The Little Tokyo Informant

by Andrew Rosenheim

  She handed him a sandwich – pork loin between slices of rye bread studded with caraway seeds and slathered with a sour mustard. She set down some garlicky pickles and small roasted beets with their stems still attached so they could be eaten by hand. She poured red wine from the bottle, after handing it to him so he could pull out the cork, which she’d partly pulled out before. ‘Is it okay?’ she asked as he took a sip, and he nodded. She said, ‘I like wine, but there isn’t much of it in Russia. Just vodka.’

  ‘Where I’m from everybody drinks beer.’

  They ate in silence until she sat back against the remains of a sandstone pier, looking out over the long valley of golden-coloured grass speckled with green by the occasional stand of trees. She said, ‘It is hard to believe that at this very moment Russia is covered with snow.’

  ‘They say it should help your side.’

  ‘I hope so. But it can’t be easy being a soldier there, whatever your side. My husband is itching to get back and fight, but the authorities say what he’s doing here is more important.’

  ‘Do you want to go back, too?’

  She lowered her chin shyly onto the front of her shirt. ‘Would you think less of me if I said no?’ Before he could reply, she added, ‘I hate the Nazis as much as anyone – I hate them as much as the Jews do.’ Her voice was protesting and Nessheim felt the urge to reassure her, but reassure her about what?

  ‘But …?’ he asked encouragingly.

  ‘I am not a counter-revolutionary, Agent Nessheim,’ and she smiled. ‘But I am not a great believer in Comrade Stalin either. I know too many people he has wronged – too many sent to camps, too many even executed for not believing enough. Yet it is amazing how many still believe.’

  ‘Like your husband?’

  She started to speak, then bit her lip and nodded grimly.

  ‘What exactly does he do here?’ He looked determinedly into the distance, miles away where the valley gave way to the towering San Rafael Mountains.

  ‘As you know, he is the Vice-Consul,’ she said. She added with a deliberately thick accent, ‘Is important job, no?’

  ‘Da,’ he said.

  ‘Good pronunciation.’

  ‘It’s the only Russian word I know.’

  She pointed at the remaining food. ‘If you do not eat that pickle, Nessheim, I will.’

  When they returned to the ranch the Santa Ynez party was back – there were half a dozen cars by the house. Nessheim helped Elizaveta untack the horses and then walked up towards the pond and the other buildings. Elizaveta said, ‘Let me show you where you are staying tonight. I hope you do not mind it is not in the main house – there are not so many bedrooms.’

  He got his bag from the car while she waited, then she led him along the edge of the pond towards a group of mixed oaks and pines. Nestled in a break in the trees was a small clapboard cabin with a sharply pitched roof.

  ‘Mrs Willems says this is for bachelor guests. But I hope you will be comfortable. There’s a bath inside, but if you want a shower there’s one outside, behind the cabin. Or have a swim in the pond – the water is warm. I’ll leave you now – I want to make sure everyone else is settled in. Drinks are at five thirty, but do please arrive when you like.’

  His cabin was simple but well appointed, with a desk and chair, a big dresser and watercolours of the Santa Ynez Mountains on the walls. The bed was cedar-boarded and stretched under the window, which was hooked open with a screen to keep out mosquitoes. The Chinese man had left Nessheim’s khaki suit jacket draped over the pillows.

  A door in the rear led to a bathroom, which had a big tub with claw feet and brass taps. From a rickety basin Nessheim drew and drank a tin cup of the water, which must arrive straight from the mountains.

  He stripped off and rubbed the long scar that ran down the right side of his chest. It was itching, as it was wont to do in the humid heat. Taking a towel from the bathroom he found the shower, a rudimentary affair with water running from a pipe that came out of the cabin. There was no soap, but he washed himself clean in the cool water that fell in unsteady streams from the rusty head. He was tired from the riding and stiff, so after drying off he went and lay down in his cabin, wearing just his boxer shorts, since the day was still warm. He read some more of Hemingway’s To Have and Have Not, finding it oddly dissatisfying. There was something phoney about the novel’s adventures, as if Hemingway’s hero actively wanted trouble. Having seen more than his share, Nessheim no longer thought it was something worth looking for.

