by Joseph Kanon
“I’ve got a business to run.”
“A capitalist answer,” Marzena said, making a joke.
“Maybe next time.”
“But there isn’t going to be a next time, is there?” Joanna said, brooding.
“That depends on whoever’s handing out the visas. Here, I mean.”
“They wouldn’t give you one before.” She looked up. “Or maybe you never asked. ”
“But the book—”
“Yes, they want the book,” Joanna said. “So open the gates. And here you are. Now you’ll need another excuse. Maybe when we die. A compassionate visa. Just long enough to attend the funeral.”
“Such talk,” Frank said.
“Would you come for that?”
“Jo,” Simon said.
“Oh, all right,” she said, leaving it, looking out at the dining room, most of the tables filled with the Chinese group. “What do you think they make of it all? The Romanovs.”
“They had Romanovs of their own,” Frank said.
“Malachite,” Joanna said, not listening. “Gold on the walls. And they were surprised when the revolution came.”
“A backward society,” Boris said quietly. “But not now.”
“No, now we are in space,” Marzena said, enthusiastic, a Young Pioneer.
“Is it hard for the Chinese? To get visas?” Jo said, still looking at them. “What’s it like for them? Always in a herd like that. They don’t know Russian, do they? I mean the alphabet.”
“Neither do we,” Simon said.
“I can teach you,” Marzena said. “It’s not difficult.”
“Language lessons,” Jo said, drawing it out. “Hard to say no to that.”
“They need to have an interpreter,” Frank said, answering seriously. “Guides. So that limits how many. And it’s an expensive trip to make. A hotel like this. Must be a special group.”
“Chinese VIPs,” Jo said, playing with it. “I never thought. Is there a Chinese Social Register?” Her old voice, finding the world amusing.
“It’ll be the Cubans next,” Frank said. “Friendship tours.” He looked over at Simon. “The Agency made a real cock-up there, didn’t they? Was Pirie involved? Just the sort of half-assed idea he’d go for.”
Boris raised his head, interested.
“I wouldn’t know,” Simon said.
“I’ll bet he was.” Frank shook his head. “One fiasco after another. One more and there’d have to be a real shake-up.”
“Just what the Service ordered,” Simon said, then, catching Boris’s glance, “I mean, they’d like that, wouldn’t they? A little confusion on the other side.”
“The way things are going, they won’t have to do a thing. The Agency will do it for them.”
“Oh, we’re going to talk shop,” Joanna said.
“Not much longer,” Frank said. “I’m beat. What is it about museums—?”
Simon felt a second of panic. Not yet. They had to meet first tonight.
“But so beautiful,” Marzena said. “What did you like the best?” This to Simon.
“There’s so much—”
“But if you had to pick,” she said, pressing, a coy smile.
“The Dutch, I guess. The portraits.”
“Oh, Jimbo. So Boston. Good burghers in black and white?”
“But the faces. You know everything about them.”
“Well, what they want you to know.”
Simon looked away, before his own face would show too much. There was a roar of laughter from the next table, everyone in his cups.
“Chinese jokes,” Joanna said. “God, what do you think they’re saying?”
And then he was there, gliding past the Chinese tables with his wife, surprised to see Simon.
“Mr. Weeks,” he said. “You probably don’t remember—Hal Lehman.” Offering his hand. “Imagine running into—”
“Of course,” Simon said, standing. “Spaso House. Nancy, isn’t it?” She blushed, pleased. “What are you doing here?”
“Just seeing the sights. You owe me a call.”
“I know. I’ve been meaning to—”
Hal turned to the table. “I didn’t mean to barge in—” Expecting to be introduced.
“Frank, this is Hal Lehman. UPI. He’s been wanting to meet you and I promised him an interview, so be nice.”
Frank dipped his head.
“The first interview. After Look took pictures. Did they?”
“And this is—” Simon began the introductions, going around the table.
“A great pleasure,” Hal said, shaking Frank’s hand.
“Really? I thought I was a bad hat to all of you.”
“An interesting bad hat. I’d really like to talk to you. Your feelings about the book, Moscow, whatever you’d like to talk about. Nothing—well, nothing you don’t want to talk about. I promised Mr. Weeks that.”
“You did.”
“It’s UPI. That’s over four hundred pickups. It would be great for the book.”
“And not bad for you either, is that the idea?”
“You’ve never given an interview. So this would be a first, yes. Mr. Weeks said they’d given you permission to do it. For the book. And they look at everything we send out anyway, so there’s no problem there.”
“For you.”
“You review the copy.”
“Frank, I promised,” Simon said. “We need to present this right.”
“So I don’t look like a complete shit,” Frank said, a wry smile.
“The book’s going to be out there. There’s bound to be plenty of—so start with me.”
Frank sighed. “All right. Since Simon promised. We’re back in Moscow next week,” he said smoothly.
“Mr. Weeks said I wasn’t allowed to come to the flat. The address is still an official secret or something. What about tomorrow? Right here? We could do it in the lobby,” he said, ignoring a new round of laughter from the Chinese. “Maybe lunch? Mr. Weeks could sit in, if that makes it easier.”
