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To: Miss Liesl Korda c/o the Cafe Zsa-Zsa

From: Thromble, Thromble, and Patel, London

Dear Miss Korda,

The late Mr. Nubar Korda’s untimely departure from this world generated a considerable quantity of red tape and complication, not least of which is that it has taken us, his solicitors, all of these intervening months to discover his will. Permit me to apologize for the inconvenience this may have caused you.

Mr. Korda’s entire estate has defaulted to you. At the time the will was written, you were his next of kin—that is, once we discounted all family members he was feuding with, and had explicitly barred from inheritance. As his executor, I have been drawing from the estate the necessary funds to pay his outstanding debts and expenses. What remains is yours. Should you wish to inspect the property and worldly goods, please come to London when convenient. If you have no interest, please write with your instructions, and I shall be pleased to liquidate these assets for you.

Regards,

Sidney Thromble, Esq.

+++

“I’m cashing in my days off,” Liesl announced.

Zsa-Zsa looked up from the bowl of eggs he was whisking. “Do you have those?”

“Yes. So do you. We are participating in the fair labor movement.”

“I see. What are your plans?”

“I’m taking a trip to London.”

“Sightseeing?”

“Probably.” Liesl put three cups on her tray, turned the handles so they all pointed the same way, and proceeded to fill them with coffee. She exited into the cafe’s dining room. She placed each mug at the spot of a different regular of the breakfast service. The last of these was Bjørn.

Bjørn looked up from the selection of newspapers and magazines before him. “Liesl, is it true that your Uncle Nubar named you his heir?” She frowned minutely, put a hand on his shoulder, and leaned forward to see what he was reading.

The Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun page 3 headline ran: BUSINESS TITAN NUBAR KORDA’S WILL NAMES WAITRESS NIECE HIS HEIR.

“How did they know? I only just got the letter. I suppose it is true. The heir part.”

“I see.” Bjørn leaned up to kiss her cheek, but asked no questions.

“I’m going to London to see if he had anything of my mother’s.”

“Do you want company?”

“No, thank you.”

“All right.”

Liesl did not tell her father, Zsa-Zsa, about the inheritance. If he read of it in the press, he did not speak of it. She rose early in the morning and went shopping, purchasing:

A thirdhand beige Samsonite suitcase.

One new dress in eau de nil green.

A toiletries case.

A small camera.

An address book.

On returning home, Liesl filled the suitcase with these items and more mundane clothing and essentials she already possessed. She changed into the only suit she owned, plain and white, not unlike the habit she wore as a novitiate. One of her black waitressing blouses sufficed underneath. She did not look like an heiress. She thought regretfully of the jewelry she once owned.

Outside the front door of Cafe Zsa-Zsa, where she intended to catch a cab, Liesl found herself standing toe-to-toe with Prince Farouk. “Your Highness.”

“Miss Korda.”

“You’ll have to excuse me for not seeing you inside. I am just departing on a voyage.”

Prince Farouk made a desperate hand gesture. Liesl wondered whether he was feverish. Certainly he looked uneasy. “Miss Korda—Liesl—I must speak with you urgently. How tight is your schedule? My driver and I can take you to your point of departure.”

“I can only suspect you are laboring under a misunderstanding. I was never a businesswoman, and now, I am only a waitress. Nonetheless, I would like to get moving, so I accept.”

Prince Farouk crisply opened the backseat door to his car for her while his driver took the suitcase and put it into the trunk. Only when the car had rolled into motion did Farouk speak. They sat side by side, heads slightly bent together. “Liesl,” said the prince, “when I met you, I became convinced I had encountered a nobility of spirit, combined with physical beauty and strategic acumen, that I am unlikely to ever encounter again. Therefore, I ask you to be my wife.”

“But you are a prince,” Liesl pointed out.

“Is that not a point in my favor?”

“No—I mean, perhaps—no, actually, it isn’t, it sounds very stressful to be a princess. You can’t marry a commoner with no money. If I were still a rich man’s daughter, perhaps it would be different.”

Prince Farouk let that observation hang in silence for a moment. He offered her a cigarette, which she declined. He put the packet away. “Your father may be a rich man again. I could make him a rich man, if that is what you need.”

“What? No, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to offer stipulations. There are prerequisites—your family, your subjects will not tolerate you marrying me as I am.”

