Our Woman in Moscow

by Beatriz Williams

  Of course, if you’re not interested in a modeling career, this is no hindrance at all. Miss Barbara Kingsley, on the other hand, is hell-bent on landing the cover of Vogue, and if this world were a just world she should, because those headshots aren’t just out of sight, they’re practically out of the whole goddamn universe. The best test shots we’ve ever taken. But this world is not a just world, and Barbara happens to be a Negro. So after a while Herbert sets down the photograph and sits back in his chair to smoke.

  “Shame,” he says.

  “You just watch. I’m going to make her a sensation, I tell you, if I have to sleep with every ad man and magazine editor in town.”

  “America isn’t ready for a girl like that.”

  “I’m counting on it. I say we use it to our advantage. She’ll be a surprise—she’ll be a scandal. The publicity, Herbert. Nothing ever got publicity because it was the same as what came before.” I reach over his desk and pluck back the photograph. “Besides, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. She’s got a look, Herbert. What was the first thing you taught me? The look is everything. The next look, not the same old. She’s the next look. She’s the face of the future.”

  I’ll say this for Herbert, he’s no bigot—at least no more than we human animals can help, having bigotry bred into our blood, it seems. Certainly, he isn’t against a Negro model on principle, and the professional in him would have to be blind not to see Barbara Kingsley’s potential. But he doesn’t want the trouble, not at his age. And he doesn’t want me to have the trouble because he loves me.

  “Besides, she needs this,” I continue, knowing Herbert to be kind of soft in the region of his heart. “She’s got a sick mother, comes from nothing. She’ll work hard and keep herself clean. She knows what’s at stake, she knows she’ll have to be better and smarter and cleaner than any other girl in the shop, and she’s willing to do whatever it takes. We’ve got a chance to make a real difference for her, Herbert.”

  “Shit,” he says.

  “Good. That’s settled. I’ll get the prints made and start working the phones today. And now I’ve got a question for you.”

  Herbert makes a resigned gesture of his good arm.

  “What’s your opinion of this McCarthy fellow?”

  “McCarthy?”

  “You know who I mean. The senator with the bee in his bonnet about the Communists, holds all the hearings. The Hollywood blacklist. Him.”

  Herbert makes a noise of disgust.

  “Me too.” I reach for his cigarettes and light one for myself. “But you know, there’s a grain of truth there. For example, I personally knew at least one Communist working for the US government. The foreign diplomatic service. He was stationed at embassies around the world. And I can’t say for certain he wasn’t passing on information to the Soviets, all that time.”

  The funny thing is, Herbert makes no sign of surprise whatsoever. He just asks, “How do you know this fellow?”

  “Met him when I was in Rome.”

  “How do you know he’s still a Communist? A lot of us were Communists.”

  “Herbert! You don’t say!”

  He shrugs in his lopsided way. “Seemed like the humane way forward. Came to my senses when I saw what that goddamn thug Stalin was up to.”

  “Well, this fellow’s different. He’s a true believer. He’ll rationalize anything.” I pause to inhale. “He’s also married to my sister.”

  Herbert tries to purse his lips for a whistle. Doesn’t quite succeed. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

  “Because I’m not a snitch, Herbert, for all my many faults. I make no windows into men’s souls, as a wise woman said before me, and anyway he’s my brother-in-law, for God’s sake.”

  “So what gives now?” Herbert asks. “Maybe something to do with Sumner Fox walking through my office yesterday?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Walls made of glass, my dear.” He waves his hand. “And you can’t mistake Sumner Fox, not if you’re a Yale man.”

  “Well, I’m not a Yale man, nor yet a football lunatic. I never could see the point of grown men smashing each other up on a grass field for no good reason. But I do pay attention when the FBI wants to ask me a question or two about my sister.”

  “You need a lawyer?”

  “Don’t worry, the family’s lousy with them. I was just thinking about the Rosenbergs.”

  Herbert makes another noise. “Fixed trial if I ever saw one.”