“No, we’re away tomorrow. The Peterhof. Tsarskoe Selo.”
“But so are we. I mean, that’s where we were planning to go—”
“Moscow,” Frank said. “I don’t want to traipse around the summer palace wondering if that’s you behind the fountain.”
“How about this,” Simon said. “We go out in two cars and you ride with Hal. Do it on the way. What would that be, an hour? And then that’s it. You’re done.” He looked at Frank, eyes signaling for him to go along with this. “It’s important for the book, Frank. I told you we’d have to do some of this here. Since we won’t have you in the States.”
Frank met his eye, a private exchange.
“You understand I can’t talk about the Service,” he said to Hal. “There are rules about that. We’re leaving at eight. And I don’t answer anything I don’t want to.”
“I will ride with you,” Boris said.
“Deal,” Hal said. “You won’t regret it.”
“I’m regretting it already. But my publisher insists,” he said, a smile to Simon. “He wants me to be famous.”
Nancy, who hadn’t said anything, now nodded to each of them as she left, lingering for a second on Frank, her eyes wide, fascinated. Francis Weeks, a man in a hotel dining room. Before Hal could follow, the Chinese at the next table got up and filed out, separating Hal and Simon from the table.
“You brought your wife,” Simon said, his voice low.
“If anything goes wrong, she’d be a hostage in Moscow. She won’t be in the way.”
“It’s a complication.”
“Then make sure nothing goes wrong. Was that okay?”
“Perfect.” Smiling now and shaking his hand good-bye.
“Is this really necessary?”
Frank said as Simon sat down.
“We need to do something and he’s harmless. And he’s here. With four hundred outlets there.” He looked across. “How many interviews are you going to be able to do here? Spend an hour and you’re in four hundred papers.”
“But why can’t they all come to Moscow?” Marzena said.
Simon looked at her, at a loss. “It’s a long trip,” he said finally.
“Didn’t you think he looked a tiny bit like Howard?” Joanna said to Frank. “Think of his arm in a sling.”
“Who?” Simon said.
“Howard Cutler,” Frank said. “One of Joanna’s old flames.”
“Oo, there were so many?” Marzena said.
“No, not many,” Joanna said, not rising to this.
“Why was his arm in a sling?”
“He was shot. Here.” She pointed to her elbow. “In Spain.”
“Another one in Spain. You were there, no?” Marzena said to Frank. “It’s a weakness for you.” Now to Joanna. “Always a man in the brigades.”
“Not always,” Joanna said, glancing at Simon. “Howard went over first. Before anybody really. And then there he is, back from the front, wounded, you can’t imagine how romantic. Everybody was—” She stopped, patting Frank’s hand. “Long before you.”
“What happened to him?”
“He went to work for Browder. In the Party. And then—I don’t know. What happens to people?”
“Hard to keep track,” Marzena said, still playful. “So many lovers. You forget.”
“No you don’t,” Joanna said, her voice distant. “You don’t forget anyone. Not a single one.”
“Well, before you start remembering and telling us about them, let’s go to bed,” Frank said. “I have an interview in the morning. It turns out.”
“You go up. I want to sit with Simon for a little while.”
“Yes, a nightcap,” Marzena said.
“No, you too. Just Simon. Talk about old times.”
“Jo, I really think—”
“No, I mean it. Off you go. All of you. Oh, don’t say it. I’ve had too much. No more, I promise. Off you go. Shoo.”
Frank looked at Simon, a you-going-to-be-okay? raise of the eyebrows.
“I’ll get her home. We’ll be up soon.”
“My escort. Always a gentleman. Even back when. A gentleman.”
Frank made a gesture behind her, wagging his finger over a glass. Simon nodded. Marzena hesitated, not ready to leave.
“Come to the bar,” Boris said to her.
“Good,” Joanna said when they were alone. “Now we can talk. I keep feeling the hours ticking away. And then you’re gone. Let me have some of yours,” she said, pouring from his glass. “Looks funny sitting with an empty glass.” More Chinese passed them, the room emptying. She took out a cigarette, quiet as he lit it for her. “There, that’s nice. We can talk. What shall we talk about?”
Simon smiled. “Tell me about Howard.”
“Oh, Howard. I thought he was John Reed, somebody like that. Man of action.”
“And you were Louise Bryant?”
“For about ten minutes. I mean, there he was, back from the front, and all the other boys were playing tennis.” She looked down at the ashtray. “Maybe he does too now. Golf. So I was flattered.”
“What happened?”
She shrugged. “Turned out he really was a man of action. One minute here, one minute there. I couldn’t keep up. And then I didn’t want to.” She drew on the cigarette. “He was like you.”
“Me?”
“He couldn’t decide if he was in love with me.”
Simon looked at her. “Would it have made any difference?”
“With him?”
“With me.”
“I don’t know. It’s nice, somebody in love with you.”
