Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 13

  “It is a color-land!” I said. “But tell me again about us needing to bring our fine clothes in a suitcase to the party.”

  “Oh, yeah! Nothing too bad would ever happen if you didn’t do it that way, but we like to show up to our parties dressed real plain, just so we don’t draw any attention. Such is the way in Moscow these days. I’m a communist, but unlike Stalin, I don’t equate nice dress with being bourgeois. Being a communist is about the way you treat people, your moral compass and vision of an everlasting, equal society, not about dress codes.”

  “You married, Lovett?”

  “Yes, I married a Russian woman. And nobody here even raised an eyebrow. Imagine that back home. Me with a white woman wouldn’t go over too well. But we feel as comfortable here as a couple could ever hope.”

  “I look forward to meeting her.”

  “You know, back to what I was meaning to tell you earlier. If the Comintern can be as effective as many believe, the revolution here in the Soviet Union will spread across the globe. And U.S. Negroes would benefit the most. Gotta believe, brutha! Or in this case . . . comrade!”

  “Yup!” I said.

  “You were raised in Milwaukee, huh?” he said.

  “Yes, the Bronzeville section.”

  “Well, shoot! I’m gonna have to call you Bronzeville Sweet then!”

  He didn’t know it, but Lovett already felt like family to me. He was an impressive, spirited, and lovable man. He actually reminded me of my late friend, my son’s namesake, James Eason. I missed him dearly, still, after over a decade. My God, how the time had flown by.

  * * *

  Later that day at Spaso House I found myself with a flashlight in the portion of the multilevel attic that was only three feet high. I was crawling on all fours. All of the wire was old and shoddy. As I neared the area directly above the ambassador’s bedroom, I stopped, thinking I’d heard something in the distance. Maybe it was a rat, I thought. Still, it spooked me.

  Again I heard a noise, like someone was crawling. I scooted forward, my belly scraping against the dusty wood, beads of sweat dripping from my chin. Holding the flashlight up and pointing it straight ahead, I heard a clank, like someone had dropped perhaps a metal object.

  “WHO’S THERE?” I yelled.

  No answer. I froze and waited. Nothing. I crawled forward really fast a few feet and abruptly stopped, hoping to provoke more movement. Nothing.

  “Are you there, Sergei?” I said in firm Russian, knowing I’d just seen him downstairs. “Vy tam, Sergei?”

  I waited there a few more minutes and then made my way back out of the shallow attic. I needed to pay the ambassador a visit. He’d told me not to be shy about interrupting him to share any tidbits of conspicuous news.

  I searched the entire mansion until I finally found him outside in front of the garage smoking a cigarette and, of all things, polishing his beautiful sports roadster—the little dog, Pie-Pie, sitting in the driver’s seat, and Stewart, the U.S. Marine, standing guard beside the garage door.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador,” I said, only to have him remain focused on the wax he was wiping from the rear bumper.

  “Stewart!” he said without looking at him. “Give us a moment here.”

  The big marine nodded and walked toward the main house.

  “What can I do for you, Prescott?” he said, the white rag circling.

  “I heard someone up in the attic just now above your bedroom.”

  “Yeah?” he said with no surprise, his eyes fixed on the paint as if it were gold.

  “Yes, sir. I believe your suspicions are correct. I didn’t see anyone in the flesh, but my instincts tell me someone was there, and they certainly didn’t want me to know they were there.”

  “It was Sergei,” he said. “I’ll bet the farm on it.”

  “Well, I had just seen him in the kitchen five minutes earlier.”

  “What were you doing in the kitchen, Prescott?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind.”

  I frowned at his remark, but he didn’t see it. Hell, he never so much as peeked my way.

  “As I was saying, Mr. Ambassador, I’d just seen him five minutes earlier.”

  “And when he saw you, Prescott, he rushed upstairs and removed the microphone that was placed there yesterday.”