  “Well, maybe it was. But there must be a whole stack of evidence they couldn’t reveal in a public court of law, because it’s top secret. That just stands to reason. And you can’t deny the Soviets exploded an atom bomb in—what was it, ’49?—anyway, long before anyone expected they could. You can’t tell me there weren’t scientists leaking information, probably a whole network of them, whether the Rosenbergs were in it or not. The thing is, most of those traitors probably didn’t consider themselves traitors at all. Just smart, well-meaning men like my brother-in-law, who thought they were doing the world a favor by bringing forward the great Communist revolution.”

  Herbert stubs out his cigarette and folds his arms at me. “So what’s your point, doll?”

  “I don’t know what my point is. I guess I’m just trying to figure something out.”

  The morning sun leaks through a corner of the modern plate glass behind him. My God, he looks so much older than he did when we first met—so much older than when I started working for him. I used to take dictation at this desk, pencil poised, while Herbert rattled off a mile a minute. Now his face sags to the right and his eyes have that rheumy sheen to them, so you wonder if he can really see you at all. Over the years, his attitude toward me has taken on an avuncular quality, which might strike some of you as distasteful since we began as lovers. But nothing ever stays the same, does it? The accumulation of age and experience changes us daily. If it doesn’t, you’d better worry.

  Still, Herbert’s changed more than most. He drinks his coffee with an unsteady hand and contrives to light another cigarette while the wheels spin in his head, manufacturing advice to his unruly protégée.

  At last he speaks in his slow, halting voice.

  “Do as you think best, doll. That’s why I hired you.”

  I keep myself busy as best I can. I order the prints for Barbara’s portfolio and make at least two dozen calls on her behalf. By lunchtime, I’ve found my stride. I prop my feet on the desk and call up Barbara herself to deliver the good news. I feel like Santa Claus.

  “That’s nice, sugar,” she says, “but I’ll wait to celebrate once I see my face on something bigger than an Aunt Jemima advertisement.”

  “Now, Barbara. That’s the wrong way to look at things. Sunny side up, I always say. In the first place, that’s a big account, Aunt Jemima. In the second place, we’ve got the ball rolling, haven’t we?”

  “Sure we do. Just like that Sisyphus fellow.”

  “Say, I’ll tell you what. I’ll take you out tonight, champagne and everything, some nice club where we can listen to good music and get our picture in the paper.”

  “Have you got rocks for brains, sister? Just what club do you think is going to let the pair of us in, like one of those black-and-white cookies?”

  I stub out my cigarette. “I see what you mean.”

  “Think you can just snap your white fingers and say abracadabra?”

  I swing my feet to the floor and lean into the receiver. “You think I can’t? Is that some kind of challenge, Miss Kingsley?”

  “I got five bucks says we end up uptown at Smalls where they aren’t so particular about pedigree.”

  “You’re on. Meet me outside the Palmetto at eight thirty on the nose in your best dress. Some number that looks good in photographs, say.”

  “Oh, you think you got a plan, boss lady?”

  “Miss Kingsley,” I say, “we can’t miss.”

  All right, so I like to manage things. I like to take charge of people’s a
ffairs—it’s one of my many talents. Boss lady, Barbara called me, and what’s the matter with that? Someone has to be the boss, or nothing would get done. I’ve managed the careers of dozens of women—a few men, too—and nobody’s complained about the results, at least not to my face. The fact is, most people are too softhearted, or they lack a certain clarity of vision, or they don’t want to make mistakes, or—this is the big one—they’re afraid of what others will think of them. They don’t want to take that kind of responsibility. It’s hard work and requires you to make decisions people won’t like. But I’ll tell you what, there’s nothing like the satisfaction of a plan brought off to perfection, of knowing you’ve led your flock to greener pastures.

  It would make a nice, neat story to say that I became this way because of my father dying when I was eleven years old, and my mother sort of absolving herself of any further parental responsibilities because she had her grief to contend with. But I’m afraid I’ve always been a managing person, the kind of girl who brings home animals and organizes the canned vegetables according to the alphabet and puts together the neighborhood stickball teams.

