“Never lasted for about a week, sir. Much to her dismay I’ll be standing for president again next term.”
“But being practical for a moment,” said Dangerfield, “if you were to take up Mr. Agnelli’s offer, where would you and Charlie live?”
“My mother has recently bought a large flat in Fulham, with more than enough room for the three of us.”
“Enough for four, possibly five?” said Dangerfield, raising an eyebrow.
“Both of us feel we should be established in our careers before we think about starting a family. Once Charlie has her PhD, she hopes to find a job that will make it possible for us to earn enough for two, never mind three, or four. Only my mother disagrees with me.”
“I look forward to meeting her. She sounds quite formidable. But tell me, how does she feel about her only son getting married at such a young age?”
“She adores Charlie, and doesn’t approve of us living in sin.”
“Ah, so that’s where you’ve inherited those old-fashioned values.”
* * *
“It would help if you knew which party you belonged to,” said Ben. “Although I’m confident you can still win as an independent, it would make my life a lot easier if you joined either the Tories or the Labour Party. Preferably the Tories.”
“That’s the problem,” said Sasha. “I still don’t know which party I support. By nature I believe in free enterprise, and less state intervention, not more. But as an immigrant, I feel more at home with the philosophy of the Labour Party. The only thing I’m certain of is that I’m not a Liberal.”
“Well, don’t tell anyone that, until the last vote has been cast. As an independent, you’ll need the support of voters from all three parties.”
“Do you have any beliefs or convictions?” asked Sasha.
“One can’t afford such luxuries until after you’ve won the election.”
“Spoken like a true Tory,” said Alex.
* * *
“I’m glad we’re spending the weekend with my parents,” said Charlie, “because I know my father has something he wants to ask your advice about.”
“What could I possibly advise him on? I know nothing about antiques, and he’s considered a leader in the field.”
“I’m just as interested to find out as you are. But I did warn him that you don’t know the difference between Chippendale and Conran.”
“I know which one I can afford,” said Sasha.
“You should read more Oscar Wilde,” said Charlie, “and less Maynard Keynes. By the way, will your mother be joining us? You know how my parents are looking forward to meeting her.”
“She plans to come on Saturday morning. Which should give me enough time to warn them that she’s already chosen the names of our first three children.”
“Have you warned her that that might not be for some time?”
* * *
When Ted Heath sat down at the end of the debate, Sasha was no nearer to deciding which party he felt more in sympathy with. The Prime Minister’s speech had been competent and workmanlike, but lacked passion, even though he was speaking on a subject he felt passionately about. Despite the recent success of his campaign to secure Britain’s membership in the Common Market, some people were unable to stifle the occasional yawn, including one or two of his own supporters.
Michael Foot, who opposed the motion on behalf of the Labour Party, was in a different class altogether. His brilliant oratory mesmerized the undergraduates, although he clearly didn’t have the same detailed knowledge of the subject as the proposer of the motion.
Sasha, like Heath, believed in a stronger Europe as a counterforce to the communist bloc, so he ignored Ben’s advice and voted for the motion, not the man.
“I thought Heath was brilliant,” said Ben as they left the building following the post-debate dinner.
“No, you didn’t,” said Sasha. “He may have known the subject backward, but Foot was by far the more persuasive of the two.”
“But who would you rather have running the country?” demanded Ben. “A brilliant orator or a—”
“A grocer?” said Sasha. “The jury’s still out, so I’ll stand as an independent.”
“Then we’ve got a busy weekend ahead of us.”
“Doing what?”
“Delivering your manifesto to every college, putting up posters on all the noticeboards, and when no one’s looking, removing your rivals’.”
“You can forget that, Ben. As you well know, it’s against Union rules to take down or deface your opponents’ posters. If you were stupid enough to do that, I could be disqualified. And I wouldn’t put it past Fiona to produce a photograph of you caught in the act, because nothing would give her greater pleasure than to see me fail a second time.”
“Then we’ll have to be satisfied with putting your posters on top of your opponents’.”
“Ben, you’re not listening, and what’s worse, I won’t be around to keep an eye on you.”
“Why not?”
“Charlie and I are spending the weekend with her parents to celebrate our engagement, and my mother will be meeting them for the first time.”
“Where’s this historic meeting taking place?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve only experienced your mother’s cooking once, and I can’t wait to be invited to sample it a second time.”
“You won’t have long to wait, because you’re going to be best man at our wedding.”
Sasha enjoyed the rare experience of his closest friend being lost for words.
* * *
“Call me Mike,” said Mr. Dangerfield.
“That may take a bit of getting used to, sir,” said Sasha, as his host closed the study door and ushered him to a seat by the fire.
“I’m glad to be able to have a moment alone with you, Sasha, because I need to seek your advice.”
“I hope it’s nothing to do with antiques, sir, because I’ve only recently learned how old a piece has to be before it can even be described as an antique.”