  I waited for him to say something else, but he was transfixed on the polish. I could sense he had the weight of the Soviet world on his shoulders. Or maybe he was thinking about his ex-wife, Louise Bryant, or some other woman in his life. I wondered. He was so mysterious. The rag circling harder with every second, he finally continued talking to it rather than me it seemed, and his jaw clinched tighter and tighter.

  “They’re so damn stupid to think I’d say anything of value while in my study. Boggles the mind! They honestly believe I have absolutely no fucking idea they’ve ever been up there piddling around. They’re so scientifically smart that it has rendered them socially inept. No proper instincts whatsoever!”

  “Either that or they simply think we Americans are wholly ignorant people, sir.”

  “Stay on top of this,” he said, as if not hearing a word I’d uttered. “I don’t want to catch them. Ever! Does us no good! I just want to be completely aware of their entire setup. It will serve the next ambassador well to know exactly how they’re spying on us.”

  He stood and walked around to the front of the car, lifting the hood. “Carl is not here at the moment, Prescott. What do you know about engines?”

  “Plenty,” I said, walking over.

  “Good. It may look beautiful, but it won’t start. And it’s not the battery. Just had a new one put in.”

  “Do you mind?” I said, signaling that I’d like to take a look. He nodded and moved aside. I leaned over the engine to get a bird’s-eye view, looking in every direction before jiggling various wires. “Could be a problem with the electrical portion of the ignition switch, a short or something,” I said. “Or, maybe even a plugged exhaust system. I’ll need some time to diagnose.”

  “There’s a toolbox behind you just inside the garage there,” he said, and I immediately went to retrieve it.

  “There you are, William!” said an approaching Bobby. “We’ve been searching every room in Spaso trying to find you.”

  “Well, you found me,” said Bullitt, rag still in hand. “What is it?”

  “You called a meeting, William,” said a confused-looking Bobby, who was accompanied by four others.

  “I sent Charles to the chancery to tell you that I’d like to move the meeting to tomorrow,” said Bullitt, gazing at his watch. “You didn’t get the message, Bobby?”

  “He never—”

  “It’s fine,” said Bullitt. “You’re all here. We may as well take advantage of it. That damn Charles! He probably got sidetracked.”

  “I spoke to him this morning,” said Bobby. “He mentioned nothing of a changed meeting time, but did say he was planning to fetch your ballerina friend for you, William. Maybe he—”

  “He’s not fetching anyone for me. Her name is Lolya Lep-ishinkaya and she happens to be one of the finest dancers in the entire Moscow Ballet. She’s giving private lessons to Anne. Is that okay with you, Bobby?”

  “Sorry, William. Your daughter is fortunate to have such a willing teacher. And Charles did indeed say she was a brilliant performer.”

  Charles Thayer was whom he was referring to, the ambassador’s very young, “do everything” assistant and interpreter.

  “Anne loves the performing arts,” said Bullitt. “She and I recently attended a play called ‘The Negress and the Monkey.’ She thoroughly enjoyed herself.”

  Upon hearing Bullitt’s comment, I damn near dropped the flashlight I’d just taken out of the toolbox. Something about the words negress and monkey thrown together so casually didn’t fall easily upon my ears. Nevertheless, I ignored it and began digging through the toolbox in search of some fresh batteries.

  “Chip fou
nd you some more wooden coat hangers, William,” said thirty-year-old George Kennan, a nice, handsome gentleman I had met already at the chancery, one of the ambassador’s third secretaries. I’d met all of the staff. The other third secretaries were Bertel Kuniholm and Chip Bohlen, both in their thirties, both in attendance.

  “Ah, yes, wooden hangers!” said Bullitt, walking around to the driver’s side door, Pie-Pie panting behind the wheel. “Did you find any more of that good vodka we had last weekend, George?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Excellent!” said the ambassador, actually cracking a smile. “Nothing like drinking vodka in Russia! When in Rome, right, gentlemen?”

  We all nodded, Bobby placing his hand on my shoulder, his big grin signaling how happy he was to see me. I was still thinking about the oddity of the ambassador asking his third secretary to fetch wooden hangers for him.

