realize just how much so.
“Pushkin once wrote a story based on the exploits of his great-
grandfather,” Morris lectured, carelessly waving the emptied snifter
around. “It was called ‘The Negro of Peter the Great.’ It seems that
ancestor Ibrahim was as much a legend with the ladies as his great-
grandson would someday be. But Ibrahim was smarter than Pushkin,
discreet where Pushkin was rash. Pushkin was constantly fighting
duels to defend his honor, an honor as dark as his skin, mind you.”
He drained the last of his brandy, then tossed the enormous
goblet into the fire. It did not shatter, but merely cracked in two.
“You see, Pushkin was a notorious gambler and seducer of other
men’s women. Luckily for him, and the future of Russian letters, he
was a very good shot.”
The confidence Roy carried with him from overseas disappeared
like contraband at customs.
“Are you a good shot, old friend?” Bidden said, laughing. “I sorely
doubt it.” He lit up a cigar and jammed it in his slack mouth.
“Ibrahim was the clever one. In the story, he has a torrid affair with
a nobleman’s wife and she gets pregnant with his child. Now
wait…here’s the good part. At the last minute, they switch the baby!
The poor unsuspecting cuckold has no idea that his wife squeezed out
a little black bastard! Ibrahim gets away scot free! A wonderful little
tale, don’t you think? Funny how life almost imitates art, here, two
hundred years later.”
“Where’s Ellie?” Roy stood up, only to be pushed down again,
more forcefully.
“You’ll see her shortly. Oh, and your cute little coffee bean. Born
premature. You’ll see them, and then you’ll never see them again.
You can’t win everything, Roy. We can’t all be as lucky as Ibrahim.”
Roy rubbed his eyes. After a long and viscous silence he said,
“The nobleman still had his wife, and child. But what did Ibrahim
have from that moment onwards? Nothing.”
Bidden laughed at this display of pathos—as if he were to feel
sorry. “Ah, but he had his life. Which is more than I can say for
Pushkin. Poor Al died after a duel, having lost at his own
philandering game. Shot in the upper thigh. Really, could any justice
be more poetic? Practically got his fucking balls blown off!” Bidden
raised a brandied finger, took aim at Roy’s crotch and slowly cocked
his thumb.
Morris flipped open a golden box that lay between them on the
ABYSSINIA
108
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