Agent 6 ld-3

by Tom Rob Smith

  Anna was dressed for work. She was on a late shift, working for a restaurant that stayed open twenty-four hours a day. Nine at night to nine in the morning was a shift that not even the younger waitresses volunteered for. Anna claimed to prefer it, saying the heavy night-time drinkers always tipped better than the daytime diners and they never sent any of the food back. She stood by the door, ready to go. Jesse got down from the window ledge, taking her hands. She asked:

  – Have you decided?

  – I don’t know. I just don’t know. Standing on the sidewalk outside the United Nations, giving a speech? I’m not proud, Anna, but it’s not like an invitation to perform at Madison Square Garden. It’s not what I had in mind for us. I don’t know how I feel about it all.

  – Jesse, I can’t take tonight off, not at this late notice, I’ve got to work.

  – I don’t even know if I’m going, so there’s no point you waiting around.

  She was uneasy.

  – I don’t want you to think that I’m against it, should you choose to go.

  – I know that.

  – I’d never ask you not to do something when you believed in it, when you thought it was the right thing to do.

  – Anna, what’s wrong?

  She looked like she was about to cry. It was only for a moment, a ripple of emotion across her face, and then she recovered her composure. Anna never cried.

  – I’m late, that’s all.

  – Then don’t waste any more time worrying about me.

  Anna kissed him on the check, but instead of pulling away, she remained close by his face, whispering:

  – I love you.

  Those three words were too much for him to bear right now. Jesse looked down at the floorboards, his voice faltering.

  – I’m sorry, Anna. For all this trouble, for all this…

  She smiled.

  – Jesse Austin, don’t you ever apologize to me, not for what they’ve done, not for something that was never your fault.

  She kissed him again.

  – Just tell me you love me.

  – Sometimes ‘I love you’ doesn’t sound like it’s enough.

  – It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  She let go of him, straightened her clothes, opened the door and hurried down the stairs, without looking back and without shutting the door behind her.

  Jesse waited by the window. Anna appeared on the street, snaking her way through the card games on her way to the restaurant. Almost out of sight she stopped, turning back and waving at him. He waved back and by the time he’d lowered his hand she was gone.

  It was time to decide. He checked his watch. There was only an hour until he was meant to address a group of unknown demonstrators. He didn’t even know what they would be demonstrating about. In all likelihood they would not recognize him and he’d struggle to be heard. The concert started at nine. According to the Russian girl it only lasted seventy minutes. Jesse tapped the face of his handsome watch bought in better times. As he pondered on whether to accept the invitation, the memory of another watch crept into his thoughts, a watch he’d never worn. It had been given to him at the very start of his career while he’d been on his first national tour. The manager of the concert hall had been so pleased with the unexpected success of the performances, three sold-out events in the town of Monroe, Louisiana, that he’d presented Jesse with a handsome box, containing a nicely made watch with a leather strap with MADE IN MONROE embossed on the back. Jesse didn’t remember too much about the watch itself but he remembered the manager very well. The man had knocked on his dressing-room door after the final performance, snuck in with the stealth of a mistress. Anna had been in the room and witnessed the manager nervously offering Jesse the watch as a token of his gratitude before hurrying out again. Jesse had laughed out loud at the odd manners of this pleasant man until he’d noticed that Anna wasn’t laughing. She’d explained that man wanted show his gratitude, he just wasn’t able to show it in public. He couldn’t come onto the stage at the end of the show and give Jesse the watch. He couldn’t invite them to dinner sie he didn’t want to be seen with Jesse and Anna in a restaurant. He could employ Jesse to sing, he could be seen applauding, but as soon as Jesse stepped off that stage he couldn’t be seen near him. It was a fine watch, a handsome watch, par ticularly for a young man who’d yet to make much money, but Jesse hadn’t kept it, leaving it behind in the dressing room with a note: Dinner would’ve been plenty.

  He’d never been booked there to play again.