  “Or in this case . . . when in Russia!” continued Bullitt. “Their vodka is about the only thing I can find worth praising at the moment. Can you handle this, Prescott, maybe get her up and running for me?”

  “I’m sure I can, sir,” I said, turning the flashlight on and leaning over the engine again.

  The ambassador smiled. “You’re a lifesaver, Prescott. You may never get him back, Bobby. I hate to tell you that.”

  Bobby half smiled, all six of the men now standing beside the driver’s side door while I continued examining the engine. Of course I positioned myself so that I could still see them through the space between the open hood and frame. How could I not?

  “I can’t help but be envious of you, William,” said Loy Henderson, admiring the white roadster. Loy was the second secretary. He was balding and had a rather egg-shaped head. Booby had informed me that Loy was forty-two. In fact, he’d informed me of all of the top staff’s ages.

  Bullitt actually put some more polish on the rag, squatted down, and began shining the door again, his five staffers standing around him. It was as if the ambassador was suffering from some sort of compulsive disorder. He started talking to the rag again. “I cabled Washington at five this morning and informed the president of the latest regarding Stalin and his hopes for a partnership with us against Japan.”

  “I fear the Soviet leader has expectations that most assuredly will never be met,” said Bobby. “Am I correct?”

  “Yes,” said Bullitt.

  Kennan shook his head in subtle disbelief. “It’s like talking to a wall. Does Mr. Stalin somehow not see—”

  “Again,” said Bullitt, “it is Maxim Litvinov whom I’m dealing with here. He may have the title of People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, but he’s actually just Stalin’s mouthpiece. He continues to ask if the president will somehow agree to a pact of nonaggression between the U.S., Japan, China, and the Soviet Union. I told him, very diplomatically, that the answer was no . . . again. Still, as it stands today, they are insistent on securing a partnership in the Far East.”

  “And what of their end of the original promises they made last year?” said Bobby. “Have they paid a penny yet of the war debt they agreed to finally make good on?”

  “No,” said Bullitt, still squatting. “Back in January I thought Litvinov was about to crack and pay up. I believed they were so worried about an immediate attack from Japan that they’d pay us in the hopes that we’d protect them. But now it seems Litvinov is duplicitous in his thinking—still fearful on one hand, but on the other, of the belief that there will be no such attack. He’s halfway convinced himself that Roosevelt will prevent any such attack anyway, or side with Stalin if war did break out. And as far as promises go, Bobby, theirs are all empty it seems.”

  “This is not going as we’d originally hoped,” said Chip Bohlen. “We’re spinning our wheels.”

  Bullitt stood and flicked some lint off of the right sleeve of his fancy blue suit jacket. As fine as my suits were, all of them made in Paris, his were even finer. I’d learned that his had also been tailor-made in Paris. He was the first man I’d met who actually primped more than I, and I’d even overheard him telling his French servant that he didn’t give a damn about coming across too bourgeoisie in the eyes of the plain-dressing Soviets.

  “I’m still hopeful, gentlemen,” said Bullitt, throwing the rag down and lighting a cigarette. “We’re not as prejudiced under Roosevelt as we were back in 1919 when Republicans were in charge. As a result, however naïvely optimistic I may be acting, I’m hoping the Soviets will see this new us and begin engaging in more honorable . . . truthful talks.”

  “Then again,” said Kennan, “you’re not dealing with Lenin like you were back then on your secret visit. This is Stalin, who appears to have been born without a conscience. And didn’t he and Litvinov also agree to allow Americans here the right to freedom of religion and security of status? Seems hardly to be the case!”

  Kennan, who sounded the most intellectual of them all, cleared his throat, as if summoning up the courage to continue offering his rather gutsy opinion to Bullitt. And he did.

  “Why isn’t the president being more assertive here, William? I worry that he’s more concerned with assuaging the feelings of our countrymen rather than actually untangling these knotty problems of war debt and Communist Party interference in America’s domestic affairs. Does he simply want to massage his relationship with Stalin so as to make Americans feel safe and not grow more fearful of this rising madman, Adolf Hitler? I mean, it’s one thing to—”

  “You’re wrong!” said Bullitt. “The president is depending on us to handle this. You don’t think he has enough on his plate domestically, George? Americans are standing in fucking soup lines! You don’t think he’s losing sleep over that, George?”

