by Follett, Ken
Horses were the transport of the past, Josef Vyalov told him. Stablehands were low-paid: there were plenty of them. Chauffeurs were scarce, and earned high wages.
In addition, Vyalov liked to have a driver who was tough enough to double as a bodyguard.
Vyalov’s car was a brand-new Packard Twin Six, a seven-passenger limousine. Other chauffeurs were impressed. The model had been launched only a few weeks ago, and its twelve-cylinder engine was the envy even of drivers of the Cadillac V8.
Lev was not so taken with Vyalov’s ultramodern mansion. To him it looked like the world’s largest cowshed. It was long and low, with broad overhanging eaves. The head gardener told him it was a “prairie house” in the latest fashion.
“If I had a house this big, I’d want it to look like a palace,” Lev said.
He thought of writing to Grigori and telling him all about Buffalo and the job and the car; but he hesitated. He would want to say that he had put aside some money for Grigori’s ticket, but in fact he had nothing saved. When he had a little stash he would write, he vowed. Meanwhile Grigori could not write because he did not know Lev’s address.
There were three people in the Vyalov family: Josef himself; his wife, Lena, who rarely spoke; and Olga, a pretty daughter of about Lev’s age with a bold look in her eye. Josef was attentive and courteous with his wife, even though he spent most evenings out with his cronies. To his daughter he was affectionate but strict. He often drove home at midday to have lunch with Lena and Olga. After lunch he and Lena would take a nap.
While Lev was waiting to drive Josef back downtown, he sometimes talked to Olga.
She liked to smoke cigarettes, something that was forbidden by her father, who was fiercely determined that she should be a respectable young lady and marry into the Buffalo social elite. There were a few places on the property where Josef never went, and the garage was one of them, so Olga came there to smoke. She would sit in the backseat of the Packard, her silk dress on the new leather, and Lev would lean on the door, with his foot up on the runningboard, and chat to her.
He was aware that he looked handsome in the chauffeur’s uniform, and he wore the cap tilted jauntily back. He soon discovered that the way to please Olga was to compliment her on being high-class. She loved to be told that she walked like a princess, talked like a president’s wife, and dressed like a Parisian socialite. She was a snob, and so was her father. Most of the time Josef was a bully and a thug, but Lev noticed how he became well-mannered, almost deferential, when talking to high-status men such as bank presidents and congressmen.
Lev had a quick intuition, and soon had Olga figured out. She was an overprotected rich girl who had no outlet for her natural romantic and sexual impulses. Unlike the girls Lev had known in the slums of St. Petersburg, Olga could not slip out to meet a boy at twilight and let him feel her up in the darkness of a shop doorway. She was twenty years old and a virgin. It was even possible she had never been kissed.
Lev watched the tennis party from a distance, drinking in the sight of Olga’s strong, slim body, and the way her breasts moved under the light cotton of her dress as she flew across the court. She was playing against a very tall man in white flannel trousers. Lev felt a jolt of recognition. Staring at the man, he eventually recalled where he had seen him before. It was at the Putilov works. Lev had tricked him out of a dollar and Grigori had asked him if Josef Vyalov really was a big man in Buffalo. What was his name? It was the same as a brand of whisky. Dewar, that was it. Gus Dewar.
A group of half a dozen young people were watching the game, the girls in bright summer dresses, the men wearing straw boaters. Mrs. Vyalov looked out from under her parasol with a pleased smile. A uniformed maid was serving lemonade.
Gus Dewar defeated Olga and they left the court. Their places were immediately taken by another couple. Olga daringly accepted a cigarette from her opponent. Lev watched him light it for her. Lev ached to be one of them, playing tennis in beautiful clothes and drinking lemonade.
A wild stroke sent the ball his way. He picked it up and, instead of throwing it back, carried it to the court and handed it to one of the players. He looked at Olga. She was deep in conversation with Dewar, charming him in a flirtatious way, just as she did with Lev in the garage. He felt a stab of jealousy and wanted to punch the tall guy in the mouth. He caught Olga’s eye and gave her his most charming smile, but she looked away without acknowledging him. The other young people totally ignored him.