“No, it doesn’t concern an antique, but a client of mine who may be in possession of what we in the trade call a once-in-a-lifetime discovery.” Sasha was intrigued, but said nothing. “I recently had a visit from a Russian countess, who offered to sell me a family heirloom that, if it’s genuine, would set the antique world alight.” Mr. Dangerfield rose from his chair, crossed the room, and bent down in front of a large safe. He turned the dial first one way, and then the other, before he pulled open its heavy door, reached inside, and extracted a red velvet box that he placed on the table between them. “Open it, Sasha. Because I can assure you, you won’t need any knowledge of antiques to realize you’re in the presence of genius.”
Sasha tentatively flicked up the clasp and opened the box to reveal a large golden egg encrusted with diamonds and pearls. His mouth fell open, but no words followed.
“And that’s only the wrapping,” said Mr. Dangerfield. He leaned forward and split the egg open to reveal an exquisite jade palace, surrounded by a moat of blue diamonds.
“Wow,” Sasha managed.
“I agree. But is it, as the countess claims, an original Fabergé, or a brilliant copy?”
“I have no idea,” said Sasha.
“I didn’t think you would. But after meeting her, you might be able to tell me if the countess is an original or a fake.”
“The Anastasia problem,” said Sasha.
“In one. I’ve already visited the British Museum, the V&A, and the Soviet Embassy, and there’s no doubt that the original egg was owned by a Count Molenski. But is the countess really his daughter, or just an accomplished actress trying to palm me off with a copy?”
“I can’t wait to meet her,” said Sasha, unable to take his eyes off the egg.
“And even if she convinces you she’s the real thing,” said Dangerfield, “why would she have chosen me, a small trader from Guildford, when she could have gone to any number of leadi
ng specialists in the West End?”
“I presume you’ve already asked her that question, sir.”
“I did, and she told me that the London dealers were not to be trusted, and she feared they’d form a cartel to act against her.”
“I’m not sure I understand what she’s suggesting,” said Sasha.
“A cartel is when a small group of traders join together at an auction with the sole purpose of keeping the price of a valuable object down so one of them can purchase it for less than its real value. They then resell the piece for a handsome profit, and split the proceeds between them. It’s sometimes referred to as a concert party.”
“But surely that’s against the law?”
“It most certainly is. But such cases rarely end up in the courts, because if there aren’t any witnesses, it’s almost impossible to prove.”
“If this is the original,” said Sasha, his eyes returning to the egg, “are you able to put a value on it?”
“The last Fabergé egg to come on the market was auctioned at Sotheby Parke Bernet in New York, and the hammer price was just over a million dollars. And that was a decade ago.”
“And if it’s a fake?”
“Then she’ll be lucky to get more than a couple of thousand pounds for it, possibly three.”
“When do I get to meet her?”
“She’s joining us for tea tomorrow afternoon.” Mr. Dangerfield looked at the egg once again. “If she’s the real thing, the time may have come for me to do something quite out of character.”
“And what might that be, sir?”
“Take a risk,” said Mr. Dangerfield.
* * *
Ben spent his weekend pinning VOTE KARPENKO posters on all twenty-nine college noticeboards, and even on the occasional fence along the way, despite being aware that Sasha’s opponents could legally tear down any fly postings.
As he moved from college to college, he grew more confident that Sasha was going to win, because whenever anyone stopped to chat, they either gave him a thumbs-up, or assured him that they would be supporting his candidate this time. No one raised the subject of Fiona’s false accusations at the last election, and one or two admitted they now regretted not voting for Sasha the last time around. Just two of you would have been enough, Ben wanted to remind them.
He reluctantly had to admit, to everyone except Sasha, that Fiona had turned out to be a rather good Union president. Thanks to her father’s connections in the House of Commons, the list of guest speakers had been impressive, and her firm chairing of the committee, coupled with some innovative ideas, had been acknowledged by friend and foe alike.
Although she and Sasha rarely spoke, Fiona had recently suggested to Ben that the three of them should have dinner, and let bygones be bygones.
“An olive branch?” suggested Ben.
“More like a fig leaf,” said Sasha. “So you can tell her not until I’m sitting in the president’s chair.”
21
ALEX
Vietnam, 1972
“What do you plan to do when you get back home?” asked Lieutenant Lowell as he and Alex sat in a dugout and shared what passed as lunch.
“Complete my economics degree at NYU, and then build an empire to rival Rockefeller’s.”
“My godfather,” said Lowell matter-of-factly. “I think you’d like him, and I know he’d like you.”
“Do you work for the great man?” asked Alex.
“No, I’m chairman of a small bank in Boston that bears my family name. But to be honest, I’m chairman only in name. I prefer to concentrate on my first love, politics.”
“Do you want to be president one day?” asked Alex.
“No, thanks,” said Lowell. “I’m not as ambitious as you, corporal, and I’m well aware of my limitations. But when I get back to Boston I plan to run for Congress, and possibly one day for the Senate.”
“Like your grandfather?” Lowell was taken by surprise and certainly wasn’t prepared for Alex’s next question. “Why didn’t you try to defer? You must have all the right connections to make sure you didn’t end up in this hellhole.”
“True, but my other grandfather was a general, and he convinced me a spell in Vietnam wouldn’t do my political career any harm, especially as most of my rivals will have made sure they avoided the draft. But you’re right, every other member of my year at Harvard found some excuse not to be called up.”
