He was trying to think of a solution, when he heard the Soviet he had argued with moments before suggesting they amputate the man’s arm.
“If we do not, he will die,” he said in his heavily accented English.
The trapped man shook his head and screamed at them to keep trying to lift the machine. The workers obeyed, but another big wave hit the ship, pushing the machine onto the man’s elbow. He bellowed as if he’d been split in half. The workers froze, but one bent down to pick up a rusty saw. Seeing this, the injured man found his voice and yelled like a lunatic.
“If anyone so much as tickles a muscle, I swear I’ll kill him,” he said in perfect English.
The workmen looked at one another, hesitating, but the one with the saw approached the man.
“Wait!” Jack broke in. “I think I know how to get him out!”
They all stood motionless, except for the white-haired Soviet.
“Busybody American! Get out of hold, right now!” He shoved Jack violently back.
“I’m telling you, I know how to move the machine! I know the Cleveland like it was my own child!” he countered.
The Soviet made as if to strike Jack, but the trapped man’s commanding voice stopped him. “Damn it, Sergei! Let him approach,” he bellowed.
The white-bearded Soviet mumbled something in Russian before stepping aside, and Jack was able to kneel by the injured man. He didn’t seem Slavic. His features, dripping with sweat, were a picture of despair. Jack guessed he was well into his fifties.
“You really think you can free me?” the man asked.
“I believe so, sir.” Jack assessed the position of the trapped man in relation to the position of the machine. “I’ll need a couple of hex keys and a hammer.”
“Yeah? OK, kid. I hope you know what you’re doing. Didn’t you hear him?” he screamed. “Give him what he wants! Quickly!”
Once Jack had the tools in his hands, he set about the machine with feline agility. He began unscrewing some thick bolts, removed a cam, and gained access to a hatch, through which he inserted another hex key. He worked as quickly as possible, but the hold’s constant jolting in the storm made progress difficult.
“Shit!” complained Jack when one of the keys escaped his grasp. “I need someone to help me. You! Come here!” he called to the Soviet workers surrounding him, but they merely looked at him in a daze. Jack repeated his request, but nobody responded. “You damned morons!” he bellowed in Russian. “Don’t just stand there watching. Give me a hand!”
Hearing the order in their own language, the workers gave a start, and, ignoring the creaking bulkheads, they rushed to help Jack. He grabbed the hex key again and continued barking out instructions in Russian to the astonishment of the trapped man, who watched their attempt to save him through a face disfigured by pain. A final screw popped out, and the machine divided into two blocks, as if it had been decapitated.
Jack took a deep breath before turning to the workmen.
“Now! All together!” he ordered.
At his command, the workers grabbed hold of the section that still crushed the man’s arm, tensed their muscles, and, with a Herculean effort, tried to lift it. But the machine didn’t budge. Jack kept trying until he felt faint.
“It’s useless!” Sergei complained. “We couldn’t lift it with a hoist. Vasil, fetch the saw.”
Jack looked at the injured man as he tried to get his breath back. He felt for him. He was starting to walk away so that he wouldn’t have to witness the butchery, when suddenly he stopped.
“Wait! How many cars like this are there in the hold?” Jack pointed at a black automobile lashed to a bulkhead.
“Twelve,” the injured man said in a tiny voice.
“That’ll do,” said Jack, and he dashed off toward the vehicles. A few moments later, he ran back, carrying six car jacks. “Quickly! Get them under. Find firm resting points. There,” he said, pointing, “and under that plate, there.”
A group of workers positioned the devices as instructed, and on Jack’s command, they began to operate them simultaneously, while the rest of the men kept the machine from tipping over. Jack told the men to get ready. He warned them that they would have only a couple of seconds to get the injured man out before the machine came straight down again.
“Now!” he yelled.
As one, the workers pulled the man out from under the machine, just before another wave made the machine lose its support and smash to the ground.
When Jack had recovered his breath, he rubbed his bruised hands, then turned to see what state the man he had just saved was in. He couldn’t: the medic had already taken him away.