  Anyone could love a person while they were singing and dancing on a stage. Jesse had learnt this lesson when he was seven years old. He and his family had been living in Braxton, Mississippi, before they’d made the decision to move north. Autumn 1914, a night so hot that after walking no more than a hundred paces Jesse’s shirt was as wet as if a cloud had followed his every step. His mother and father had made him promise that he would stay inside tonight, they both had to work and they were leaving him alone. But just last week, they’d run out of wood and his father had scolded him for not pulling his weight around the house and Jesse didn’t want to be told off again, deciding it would be better to find some more wood. So he’d been collecting timber without too much trouble since everything on the forest floor was a dry as thatch, bark coarse in his hands. Twigs crunched underfoot, the snap of dry wood, noises that echoed through the trees. Though he’d never admitted as much to his family, he’d always been afraid of the woods – his imagination ran free, his mind played tricks on him. He’d call himself silly. Sometimes he’d even call himself silly out loud.

  – Jesse, don’t be scared. There’s bugs and mosquitoes in these woods, that’s all there is.

  But when he stopped talking the sound of voices continued. He shook his head as though there were water in his ears. The voices continued, not one, but two or three.

  – You’ve done it wrong!

  – Like this!

  – Stand there.

  – Help me over here!

  – That’s it.

  – Get the camera ready!

  He moved in one direction, deeper into the woods and the voices became softer. He changed direction, heading out of the woods, towards town. The voices became louder. He should’ve run home. He should’ve dropped his bundle of wood and run but he carried on, following the sounds.

  Coming to the edge of the forest, not far from town, Jesse was surprised to see a large crowd, surprised since his parents had been so vocal in ordering him to remain inside that night when it seems so many other people were doing just the opposite. The crowd had their backs turned to him, in a semicircle, maybe one hundred in total; less like a crowd, he realized, and more like an audience. Those at the back and on the edges were holding burning branches, flickering lanterns, stage lights spitting red sparks into the night sky. They needed the lanterns since there wasn’t much moonlight, only a glimmer every now and then when the heavy clouds lumbered out of the moon’s way. Jess thought that this was a well-dressed group of people, considering they were in forest. There were women in crisp dresses. There were girls wearing matching outfits. The men wore shirts, tucked into their pants. It was like they were dressed for church, or the theatre. Some people were fanning themselves with straw hats, ladies were shooing away mosquitoes and flies with dainty swipes of their dainty fingers, but Jesse could see the sweat stains on their backs; they weren’t so different from him after all.

  They hadn’t noticed little Jesse, standing silently behind a tree – his arms full of wood, his hair knotted with leaves, his clothes as scruffy as if they’d been knitted from the foliage on the forest floor. The audience were captivated by what was happening in front of them but Jesse couldn’t figure out what could be so entertaining this far into the woods. He was too short to see what was happening and he didn’t dare move from behind the tree for the audience was all white and it wasn’t wise to interfere.

  As though a spell had been cast, every single man and woman and child in
the clearing looked up into the trees at exactly the same time. Jesse looked up too, hoping to see a firework, a burst of brilliant stars. Instead, he saw what they had gathered to watch – it was a dance, two legs dancing in the sky; a jerky dance, not like one he’d ever seen before, a dance where the two black, shoeless feet didn’t touch the ground, a dance without rhythm and without music, a silent dance that lasted no more than a minute or two.

  By the time those legs were done with their dance, Jesse had crushed all the twigs in his arms and his shoes were covered in ground-up bark. A man in the audience lifted up a bulky box camera and a bulb flashed, burning bright for an instant and exposing everything hidden by the night. To this day Jesse wondered why the man waited till the end to take his photograph. Maybe he didn’t want to miss a moment of that entertaining dance.