  Drinks and dinner were in the main house, which had a long comfortable living room with views of the pond. At the room’s far end the Chinese man stood in a waiter’s coat by a makeshift bar. As Nessheim entered, Elizaveta came over, followed by Mikhail. She introduced them and the two men shook hands as Elizaveta went to talk with the other guests. The Russian was as tall as Nessheim and dressed in a thin grey corduroy suit with a white dress shirt and polished black ankle boots. He had a hawk nose, curved like a scimitar, and eyes that never seemed to blink. There was an intensity to him that was accentuated by the leanness of his physique and he held himself with the stiffness of a Crown Prince at court. He said, ‘I apologise for not greeting you when you arrived. But Elza said you had an excellent ride.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. What wonderful country around here.’

  ‘Yes. The Willems are very kind to let us use it in their absence. But excuse me – I believe I heard a car.’

  Nessheim took a bourbon and water from the Chinese man, with lots of ice in a tall glass. He was impressed by the ice – there was no way electricity would have got this far up the mountainside. The lamps in the room held light bulbs, so there had to be a generator somewhere.

  He took his drink and turned back to the room; a couple came up and introduced themselves – the man was named Nick and was a writer at MGM, and his wife Jean was an actress under contract to Paramount. They’d been to the ranch once before, they said, and Nick asked what Nessheim did. He hesitated, not sure how to respond. ‘I’m working now at AMP,’ he said and left it at that.

  ‘Ah, for the legendary Buddy Pearl,’ said Nick.

  ‘Legendary?’

  Jean swirled her drink. ‘Nick really means notorious but is too polite to say so.’

  ‘Honey,’ warned Nick.

  Nessheim said, ‘Don’t worry, I don’t actually work for him. Feel free to speak your mind.’

  ‘That’s big of you,’ said Jean sharply.

  Her husband rolled his eyes. ‘The Mukaseis brought a bottle of vodka along. I fear my wife has mistaken it for water.’

  A door opened at the far end of the room, next to a little hall by the front door, and a couple entered, followed by Mikhail again. Suddenly a frisson ran through the room like a charge of electricity, intangible but somehow there. Jean turned around, as if on command, and Nick tried not to stare but failed, tried not to stare again, and failed again. When Nessheim looked over he saw a dapper middle-aged man, wearing a suit and open-collared shirt, standing next to an absolutely stunning young girl. She wore a tight-fitting silk dress that showed off her precociously good figure. She had deep dark eyes, a cutie-pie dimple in her chin and dyed hair the colour of corn silk. Nessheim would have assumed she was the older man’s daughter if they hadn’t been holding hands in an interlocking grip that didn’t look remotely paternal.

  The man let go of the girl’s hand to greet Elizaveta and Mikhail, and the girl eyed the room with the innocent confidence of someone very pretty and very young. When her eyes got to Nessheim they lingered for a minute and he smiled at her – she smiled back. It was then he looked at her companion and realised it was Charlie Chaplin. What was he doing here? And where was his wife, Paulette Goddard?

  Jean said, ‘I didn’t know Charlie had two nieces.’

  Nick spat an ice cube back into his glass and started coughing. Jean turned to Nessheim and said, ‘Are you here because of John?’ He was about to ask who John was, but then he understood.
Waverley had entered the room. He saw Nessheim and nodded. But didn’t come over.

  Dinner was in a room next door with two silver candelabra hanging over a long table covered with a white linen table-cloth. Here the Old West met new money: the plates were china, the cutlery silver, the wine glasses had been hand-blown, but the food was ranch-style and they helped themselves from an old oak sideboard – steak and fried potatoes, boiled squash still steaming in a large crockery bowl. The Chinese man stood attentively in a corner while they served themselves, then returned to the kitchen through a swing door.