7
At breakfast, the conversation among the passengers revolved around the damage caused by the storm, and Jack’s heroics. While some were amazed at the willowy young man who, it was rumored, had lifted up a steel machine using only his bare hands, others wondered what kind of person spoke perfect Russian and was able to dismantle such a complex industrial contraption. A few branded him a fool for having entered the hold despite the explicit orders not to do so.
Walter chatted merrily with the passengers, offering details on what had happened as if he had been involved himself, celebrating the feat as he shared the bottles of vodka that a Soviet officer had given them as a reward for Jack’s help. When Walter didn’t know what else to add to the story, he stashed the cigarettes he’d sweet-talked from his audience, finished off the bottle, commandeered another bottle that was half full, and returned to where Jack was savoring the second of the cookies that constituted his breakfast. He took out a cigarette and offered it to his friend. Then he waited for Jack to have his first puff before asking him who the injured man had been.
“I have no idea,” he insisted as he enjoyed the feel of the warm smoke. “But he was American. Of that I’m sure.”
Hearing this, Walter let out his frustration with a kick to his bunk. For a moment he had thought the man Jack had saved might have been an important Russian official who could reward them with some kind of plum position.
“American . . . ,” he grumbled, and he took a long swig. “Well, those chumps took the bait.” He showed Jack the handful of cigarettes he’d coaxed from the group of passengers. “Can you imagine the headlines we could’ve got in Pravda, Jack?” He traced an arch over his head with both hands: “‘American immigrant saves Soviet dignitary.’ Now that would have been a good way to make our entry into the Soviet Union!”
“Truthfully, I’m more worried about arriving with a pair of healthy hands,” Jack said, rubbing his bruises. Then he looked at Walter and saw just how intoxicated his friend had become, his halfway-closed eyelids barely concealing his glazed eyes. “And you’d do well to go easy on the vodka. You’re swaying more than you were yesterday in the storm.”
“It must be someone important, or those Russians wouldn’t have gone out of their way to help him,” Walter insisted.
Jack was surprised by the comment. After all, if the Russians were as egalitarian as Walter proclaimed, they would have made the same effort to save the man had he been a lowly peasant.
Noticing Jack’s expression, Walter tried to defend his words. “Of course, all I mean is, he must be an influential figure, that guy. Not necessarily a rich man, but a journalist who sympathizes with the regime, or maybe an important American Communist. We should make the most of this.” He took another swig of vodka and gave Jack a slap on the back.
Jack raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know whether the man he’d saved was really someone important. But even if he was, Jack was wary enough of these people to know that it was best to keep his distance.
He was about to sip his coffee, when Sue appeared. She’d been up on deck for some fresh air. Walter offered her the bottle, but she refused. She sat between the two of them and put her arms around them to bring them closer.
“You won’t believe this.”
“Believe what?” answered Jack and Walter, almost in unison.<
br />
“The man you saved, Jack. I’ve found out who he is,” she boasted with an anxious smile.
“He’s Russian, right?” Walter put in.
“No! Much better than that. He’s Wilbur Hewitt, the general manager of the factory we’re going to!”
“Are you sure? It can’t be!” A nervous smile spread across Jack’s face.
“Hear that, Jack? I told you. We’ve struck gold! You saved our future boss’s ass.” Walter’s little eyes were bright under his spectacles, as if he’d just unwrapped his birthday present.
“But that’s not all,” Sue announced.
“It’s not? What else is there? Come on, out with it!” Jack pressed her.
Sue paused for dramatic effect, aware she had the full attention of the two young men.
“All right.” She looked at Walter, and then Jack. “Are you ready? Mr. Hewitt has invited Jack to join him for lunch on the bridge today!”
“What do you mean?” Jack thought she was joking.
“Ha! Didn’t you hear her?” Walter stood and attempted a series of ridiculous dance steps as he tried to drink from the empty bottle. “This is incredible news, Jack! You have to win him over! Tell him about us. We have to make the most of this.” He slapped Jack on the back again. “No. Even better: ask him for a reward for saving him! One for you, and one for us for bringing you here!”
