Jack shuddered when he felt the warmth from the heating. Braving the Moscow cold without a coat had been almost as audacious as trying to gate-crash the Metropol, but the short journey on the horse-drawn carriage had been worth it, considering that, for the five rubles it had cost, the coachman had thrown in the detail on the building’s façade that Jack had used to impress the doorman.
Once inside the opulent foyer, he greeted any guests he crossed paths with as if he’d known them all his life, headed to the reception desk, where, without looking up, he commandeered a copy of the Izvestia, and sat on a gaudy armchair that would have made a much more comfortable bed than the sofa he’d spent the night on.
He was inside. He examined every detail around him. The reception clock showed a quarter to six, so he still had some time to amuse himself reading the news. He turned down the offer of tea from one of the waiters and took a look at the newspaper, noticing that the main differences compared to an American rag were the absence of advertising and the portrayal of all of its contents, even the death notices, as good news.
After scanning a couple of propaganda pieces, he turned his attention to the guests who were beginning to arrive. A mature man, dressed up like a peacock, positioned himself nearby, conversing with another older gentleman wearing a tuxedo and a blue sash. They were joined by a lean young man in an impeccably pressed brown army jacket, who paid his respects to the older gentlemen as if he held them in extremely high regard. Most of the guests appeared to be diplomats, businessmen, and foreign dignitaries, but there were also a number of Soviet military men and political leaders. He compared their garments with the suit he wore and decided to remain seated until he could more easily blend into the crowd.
Gradually, the foyer filled with men and women in formal attire, and the staid conversations turned to lighthearted chatter about the evening’s menu, or on the latest trends in Parisian fashion. Finally, at exactly six o’clock, the doors to the ballroom opened, revealing an extraordinary space flanked by brown marble columns with golden capitals, crowned by a multicolored glass dome that left the guests speechless.
Jack paled, not so much due to the magnificent and extraordinary ballroom as to the dazzling figure that approached him holding the arm of a Soviet official.
Elizabeth Hewitt was captivating. When she passed Jack, the young woman gave him a hint of a smile, before moving on without turning her head. Jack waited for a chance to approach her, but the man she was with followed her wherever she went. Jack looked at him. It wasn’t that he’d imagined anyone in particular, but the man with the slicked-down hair wasn’t the kind of guy that he would have envisioned escorting her. His chiseled features were ornamented by a perfectly crafted mustache almost as impressive as his dark eyes. He must have been about forty years old. Jack served himself some vodka and, keeping his distance, watched the man’s movements closely. The official moved energetically, arrogantly, and Elizabeth seemed to be enjoying his company as much as he did hers.
To Jack’s distaste, the quartet of Soviet musicians responsible for livening up the evening played nothing but dreary pieces by Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, and Borodin, which were dutifully applauded by the couples who flooded the center of the ballroom to enjoy the party. Elizabeth and her partner took the first dance.
Jack finished his drink and set about the dish of prawns, beside which he had abandoned his white wallflowers and violets. He wondered what Elizabeth saw in such a mature man.
He poured himself another glass of vodka and sat on an armchair in the ballroom.
The waltzes followed one another at the same rate at which Jack followed one drink with the next. From time to time, Elizabeth would give him a fleeting look, but not as often or with the intensity that he would have liked. Even so, every time their eyes met, he felt a stab in the belly, as if he’d been hooked by a grapnel.
With the bottle of vodka almost empty, Jack began to wonder what he was doing at a party to which nobody had invited him, surrounded by geriatrics with phony smiles and absurd costumes. He considered getting up and leaving, but one look from Elizabeth stopped him.
Why did she keep glancing at him? What was it she wanted?
He was trying to gather his thoughts when a man approached, his face vaguely familiar. He tried to remember where he’d seen it before, but nothing came to him. Fortunately, the man helped him.
“Well, I’ll be damned! It’s Beilis, from the ship. Isn’t it? It sure is a surprise to find you here! You’re staying at the Metropol, too?”