  When the young Russian girl had asked him earlier why he’d sacrificed so much for Communism, when strangers and friends and families had asked him why he couldn’t shut his mouth about politics and enjoy the money, he’d never told them the truth. What had turned him into a Communist? It wasn’t the hatred his family encountered when they’d moved to New York, or the insulting things that anyone had ever said to him. It wasn’t the poverty, or the struggle his parents had faced just to make ends meet. On the opening night of his first major concert, onstage in a crowded auditorium, looking out at the well-heeled white people clapping as he danced and sang, he knew that they loved him only while his legs moved to a rhythm and only while his lips made song and not speech. Once the show was over, once his legs no longer danced, they wanted nothing to do with him.

  Being loved onstage wasn’t enough. Singing wasn’t nearly enough.

  Manhattan United Nations Headquarters The General Assembly Hall 1st Avenue amp; East 44th Street

  Same Day

  It was an audience of the most important diplomats in the world – every United Nations envoy had been invited. The assembly hall was full. The concert was due to start. Like a child before a school play, Raisa stole a glance from backstage, wondering if her nervousness about tonight’s performance had manifested itself as paranoia. Her imagination had run away with her, drawing inspiration from her past when every ord was loaded with danger and intrigue. It was not her clothes that had revealed her as provincial but the way in which she’d panicked, unsettled at being given such a grand platform. She was embarrassed at the way she’d behaved. The successful dress rehearsal had steadied her, calmed her down, given her a sense of proportion and made her earlier outburst feel ridiculous.

  She regarded the Soviet students: they’d lined up and were ready to walk out onto the stage. Her job was to reassure them, not to be flustered. Passing each one with a smile and words of encouragement, she approached Elena. Raisa had reluctantly relented, allowing Elena to sing, fearing that if she did not, Elena would blame Leo and hate him. However, they’d barely spoken since the argument and a sense of awkwardness remained. Raisa crouched down, whispering:

  – This is new for me too. The pressure became a little too much. I’m sorry. I know you’re going to be amazing. I hope you can enjoy the evening. I hope I haven’t spoiled this for you – that was never my intention.

  Elena was crying. Raisa hastily wiped away her daughter’s tears.

  – Don’t cry. Please, or I’ll start.

  Raisa smiled, to cover the fact that she was close to tears, adding:

  – It’s my fault. Not Leo’s, don’t be angry with him. Just concentrate on the performance. Have fun. Enjoy tonight.

  Raisa was about to return to the front of the students when Elena took her hand, saying:

  – Mother, I would never be involved in anything that wouldn’t make you proud of me.

  The use of the word mother had been deliberate. Fearful that she would not be able to control her emotions, Raisa uttered a quick response:

  – I know.

  Raisa hurried back into position, composing herself, ready to lead her students onto the stage. She breathed deeply, determined to succeed. This was a remarkable event. Many years ago, in the Great Patriotic War, a refugee, her only thought had been to survive. As a teacher in Moscow during Stalin’s reign, her only ambition had been to avoid arrest. Were she to go back in time and show that fearful young woman a glimpse of her future – a prestigious international audience in this remarkable hall with two beautiful daughters by her side – it would be impossible to believe. Her only wish was that Leo could be here with her, not because of any plot or treachery – she bitterly regretted putting the idea into his head – but because no other person understood the journey she’d made.

  The musical cue was given. The orchestra was ready. The audience fell silent. Side by side with the American head teacher, Raisa led her students out. The applause was polite and she sensed not without an undercurrent of uncertainty. No one was quite sure how this unprecedented performance was going to turn out.

  *

  Walking onto the stage, Elena reassured herself that she hadn’t lied: her mother was certain to be proud when she understood what she was trying to achieve – a much-needed show of love and admiration for Jesse Austin, a man wrongly persecuted for his convictions, a brilliant man beaten down by state oppression because of his belief in fairness and love. Of course, Raisa would be angry at first, furious by the fact that it had remained a secret. She would be angry that she’d not been told. Once that anger faded, then surely she would understand, perhaps she would even admire Elena’s courage.