It was perfectly normal, he told himself: a girl could be friendly with the chauffeur while smoking in the garage, then treat him like a piece of furniture when she was with her friends. All the same, his pride was wounded.
He turned away—and saw her father walking down the gravel path toward the tennis court. Vyalov was dressed for business in a lounge suit with a waistcoat. He had come to greet his daughter’s guests before retuning downtown, Lev guessed.
Any second now he would see Olga smoking, and then there would be hell to pay.
Lev was inspired. In two strides he crossed to where Olga was sitting. With a swift motion he snatched the lighted cigarette from between her fingers.
“Hey!” she protested.
Gus Dewar frowned and said: “What the devil are you up to?”
Lev turned away, putting the cigarette between his lips. A moment later Vyalov spotted him. “What are you doing here?” he said crossly. “Get my car out.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lev.
“And put out that damned cigarette when you’re talking to me.”
Lev pinched out the coal and put the butt in his pocket. “Sorry, Mr. Vyalov, sir, I forgot myself.”
“Don’t let it happen again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now clear off.”
Lev hurried away, then looked back over his shoulder. The young men had jumped to their feet, and Vyalov was jovially shaking hands all round. Olga, looking guilty, was introducing her friends. She had almost been caught. She met Lev’s eye and shot him a grateful look.
Lev winked at her and walked on.
{ IV }
Ursula Dewar’s drawing room contained a few ornaments, all precious in different ways: a marble head by Elie Nadelman, a first edition of the Geneva Bible, a single rose in a cut-glass vase, and a framed photograph of her grandfather, who had opened one of the first department stores in America. When Gus came into the room at six o’clock she was sitting in a silk evening dress, reading a new novel called The Good Soldier.
“How’s the book?” he asked her.
“It is extraordinarily good, although I hear, paradoxically, that the author is a frightful cad.”
He mixed an old-fashioned for her, the way she liked it, with bitters but no sugar. He felt nervous. At my age I shouldn’t be afraid of my mother, he thought. But she could be scathing. He handed her the drink.
“Thank you,” she said. “Are you enjoying your summer break?”
“Very much.”
“I was afraid that by now you’d be itching to get back to the excitement of Washington and the White House.”
Gus had expected that, too; but the holiday had brought unexpected pleasures. “I’ll return as soon as the president does, but meanwhile I’m having a great time.”
“Is Woodrow going to declare war on Germany, do you think?”
“I hope not. The Germans are willing to back down, but they want Americans to stop selling arms to the Allies.”
“And will we stop?” Ursula was of German ancestry, as were some half the population of Buffalo, but when she said “we” she meant America.
“Absolutely not. Our factories are making too much money from British orders.”
“Is it a deadlock, then?”
“Not yet. We’re still dancing around one another. Meanwhile, as if to remind us of the pressures on neutral countries, Italy has joined the Allies.”
“Will that make any difference?”
“Not enough.” Gus took a deep breath. “I
played tennis at the Vyalovs’ place this afternoon,” he said. His voice did not sound as casual as he had hoped.
“Did you win, dear?”
“Yes. They have a prairie house. It’s very striking.”
“So nouveau riche.”
“I suppose we were nouveau riche once, weren’t we? Perhaps when your grandfather opened his store?”
“I find it tiresome when you talk like a socialist, Angus, even though I know you don’t mean it.” She sipped her drink. “Mm, this is perfect.”
He took a deep breath. “Mother, would you do something for me?”
“Of course, dear, if I can.”
“You won’t like it.”
“What is it?”
“I want you to invite Mrs. Vyalov to tea.”
His mother put her drink down slowly and carefully. “I see,” she said.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“I know why,” she said. “There is only one possible reason. I have met the ravishingly pretty daughter.”
“You’re not to be cross. Vyalov is a leading man in this city, and very wealthy. And Olga is an angel.”