His reedy voice enabled Jack to identify him as Louis Thomson, the New York Times journalist he’d shared a table with on board the SS Cliffwood. Jack stood and greeted him and two men he was with, whom the journalist introduced as colleagues.
“I should tell you that, were it not for this young man, Wilbur Hewitt would now be ‘One-Armed’ Wilbur,” Louis chortled, raising his glass to celebrate their meeting.
Without much enthusiasm, Jack thanked him for the toast while he held out a hand to the other men. He thought he could see their heads dancing on their shoulders and understood that he’d drunk too much. “Yeah, I must admit I quite like playing the hero,” Jack said, carrying on the journalist’s jocular tone. “In fact, right now I was saving myself. From dying of boredom.” He signaled for the bottle of vodka and filled his audience’s glasses.
Suddenly, without intending it, Jack found himself engaged in an enjoyable conversation, in which the four men were as likely to celebrate the latest results of the New York Giants as poke fun at the pale flesh hidden under the Soviet women’s skirts.
Jack savored the moment as if he were taking a long pull on a good cigar after a large meal. For the first time, he felt at home in Russia, enjoying himself like an American, surrounded by Americans. And not destitute Americans, but real ones. Successful ones. As the conversation progressed, he began to talk about the American miracle as if he were part of it, with almost as much energy as he used to criticize the Soviet system. Amid the laughter, he felt like just another member of the privileged few. Suddenly, even the tedious classical waltzes seemed less annoying, though Jack wondered whether the Russian musicians knew a fox-trot that would really get the party going. He decided to ask for one, and his new friends enthusiastically offered to back him up.
He was heading toward the orchestra when he crossed paths with Elizabeth Hewitt. He looked at her as coolly as he could. She was truly radiant, in a tulle dress that, hugging her waist, gave her a swanlike air. For the first time, he found her alone, without the Soviet official. He had been waiting for this moment for so long that, now it was here, he didn’t know what to say. For a second, he turned his head toward the bunch of flowers that lay scattered by the dish of prawns, but figured that it wasn’t such a good idea. He turned back to Elizabeth and smiled. “I promised you we’d see each other again,” Jack finally said.
“I must admit I was surprised.” She gave him a cursory examination. “I’d go so far as to say that scarecrow’s jacket you’re wearing doesn’t look too bad on you.” She smiled.
“It’s a Russian thing. My Soviet tailor’s hands froze up.” He smiled back. “You, on the other hand, look incredible. By the way, I brought you a gift . . .” He changed his mind and just pointed at what was left of the wallflowers and violets. “But I’ll have to leave it for another time.”
“A Russian thing?” She smiled again.
“Something like that. How’s your uncle getting on? Still in Helsinki?” He hoped he was wrong.
“My uncle Wilbur? In Helsinki?” She let out a burst of laughter that caught the attention of everyone around them. “It’s obvious you don’t know us Hewitts. We won’t be held back by a little thing like an accident.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Oh? What have you seen?”
“That nothing stops you. You wouldn’t stop dancing. I was hoping you’d take a break so I could ask you for a dance.”
“Well, I was having fun.”
“You didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“You were watching me?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Well, I have to go now.”
“Wait.” He took her hand. He didn’t feel her pull it away. “You haven’t told me how your uncle is.”
Elizabeth saw that Jack was swaying a little, and she smiled again. “In better shape than you. He’s staying here, at the Metropol. May I have my hand back?”
Jack gently let her go. He waited for her to walk off, but she stood in front of him for a moment that seemed endless. He was about to ask her for a date, when a figure suddenly appeared.
“Sorry for the delay. Political business,” said the newcomer, and he took Elizabeth by the arm. “Excuse me. And you are . . . ?”
“This is Jack . . . Jack . . .” Elizabeth quickly introduced him, his surname apparently already forgotten.
“Beilis. Jack Beilis,” he added, holding his hand out to the Soviet official Elizabeth had been dancing with. The officer returned his greeting energetically.
“That’s it. Jack Beilis,” said Elizabeth. “I met him on the SS Cliffwood. He’s an American immigrant.”
