The Last Paradise

by Antonio Garrido

  Jim stammered a thank-you, and Jack nodded firmly. He left the youngster to clean up and went up to his room to wash. He was late for his engagement. As he dried his hair, he told himself that he’d just made the most stupid mistake of his life.

  With its blue domes set on top of two little towers, Jack thought that the dacha where Viktor Smirnov lived could not have looked more like a Byzantine church. While he waited for someone to come to the door, he admired the gardens and fountains that surrounded the impressive two-story building. Looking down the hill, he could see the point where the Volga took in the waters from its tributary, the Oka. Beyond the river, the frozen expanse seemed to stretch endlessly to the horizon.

  He was about to ring the bell again, when Smirnov, wrapped in a striking red silk dressing gown, came out of his mansion to invite him in. “Magnificent views, aren’t they, Jack?” He greeted him with a handshake.

  Inside, Jack was captivated by the array of paintings and tapestries that lined the walls, giving the room the appearance of a palatial parlor. He sat on a velvet-lined sofa by a side table with an old gramophone on it, and savored the cup of tea a servant had brought to him, while Viktor crowed about the stove in the middle of the room that heated the entire building.

  The Soviet official described the dacha as his redoubt. An old mansion that had belonged to a relative of Tsar Nicholas II, the place was little more than a stable when he had occupied it after the revolution. “But gradually I turned a pigsty into a palace. Just look: Bohemian crystal, genuine French furniture, Ziegler Persian rugs, canvases by Levitan, Serov . . . Costly, yes, but extraordinary. Not everyone knows how to appreciate such treasures, of course, but if you’ve owned a Buick Master Six, you’ll know exactly where I’m coming from,” Viktor said, taking it for granted that Jack was a man of refined tastes.

  Jack was glad he’d put on McMillan’s suit, which the tailors on Sverdlovka Avenue had made to fit him like a glove. Viktor noticed it.

  “Bird’s-eye?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The fabric of your suit. It’s bird’s-eye, is it not?”

  “Oh yes!” Jack said through sheer reflex. “Do you like it?”

  “Of course! Not very appropriate for this climate, but elegant nonetheless. I buy my suits from the GORT, our private store. Now look, drink your tea and let’s talk about the car. That’s what you came for.”

  Viktor didn’t wait for Jack to finish his tea before he asked him to follow him to the garage, where he kept his most treasured possession. With its gleaming beige paintwork, the Buick was immaculate, as if fresh off the production line. Viktor proudly informed Jack that he had it washed twice a day with water from the Oka. Jack saw that next to the Buick was an old Ford Model A covered in dust, as well as a burgundy Ford Model B, freshly imported.

  “I have the tools you requested,” Viktor informed him.

  Jack examined them. In addition to the usual sets of socket wrenches, on the workbench were a torque handle, some pliers, and several screwdrivers. He turned his attention to the Buick, and while he opened the hood, he asked Viktor to describe to him again what was wrong with the automobile. When Viktor had finished, Jack examined the engine.

  “The heating and water consumption suggest there’s a leak in the cylinder head.” Jack unscrewed the radiator cap and looked at it. He ran his finger inside it and collected a blob of an unctuous substance the color of milky coffee that had accumulated at its base. “This confirms it.”

  “That’s what my mechanic told me.”

  “No doubt. And I guess he suggested taking out the cylinder head and repairing it by soldering it.”

  “He did. But he assured me that the repairs wouldn’t take long, so I decided to postpone them.”

  Jack inspected the rest of the engine’s organs. He pretended to think for a moment. “It’s a design fault. The cylinder head on this vehicle’s susceptible to corrosion because of the diameter and position of the cooling ducts. Even if we milled a new cylinder head, sooner or later the problem would return.”

  “So what does that mean? Can it be fixed or can’t it?” Viktor waited anxiously for Jack’s reply.

  Jack paused before responding. Given Viktor’s obsession with his Buick, perhaps he’d struck gold. “The repairs can be done, of course. But we’d need several things that are hard to find, and, honestly, I doubt you could afford it.” He waited for Smirnov to take the bait.

  Viktor responded to the challenge as if Jack had doubted the authenticity of his lineage. “No one’s said anything about money. Tell me what you need,” he demanded.

  There was a long silence. Finally, Jack looked Viktor in the eye. “What I’d need would be time to work, the right tools, a means of transportation to get around in . . .” He paused. “And somewhere quiet to do the repairs.”

  Back at the American village, Jack couldn’t believe what he’d achieved. Miquel had told him about the intricate web of contacts that enabled Viktor Smirnov to enjoy his luxurious lifestyle without the Soviet machinery coming down on him. But the reality exceeded his expectations. Or at least, that was what he surmised from the extraordinary benefits that he was going to enjoy merely for repairing his car.

  When he told Joe Brown that he was giving him back his room because he was moving to one of the family homes in the American village, Joe couldn’t believe his ears. “They’re reserved for the big bosses!” he exclaimed in surprise.

  Jack smiled and winked, and added that his own vehicle was waiting for him at the door.

  Joe let out a sigh of wonder when he saw Jack load his bags into an old Ford Model A to head off to his new home.