  At dinner the conversation down the table was loud and political. A tall bald man in a frock coat and a high-collared European shirt was insisting that the workers of America wanted to join their Russian comrades in the fight against fascism, but were being prevented by Western capitalist bosses sympathetic to Hitler. It sounded like the editorials of the Daily Worker, and about as interesting – even Mikhail could only manage a polite nod as the man went on.

  Chaplin was in the middle of the table, next to Elizaveta, and now spoke up. ‘The free world is with your countrymen, Mikhail. I hope they know that. If you think a broadcast from here would increase morale, you have only to ask.’

  Mikhail nodded, but seemed pensive. ‘That is very generous of you. Perhaps when the situation is clearer.’

  The writer Nick piped up. ‘They say Moscow will stand or fall by Christmas. Is that right?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Mikhail. ‘I am praying the snow continues.’

  ‘It can’t help that you have to watch your back in the east as well. Though I see they’ve pulled General Zhukov back to Moscow. That’s a good sign.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Chaplin asked mildly.

  Nick looked a little abashed, but ploughed on. ‘Well, that could mean the Russians have a secret weapon the Germans don’t know about.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mikhail asked sharply.

  ‘More divisions,’ said Nick. He explained, ‘If the Russians know the Japs—’

  A glass suddenly toppled over at the end of the table and broke, the bowl detaching from the stem. A small flood of red wine surged down the tablecloth.

  ‘God, I’m sorry!’ Waverley exclaimed, for it was his glass that had been knocked over.

  Hearing the noise of the accident, the Chinese man came in with a cloth to clean up. Nessheim felt an elbow dig into his ribs. He turned to find Chaplin’s girl looking annoyed. ‘It’s been getting too serious down there,’ she said, rolling her big dark eyes in mock-despair. She smelled of talcum powder and scent. ‘Charlie said it would be a fun party,’ she complained, brushing her knee against Nessheim’s under the table. She smiled flirtatiously. ‘So what do you do for fun, mister?’

  ‘Oh this and that,’ he said.

  She giggled. ‘Let’s start with this,’ she said and her knee brushed his again.

  The Chinaman was picking glass from the table, bringing a halt to conversation at the far end of the table. Nessheim gave the girl his full attention.

  Her name was Suzette and he rapidly discovered that she would laugh at anything he said, which was slightly disconcerting since he wasn’t trying to be funny. Across the table sat Nick’s wife Jean, who smoked more than she ate and leaned over, lipstick-stained gasper in hand, to relate deprecating anecdotes of the famous people she had worked with. Awkwardly for Nessheim she spoke only to him, completely ignoring Suzette. He was glad when they finished their dessert of angel food cake and homemade ice cream and were led by Elizaveta back to the living room, where bottles of liqueurs sat on a tray. When some people went outside to smoke Nessheim joined them, grateful for the fresh air.

  He walked over to the pond and looked up at a star-infested sky. The cloudless night was nippy and he reckoned the first snowfall would not be far off back in Wisconsin. He was tired and once back inside he didn’t stay up very long – before eleven he went out to his cabin. The party was still going strong. Chaplin and Suzette had retired, but the other guests had gathered around the piano in the living room, and while Nick played show tunes and popular songs they all joined in, fuelled by a second bottle of brandy the Chinaman had brought out. Then Jean did a passable imitation of Billie Holiday’s ‘Strange Fruit’, followed by a Russian folk song that Mikhail declaimed in a sombre bass voice. They were hoarsely singing ‘Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue’, when Nessheim made his excuses.

  In the cabin he turned off the light and put on pyjama bottoms but no top – it was cool now this high up, but he was still warm from the main house, where the Chinese servant had lit fires after dinner. He got into bed and lay down on his back, able to see a patch of star-studded sky out the window. He thought of his conversation with Chaplin and realised that for the first time since he’d arrived in Hollywood he had felt star-struck – not on his own behalf, but vicariously for his mother, who loved Chaplin and had seen Modern Times three times and would start to giggle whenever she described the movie. In his next letter home Nessheim would tell her about meeting her idol, though he would leave out reference to Chaplin’s young companion.

