by Ken Follett
She was still daydreaming when they reached their destination.
The city of Buffalo was in upstate New York, near the Canadian border. Woodlawn Beach was a mile of sand on the shore of Lake Erie. Daisy parked and they walked across the dunes.
Fifty or sixty people were already there. These were the adolescent children of the Buffalo elite, a privileged group who spent their summers sailing and water-skiing in the daytime and going to parties and dances at night. Daisy greeted the people she knew, which was just about everyone, and introduced Eva around. They got glasses of punch. Daisy tasted it cautiously: some of the boys would think it hilarious to spike the drink with a couple of bottles of gin.
The party was for Dot Renshaw, a sharp-tongued girl whom no one wanted to marry. The Renshaws were an old Buffalo family, like the Farquharsons, but their fortune had survived the crash. Daisy made sure to approach the host, Dot's father, and thank him. "I'm sorry we're late," she said. "I lost track of time!"
Philip Renshaw looked her up and down. "That's a very short skirt." Disapproval vied with lasciviousness in his expression.
"I'm so glad you like it," Daisy replied, pretending he had paid her a straightforward compliment.
"Anyway, it's good that you're here at last," he went on. "A photographer from the Sentinel is coming and we must have some pretty girls in the picture."
Daisy muttered to Eva: "So that's why I was invited. How kind of him to let me know."
Dot came up. She had a thin face with a pointed nose. Daisy always thought she looked as if she might peck you. "I thought you were going with your father to meet the president," she said.
Daisy felt mortified. She wished she had not boasted to everyone about this.
"I see he took his, ahem, leading lady," Dot went on. "Unusual, that sort of thing, in the White House."
Daisy said: "I guess the president likes to meet movie stars occasionally. He deserves a little glamour, don't you think?"
"I can't imagine Eleanor Roosevelt approved. According to the Sentinel, all the other men took their wives."
"How thoughtful of them." Daisy turned away, desperate to escape.
She spotted Charlie Farquharson, trying to erect a net for beach tennis. He was too good-natured to mock her about Gladys Angelus. "How are you, Charlie?" she said brightly.
"Fine, I guess." He stood up, a tall man of about twenty-five, a little overweight, stooping slightly as if he feared his height might be intimidating.
Daisy introduced Eva. Charlie was sweetly awkward in company, especially with girls, but he made an effort and asked Eva how she liked America, and what she heard from her family back in Berlin.
Eva asked him if he was enjoying the picnic.
"Not much," he said candidly. "I'd rather be at home with my dogs."
No doubt he found pets easier to deal with than girls, Daisy thought. But the mention of dogs was interesting. "What kind of dogs do you have?" she asked.
"Jack Russell terriers."
Daisy made a mental note.
An angular woman of about fifty approached. "For goodness' sake, Charlie, haven't you got that net up yet?"
"Almost there, Mom," he said.
Nora Farquharson was wearing a gold tennis bracelet, diamond ear studs, and a Tiffany necklace--more jewelry than she really needed for a picnic. The Farquharsons' poverty was relative, Daisy reflected. They said they had lost everything, but Mrs. Farquharson still had a maid and a chauffeur and a couple of horses for riding in the park.
Daisy said: "Good afternoon, Mrs. Farquharson. This is my friend Eva Rothmann from Berlin."
"How do you do," said Nora Farquharson without offering her hand. She felt no need to be friendly toward arriviste Russians, much less their Jewish guests.
Then she seemed to be struck by a thought. "Ah, Daisy, you could go round and find out who wants to play tennis."
Daisy knew she was being treated somewhat as a servant, but she decided to be compliant. "Of course," she said. "Mixed doubles, I suggest."
"Good idea." Mrs. Farquharson held out a pencil stub and a scrap of paper. "Write the names down."
Daisy smiled sweetly and took a gold pen and a little beige leather notebook from her bag. "I'm equipped."
She knew who the tennis players were, good and bad. She belonged to the Racquet Club, which was not as exclusive as the Yacht Club. She paired Eva with Chuck Dewar, the fourteen-year-old son of Senator Dewar. She put Joanne Rouzrokh with the older Dewar boy, Woody, only fifteen but already as tall as his beanpole father. Naturally she herself would be Charlie's partner.