“I understood you perfectly. If that is what you need to be accepted, it is easily done.”

“But you don’t even know me.” Liesl pushed her hair behind her ear, the gesture reminding her of the engagement ring on her finger. “We’ve had this conversation out of order.”

Farouk stared at her hand, dismayed. “You are engaged.”

“On a trial basis, yes. To Bjørn Carlson. He is a schoolteacher who used to be a spy.”

Not unkindly, the prince asked of her ring, “Is that paste?”

Liesl put her left hand protectively into her suit coat pocket. “I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about jewels, which is admirable. You could be important to a lot of people, make a difference in their lives.”

Liesl thought of her family and customers, the place she was carving out for herself in their grey street. She was part of a community, making friends. She thought of the nuns who still loved her, despite setting her free in the manner a person releases a pet that has grown bigger than expected. “I already have that.”

Prince Farouk said at last, “I love you.”

Liesl watched his face for a moment. “For that,” she granted, “I might accept.”

“Your trial arrangement with Carlson—you have not made up your mind?”

“If the trial period is not a success, or if it is, I shall let you know.” She withdrew her new address book, with its smart mini pencil attached by a ribbon, and gave it to Farouk to fill in his contact information under F.

The car had arrived at the airport. The driver stopped, got out, opened Liesl’s door, and politely looked away while the prince bade her a good journey, bending romantically over her hand.

Greatly bemused, Liesl continued to her flight’s gate. When Zsa-Zsa was rich, not so long ago, and she had traveled with him by plane, it was always planes he had exclusively hired. He did not own a plane only because he had determined it was cheaper to crash in other people’s planes. She worried a little that his bad luck was hereditary, and then remembered that it was the wrong word to use if her natural father was Nubar’s assistant. At any rate, unlike Zsa-Zsa, she had led a short and blameless life. No one was going to try to kill her.

She relaxed as much as she could into her assigned seat and opened The Story of Art. Certainly, she thought with a twinge of disappointment, it was not as chic to travel with a stranger snoring gently beside her, but it was good for the soul not to get everything you want. She repeated this sternly to herself when the lady across the aisle had a coughing fit while the plane was over the water.

Liesl wondered why the cabin stewardess didn’t bring that woman some water. At last, she put her book down and turned, meaning to call out for attention. There was a curtain hiding the space where food and supplies were kept. From it protruded the barrel of a gun. It was not aimed at anyone, only hanging loosely, pointed at the floor.

She stood and marched down the aisle to the curtain, pulling it open. “What are you doing?” she demanded of the slender woman holding the gun. She looked even younger than Liesl. Her guerilla uniform was familiar.

“I, uh…comrade?”

The woman’s companion, dressed in the same fashion, had his back to them, busy handcuffing and gagging the stewardess. He turned and brightened on seeing Liesl. “Why, hello! We meet again.” He grabbed Liesl’s arm and pulled her into the compartment so that the girl with the gun could close the curtain.

“I remember you,” Liesl agreed. “Monsieur le Terroriste.”

“Sergio, please.”

“I don’t think we’re at that level of familiarity.”

“Aren’t we? I’ve been thinking about you a great deal, you know. The Radical Freedom Militia Corps rejects the oppressive institution of marriage, but it would make you very happy if you would consent to running away with me.”

“No.”

“Really? But you’re so adventurous. I know you believe in the cause.”

“I only superficially remember what your cause is.”

“Liberation for every human person, from injustice of every kind.”

“Oh. Then we do share a cause. I was almost a nun, you know.”

“I remember.”

“But you got my father shot, which is insurmountable.”

“I would be surprised if he bore me a grudge, considering the things he’s done.” Liesl reflected this was probably true.

“It matters to me,” she said firmly.

“I see. Still, as a courtesy, my friend here and I will desist from hijacking this plane.”

“I appreciate that,” said Liesl.

“But comrade!” the girl with the gun protested. “She’s bourgeoisie. She is Korda’s heir.”

“Anatole Korda lost all his money,” Sergio said dismissively.

“I meant Nubar Korda.”

Sergio did not look surprised. He gazed meaningfully at Liesl. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to make his fortune over to the cause?”

“Not really, no. I disagree with your methods.”

“You break my heart. Give me your ring.”

Liesl pulled it off her finger with reluctance. “It’s only paste.”