  And there’s Iris. I was always protective of her, when we were growing up. There was the time we started at Chapin, a school far above our social standing as it then was, and while nobody dared to snub me they had no trouble snubbing Iris, so I spent that entire first year blackmailing girls to play with my sister and invite her to parties and that kind of thing. Iris never knew. Or when we used to summer with my grandparents in Glen Cove, Long Island, and Iris was afraid of every little thing, sailing and swimming—in the Sound, that is, instead of a nice safe swimming pool—and especially strangers.

  Anyway, her tender heart was staggered when Daddy killed himself. Mother had discovered the body first thing in the morning, so there was a terrifying fuss of screaming and telephones and ambulance men. Harry was off prepping at Hotchkiss by then, so it was just the two of us kids, Iris and me. She started having these strange shivering fits, so I took her into our room and crawled into bed with her to keep her warm. In those days nobody told you what to do with news like that—grief like that. Maybe a doctor would give you a sleeping pill or something, but otherwise you were just supposed to swallow it whole and not bother anybody else with the awkwardness of your sorrow. Fine for somebody like me, but for Iris? So I just held her and stroked her hair—didn’t say a thing. In the morning she came to and drank a little milk that I fetched for her, and a week later she marched bravely into St. James Episcopal Church on Madison Avenue for the funeral, holding my hand. She wore the navy blue dress and coat I picked out for her at Bergdorf’s. I was so proud of her. On our backs, I felt the prurient gazes of all the assembled so-called mourners, and I just thought to myself, You will never understand what a wreck she was, only a week ago.

  You know, I met a shrink at a party once who said I had a God complex, whatever that meant, and for a long time afterward our entire conversation made me indignant, whenever I thought about it. For the record, I don’t think I’m God, or even one of His archangels. Just a mortal woman doing her best with what’s entrusted to her care.

  But I do understand the frustration God feels when He shows us the right way forward, time and again, and what do we poor mortals do? We go the opposite direction, almost to spite Him, and sure enough we come to grief.

  Anyway, you can’t say Barbara Kingsley doesn’t follow my instructions to the letter. When the taxi screeches to a halt outside the Palmetto at eight thirty-two, out pops the most ravishing woman you’ve ever seen in your life, wearing a coat of white fox and a sequined dress that could bring sight to a blind man. I step forward and pay the driver myself, and he scoots right off. I turn back to gather my bevy of sirens and there stands Barbara, hands on hips, laughing her head off.

  “All right, boss lady,” she says. “I think I see your plan. Where do I fit in?”

  “Right at the front, Miss Kingsley.”

  I won’t lie, it took me all afternoon and a couple of years’ worth of favors to round up a cast like that one. I won’t name any names, but you’ve heard of them. I take Barbara’s arm and proceed straight up to the maître d’ at his elegant mahogany podium. “Reservation for eight, front row. Macallister party.”

  The maître d’ looks at me and at Barbara and at me again. He leans forward and says, under his breath, “There seems to have been some mistake.”

  “No mistake. A celebration dinner, a case of your best champagne at least.”

  “Miss Macallister, I don’t think you understand.”

  “What’s to understand? Are we not dressed in the approved style?”

  “No, your dress—your dress”—he’s trying to avert his eyes from Barbara—“your dress is—well enough—but we have other rules, madam, for the comfort of our customers—”

  “Oh. Oh, dear. I see what you mean. How careless of me.” I turn to the group behind me. “My darlings, there seems to be some trouble. Apparently somebody in our party isn’t quite up to snuff when it comes to the strict moral standards of the Palmetto Club. I expect it’s you, M—.”

  Everybody laughs. I spin back to the maître d’, who’s caught a glimpse of the faces assembled behind me and turned a fine shade of strawberry pink.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Billings. We quite understand your predicament. In fact, I feel certain that none of us will trouble you for entry into this”—I cast a supercilious glance around the lobby—“this fine old establishment, ever again. Will we, ladies?”