Daisy was startled to come across a somewhat familiar face and recognize her half brother, Greg, the son of Marga. They did not meet often, and she had not seen him for a year. In that time he seemed to have become a man. He was six inches taller, and although still only fifteen he had the dark shadow of a beard. As a child he had been disheveled, and that had not changed. He wore his expensive clothes carelessly: the sleeves of the blazer rolled up, the striped tie loose at the neck, the linen pants sea-wet and sandy at the cuffs.
Daisy was always embarrassed to run into Greg. He was a living reminder of how their father had rejected Daisy and her mother in favor of Greg and Marga. Many married men had affairs, she knew, but her father's indiscretion showed up at parties for everyone to see. Father should have moved Marga and Greg to New York, where nobody knew anybody, or to California, where no one saw anything wrong with adultery. Here they were a permanent scandal, and Greg was part of the reason people looked down on Daisy.
He asked her politely how she was, and she answered: "Angry as heck, if you want to know. Father's let me down--again."
Greg said guardedly: "What did he do?"
"Asked me to go to the White House with him--then took that tart Gladys Angelus. Now everyone's laughing at me."
"It must have been good publicity for Passion, her new film."
"You always take his side because he prefers you to me."
Greg looked irritated. "Maybe that's because I admire him instead of complaining about him all the time."
"I don't--" Daisy was about to deny complaining all the time when she realized it was true. "Well, maybe I do complain, but he should keep his promises, shouldn't he?"
"He has so much on his mind."
"Maybe he shouldn't have two mistresses as well as a wife."
Greg shrugged. "It's a lot to handle."
They both noticed the unintentional double entendre, and after a moment they giggled.
Daisy said: "Well, I guess I shouldn't blame you. You didn't ask to be born."
"And I should probably forgive you for taking my father away from me three nights a week--no matter how I cried and begged him to stay."
Daisy had never thought of it that way. In her mind Greg was the usurper, the illegitimate child who kept stealing her father. But now she realized he felt as hurt as she did.
She stared at him. Some girls might find him attractive, she guessed. He was too young for Eva, though. And he would probably turn out as selfish and unreliable as their father.
"Anyway," she said, "do you play tennis?"
He shook his head. "They don't let people like me into the Racquet Club." He forced an insouciant grin, and Daisy realized that, like her, Greg felt rejected by Buffalo society. "Ice hockey's my sport," he said.
"Too bad." She moved on.
When she had enough names, she returned to Charlie, who had finally got the net up. She sent Eva to round up the first foursome. Then she said to Charlie: "Help me make a competition tree."
They knelt side by side and drew a diagram in the sand with heats, semifinals, and a final. While they were entering the names, Charlie said: "Do you like the movies?"
Daisy wondered if he was about to ask her for a date. "Sure," she said.
"Have you seen Passion, by any chance?"
"No, Charlie, I haven't seen it," she said in a tone of exasperation. "It stars my father's mistress."
He was shocked. "The papers say they're just good friends."
"And why do you think Miss Angelus, who is barely twenty, is so friendly with my forty-year-old father?" Daisy asked sarcastically. "Do you think she likes his receding hairline? Or his little paunch? Or his fifty million dollars?"
"Oh, I see," said Charlie, looking abashed. "Sorry."
"You shouldn't be sorry. I'm being kind of bitchy. You're not like everyone else--you don't automatically think the worst of people."
"I guess I'm just dumb."
"No. You're just nice."
Charlie looked embarrassed, but pleased.
"Let's get on with this," Daisy said. "We have to rig it so the best players get through to the final."
Nora Farquharson reappeared. She looked at Charlie and Daisy kneeling side by side in the sand, then studied their drawing.
Charlie said: "Pretty good, Mom, don't you think?" He longed for approval from her; that was obvious.
"Very good." She gave Daisy an appraising look, like a mother dog seeing a stranger approach her puppies.
"Charlie did most of it," Daisy said.