Alex dug the last bean out of the bottom of the can, and devoured it slowly, as if it was one of his mother’s most delicious morsels.
“Well, I guess it’s time to go in search of the enemy,” said Lowell.
“Some hope,” said Alex.
* * *
On Wednesday evenings, while the rest of the unit went off to Lilly’s, Alex could be found in the canteen, his only companion a book. He had already exhausted Tolstoy, Dickens, and Dumas in their own languages, and had recently turned his attention to Hemingway, Bellow, and Cheever.
Addie wrote every week, and Alex hadn’t realized just how much he would miss her. He would have proposed, but not in a letter. However, once he was back …
Big Sam kept pressing him to join the boys on the brothel bus, but Alex continued to resist, even showing the Tank a photo of Addie.
“You wouldn’t have to tell her,” said Sam, with a huge grin.
“But I would have to tell her,” said Alex, as Presley crooned away on the canteen jukebox: You were always on my mind.
“I think you’d like Kim,” said Big Sam, refusing to give up.
“I had no idea you liked Kipling,” said Alex, returning his grin.
* * *
“Do you ever give any thought to the futility of war?” asked Alex.
“Not if I can help it,” said Lowell. “It might weaken my resolve, which wouldn’t help the men under my command if we ever had to face a real battle.”
“But there must be young North Vietnamese soldiers sitting in dugouts nearby who, like us, just want to go home and be with their families. Doesn’t history teach us anything?”
“Only that politicians should think a lot more carefully before they commit the next generation to war. How’s your mother coping without you?” asked Lowell, wanting to change the subject.
“As well as can be expected,” said Alex. “My eleven stalls are just about breaking even, but the truth is, she can’t wait for me to come home. It’s almost time to renew my licenses, and my mother will be no match for Mr. Wolfe.”
“Who’s he?”
“My landlord.”
“Can’t Dimitri deal with him? He sounds like a pretty tough guy.”
“Frankly, he’s way out of his depth. Dimitri’s much happier when he’s on the high seas.”
“Well, you’ve only got a few more months before we’ll be demobbed, which will please everyone except the Tank.”
“Why? Doesn’t he want to go home?”
“No, he’s requested a transfer to the Marines, which I will happily support. He wants to stay in the military when his year is up. If he had your brain, he’d end up a general.”
“If we had to go into battle,” said Alex, “I’d rather have him by my side than any general.”
* * *
The platoon were on a routine patrol when the order came through. They only had seventeen days to serve before they would be shipped back to the States, having completed their tour of duty.
Lieutenant Lowell asked HQ to repeat the order before he put down the field phone and gathered his men around him. “There’s been a skirmish nearby. One of our patrols was ambushed, and we’ve been ordered to go and support them.”
“At last,” said the Tank. His comrades didn’t look quite so convinced. Like Alex, they had been ticking off the days.
“Three Huey helicopters are already on their way to the combat area with orders to evacuate the wounded and transport the dead back to HQ.” The word “dead” heightened Alex’s awareness that the 116th was about to take part in its first
serious mission.
The Tank was first on his feet, with Corporal Karpenko only a yard behind, while the rest of the platoon quickly formed a crocodile, with Private Baker bringing up the rear.
“No one speaks except me,” said Lowell as they entered no-man’s-land. “Even a cough could alert the enemy and put the whole unit in danger.”
For an hour they edged slowly and cautiously through the undergrowth and into enemy territory. Lieutenant Lowell checked his compass against the grid reference on his map every few minutes. Suddenly, the sound of gunfire made the map redundant. They fell to the ground and crawled on their bellies toward the battlefield.
Alex looked up to see the first of the three Hueys circling above, searching the dense tropical forest for a patch of flat ground on which they could land.
On, on they crept. Never in his life had Alex felt so alert. Even so, he couldn’t help wondering where he might be in an hour’s time. At least he no longer felt he’d wasted a year of his life.
He suddenly spotted the enemy about a hundred yards ahead of him. They hadn’t seen the approaching American platoon, because their attention was focused on the helicopter onto which the first of the wounded were being carried on stretchers by the medevac team, who were completely unaware that the Vietcong were hidden in the undergrowth only yards away from them.
Lowell raised his hand to indicate that the platoon should change direction, and circle the enemy. Each one of them knew that surprise was their best weapon. But as they edged closer and closer, Baker knelt on a fallen twig. It snapped, producing a noise that sounded like a firecracker. The soldier bringing up the rear of the Vietcong unit swung around and stared into Lowell’s eyes.
“Kẻ thù!” he cried.
The lieutenant leaped to his feet and began firing his M16 as he charged toward the enemy, with the rest of his unit following closely behind. Almost half the Vietcong were killed before they could return fire, but the lieutenant was hit, and fell face down in the marshy swamp. Alex immediately took his place, with the Tank by his side.
The battle, if that’s how you could describe it, only lasted for a few minutes, and the Vietcong unit had been wiped out by the time the first helicopter rose slowly into the air and headed back to base. The second was still hovering overhead, waiting to take its place.
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