  Regarding the hall, the decorations, the flags and the elitist audience, the political aristocracy dressed in fine clothes, Elena considered the spectacle artificial, disconnected from any real problems or issues. The concert carried no promise of social change or progress, sterilized, stripped of any anger or outrage to avoid offending their hosts. The protests on the street were not against one government or another, they would be universal, against intolerance and hatred, against inequity and an approach to human life that was inhumane. The world needed a second Revolution, a revolution of civil rights. Communism was the best vehicle for that Revolution. How could Raisa not be proud of what she and Jesse Austin were about to achieve? The applause came to a stop.

  Harlem Bradhurst 8th Avenue amp; West 139th Street Nelson’s Restaurant

  Same Day

  Reasonably priced and always busy, the restaurant was named after its owner, Nelson, a man much loved by those who lived in the area. He was fair to his staff and always knew whether to trade jokes with the customers or listen to their problems. Anna had never met a man with a more highly developed sense of what people were looking for. When she’d been desperate for money, searching for work, he’d helped her out. He didn’t need to hire a woman her age with no experience when there were younger, prettier girls who could flirt with the customers and bring in extra business. Anna paid back the favour by never letting him down, never being late or slipping off early. She told everyone that he’d taken a chance on her, fearless of the repercussions. Customers liked the fact Nelson had given her a job, maybe he’d known that too. In the end, the FBI never kicked up a fuss, not like they did with Jesse. Anna suspected that they liked the idea of her washing dishes and scraping trays clean. If they thought hard work was a humiliation, then they were wrong.

  As she stepped inside the restaurant, getting ready for her shift, she understood with sudden clarity that Jesse was going to accept the young girl’s invitation to speak tonight. No matter how many shrewd reasons there were for not talking outside the United Nations, standing on the street in a hubbub of protestors sounded more like a Jesse Austin gig than any she could think of. She couldn’t allow him to be there alone.

  Anna hurried over to Nelson, taking him by the arm.

  – You know I’ve never done this before and I’ll never do it again. But I have to go back home. I can’t work tonight. I have to be with my husband.

  Nelson looked her in the eyes, saw her expression, registered her tone and nodded.

  �
� Is there something wrong?

  – No, nothing’s wrong. There’s something my husband has to do and I have to be there with him.

  – All right, Anna: do whatever you have to do. Don’t worry about this place, I’ll serve the food myself if I have to.

  At his kindness, Anna kissed him on the cheek.

  – Thank youquo; d p›

  She turned around, taking off her apron, leaving the restaurant and heading back as fast as she could. She ran all the way home, across the street, through the men playing cards, through the haze of cigarette smoke, reaching the stairs up to her apartment building. On her way up, striding up two steps at a time, she felt the eyes of her neighbours. They pitied her, imagining that she’d suffered because of Jesse. They were wrong. She was the luckiest woman alive to have shared her life with him.

  She threw open the apartment door. Jesse was standing on the bed, addressing the open window as though it were an audience of ten thousand. Around his feet were the handwritten pages of all the speeches he’d ever performed.

  Manhattan United Nations Headquarters The General Assembly Hall 1st Avenue amp; East 44th Street

  Same Day

  Jim Yates slipped into the back of the hall and watched the performance. Communists mingled with American students, dressed identically: boys in white shirts and black pants, girls in white shirts and black skirts, nothing distinguishing one nationality from the other. According to the programme, framed with a multitude of international flags, the songs had been composed by musicians from around the world. Not even the liberal organizers of this event could allow Communist propaganda songs, Soviet hymns about being the strongest nation ready to crush all enemies including the United States. The Communists would save them for when they got home, as soon as they stepped off the plane in Moscow. As the Russians weren’t able to sing their songs, neither were the Americans for fear of offending their guests. Not allowed to sing their own songs in their own country! Of course, this wasn’t his country – the United Nations Headquarters did not fall under the authority of the United States, even though it was in New York. Without a shot being fired the land had been handed over to an international organization. Yates wasn’t even an FBI agent here. He was a guest.