  “Yes! But Germany and Japan are not going to just quietly go away because the president is friendly with the Soviets.”

  “Friendly my ass!” said Bullitt. “I just told you we’re continuing to say no to any nonaggression pact. Litvinov is actually worried that Japan may be picking up signals that Roosevelt’s relationship with Stalin is strained. In fact, he has asked me not to say anything publically that might suggest such, as that would embolden Japan. As a result, I’ve made him no such promise. I’m saving it as leverage.”

  “Smart,” said Bertel Kuniholm, who’d remained rather quiet to this point. “Perhaps dangerous, but . . . smart.”

  “Our government,” said Bullitt, “will never give either a straight loan or an uncontrolled credit to the Soviets, and Litvinov never suggested that he wanted either. But now . . . oh now . . . he has the temerity to say he wants either a straight loan to make purchases anywhere, or uncontrolled credit to make purchases in the U.S. I told him a loan was off the table, and that at least ten percent interest would have to be built into any credit agreement. Still, he’s fixated more on a cash loan.”

  “Yeah, so they can buy weapons with it,” said Kennan.

  “Shit,” said Bullitt, smoking. “This entire problem hinges on the way a memorandum was written up during the initial agreement. The president uses the words loan and credit interchangeably. In this case, however, he used the word loan when he was strictly meaning credit. So the actual word credit was never written down, only the word loan. Litvinov is quick to point that out.”

  “Hell,” said Bobby, “Litvinov knew we meant credit.”

  “There’s this to consider,” said Bullitt. “The Soviets owe England, France, Germany, and others far more than they owe us. So, in Litvinov’s defense, he feels that they cannot just pay us off or other nations will demand immediate pay as well. He reasons that if, however, we give them a loan that is double the debt they owe us, the other nations will see it as a type of deal they simply can’t afford. He says the interest rate we agree to build in will ultimately leave the U.S. and Soviet Union on agreeable terms.”

  “Ah!” said Loy. “So their idea of progress with these other countries is to kick the can down the road and hope that they magically forget what is owed them. Brilliant!”

 
Bullitt took a drag and frowned. “We’re not worried about these other damn countries right now, Loy. It’s about getting our debt settled. Focus! Can you do that for me, Loy?”

  “Yes, but forget about the nations they owe money to for a second here. Besides the obvious concern regarding Germany, I’m growing weary of the aforementioned Japan and the ever-so-enigmatic Italy. I just can’t help but envision men like Emperor Hirohito and Mussolini doing the unthinkable. I’m hoping like hell we can keep the Soviets with us, regardless of what happens.”

  Bullitt threw his cigarette on the ground and picked up Pie-Pie. “Well, the good thing is, in terms of Litvinov and me, things are still fluid. He may not admit it, but he knows that the ‘gentleman’s agreement’ was signed between him and Roosevelt last November, in which they agreed to have ongoing talks about payment of debt. He can’t run from it. Changing the subject, men, what’s the latest on the Christmas Eve party? I want it to be mainly comprised of American guests, but let’s invite the French, German, and U.K. ambassadors as well. And try to get Litvinov and maybe some members of the Politburo there. They probably won’t attend, but give it a shot. How’s the planning coming along with Charles? Talk to me, George.”

  “It’s full steam ahead, William. Charles has had no hiccups. The event will show Spaso House off like nothing they’ve ever seen before.”

  “Good. But it’s the party in the spring that I want to really be our main event. We’ll call it the Spring Festival. We have seven months to plan it, so everyone should be able to come. And at the Spring Festival, I want every damn important Soviet in the country to attend, including Stalin. I want them to have the best time of their lives. When they think of America, I want them to think of bliss. I want them to equate America with a big, fucking, never-ending party.”