"No, he didn't," Mrs. Farquharson said bluntly. Her gaze went to Charlie and back. "You're a smart girl," she said. She looked as if she were about to add something, but hesitated.
"What?" said Daisy.
"Nothing." She turned away.
Daisy stood up. "I know what she was thinking," she murmured to Eva.
"What?"
"You're a smart girl--almost good enough for my son, if you came from a better family."
Eva was skeptical. "You can't know that."
"I sure can. And I'll marry him if only to prove his mother wrong."
"Oh, Daisy, why do you care so much what these people think?"
"Let's watch the tennis."
Daisy sat on the sand beside Charlie. He might not have been handsome, but he would worship his wife and do anything for her. The mother-in-law would be a problem, but Daisy thought she could handle her.
Tall Joanne Rouzrokh was serving, in a white skirt that flattered her long legs. Her partner, Woody Dewar, who was even taller, handed her a tennis ball. Something in the way he looked at Joanne made Daisy think he was attracted to her, maybe even in love with her. But he was fifteen and she eighteen, so there was no future in that.
She turned to Charlie. "Maybe I should see Passion after all," she said.
He did not take the hint. "Maybe you should," he said indifferently. The moment had passed.
Daisy turned to Eva. "I wonder where I could buy a Jack Russell terrier."
ii
Lev Peshkov was the best father a guy could have--or, at least, he would have been, if he had been around more. He was rich and generous, he was smarter than anybody, he was even well dressed. He had probably been handsome when younger, and even now women threw themselves at him. Greg Peshkov adored him, and his only complaint was that he did not see enough of him.
"I should have sold this fucking foundry when I had the chance," Lev said as they walked around the silent, deserted factory. "It was losing money even before the goddamn strike. I should stick to cinemas and bars." He wagged a didactic finger. "People always buy booze, in good times and bad. And they go to the movies even when they can't afford to. Never forget that."
Greg was pretty sure his father did not often make mistakes in business. "So why did you keep it?" he said.
"Sentiment," Lev replied. "When I was your age I worked in a place like this, the Putilov Machine Works in St. Petersburg." He looked around at the furnaces, molds, hoists, lathes, and workbenches. "Actually, it was a lot worse."
The Buffalo Metal Works made fans of all sizes, including huge propellers for ships. Greg was fascinated by the mathematics of the curved blades. He was top of his class in math. "Were you an engineer?" he asked.
Lev grinned. "I tell people that, if I need to impress them," he said. "But the truth is I looked after the horses. I was a stable boy. I was never good with machines. That was my brother Grigori's talent. You take after him. All the same, never buy a foundry."
"I won't."
Greg was to spend the summer shadowing his father, learning the business. Lev had just got back from Los Angeles, and Greg's lessons had begun today. But he did not want to know about the foundry. He was good at math but he was interested in power. He wished his father would take him on one of his frequent trips to Washington to lobby for the movie industry. That was where the real decisions were made.
He was looking forward to lunch. He and his father were to meet Senator Gus Dewar. Greg wanted to ask a favor of Senator Dewar. However, he had not yet cleared this with his father. He was nervous about asking, and instead he said: "Do you ever hear of your brother in Leningrad?"
Lev shook his head. "Not since the war. I wouldn't be surprised if he's dead. A lot of old Bolsheviks have disappeared."
"Speaking of family, I saw my half sister on Saturday. She was at the beach picnic."
"Did you have a good time?"
"She's mad at you, did you know that?"
"What have I done now?"
"You said you'd take her to the White House, then you took Gladys Angelus."
"That's true. I forgot. But I wanted the publicity for Passion."
They were approached by a tall man whose striped suit was loud even by current fashions. He touched the brim of his fedora and said: "Morning, boss."
Lev said to Greg: "Joe Brekhunov is in charge of security here. Joe, this is my son Greg."
"Pleased to meet ya," said Brekhunov.
Greg shook his hand. Like most factories, the foundry had its own police force. But Brekhunov looked more like a hoodlum than a cop.
"All quiet?" Lev asked.