“That’s right.” It bothered Jack that she had introduced him as a simple immigrant and left out the detail about his saving her uncle Wilbur. “An American immigrant,” he repeated.
“Beilis . . . You wouldn’t have anything to do with . . . ?”
“No. Definitely not,” he said, cutting him off. “It’s interesting. I’ve been asked about my surname so often lately that I’m wondering if I should change it. And your name is . . . ?”
“Oh! How rude of me,” said Elizabeth. “Jack, this is Finance Commissar Viktor Smirnov. Viktor’s a distant cousin of Stalin’s. We met on my first visit to the Soviet Union, and he’s always been the perfect host.” She smiled.
“Elizabeth, darling, with you it’s always a pleasure. And anyway, it would be rude not to redouble the customary Soviet hospitality for those who come to our country to contribute to its development.” He returned her smile. “And speaking of the perfect host.” He paused for dramatic effect, like an amateur actor, Jack thought. “Here. A small gift from our government.” He handed Elizabeth a velvet-lined case.
The young woman’s eyes opened as wide as her mouth when she discovered its contents. “Oh, Viktor . . . It’s . . . it’s beautiful.” Elizabeth took the almond-sized emerald and went to hang it around her neck. Viktor helped her.
“The necklace belonged to Anastasia, daughter of the tsarina. I took it from her dressing table myself the day we overthrew them.” He gave the American woman a smug look.
Jack feigned a smile. He tried to think of a witty remark, but nothing came to him. In any case, seeing Elizabeth overflowing with happiness and Viktor so triumphant, he knew it wouldn’t be welcomed. In fact, Jack was certain that, to Viktor, he was nothing more than a ridiculous insect whom he would never see as a romantic rival. He sensed it because Viktor would glance at him from time to time, but not see him. Jack looked at Elizabeth, beautiful, smiling, out of reach. For a moment, he’d believed that his stature, his smile, and his blue eyes would distract from his humble thirdhand jacket and mended shoes, but now it seemed obvious that for Elizabeth, it wouldn’t be nearly enough.
He decided that he’d better say his good-byes.
He was rejoining his fellow Americans, when the final notes of the last waltz were played, and as if by magic, the musty old Soviet ballroom was transformed into New York’s buzzing Cotton Club. Suddenly, the rhythms of a frenetic fox-trot filled the room, and the guests delighted in the change. It was enough for Jack to forget about all of his problems for a moment, and he turned toward Elizabeth. He was forced to swallow his envy when he noticed that the young woman was attracting the glances of the entire room with her sensual movements, while Viktor was flailing ridiculously in an attempt to follow her lead.
He guessed the best thing to do would be to return to his guesthouse. There, even if he had to endure one of Walter’s boring political discussions, at least the night would be bearable.
He was saying good-bye to the journalists, when he saw a man with his arm in a sling waving at him from the other end of the room. It was Wilbur Hewitt. He said his farewells as quickly as he could, then headed over to Hewitt.
“Well I never, kid! You’re the last person I’d have expected to see among this bunch of bourgeoisie-turned-revolutionaries. What in hell’s name are you doing here?” asked Elizabeth’s uncle.
“It’s good to see you, sir. I was chatting with Louis Thomson and—”
Jack wanted to avoid explaining his presence at the Metropol and asked the industrialist about his arm.
“I still have it!” He laughed. “Those Finnish doctors are magicians. Strange methods, but magicians.” He clumsily bent his wrist to demonstrate the improvement. “Incidentally, it’s a stroke of luck that you’re here. I’ve been looking for you. Remember Sergei, the Soviet official escorting me on the SS Cliffwood? Well, they’ve promoted him to director of operations, and among other things, he’s responsible for the Avtozavod’s security now. I told him to ask Intourist for your whereabouts, and I was waiting for the results of his inquiries.”
The hair on Jack’s neck stood on end. Any hint that somebody was investigating him put him on the alert. “And what did he find?”
“If you don’t mind, we’ll go to the library. What I have to propose to you isn’t for blurting out in a Soviet ballroom.”
