is a routine necessity: traffic jams are the plague of the multimillion-strong anthill. We are taking off from a heliport next to the Coney Island beach. The helicopter should land in Westchester in half an hour. New York City is under us. A multitude of islands and a piece of mainland. Why did I ask you to use Scotch tape when you created it? So that the islands wouldn’t yield to temptation and float out to sea. But let’s return now to Long Island, New York’s most populous island. It’s so large that only Brooklyn and Queens are within the city limits. Nassau and Suffolk are suburbs.

* * *

      Some strange things have been happening recently in my apartment, which is on the sixth floor of a prestigious co-op in the southern part of Brooklyn. As you can see, I’m not going to give the address.

      To be rigorously precise, the trouble started exactly two weeks ago. When I came home from work that day, a few minutiae-or so it seemed-indicated that someone had been there and had left traces that you couldn’t avoid noticing even if you wanted to.

      Cups and saucers had appeared on the dinner table even though their regular location was the kitchen cabinet, second shelf on the left. But what was most surprising was that despite the fact that I lived alone, and because of my line of work I try not to have guests, the table was set for three people. No fewer and no more. Finally, there was tea residue in the cups-yet I didn’t have the bad habit of leaving dishes unwashed when I left home.

      In my search for the teabags I even examined the garbage can, but there was nothing unusual in it; I checked the fridge, but the food was untouched. Other than the unwashed cups that had found their way to the dinner table God knows how, I found no traces that anyone had visited my apartment.

      I left the cups on the table, and the next day I encountered part two: the dishes, washed clean, were in the cabinet. On the third day the miracles recurred as the cups moved themselves back to the table. Someone was not only having fun with the dishes, but was taunting me by drinking tea in my apartment to boot. While enjoying the occupant’s helplessness.

      I carefully inspected the apartment. At first glance, nothing was missing. So there was no need to call the police. But even if something had disappeared, the police wouldn’t have been able to do anything to help. They would have come over, prepared a report, which at the end of the year I could use only for tax deductions, and that would have been the end of it. No one in the police deals with such trivialities. And if someone demanded an investigation and began to make a nuisance of himself, they might decide that the complainant is off his head and send him to the loony bin. Forget it! I won’t provide any excuse to get rid of me!

      First I began to recall women who had visited my apartment and could have keys. Who knows, maybe they’d decided to settle scores with me this way. Just to be safe I changed the locks, but even that didn’t spare me from surprises-the brazen tea-drinking continued. And this time there was an incomprehensible note in the most prominent place: «Stick your nose in the fridge and don’t take it out before you’re supposed to.» An unambiguous threat.

      I didn’t have a chance to react-it would have been interesting to know what my «benefactors» were alluding to-and I even tried to get wacky in front of the mirror, asking, «I wonder, what don’t you like about my precious nose?»

      The following day came the lightning bolt-an attempt on my life. Let’s write down the date: July 20, 2003.

      I stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the first floor as usual, but the elevator rocketed upward, reached the twenty-third floor, jumped a little, then dropped like a rock to the first floor. If I were a woman, I definitely would have gone into premature labor-even without being pregnant. Even then, the elevator didn’t think about stopping. It tore upward, then kept whizzing up and down without end. I was almost out of my mind with fear. I remembered Ted’s unsolved murder in my apartment last year, and I saw my life flash before my eyes. What was worse, I couldn’t sound an alarm, because none of the buttons on the panel worked. After half an hour the light went