“Or, if not an angel, at least a Christian.”
“The Vyalovs are Russian Orthodox,” Gus said. Might as well get all the bad news on the table, he thought. “They go to the Church of Saints Peter and Paul on Ideal Street.” The Dewars were Episcopalians.
“But not Jewish, thank God.” Mother had once feared that Gus might marry Rachel Abramov, whom he had liked enormously but never loved. “And I suppose we can be grateful that Olga is not a fortune hunter.”
“Indeed not. I should think Vyalov must be richer than Father.”
“I’m sure I have no idea.” Women such as Ursula were not supposed to know about money. Gus suspected they knew the net worth of their own and each others’ husbands to the nearest dime, but they had to pretend ignorance.
She was not as cross as he had feared. “So you’ll do it?” he said with trepidation.
“Of course. I’ll send Mrs. Vyalov a note.”
Gus felt elated, but a new fear struck him. “Mind you, you’re not to invite your snobbish friends to make Mrs. Vyalov feel inferior.”
“I have no snobbish friends.”
That remark was too ludicrous even to be acknowledged. “Ask Mrs. Fischer, she’s amiable. And Aunt Gertrude.”
“Very well.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Gus felt great relief, as if he had survived an ordeal. “I know Olga is not the bride you may have dreamed of for me, but I feel sure you’re going to become very fond of her in no time at all.”
“My dear son, you’re almost twenty-six years old. Five years ago I might have tried to talk you out of marriage to the daughter of a shady businessman. But lately I have been wondering if I’m ever to have grandchildren. If at this point you announced that you wanted to marry a divorced Polish waitress I fear my first concern might be whether she were young enough to bear children.”
“Don’t jump the gun—Olga hasn’t agreed to marry me. I haven’t even asked her.”
“How could she resist you?” She stood up and kissed him. “Now make me another drink.”
{ V }
“You saved my life!” Olga said to Lev. “Father would have killed me.”
Lev grinned. “I saw him coming. I had to act fast.”
“I’m so grateful,” Olga said, and she kissed his lips.
He was startled. She pulled away before he could take advantage, but he felt himself to be on a completely different footing with her immediately. He looked nervously around the garage, but they were alone.
She took out a pack of cigarettes and put one in her mouth. He lit it, copying what Gus Dewar had done yesterday. It was an intimate gesture, obliging the woman to dip her head and allowing the man to stare at her lips. It felt romantic.
She leaned back in the seat of the Packard and blew out smoke. Lev got into the car and sat beside her. She made no objection. He lit a cigarette for himself. They sat for a while in the half dark, their smoke mingling with the smells of oil and leather and a flowery perfume Olga was wearing.
To break the silence, Lev said: “I hope you enjoyed your tennis party.”
She sighed. “All the boys in this town are frightened of my father,” she said. “They think he’ll shoot them if they kiss me.”
“Will he shoot them?”
She laughed. “Probably.”
“I’m not afraid of him.” This was near to the truth. Lev was not really unafraid, he just ignored his fears, always hoping he could talk his way out of trouble.
But she looked skeptical. “Really?”
“That’s why he hired me.” This, too, was only one step removed from reality. “Ask him.”
“I might do that.”
“Gus Dewar really likes you.”
“My father would love it if I married him.”
“Why?”
“He’s rich, his family are old Buffalo aristocracy, and his father is a senator.”
“Do you always do what your pa wants?”
She drew thoughtfully on her cigarette. “Yes,” she said, and blew out smoke.
Lev said: “I love to watch your lips when you smoke.”
She made no reply, but gave him a speculative look.
That was invitation enough for Lev, and he kissed her.
She gave a little moan at the back of her throat, and pushed feebly at his chest with her hand, but neither protest was serious. He tossed his cigarette out of the car and put his hand on her breast. She grasped his wrist, as if to shove his hand away, then instead pressed it harder against her soft flesh.