"A little incident in the night," Brekhunov said. "Two machinists tried to heist a length of fifteen-inch steel bar, aircraft quality. We caught them trying to manhandle it over the fence."
Greg said: "Did you call the police?"
"It wasn't necessary." Brekhunov grinned. "We gave them a little talk about the concept of private property, and sent them to the hospital to think about it."
Greg was not surprised to learn that his father's security men beat thieves so badly that they had to go to hospital. Although Lev had never struck him or his mother, Greg felt that violence was never far below his father's charming surface. It was because of Lev's youth in the slums of Leningrad, he guessed.
A portly man wearing a blue suit with a workingman's cap appeared from behind a furnace. "This is the union leader, Brian Hall," said Lev. "Morning, Hall."
"Morning, Peshkov."
Greg raised his eyebrows. People usually called his father Mr. Peshkov.
Lev stood with his feet apart and his hands on his hips. "Well, have you got an answer for me?"
Hall's face took on a stubborn expression. "The men won't come back to work with a pay cut, if that's what you mean."
"But I've improved my offer!"
"It's still a pay cut."
Greg began to feel nervous. His father did not like opposition, and he might explode.
"The manager tells me we aren't getting any orders, because he can't tender a competitive price at these wage levels."
"That's because you've got outdated machinery, Peshkov. Some of these lathes were here before the war! You need to reequip."
"In the middle of a depression? Are you out of your mind? I'm not going to throw away more money."
"That's how your men feel," said Hall, with the air of one who plays a trump card. "They're not going to give money to you when they haven't got enough for themselves."
Greg thought workers were stupid to strike during a depression, and he was angered by Hall's nerve. The man spoke as if he were Lev's equal, not an employee.
Lev said: "Well, as things are we're all losing money. Where's the sense in that?"
"It's out of my hands now," said Hall. Greg thought he sounded smug. "The union is sending a team from headquarters to take over." H
e pulled a large steel watch out of his waistcoat pocket. "Their train should be here in an hour."
Lev's face darkened. "We don't need outsiders stirring up trouble."
"If you don't want trouble, you shouldn't provoke it."
Lev clenched a fist, but Hall walked away.
Lev turned to Brekhunov. "Did you know about these men from headquarters?" he said angrily.
Brekhunov looked nervous. "I'll get on it right away, boss."
"Find out who they are and where they're staying."
"Won't be difficult."
"Then send them back to New York in a fucking ambulance."
"Leave it to me, boss."
Lev turned away, and Greg followed him. Now that was power, Greg thought with a touch of awe. His father gave the word, and union officials would be beaten up.
They walked outside and got into Lev's car, a Cadillac five-passenger sedan in the new streamlined style. Its long curving fenders made Greg think of a girl's hips.
Lev drove along Porter Avenue to the waterfront and parked at the Buffalo Yacht Club. Sunlight played prettily on the boats in the marina. Greg was pretty sure his father did not belong to this elite club. Gus Dewar must have been a member.
They walked onto the pier. The clubhouse was built on pilings over the water. Lev and Greg went inside and checked their hats. Greg immediately felt uneasy, knowing he was a guest in a club that would not have him as a member. The people here probably thought he must feel privileged to be allowed in. He put his hands in his pockets and slouched, so they would know he was not impressed.
"I used to belong to this club," Lev said. "But in 1921 the chairman told me I had to resign because I was a bootlegger. Then he asked me to sell him a case of Scotch."
"Why does Senator Dewar want to have lunch with you?" Greg asked.
"We're about to find out."
"Would you mind if I asked him a favor?"
Lev frowned. "I guess not. What are you after?"
But before Greg could answer, Lev greeted a man of about sixty. "This is Dave Rouzrokh," he said to Greg. "He's my main rival."
"You flatter me," the man said.
Roseroque Theatres was a chain of dilapidated movie houses in New York State. The owner was anything but decrepit. He had a patrician air: he was tall and white-haired, with a nose like a curved blade. He wore a blue cashmere blazer with the badge of the club on the breast pocket. Greg said: "I had the pleasure of watching your daughter, Joanne, play tennis on Saturday."