On the fourth sip of strong coffee, Jack began to sober up. But he still couldn’t believe what Hewitt was proposing, so he asked him to repeat it.
“It’s simple,” the industrialist summarized. “If you accept my new offer, I’d be prepared to pay you two hundred dollars a week.”
Jack had to clear his throat when he received confirmation that Hewitt’s proposal hadn’t been a vodka-induced fantasy. He took another sip of coffee and looked at the general manager of the Avtozavod. Eight hundred dollars a month was a Ford Motor Company executive’s salary in the United States.
“For six months. A year at most. Then you can work in a normal role befitting your skills, though still well paid,” the industrialist added.
Jack smiled. He asked Hewitt what the catch was.
“You know what, Jack? That’s exactly what I like about you. You’re smart. And you say things to a man’s face.” He folded the copy of the New York Times he always carried with him and left it on the table. “I’ll be straight with you. I’ve been turning over in my head what we talked about when we were disembarking in Helsinki. What I said about the Russians needing some Americans with guts to─”
“Sure. To get things working once and for all. But I was referring to the job at the factory, to repair the machinery damaged in the storm, and that has nothing to do with what you’re proposing now, sir.”
“Forget that machinery, Jack. I know this has nothing to do with that, but what have you got to lose? I’m just asking you to keep your eyes open for me during your day’s work as an assembly line supervisor.”
“And rat on my fellow Americans?” He was trying to wrap his head around it.
“No. That’s not what I said.”
“You said someone’s been sabotaging production, and you want to offer me a job as a front to find out who’s behind it.”
“But I didn’t say the perpetrators were American. I just pointed out that the Soviets will blame anyone to hide their incompetence. Most likely, it’s Russian operatives unhappy with the working conditions. It might be that, or it may simply have been a succession of accidents. And I wouldn’t agree with your description of your position as a front, either, considering that your technical skills will be essential to uncovering the cause of the damage.”
Jack looked at Hewitt. Eight hundred dollars a month was a lot of money. Perhaps it was too much.
“I doubt you’d offer me a chunk of change like that
”—he served himself some more coffee while he weighed up what he should say—“if it didn’t come with risks.”
Hewitt raised an eyebrow.
“It’s like anything in life. You can’t get the best views unless you climb the mountain.”
“And what if they rat me out?”
“Who?”
“The Soviets.”
“Well, let’s be straight. You’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen. The Soviets don’t usually mess around.” He paused. “But don’t worry. Nobody will know you’re tasked with investigating the incidents, and obviously you won’t be stupid enough to go around telling people. And anyway, when there’s an accident at the factory, they blame the inefficiency of the American equipment, the American workers, or the American procedures. If they suspect anything untoward, they arrest someone, interrogate him, and let him go, but they don’t want to hear any talk about sabotage that would prove the existence of anti-Soviet groups. Henry Ford thinks differently, which is why he’s entrusted me to get the Gorky factory up and running at full capacity. That’s why I’m in Russia, and why I’m offering you so much money.”
Jack drank from his cup again. He couldn’t think clearly. “And if I don’t find anything?”
“That’s a risk I have to take. We’re all taking risks here, Jack. Your risk is being uncovered. My risk is you finding nothing and me wasting money.”
“I see.” Jack pursed his lips. Hewitt seemed honest in his proposal, but Jack couldn’t understand why he was entrusting such an important task to a virtual stranger. When he asked him why, the industrialist was pretty explicit.
“You really want to know? Well, because I have no goddamned choice, son.” Hewitt admitted that he had lined up an engineer in the United States for the job but, just before the SS Cliffwood had set sail, he’d suddenly fallen ill. “Appendicitis, I believe. In fact, George McMillan should be sitting where you are right now, and I should be talking to him, not you. Luckily, you showed up. And not only did you save my arm, but you’re also bright, know the Ford machinery like the back of your hand, and speak Russian. I couldn’t have found a more ideal candidate had I tried!”
The Last Paradise Page 14