  With the excuse of needing a quiet place where he could repair the Buick, he’d persuaded Viktor to allow him to stay in one of the empty houses, and since, every time he needed materials, he’d have to travel the six-plus miles between the American village and Gorky, he’d also convinced him to lend him the Ford that he didn’t use.

  The news spread like wildfire, and to Jack’s pleasure, he soon noticed that his fellow countrymen began to show him the respect normally reserved for the men at the top. Little things like taking their hats off as he passed, making an effort to be more friendly than usual, or taking an interest in his life became the norm. Along with his position as a supervisor and his control over the illicit trade in food, his newfound status led his fellow Americans to see him as the village chief. What Jack didn’t know was that alongside the admiration that he aroused among his friends grew a dangerous dose of envy.

  For a short while, Jack enjoyed what anyone at the Avtozavod would have described as a pleasant life. Despite his initial objections, Viktor had persuaded Wilbur Hewitt to temporarily relieve Jack of some of his duties, enabling him to have breakfast in the social club surrounded by admirers who showered him with flattery. There, with the room heated and without the coats that masked their starved bodies, the difference between the fortunate and the deprived was clear. Jack shared his breakfast with everyone, but he would gulp down his coffee and rush to lock himself away in the garage of his new home and work on the Buick, repairing it with surgical precision. At noon, dripping with sweat, he would stop for lunch, before heading to the Avtozavod to complete his rounds and look for leads in his investigation. At sundown, he’d give Viktor Smirnov, his new ally, a progress report, and talk sports cars over dinner, taking the opportunity to extract as much information as possible, as Hewitt had ordered him to do in exchange for his free time. He discovered that, in addition to being the finance commissar, Viktor held a position within the OGPU that he described as symbolic.

  At one of those dinners, Elizabeth was present.

  When they ran into each other, they were both left speechless. Viktor introduced Jack as the Avtozavod engineer who was repairing his Buick, and she understood immediately that the Soviet official had completely forgotten their meeting at the Metropol. During dinner, Jack and Elizabeth kept up appearances until the instant that Viktor went upstairs to
find the micrometer that Jack had requested. As soon as he left the room, the young woman confronted him.

  “Engineer? I thought you were just an operative.”

  Jack responded by depositing a bunch of keys on the table. When he smiled at her, Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

  “What are they?” she asked with feigned indifference.

  “What do you think? The keys to my car and my new home. Maybe one day we could go for a drive?” He held up the keys and jingled them.

  Elizabeth heard Viktor coming back down. “Maybe,” she whispered, and turned her attention back to her sea bass.

  20

  Five months after Jack Beilis’s arrival in the Soviet Union, the first American disappeared from the Avtozavod.

  It was Alex Carter, a powerfully built assembler on the morning shift, whom everyone knew as the Milwaukee Express, the nickname he received as a worker at the Harley-Davidson motorcycle factory. His wife, Harriet, reported his disappearance, but the authorities hadn’t paid her much attention, so she had come to the canteen to ask Jack to help her find him.

  Jack fidgeted in his seat, remembering Hewitt’s warning to avoid sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. “Truthfully, I don’t know why you’ve come to me for help. Maybe you should ask his workmates. Sometimes, after a hard day’s work, the men head downtown to spend their pay on booze and . . . entertainment.” Though Jack was thinking of a brothel, he thought better than to mention it. Still, the woman reddened.

  “My Alex would never go with some floozy, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  Jack pursed his lips. He disliked feeling like someone to whom everyone thought they had the right to turn when they had trouble. He took a deep breath, wolfed down his slice of black bread, and stood. “All right. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know right away.”

  The woman let a tear escape and squeezed Jack’s hand in gratitude. When she’d left, Jack wiped the palm of the hand in which Harriet had placed her last hopes.

  Though Alex Carter’s disappearance was the talk of the American village, none of his workmates deigned to answer the questions that Jack asked them on his evening rounds. Tom Taylor, the Express’s best friend, turned to him with a monkey wrench in his hand and gave him a shove.

  “Why don’t you ask your Soviet friends?” he said, spitting on the floor.

  “Yeah. Why don’t you ask them?” said another American operative.

  “Ruki nazad!” yelled an armed guard.

  “Hands off,” Jack translated for his fellow countrymen, retreating.

  “Sure. Go with them. But watch your back,” Tom Taylor threatened. “Your money won’t protect you forever.”

  On May 28, the second American citizen disappeared, and on June 6, a third went missing. The rumor spread around the village that the Black Crows, as the Soviets nicknamed the OGPU henchmen, had come at night and taken the workers who protested too much. Apparently, all three of them had complained that their wages had been short. When Jack questioned Wilbur Hewitt about the disappearances, the engineer merely shook his head. “I warned you that if you blamed the sabotage on specialized operatives, Americans would end up paying the price,” was all he would say on the subject.

  Jack was hurt that Hewitt seemed to hold him responsible for something that had nothing to do with him. In his mind, there was no connection between his report to Sergei and the disappearances. At any rate, the three missing Americans were not involved in any of the incidents that he’d investigated. He was about to argue his point, when the office door unexpectedly opened. Jack fell silent when he saw Natasha, the young nurse. She apologized for interrupting and said that she was just delivering Hewitt’s painkillers. The industrialist growled, but accepted the pill and swallowed it. Then he asked Jack and Natasha to leave him be.

