The Last Paradise

by Antonio Garrido

  Jack shrugged and obeyed her without thinking. “What . . . what are you doing here?” he managed to say.

  “Well, I was trying to sleep until you came in and woke me up. Has the party finished? What time is it?”

  Jack didn’t respond. He just looked at Sue, half-naked on the bed. “I don’t understand. Harry told me this was my room. He gave me the key, and my luggage is here, and—”

  “Sure. The room’s for both of us.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’re married, remember?”

  “But why didn’t you explain that we—?”

  “That we what, Jack? That we’ve fooled everyone?”

  “No, of course not. Not that. But Walter . . .” Jack couldn’t concentrate.

  “Come on. Come to bed, and tomorrow we’ll see if we can sort something out.”

  “But Walter . . .”

  In reply, Sue turned off the light and took Jack’s hand to pull him toward her.

  Jack let her do it. He was finding it difficult to think, his senses were dulled, and the contact with Sue didn’t help. He wanted to resist, but the come that she said softly into the darkness pulled him in like a whirlpool sucking down a drifting raft. Somehow he stripped down to his underpants. Sue wrapped him in the blanket and pressed herself against him. They were in total blackness. In the silence, Jack could only hear the young woman’s breathing near his ear. He felt Sue’s bare legs, soft and warm, entangle in his, while her arms pulled him closer. He tried to stop and think, but her hands, stroking his chest and hair, made it impossible, dragging him toward a place of confusion and desire, where the faces of Sue, Elizabeth, and Natasha blended into one, appeared and disappeared, offered themselves, then moved away.

  He was unable to string together two thoughts. He let himself go.

  He couldn’t recall ever having such a bad hangover. His head felt as if it were filled with razor blades that cut through his brain with the slightest movement. He lay in silence, trying to remember what had happened, but all he could rough out was a collection of vague images in which the banjo music and the vodka merged with a tornado of kisses and caresses. However, Sue’s naked body beside him in the bed left no room for doubt. He got up and woke her. They had to hurry. They had only fifteen minutes before the vehicle that was taking them to the factory set off, and he didn’t want to miss it. They quickly got dressed and ran to the communal bathroom in the corridor, which, because of the late hour, was deserted. Then they went down the stairs as they finished tidying their hair and climbed into the van just as it was leaving. Neither of them said anything about what had happened. They endured the drive in silence, saying not so much as a good-bye when they separated to go to their respective destinations, she to a cleaning gang and he to his dangerous undertaking.

  The first day of work felt like carting a mountain rock by rock, but at least it meant Jack could forget about the consequences of his encounter with Sue and see the various buildings that made up the gigantic factory.

  As instructed by Wilbur Hewitt, he went first to the equipment warehouse to fetch the white overalls that he’d have to wear at all times as a uniform, and which would identify him as an American supervisor. On the apron, which had been used and was made of a coarse fabric, a badge showed the name “George McMillan,” the sick engineer he was replacing. They also supplied a notebook, a pencil, a rubber eraser, an articulated wooden ruler, a gauge, some woolen gloves, an ushanka, and a pair of felt boots.

  From there, accompanied by Anatoly Orlov, the Soviet operative who’d been assigned to him as a guide while he familiarized himself with his duties, he had continued to the press shop, where the stamping took place. Much like at the Ford River Rouge factory in Michigan, the noise from the presses was deafening. Though Jack knew the process inside and out, Orlov insisted on explaining that the steel sheets arrived at the guillotines in huge rolls, before being cut into rectangular plates; then trimmed, pressed, and die-stamped, they were shaped into the parts that would make up the bodywork. However, from that point on, any similarity between the two factories was purely superficial.