“Maybe not so nice for him.”
She looked up. “Wasn’t it? I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Anyway, it’s a long time ago.”
“But you weren’t, really, or you would have held on—”
“You were already gone. Let’s not go over this again. Things worked out the way they did.”
She nodded. “But here’s the funny thing. Tonight, when I saw Marzena making eyes at you, I wanted to scratch her face.” She raised her hand, making her fingers claws. “Leave him alone. Not him too. As if I had any right—but who cares about rights? I thought, not him. He’s not yours. He’s— So there still must be something.”
Simon managed a smile. “Jealousy, anyway. I don’t deserve it.”
“I couldn’t help it. Pure instinct. Take your hands off him.”
“No, I meant there was nothing to be jealous of.” He looked at her. “She wasn’t even in the room.”
Jo moved her hand, covering his.
“Careful. Boris might be watching from the bar.”
“I don’t care. It’s just—seeing her made me think of that time. I didn’t leave you. Things happened, that’s all.”
“I know. Other people.”
“So I can still feel a little jealous. I don’t want her— First Frank, now you.”
“Not Frank either.”
“You said. How do you know?”
“Male intuition.”
“Ouf,” she said, waving her hand. “It’s not a joke. I know what she’s like. And he was there all the time. What’s he doing there?”
Simon moved his hand away. “Spying on her husband.”
“What?”
“Getting him to talk. As a friend. Then reporting everything to the office. They keep files on people like Perry. Troublemakers. He’ll talk to a friend. Stories about the other scientists. Who else should they worry about? Make a file for. Marzena was just—there.”
Joanna had sat back, her face slack. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Why? Frank’s a spy. For the KGB. What do you think they do?”
“He made reports on Perry? How can you know that? It’s not true.”
“Why not? He made reports on me. Pumped me for information and made a report. How do you think it’s done?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Yes it is.”
“He’s too highly placed for that.”
Simon said nothing, the silence its own reply.
She took a drink, grimacing when she put down the glass. “And what did you do? When you found out?”
“Do? He was gone. He was here. With you. I don’t think he ever thought of it as wrong. Me, Perry, any of us.”
“You had to leave your job. He ruined your life.”
“No. I made another one.”
She looked up. “But I can’t.”
Another silence, staring. “Yes, you can. I’ll help you.”
“Help me? How?”
Too close. No more. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Figure something out. It’s late. We should go up.”
“Why would you do that? After—”
He took her hand again. “Old times’ sake.”
She smiled. “Old times’ sake.”
“Come on,” he said, pulling her to her feet. She leaned against him as they crossed the lobby and waited for the elevator. He slid the cage door open. Bronze, mahogany panels that needed polishing.
“My escort,” she said. “Are you going to kiss me good night? Maybe now, so the old dragon with the keys can’t see us.”
He leaned to give her a kiss on the cheek, but she moved her hands to the back of his head, pulling him toward her, opening to him. He felt the rush of blood to his head, the smell of smoke and perfume, everything warm, his mouth on hers. “So nice,” she said, whispering, hot against his skin, and then kissing his face, moving over it. He moved down to her neck, nuzzling her, and she a
rched back, letting him have more, something he remembered from the weekend, something only she did.
“It’s so nice with you,” she said, still kissing him. “I could come with you. To your room.”
His face still in her neck, the elevator slowing, his head dizzy with her, and for a second he thought they could, that he could change the plan, even last minute, just the two of them.
“Jo,” he said, out of breath.
“I would. I would come.”
The elevator stopped. He pulled his face away, brushing her hair.
“We can’t.”
She looked at him, then backed against the elevator wall. “No, we can’t. What am I doing?” She put her hand to her forehead, a child hiding herself.
“Come on. It’s your floor.”
He opened the metal door. The floor concierge glared at them, handing him her key. Another report, but what would she say?
“Now I feel embarrassed,” Joanna said.
“No. We’ve just had too much to drink.”
“Oh, drink.”
“But thank you for the offer.”
She stopped next to her door. “You still can’t decide.”
He shook his head slowly, then kissed her forehead. “I always knew.”
“What am I going to do?” she said to no one, to the hall. “I can’t leave him.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t know. You think it’s a love affair. Maybe once. Now—”
“You’ll never leave him. I know that. Better than anybody. You’re—tied.”
She looked up at him, her eyes darting, moist. “Nobody else remembers him. Richie. Nobody else can talk about him. Keep him alive for me. If I lose Frank, there’d be no one. You can’t talk to yourself, it’s not real. He’d be gone.”
He looked at her, his stomach falling, a kind of physical sadness, flowing through him and out to the tired hallway, so that it was finally everywhere, all you could breathe. The air itself a gray punishment, the way she lived every day.
* * *
He called Boris a little before seven.
“I hope I didn’t wake you. I just had breakfast with Frank. Joanna’s not feeling well.”
“She’s sick?” Boris said, his voice groggy.
“Hungover. She’s going to need a little time. Would you call the guide and have her come later? Frank said you’d have the number.”