“Ha! A likely story.” Sergio pocketed it. “Have you got a pencil? I will write down the address of my P.O. box, in case you change your mind.” She offered him her address book. He filled it in. “Thank you,” he said politely. “You may return to your seat.”

Liesl went instead to the cockpit. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “But there is a pair of terrorists who have taken the stewardess hostage.”

The pilot and co-pilot exchanged uneasy glances. “What do they want?”

“Well, nothing now. To escape when we land, I suppose.”

“Then…we probably shouldn’t agitate them?” said the pilot uncertainly.

“Well, it can’t be very comfortable for the stewardess.” She saw she would get no help from either of them. “Never mind, you focus on flying.”

Liesl approached a fellow passenger. He was dark-haired and handsome in a clean-cut way, with glasses. He had also been following Liesl since she went shopping that morning. She remembered seeing him in the airport, in the street, in the bistro, in the shops—and before that, too, months ago, in Phoenicia. “Excalibur,” she greeted him.

He tried to deny it, but she reminded him she was engaged (on a trial basis) to his former operative, Bjørn Carlson. She knew perfectly well who Excalibur was. With some irritation, he followed her to her seat, knelt beside her in the aisle, and pretended to be helping her with a crossword puzzle while she filled him in.

“I’m sure you’re very busy spying on me,” she said, “but if there’s anything you can do, it would be a weight off my mind.”

Excalibur had at no point looked in the direction of the curtain. “Do you believe this fellow, when he says he won’t go through with it for your sake?” She shrugged. “That’s a lot of power, Miss Korda. I hope you know how to use it. Sure, I’ll take care of them right now.”

“Thank you. I myself feel very safe,” she said, smiling. “But one must think of others.”

Liesl returned to her book. She did not look up from it when sounds of a physical altercation arose behind the curtain. Only when Excalibur returned, the freed stewardess at his side, and shouted, “Everything is fine!” did she set the book aside.

“I’m sure you need a moment,” she said to the stewardess. “I’m just going to help myself to a glass of water. That poor woman has quite a cough.” She nodded sympathetically to the restrained terrorists as she filled the cup.

+++

Liesl had exchanged brief telegrams with the solicitor Sidney Thromble Esq., and so knew a room had been booked for her at Bertram’s Hotel. She checked in and freshened up, putting on the new eau de nil dress, in anticipation of the lawyer himself coming to take her to dinner.

When she returned to the lobby, she scanned the room for someone suitably legal in appearance. A woman in a modish rose-colored frock approached her. “Miss Korda? Thank you for your telegram. I’m so pleased you could come at once.”

Liesl shook her hand. “I thought I would be meeting with Sidney Thromble tonight.”

“Darling, I am Sidney Thromble.”

“I beg your pardon, I expected you to be a man. That wasn’t very modern of me.”

The solicitor offered her a sphinx-like smile. “It happens all the time. Come, are you hungry?” Liesl, following her outside to a sporty two-seater car, admitted she was not hungry yet. “Then we’ll swing by the house. I imagine you visited your uncle in the past? No? Well, you’ll find it most impressive.”

Liesl stared at the mansion’s facade. “Oh,” she said, rather helplessly. It reminded her very much of her father’s palazzo, but at least the palazzo had been familiar. This house rather frightened her. She felt as if she should be fleeing from it in a gothic fashion. “Tomorrow,” she said. “I don’t think I can face that without a good night’s sleep.”

Sidney laughed at her, but it was a nice laugh. “I shall treat you to beef wellington, and we’ll chat about the money. You ought to know where you stand before you embark.”

+++

“So,” Liesl clarified, chasing a green pea across her plate, “I’m not rich, then.” Sidney had just informed her almost all of Nubar’s money had been spent on paying off debts. It seemed that Nubar, so like his half-brother Zsa-Zsa, had lived on his reputation, and made deals far beyond what he could back up.

“Not in cash, no.” Liesl found she was relieved. Sidney continued, “So you ought to think about what you do and don’t want to sell, as you walk through the house. The building itself will be worth a pretty penny—that size, in fine condition, in the heart of London! You could be quite rich, if you don’t care to live there.”

“Which I do not.”

“The rest of it…” Sidney shrugged. “Well, I suppose it depends on how much money you consider wealth. It’s money you didn’t have last week.”