Jack burst into laughter at Walter’s outlandish behavior. He was clearly drunk. When he’d managed to control his emotions, Jack asked Sue how she’d found out about it. The young woman explained that she’d overheard a white-bearded Soviet talking to the ship’s captain. Apparently, he wasn’t just an ordinary worker—he was some kind of official that the Soviets had assigned to Mr. Hewitt to escort him during his stay in Russia.
“I heard them call him Sergei Loban,” said Sue.
Jack listened to Sue’s story with the enthusiasm of a boy reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. After a few seconds, he took a sip of his coffee to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“Well,” he replied, “in that case, I guess we should celebrate. Coffee?” He offered his cup to Sue. However, unexpectedly, Walter stopped him.
“Sue doesn’t drink coffee. You should . . .” He barely had control of his tongue. “You should know by now that Sue doesn’t like coffee. Ain’t that right, honey?” His voice had turned from cheerful to bitter.
Jack was shocked at Walter’s outburst, but he kept silent.
“And you should know that I don’t like other people deciding for me,” Sue said reproachfully to her fiancé before accepting Jack’s cup. Walter was wide-eyed with disbelief in spite of his drunkenness.
“Ha! But you do what Jack tells you to do, huh? Why doesn’t that surprise me? Oh, of course! Because Jack’s having lunch with the big shots! Eh, Jack? You’ll be someone important soon,” he mocked. His glazed eyes seemed to have difficulty focusing. He turned toward Sue and looked at the coffee that the young woman was about to drink. “Leave that, honey. If you want coffee, I’ll make you one,” he sputtered, and he tried to snatch the cup from her, so clumsily that the coffee spilled all over her beautiful orange scarf.
Sue was silent for a moment. Then, red with rage, she smashed the cup against the floor, and, cursing Walter, she left the dormitory in the direction of the deck.
Jack watched the scene without knowing what to say, unsettled by Walter’s possible misinterpretation of what had merely been a friendly gesture toward Sue.
“I’m sorry, Walter, I didn’t mean to—”
“Really?” he shot back. “If you really were sorry, you wouldn’t flirt with my girl at every opportunity,” he blurted out, holding on to the bunk bed to stop himself from falling over.
“You’re kidding me, right? Anyone can see I was just trying to be friendly.” Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Then be friendly to your bunkmate, or dance with the captain, or go feed the dolphins . . . but stop horning in on our life.” He looked at Jack as if he were speaking to a stranger. “Do you think I haven’t noticed? Always playing the big man . . . And why the hell did you say you two were married, huh?” He kicked the coffee cup. “Shit! I don’t even know why I helped you.”
Jack looked at his friend. It was obvious that he’d drunk far more than he should, but that didn’t excuse his nasty tirade. He tried to make Walter take a step back, but he managed only to infuriate him even more.
“Save your smooth talking for some other woman!” Walter bellowed. “We’re not at school anymore, and Sue isn’t one of those teenage girls you stole from me.”
“Walter, please. Everyone’s staring at you.”
“Oh, I see! Well, when you hit me in that coffee shop, you didn’t mind me being stared at. Don’t like it when you’re not the center of attention, do you?” he jabbered.
Jack knew it was just the vodka talking, so he decided to put an end to the conversation and get away from there. But when he went to walk off, Walter stopped him, grabbing him by the arm.
“Let go of me!” Jack growled, shaking Walter off. “Have you looked at Sue? You must be deluded if you think she’s the kind of woman I’d lose my head over!”
As he said the words, Jack realized how cruel his response had been. He considered apologizing, but pride gripped him. Instead, he looked down in silence, sat on the bunk bed, and sank his head into his hands. When he looked up again, he found Sue, watching the scene from the stairs, tears in her eyes. He felt like a tyrant. It had been a reaction to being provoked, but neither Walter nor Sue had deserved his harsh words.