  “Certainly not,” says M—.

  “And we’ll pass the word to our friends, as well. God forbid the Palmetto should be forced to admit just anyone.”

  At that instant, the telephone rings atop Mr. Billings’s fine mahogany podium. He lifts the receiver and says Palmetto Club, quavering voice. Then—Yes, sir. Then—No, sir. Then—Right away, sir.

  He sets down the receiver and clears his throat.

  “If you’ll follow me, ladies,” he says, and he leads us through the archway into the club, where the world-famous Bobby Blue Orchestra tunes up to the rhythm of a dozen popping champagne corks.

  Iris

  April 1940

  Rome, Italy

  When Ruth stumbled out of her bedroom and asked where Iris was going, Iris told her a lie.

  “Just for a walk,” she said.

  Ruth looked her up and down, from the top of her dark, curling head, to her pink lipstick to her blue dress with the Peter Pan collar, crutches, stockings, leather slingback shoe, and plaster cast held an inch or two above the floorboards. When she returned to Iris’s face, she wore that tiny smile at the corner of her mouth. Ruth tightened the belt on her purple silk kimono. “Is that so?”

  “I need a little fresh air, that’s all.”

  “Sure you do. What about a hand with those stairs?”

  Iris hesitated. “All right.”

  Ruth lent her a steadying hand down the stairs and held the doors for her. Iris thanked her and started off down the sidewalk.

  Ruth called after her, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

  Iris couldn’t remember a time when Ruth wasn’t the prettiest, the cleverest, the most athletic of the Macallister twins. It simply went without saying!

  Although people said it anyway. They’d remarked on it all the time, when Ruth and Iris were growing up. The twins would sit side by side at the dinner table or on the beach or astride their ponies, and Ruth’s blond hair would catch the light and just shimmer, or she would open her mouth and say something brilliant, or she would leap off somewhere gracefully and long leggedly, and Iris would be left behind with her frizzy curls the color of dirt, her tied tongue, her pale and chubby limbs.

  A couple of months before the day that would mark the end of their old lives, Ruth and Iris had gone out sailing with their father and Grandpa Walker, who was their mother’s father. (Harry had been forced to stay at home and polish the silver, on account of some misdemeanor.) Iris had always liked her
grandfather. He didn’t talk much—leaving most communication to the women in his life—but he was calm and thoughtful and seemed to find the same things funny that Iris did. He had been in the garment business and made a killing during the war, and he and Granny Walker had invested some of their spoils in a rambling, half-timbered, brand-new pile in Glen Cove, Long Island, so their daughters could learn to sail and play tennis and meet all the right sorts. And it worked! The oldest had duly married a nice stockbroker from a good family—Harry and Ruth and Iris were born—the stock market set records practically every day. Nobody could say that the Walkers’ investment hadn’t made a solid return, indeed.

  Anyway, there they were, the halcyon end of summer of the halcyon final year of the Roaring Twenties. They’d been out cruising in Long Island Sound for a few hours, all the way down to Orient Point and back again. Ruth was an enthusiastic sailor—absolutely fearless. She shimmied up the mainmast and leaned out over the side as they heeled; she managed sheets confidently and relished the shivering of the sails as they changed tack. Her hair whipped in the wind; her bare skin glowed in the sunshine. As they approached the harbor, the breeze picked up, stronger and stronger until it was almost a gale. The boat tore through the water at a steep angle, foam flying from the bow, and Ruth screamed with delight. Iris sat paralyzed in the stern and prayed they wouldn’t capsize. Next to her, Daddy held the tiller with a firm, delicate touch and told her not to worry.

  Sure enough, they cruised right into the calm of the harbor a half hour later and moored without incident. But while they were loading up the car to drive back to Stoneywild—this was the name the Walkers had given to their infant estate—Iris happened to pass by Grandpa Walker just as he said to her father, “That’s some girl, that Ruth of yours. Hope you’ve got yourself a good baseball bat.”