  Outside crickets chirping filled the air; in the distance an owl gave a long muted hoot. Nessheim felt suddenly drowsy, the effect of his long ride, and was almost asleep when a whisper came from just outside the window.

  ‘Chim,’ whispered a familiar voice. Was he dreaming? He shook the drowsiness out of his head as the voice spoke again. ‘Nessheim, it’s me. Elizaveta.’

  ‘Yes?’ he said, fully awake now. He sat up and put his legs on the floor. He could see her face, pressed against the screen window.

  ‘Come for a swim? The water’s lovely.’ She was still whispering.

  ‘Okay. Let me get my trunks on.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she teased, but her face had moved away from the screen.

  He got up and put on his trunks nonetheless, then left the little cabin, making sure its swing door didn’t bang shut. In the dark he heard a giggle several feet away. He moved towards it and the giggle moved too. Gradually his eyes adjusted to the night and he could make out the reed beds on the edge of the pond, then watched a white figure in a dark bathing suit walk across the sandy edge and disappear into the water.

  He edged his way closer to the landing dock, where the land was clear of growth, and walked out into the water. The sandy bottom fell away quickly and the water was surprisingly warm, almost bath-like; he sank into it without flinching. He swam hard in the direction of the float he’d seen in daylight, breaking his crawl only once to readjust direction.

  When he reached the float Elizaveta was already there, standing still in the water with one hand keeping a grip on the slats of the float. ‘I didn’t think I would win two races today,’ she said.

  ‘Race you back and you won’t win this time.’

  ‘In a minute. But listen.’

  He did, but could hear only the soft clink of a glass and the murmur of voices from the main house.

  Then the owl hooted again, like the lonely whistle of a night-time train.

  He turned, ready to swim back, but Elizaveta put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘There’s something I want to tell you. One day, not so long from now Mikhail will be going home. I would expect it to happen within the next year. Assuming Hitler does not have his way.’

  Nessheim sensed their conversation was on the edge of something. He said pointedly, ‘I thought his work was too important for him to go back.’

  She shrugged her shoulders, pale in the moonless dark. ‘You must know what he does.’

  ‘Intelligence, I assume.’ She gave a little nod. ‘Is he watching other nationalities – Germans?’ He thought of Osaka. ‘Or the Japanese. Everyone’s scared of the Japanese invading.’

  ‘No, no. It’s Americans he’s focused on. He’s supposed to influence opinion here. Newspapers, and especially the movies.’

  Like me, thought Nessheim. He wanted to ask why she was telling him this, though he was starting to sense where
she was headed. He asked, ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’ She took her hand off his shoulder, trying to sound surprised, but Nessheim was sure it was an act. ‘I am not important – unless I don’t go back.’

  ‘Is that what you’d like?’

  She didn’t speak for a moment, and when he turned to look at her face, little more than a foot away from him, she nodded, her firm jaw dipping down and up like a see-saw.

  ‘It is probably just a dream to think like that.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Nessheim, who had seen some of his own dreams dashed without giving up the habit of dreaming.

  ‘Oh, the usual reasons. I am a wife. Wives do as they are told. To stay would be cowardice when my country needs me. Then my government would be very cross.’

  ‘They’ll stick the Bruiser onto you?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s no joke,’ she said grimly. ‘But anyway, it would be very difficult to persuade your government to let me stay. The Russian quota’s full, believe me, and it’s not as if I have much to offer.’

  She went quiet and Nessheim felt he had been given his cue. ‘You know a lot about your government. That’s always valuable. Especially if we become allies,’ he said disingenuously.

  Before she could reply a voice came from the shore.

  ‘Elza!’

  It was Mikhail and he had a flashlight, though its beam was too weak to reach the float.

  ‘I better go now,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’ll swim with you.’

  ‘No!’ She put her hand again on his arm.

  ‘What’s the problem? We were only swimming.’