  The Ford River Rouge Complex in Dearborn was a gigantic miracle of efficiency and technology, where each element—whether man, supplies, or machinery—slotted together with all the other elements with the precision of a clock mechanism. But that was not all. Of the more than one hundred thousand workers employed at the Dearborn installation, five thousand had the exclusive task of keeping the facilities in impeccable condition: hosing down the floors, emptying the waste containers every two hours, cleaning the windows, and repainting the walls and pillars in the company’s blue and white. At the Rouge, one could lick the floor without ingesting a single piece of dirt. Doing so at the Avtozavod would be a sure way to poison oneself to death.

  Wherever Jack looked, he struggled to find a spot that wasn’t a dumping ground. Metal shavings covered the floors, piles of off-cuts and rusty components shared the space with scattered supply carts, and dozens of crates of spare parts were strewn throughout the corridors, as if they’d been abandoned there years before. The Avtozavod’s approach to order and cleanliness was like letting a herd of pigs into an operating theater and expecting them to keep it sterile.

  And yet, despite the mess and chaos of the facility itself, what really struck Jack most was the inefficiency and lax attitude with which the Soviets seemed to undertake each task. Far from being highly trained operatives, the people responsible for production resembled an army of peasants who handled the welding torches with as much finesse as if they were herding goats.

  Amid the flying sparks and the penetrating smell of solder that stuck in the throat, Jack examined them closely. Many of the men were no older than twenty, but their faces, consumed by work, were those of men much older. The women, who were almost as numerous as the men, covered their hair with white scarves to protect it from the dangerous machinery. Near the older men were open vodka bottles, despite the signs that prohibited drinking during working hours and the omnipresent guards, apparently more concerned with other problems. The cold was appalling, to the point that sheets of ice had formed in the corridors where there were leaks.

  In America, the iron ore arrived via the River Rouge wharves on Monday morning, and it was turned into a four-cylinder automobile ready for sale by Thursday afternoon. That was efficiency, the meaning of which they did not know at the Avtozavod.

  He took note of everything he saw but left his reflections for another day. He went to the warehouse where they’d stored the machines damaged during the storm, and spent the rest of the morning explaining to the operatives what they had to do to repair them.

  At the end of the day, Jack found Harry Daniels and his son in the press shop canteen, a vast warehouse-like structure with hundreds of tables set out in lines. While they waited in the line to buy their meal tickets, Jack asked about their first day’s work.

  “Not too bad,” replied old Harry. “Cold as hell, but I’m happy to be manning the presses again.”

  Jack nodded. He’d persuaded Hewitt to assign Harry and his elder son, Jim, to the mold repair shop, where the most skilled operatives were needed to deal with the faults. It hadn’t been difficult. In stamping techniques, the Daniels family was highly experienced. “And your Soviet workmates? Are they friendly?” Jack pressed them.

  “They’re all just Soviets at the moment; I wouldn’t call them mates, exactly.” They moved forward in the line.

  “What do you expect, Dad?” young Jim cut in. “We don’t speak Russian, and all they can say in English is comrade.”

  “That’s true,” Jack conceded. “The language is a problem, but they’re offering free lessons in the evenings that anyone can attend.” He stopped at the cash register.

  “Lessons? Study?” Harry let out a sarcastic guffaw. “Have you seen my hands?” He showed them to Jack. They were callused all over. “I’ll be fifty-five in March. When I was six, I learned a few letters, and I’ve never needed to learn an
ything else since. My son can study if he wants. When I’m done working, I’ll go home to my wife, drink a glass of vodka, and watch the snow fall.”

  Jack interrupted the conversation for a moment to buy the meal tickets. He was served by a short man with a dark complexion and an aquiline nose, wearing a curious red hat that resembled a sock. Jack said hello in Russian and asked him what kind of food was available.

  “Americans, right? I heard you speaking English.” He smiled. “I have a few words, from tending to the foreigners, but I see you speak good Russian. You’ve just arrived here at the Avtozavod, am I right? I haven’t seen you before.” He smiled enthusiastically again. “You’ll like it here. With the kitchens right there, you won’t even notice the cold.”

  Jack realized why they had waited so long in the line. The cashier noticed his expression.