Liesl found she very nearly did not care about the money. “My uncle claimed to have blood samples taken from the family. Do you have any idea…”

“Destroyed, I’m afraid. His will required it.”

“I see.” So, that was the end of that. Who had gotten her mother pregnant with her? Zsa-Zsa, Nubar, Nubar’s nameless assistant? Liesl would have liked to know for certain. She took a sip of her wine. “You know, when I arrived at Bertram’s Hotel, they had five different letters waiting for me, all from colleagues of my father’s. Four were offers of marriage, and one was a business proposition. They don’t even know me. They just know I am a Korda.”

“Your family is very respected.”

“They shouldn’t be,” Liesl said simply.

“Do you think you’ll accept one of them?”

“I’m already engaged, on a trial basis.”

“What’s the trial?”

“To see whether he’ll wait for me to be sure that’s what I want. I was going to be a nun for a long time. I need to get to know myself as a secular woman.”

Sidney lit a cigarette, and lit Liesl’s plain black pipe for her. “I call that entirely sensible. May I say, if your period of self-discovery seems to call for a torrid lesbian affair, I hope you will consider me.” Liesl counted this her eighth proposal. Of them, she could only be certain that Bjørn had proposed believing she had no money coming to her. And there were other considerations, as well.

“It’s never crossed my mind. You intrigue me, Sidney, but it’s not very likely. I love Bjørn. That’s my fiance—he’s a schoolteacher, but he used to be a spy. His boss was that man at the table over there who’s been following me.” She waved at Excalibur. He pretended not to see. “But any number of things could happen. Why don’t you give me your personal address, so I can get in touch if I need to dip my toe in the well of Sapphism?” She handed Sidney her address book.

+++

Liesl found she did not like Nubar’s house inside any more than she had the exterior. Perhaps her aesthetic taste was more similar to her father’s. Perhaps she only hated Nubar for murdering her mother so much that all he did was offensive in her sight.

“This house has a cruelty about it,” she said to Sidney. Liesl was wearing a cozy black turtleneck sweater over her white skirt, and still she shivered. “Can you tell me whether there are rooms you think are very important for me to see? I do not want to linger.”

Sidney showed her a room dedicated to recording accomplishments of the Korda family. Liesl gazed glumly on news clippings about the things her family had done to become rich. She thought of the things her own father had been doing, when she joined him. The slave labor, the exploitation of nature. The cheating, the lying, the murders of the Korda legacy. If her natural father was Nubar’s assistant, which the Korda brothers both believed he was, what was his name? Would she rather bear that than remain a Korda?

No, she decided. She knew perfectly well who her father was. Zsa-Zsa was the one who had been a part of her life, however poorly and distantly. If she was his adopted daughter, she was still his daughter. Their fates were tied. His sons were her brothers. Besides, she thought, thinking of the way she and Zsa-Zsa used the same tactics in card games, there was a third kind of inheritance that had nothing to do with property or blood.

Liesl ascended a grandiose flight of stairs to see the room that had been set aside for her mother’s use, during her marriage to Zsa-Zsa and affairs with Nubar and his assistant. It was, Liesl thought, almost medieval in its character. This was the chamber of a woman who men fought over, whose influence kept her ever in the position of a queen. Beloved, hated. She lived with her blood very close to the surface, all passion and danger. Liesl wished she had known her, but she did not want to live like her. Her mother, Liesl remembered, had been an heiress too.

“I want,” Liesl told Sidney, “to get rid of this house.”

“Of course, we can sell it—”

“No,” Liesl interrupted. “Make a list for me of charitable institutions that need a building. I’m going to give it away. It should be a library, or a women’s shelter, or something. It should…atone for the money spent on it.”

Sidney blinked. It was plain she did not approve. “If that’s what you want.”

“And the furnishings, everything in it—I don’t want them. Auction them off, give away what can't be sold. Send me all the photographs found.”

“The money from sales will come to you in drips and drabs, so plan to have a little extra coming regularly,” Sidney cautioned, “and don’t make any very large purchases based on guesswork. Some of this old furniture is so out of fashion, it might go for a pittance. We can’t know what you’ll earn in advance.”

“I understand.”

Then Liesl went into Uncle Nubar’s office and searched his employment records until she found the name of the man who might have been her father, if Nubar had not murdered him. She wrote it down on the back of a postcard of the Tower of London.