At five minutes before noon, Jack looked at himself in the mirror one last time. For a fleeting moment, he saw himself as the attractive young man who’d conquered Dearborn. He adjusted his jacket, checked his shave, and put on the felt hat that Harry Daniels, his bunkmate, had lent him. To his mind, his getup was the mark of someone respectable enough to at least not be branded a pauper. He made a final correction to his tie, checked the time, and contemplated his companions’ empty bunks. He regretted they weren’t there; he’d have liked to have shared the moment with them, but it had been a while since they’d disappeared. Finally, he picked up the invitation that a crew member had delivered to him, took a deep breath, and headed up to the deck. He had no idea what his meeting with Wilbur Hewitt held in store, but he was determined to make the most of any opportunity that presented itself.
On the bridge, he found Sergei Loban, wearing a green dress coat with red epaulets, his expression that of a dog ready to defend its bone. The Soviet official grunted something like a good afternoon in English, and without saying another word, led him to the adjoining room where lunch was to be served. Once inside, Jack saw that it was an old cabin that had been beautifully and painstakingly refurbished. The damask-lined walls complemented the beige upholstery of the chairs, and the table, covered in an ostentatious ivory lace tablecloth, was set for six with porcelain crockery and an army of forks, spoons, and knives. Jack was surprised to find the dining room empty, but he gave nothing away to Sergei. Instead, he stood and waited with the Soviet until, a few minutes later, the ship’s captain and his boatswain appeared, impeccably uniformed, along with a stranger in a brown suit and a red bow tie almost as striking as his bushy mustache. Finally, with his jacket unbuttoned and his left arm in a sling, Wilbur Hewitt, the man Jack had saved, made his entrance.
As he took his seat, Mr. Hewitt eyed Jack through his gold monocle, before erupting into an effusive display of gratitude.
“So this is the young man to whom I owe the honor of waking this morning attached to my left arm!” he bellowed. “Wipe that funereal look off your face and smile a little! If it weren’t for you, those Russians would’ve turned me into an amputee.”
Between grimaces of pain, Wilbur Hewitt made the introductions himself. Nicholas Raymeyer, the captain of the SS Cliffwood, with more than twenty years’ service in the American Scantic Line, and his boatswain, Mr. Jones, congratulated Jack on his t
imely intervention. The man with the red bow tie turned out to be Louis Thomson, the renowned journalist of the New York Times, a newspaper of which Hewitt confessed to be a fervent reader. Of Sergei Loban, all he said was that, considering he was the liaison officer that the Soviet authorities had provided him, his English was terrible.
“Still, rough manners aside, I have to admit that he performs his duties with surprising efficiency. As for me”—he removed his monocle and pushed out his chest, inserting the thumb on his healthy hand under his armpit—“you’ve probably heard who I am by now. My name’s Wilbur Hewitt, industrialist and graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, financier and head of operations for the launch of the Gorkovsky Avtomobilny Zavod, more commonly known simply as the Avtozavod, the greatest car manufacturing plant in the Soviet Union.” Then he offered Jack a business card on which, under the letterhead, appeared the title “General Manager for Foreign Affairs of the Ford Motor Company, USA.”
“Shall we sit?” the captain suggested.
His tone told Jack that the question was just that, a question, not a suggestion. From his chair, Wilbur Hewitt looked at the seat that remained unoccupied.
“Yes, yes. What’re we to do? Let’s start. As you can see,” he addressed Jack again, “one word from me, and I can mobilize five thousand workers to screw bolts for ten hours, but when it comes to my beloved—”
At that moment, the sound of the dining room door opening interrupted his soliloquy.
“I’m sorry to be late,” a voice said.
Instantly, the men who’d just sat down stood up. Wilbur Hewitt smiled from his chair, filled his glass, and raised it in a toast, giving a giant smile.
“Jack Beilis, I have the pleasure of introducing you to my pride and joy, my only niece, Elizabeth Hewitt.”
Jack managed to stammer, “Pleased to meet you.” Then, he waited for the others to sit, and without taking his eyes off her, he did the same. At the first opportunity, he took a sip of water to try to loosen the knot that gripped his throat. Discovering that the person for whom the all-powerful Wilbur Hewitt was waiting was his niece certainly came as a surprise, but what had really left him speechless was realizing that the young woman of intoxicating beauty who had just walked through the door was the same woman who’d captivated him at the salt-fish market.
The Last Paradise Page 8