  “Oh yes! The food. Of course! It’s just you don’t often see new faces around here, you know? And I love to talk. Right. You were asking what kind of food we serve. Yes, very good. What chits do you have?” he asked. “Workers? Officials? Party members?” he said, switching to English.

  Jack raised an eyebrow, as did Harry and his son. When they’d been given the chits in the morning, they hadn’t noticed that there were different types. Jack found his; the lettering said “Supervisor.” On the Danielses’ chits it said “Operative.” Jack asked what each category meant.

  “Depending on the chit you’ve been given, you’ll receive either single or double rations. Let’s see . . .” He checked the different chits. “For you,” he said to Jack, “it’ll be three courses for five rubles. The other chits are standard, soup and main course. Also five rubles each.”

  “Excuse me, but you must’ve made a mistake,” Harry cut in. “Did you just say that me and my son will only receive two courses?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So how is it possible that you intend to charge us the same as him, when you’re going to serve him an extra course?”

  “Oh! I see it hasn’t been explained to you. Basically, the government subsidizes all meals, regardless of what they include, so the price is the same for everyone.”

  Harry Daniels looked at the counter where rows of plates were waiting to be collected. He scratched his nose, struggling to understand. The soup was a greenish liquid in which little else could be seen, and the main courses consisted of some kind of purée accompanied by something resembling salt herring. “All right.” He took out two more rubles and added them to the five. “Give me a third course, as well. I’ve worked nonstop all day, and I deserve a piece of that cow, even if I have to pay its weight in gold.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible.”

  “What? Can you not see the two rubles I’ve added?”

  “It’s not a question of money, sir. The problem is that there isn’t enough food.”

  Harry looked at the row of steaks. “Are you joking?”

  “I wish I was, sir, but those steaks are for management only.”

  Harry broke into a string of protests that the cashier was unable to interpret. The little man reddened but held his ground.

  “Please, sir. Do not cause trouble or we will all have problems. It’s five rubles each. Take your tickets and hand them in when you collect your dishes.”

  Harry would not calm down. He left the seven rubles on the money tray, snatched up one of the steaks, and took a bite from it before the massive Soviet guard who watched over the canteen could stop him.

  “Davay!” the guard yelled at him, grabbing him by the arm.

  “Get your hands off me!” Harry wriggled away.

  Jack came forward and stepped between Harry’s son and the guard, who looked like he was prepared to use force to achieve his objective. “Excuse him, sir. This man doesn’t speak your language. It’s all a misunderstanding,” Jack assured him in Russian.

  “A misunderstanding? This American good-for-nothing thinks he can do whatever he wants?”

  Jack was glad Harry couldn’t understand what they were saying. “I’m sorry if it looked like something else, but this poor man has done nothing wrong. It’s just that I wasn’t hungry, so I offered him my meat. Look. I’m not lying to you. I’m entitled to that steak.” He showed the guard the chit that proved he was a supervisor.

  The guard glanced at it without changing his expression. “Is this true?” he asked the cashier.

  Jack pleaded with the man with his eyes.

  “Yes . . . yes, sir,” he said. “That man”—he looked at Jack for an instant—“that gentleman offered his third course to the old man.”

  The guard grunted. He turned around and returned to his station. Jack sat on the long bench near where Harry had made himself comfortable. The older man was eating as if nothing had happened.

  “What did that bozo want?” asked Harry. Jim, his son, was listening, too.

  Jack looked at them, not sure how he should answer. “Nothing. Just eat your food.”

  When they’d finished, the Danielses quickly left the canteen to catch the tram that went from the press shop to the American village. Jack decided to drink his tea without rushing. He was in no hurry to see Sue again, and had work matters that he thought would be better to review near the heat from the kitchens. He lit a papirosa and sipped on his tea.

  He studied his notes for a long while, until a rasping voice pulled him from his thoughts.

  “We’re closing.”