She did not return to that house again as long as she lived.

+++

Liesl did use her remaining vacation days sightseeing. It was pleasurable, to do things according to nobody’s whims but her own. Sometimes she asked Excalibur to take photos of her in front of landmarks. Other times she pretended he wasn’t still following her. Often, she imagined what Bjørn would say, if he was with her. She made lists on hotel stationery of things she wanted to talk to him about, and mailed them to him. Don’t write back, she wrote. I’ll be home soon. Love, Liesl.

On the last day of her vacation, Excalibur approached her, for the first time, and said, “Miss Korda, I want you to know the US government has decided you are no longer worth the resources of having you observed.”

She frowned and took a photo of him before he could object. It would be one of her best from the trip, his face framed by the towers of St. Paul’s cathedral. “What changed?”

“Between the settlement of Nubar Korda’s debts and your own pledges to charity, you are no longer a financial power. The tipping point was you giving the art collection away to free museums. I don’t even think you count among the wealthy, now.”

“It’s much more fun to give away money than to have it,” Liesl told him.

He smiled, and withdrew a ring from his pocket. Liesl sighed. “Oh, no, are you proposing to me too?”

“Certainly not, my child. I am an unwavering homosexual. We recovered this ring from your acquaintance Sergio.”

Liesl looked at it more closely. “My engagement ring! Thank you. I was so mad at myself when I realized I hadn’t gotten it back.”

“Yes, well. We were going to seize it, but my colleague tells me it’s only paste.”

“It is,” Liesl assured him, “priceless to me.”

+++

Her father’s friend Captain Marty, who had given him the blood transfusion, was in the kitchen at Cafe Zsa-Zsa when Liesl came home. “Welcome home!” he bellowed jovially. “How did it go? Are the Kordas rich again?” He gestured between Liesl and Zsa-Zsa.

Zsa-Zsa slapped the table. “No,” he said, at the same time Liesl shook her head. Firmly, her father said, “If Nubar had any money left, it’s Liesl’s. If she is rich, that’s her business. Not mine.” Liesl smiled at him.

“Anyway,” she told them both, “I’m not rich.” She opened the door to the alley, where reporters had their ears pressed against the door, eavesdropping. “I’m not rich,” she repeated. “Please run in your papers that I am returning to waitressing. Come around to the front door and pay for some soup or espresso like normal, eh?” She shut the door.

“I’ll start work again in the morning,” she said. “I’m going to change clothes and go see Bjørn.”

Upstairs, she put on the new dress in the tight bathroom, and when she emerged, she met her father on the stairs, coming to find her.

“Hey, Liesl…. It occurs to me that Nubar probably had the name of that fellow, that assistant of his….”

“He did. I found it.”

“Ah. Was there any proof? That he was your father?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re my father. I am not uncurious about him, and the connection remains possible, but didn’t you know? You are my father regardless.”

“Liesl,” he said skeptically, “are you saying you love me?”

“I have grown very fond of you,” she said simply, and honestly, knowing it might hurt him as much as it had hurt her to hear him say he was merely fond of her mother.

But he smiled, and ducked his head almost shyly. “Well. Well, I am glad not to be losing you.”

“I came back, didn’t I?” And Zsa-Zsa retreated down the stairs so she could leave.

+++

“I want you to know,” said Liesl, “that on my vacation, I received seven proposals of marriage or serious affairs, but I still like you best.”

She was lying on the floor of Bjørn’s flat, listening to records with him. He reached out and took her hand. “That does make me happy,” he said. “What did you find out?”

“I’m a little bit rich,” she confessed. “Not by Korda standards, but by mine. Most of it I’m putting away for emergencies, and to help the boys…maybe some of them will want to go to university…and some of it I’m going to invest, so I can have a little income I can give away each month.”

“I’m glad. I know how much you wanted to use Zsa-Zsa’s fortune for good works. Peace of mind and fulfillment are riches your father could never have earned, Liesl, not in a lifetime of deals. You’ve outdone him.”

Liesl reached into her handbag. “I did also go to the pawn shop on my way over.” She withdrew the elaborate Korda rosary, and the jeweled “corncob” pipe her father had given her for her twenty-first birthday. “A girl has to get her thrills, too,” she said, smiling. “My father and I have some things in common.”