  Outside the office, Jack remembered the Robertsons’ daughter, sick with pneumonia, and seized the opportunity. “Sorry to be so forward, but the girl’s been sick for months, and her parents are worried. I wondered whether you knew how I could get someone to help her, even if I have to pay.”

  “She hasn’t been visited by the doctor assigned to the Americans?” asked the nurse.

  “I guess she has. But I’m not sure she’s had the right treatment.”

  Natasha gave him a comforting look. “Don’t worry, Mr. Beilis. These things take time to subside. Give her this.” She took some candy from her pocket and handed it to him. “And trust our Soviet medicine. That girl’s in good hands,” she added, saying good-bye with a smile.

  Jack stood watching the young woman walk away. He was surprised by her friendliness, but even more so by the fact that, after so long, she had remembered his surname.

  Jack kicked a stone when, as he came out of his new home, he found his car rendered useless once more. It was the second time that he’d woken up to find that the Ford Model A’s tires had been slashed, but on this occasion someone had painted “Soviet Lover” on the windows in red paint. Jack did what he could to wash it off, changed the wheels for some spares that he kept in the garage as a precaution, and started the car. Then, making sure everyone present could hear the engine’s roar, he sped off toward Walter’s workplace.

  Jack’s friend was surprised to see him walk into his modest office in the OGPU headquarters. He moved aside the mountain of papers on his desk and offered Jack a chair. Jack refused the invitation and remained standing, pacing from one side of the room to the other. “You have to explain to me what’s happening. You work with the Russians,” he snapped.

  There was nobody else in the office, but Walter looked from side to side, as if afraid he was being spied on. He gestured to Jack to be quiet and went out into the courtyard with him. Outside, the loudspeaker was broadcasting the same propaganda that was blared all day at the factory.

  “What do you think you’re doing coming here and asking me that?” He brushed aside a few strands of hair that had fallen over his spectacles.

  “Damn it, Walter! Three guys have disappeared in two weeks, and everyone’s treating me as if it were my fault. They’ve slashed the tires on my car. If this carries on, any time now they’ll be breaking my legs.”

  Walter bit his lip. “And why do you think I might know something?”

  “Come on, buddy! If you’d stayed with us in the village instead of moving to the city, you’d know that it’s all anyone talks about. The OGPU showed up at midnight in their black cars and arrested two men, just like that. And we’ve still had no news of Alex Carter, the first guy who disappeared.”

  Walter exhaled. “I saw their files,” he admitted in a tiny voice. “My Russian isn’t great, but their names written in the English alphabet jumped out at me, and I asked a comrade to fill me in.”

  “Comrade?”

  “That’s what we call one another.”

  “Sure . . . and what did the reports say?”

  “He didn’t give me all the details, but it seems they’ve been accused of being involved in several acts of sabotage.”

  “What a load of crap. They’re just fathers who want their kids to be able to eat a decent meal every day. Who in their right mind would think they’d sabotage the very people who put food on their tables?”

  “Shhh! For God’s sake, keep your voice down!”

  “And where’ve they been taken? To the labor camp?” Jack had heard there was a gigantic correctional facility on the outskirts of Gorky.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. He asked Walter if he could at least let him know whether they’d be tried, and his friend nodded, but when Jack asked in what court, he fell silent. “They’ll be put on trial by the OGPU itself,” he finally said without looking up.

  “But that’s illegal. How can the people who arrested them be their judges as well?”

  “Wake up, Jack! This ain’t America. There’s a revolution going on here, and we have many enemies.”

  Jack hawked. He was growing ever more confused by the sta
nce that Walter had adopted. When he reminded him that they knew the people who had disappeared—their wives, their children—his friend became distant, as if he were suddenly being reminded about something from the past.

  “I had to leave the village for the same reason you should leave. The Americans are a bunch of deadbeats. They complain about how little food there is and how hard they have to work, without considering that it’s the same for everyone. They’ve forgotten that they fled their country for a reason. The Soviets welcomed us with open arms, and now, if we get along with them, our compatriots brand us as enemies.”

  “Listen, Walter.” Jack laid his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “This isn’t about how discontented these men are with the working conditions or lack of food. We’re talking about the fact that our fellow countrymen are disappearing!”

  “No, Jack.” He removed his hands from his shoulders. “They might be your fellow countrymen, but they’re not mine.”

  Jack fell silent for a moment. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “I’ve given up my passport. I’m a Soviet citizen now,” Walter said firmly.

  Word soon spread that the disappeared had been sent to Siberia, though nobody was able to corroborate the rumor. The men’s families were informed that they had been accused of counterrevolutionary activities and sentenced to hard labor, adding that anyone protesting would be given the same punishment. For the time being, the Americans in the village continued to treat Jack as an ally, even if it was only because he could help them get food. Still, the attacks on his car had been warning enough to make him understand that he had to look out for his own safety, and he expressed his concerns to Ivan Zarko, the money changer who bought his dollars.