  Jack looked up to find a cleaning lady who, rag in hand, was waiting for him to take his notes away so that she could clean the table. He snatched them up and checked the time on the canteen clock. It was seven. Too late to use the services of the crazy driver, and the next tram wouldn’t come until the shift change. He was about to leave the canteen, when he heard someone call to him.

  “Sir. Here. Your two rubles.”

  Jack turned around, surprised. It was the cashier. He was holding out his hand, offering Jack the two coins.

  “Don’t you remember? Your friend paid two rubles extra for his steak, but he really ate yours, so this money belongs to you.”

  “Oh! It doesn’t matter. Keep it.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I can’t accept it.”

  “You can’t? Why not?”

  “In the Soviet Union, we don’t accept tips. If we did, it would be like saying that we’ve done an especially good job.”

  “That’s right. And what’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, I suppose. It’s just we Soviets should always do our job well.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. The constant discovery of so many curious details about the Soviet Union would surely make this his most frequent facial expression. “Well, in that case, there are two reasons why you could accept it. First, because, judging by your accent, you’re not a Soviet. And second, because those two rubles aren’t a tip, but a reward for helping us. Or have you forgotten that you backed up my version of events with the guard?”

  The man stammered, not knowing what to say. Before he could respond, Jack made him close his hand and put the money away.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Jack. You can call me Jack. And don’t worry. Nobody will know you accepted it,” he said, before turning to leave the canteen.

  When he stepped outside, a punishing cold struck him in the face. He pulled his overcoat tight to protect himself from the blizzard and looked at the row of streetlamps disappearing into the distance. It was the route the driver had taken, so if he followed it, sooner or later he’d reach the Americans’ bunkhouses. He’d started walking in the snow, when he heard some rushed footsteps behind him.

  “Mr. Jack! Wait, Mr. Jack!”

  Jack turned around to find the cashier in the red hat again.

  “Here, sir,” he said, offering him a newspaper-wrapped package. “Some steaks. It’s not true that there’s not enough food. Well, it is, but nobody will miss these steaks.”

  “Well, blow me down; I knew you weren’t a Soviet. What’s your
name?”

  The man smiled. “Agramunt. Miquel Agramunt, sir.”

  “Well, thanks, Miquel. But don’t call me ‘sir.’”

  Jack had managed to avoid any further encounters with Sue by sleeping on a straw mattress on the floor in Joe Brown’s room. It had been five nights, enough for his bones to begin to ache and for him to develop a nasty cough—his lungs were unused to such extreme cold. When she asked him why he had frozen her out, he told her that he valued and admired her as a friend, but that what had happened on the night of the party he could only put down to having drunk too much vodka. She slapped him. From then on, Jack tried to avoid her. When it was impossible, he greeted her curtly, for she seemed to interpret any friendly gesture as an attempt to get close to her. On the sixth night, Jack found her waiting for him outside Joe Brown’s room. She was toeing the floor impatiently, and her face seemed to be burning with a dangerous mixture of fury and alcohol. Sue told him to come back to her, or she would tell Walter that he had tried to force himself on her. She was swaying from the drink and slurring her words. Jack ignored her. He wanted to believe that it was the alcohol talking, but it was worrying. He didn’t know what he would do about the problem, but decided to say nothing to her until Walter returned.

  One person he hadn’t seen again was Elizabeth. Through her uncle, he knew that she’d turned down a modest prefabricated house in the American village to move into a mansion in Gorky that the Soviets sometimes lent to foreign executives. According to the industrialist, his niece passed the time going from party to party, which he disapproved of but had little choice but to consent to—she was an adult, after all. Elizabeth’s parents had died when she was a child, and Hewitt and his wife, who were childless, had brought her up as well as they knew how. However, after the attack of meningitis that saw his wife end up in a psychiatric hospital, Elizabeth had become rebellious. He didn’t blame her for it—she was young and had too much spare time—but that did not stop him from occasionally criticizing her behavior.