Lev touched her closed lips with his tongue. She pulled away and gave him a startled look. He realized she did not know about kissing this way. She really was inexperienced. “It’s okay,” he said. “Trust me.”
She threw away her cigarette, pulled him nearer, closed her eyes, and kissed him with her mouth open.
After that it happened very fast. There was a desperate urgency about her desire. Lev had been with several women, and he believed it was wise to let them set the pace. A hesitant woman could not be hurried, and an impatient one should not be held back. When he found his way through Olga’s underwear and stroked the soft mound of her sex, she became so aroused that she sobbed with passion. If it were true that she had reached the age of twenty without being kissed by any of the timid boys of Buffalo, she must have a lot of stored-up frustration, he guessed. She lifted her hips eagerly for him to pull down her drawers. When he kissed her between her legs she cried out with shock and excitement. She had to be a virgin, but he was too heated for such a thought to give him pause.
She lay back with one foot on the seat and the other on the floor, her skirt around her waist, her thighs spread ready for him. Her mouth was open and she was breathing hard. She watched him with wide eyes as he unbuttoned. He entered her cautiously, knowing how easy it was to hurt a girl there, but she grasped his hips and pulled him inside her impatiently, as if she feared she might be cheated at the last minute of what she wanted. He felt the membrane of her virginity resist him briefly, then break easily, with only a little gasp from her, as of a tinge of pain that went as quickly as it had come. She moved against him in a rhythm of her own, and again he let her take the lead, sensing that she was answering a call that would not be denied.
This was more thrilling, for him, than the act of love had ever been before. Some girls were knowing; some were innocent, but keen to please; some were careful to satisfy the man before seeking their own fulfilment. But Lev had never come across such raw need as Olga’s, and it inflamed him beyond measure.
He held himself back. Olga cried out loud, and he put a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. She bucked like a pony, then buried her face in his shoulder. With a stifled scream she reached her climax, and a moment later he did the same.
He rolled off her and sat on the floor. She lay still, panting. Neither of them spok
e for a minute. Eventually she sat upright. “Oh, God,” she said. “I didn’t know it would be like that.”
“Usually it’s not,” he replied.
There was a long, reflective pause, then she said in a quieter voice: “What have I done?”
He made no answer.
She picked up her drawers from the floor of the car and pulled them on. She sat still a moment longer, catching her breath, then she got out of the car.
Lev stared at her, waiting for her to say something, but she did not. She walked to the rear door of the garage, opened it, and went out.
But she came back the next day.
{ VI }
Edith Galt accepted President Wilson’s proposal of marriage on June 29. In July the president returned to the White House temporarily. “I have to go back to Washington for a few days,” Gus said to Olga as they strolled through the Buffalo Zoo.
“How many days?”
“As long as the president needs me.”
“How thrilling!”
Gus nodded. “It’s the best job in the world. But it does mean that I’m not my own master. If the crisis with Germany escalates, it could be a long time before I come back to Buffalo.”
“We’ll miss you.”
“And I’ll miss you. We’ve been such pals since I came back.” They had gone boating on the lake in Delaware Park and bathing at Crystal Beach; they had taken steamers up the river to Niagara and across the lake to the Canadian side; and they had played tennis every other day—always with a group of young friends, and chaperoned by at least one watchful mother. Today Mrs. Vyalov was with them, walking a few paces behind and talking to Chuck Dixon. Gus went on: “I wonder if you have any idea how much I’ll miss you.”
Olga smiled, but made no reply.
Gus said: “This has been the happiest summer of my life.”
“And mine!” she said, twirling her red-and-white polka-dot parasol.
That delighted Gus, although he was not sure it was his company that had made her happy. He still could not make her out. She always seemed pleased to see him, and was glad to talk to him hour after hour. But he had seen no emotion, no sign that her feelings for him might be passionate rather than merely friendly. Of course, no respectable girl ought to show such signs, at least until she was engaged; but all the same Gus felt at sea. Perhaps that was part of her appeal.
