by Ken Follett
Over chow mein and beer they talked about Japan. Everyone was talking about Japan. "Those people have to be stopped," said Chuck. "They're Fascists."
"Maybe," said Woody.
"They're militaristic and aggressive, and the way they treat the Chinese is racialist. What else do they have to do to be Fascists?"
"I can answer that," said Joanne. "The difference is in their vision of the future. Real Fascists want to kill off all their enemies, then create a radically new type of society. The Japanese are doing all the same things in defense of traditional power groups, the military caste and the emperor. For the same reason, Spain is not really Fascist: Franco is murdering people for the sake of the Catholic Church and the old aristocracy, not to create a new world."
"Either way, the Japs must be stopped," said Diana.
"I see it differently," said Woody.
Joanne said: "Okay, Woody, how do you see it?"
She was seriously political, and would appreciate a thoughtful answer, he knew. "Japan is a trading nation, with no natural resources: no oil, no iron, just some forests. The only way they can make a living is by doing business. For example, they import raw cotton, weave it, and sell it to India and the Philippines. But in the Depression the two great economic empires--Britain and the USA--put up tariff walls to protect our own industries. That was the end of Japanese trade with the British Empire, including India, and the American zone, including the Philippines. It hit them pretty hard."
Diana said: "Does that give them the right to conquer the world?"
"No, but it makes them think that the only way to economic security is to have your own empire, as the British do, or at least to dominate your hemisphere, as the U.S. does. Then nobody else can close down your business. So they want the Far East to be their backyard."
Joanne agreed. "And the weakness of our policy is that every time we impose economic sanctions, to punish the Japanese for their aggression, it only reinforces their feeling that they've got to be self-sufficient."
"Maybe," said Chuck. "But they still have to be stopped."
Woody shrugged. He did not have an answer to that.
After dinner they went to the cinema. The movie was great. Then Woody and Chuck walked the girls back to their apartment. On the way, Woody took Joanne's hand. She smiled at him and squeezed his hand, and he took that for encouragement.
Outside the girls' building he took her in his arms. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chuck do the same with Diana.
Joanne kissed Woody's lips briefly, almost chastely, then said: "The traditional good-night kiss."
"There was nothing traditional about it last time I kissed you," he said. He bent his head to kiss her again.
She put a forefinger on his chin and pushed him away.
Surely, he thought, that little peck was not all he was going to get?
"I was drunk that night," she said.
"I know." He saw what the problem was. She was afraid he was going to think she was easy. He said: "You're even more alluring when you're sober."
She looked thoughtful for a moment. "That was the right thing to say," she said eventually. "You win the prize." Then she kissed him again, softly, lingering, not with the urgency of passion but with a concentration that suggested tenderness.
All too soon he heard Chuck sing out: "Good night, Diana!"
Joanne broke the kiss with Woody.
Woody said in dismay: "My brother was a bit quick!"
She laughed softly. "Good night, Woody," she said, then she turned and walked to the building.
Diana was already at the door, looking distinctly disappointed.
Woody blurted out: "Can we have another date?" He sounded needy, even to himself, and he cursed his haste.
But Joanne did not seem to mind. "Call me," she said, and went inside.
Woody watched until the two girls disappeared, then he rounded on his brother. "Why didn't you kiss Diana longer?" he said crossly. "She seems really nice."
"Not my type," said Chuck.
"Really?" Woody was more mystified than annoyed. "Nice round tits, pretty face--what's not to like? I'd have kissed her, if I wasn't with Joanne."
"We all have different tastes."
They started to walk back toward their parents' apartment. "Well, what is your type, then?" Woody asked Chuck.
"There's something I should probably explain to you, before you plan any more double dates."
"Okay, what?"
Chuck stopped, forcing Woody to do the same. "You have to swear never to tell Papa and Mama."
"I swear." Woody studied his brother in the yellow light of the streetlamps. "What's the big secret?"
"I don't like girls."
"A pain in the ass, I agree, but what are you going to do?"
"I mean, I don't like to hug and kiss them."
"What? Don't be stupid."
"We're all made differently, Woody."
"Yeah, but you'd have to be some kind of pansy."
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I'm some kind of pansy."
"You're such a kidder."
"I'm not kidding, Woody. I'm dead serious."
"You're queer?"
"That's exactly what I am. I didn't choose to be. When we were kids, and we started jerking off, you used to think about bouncy tits and hairy cunts. I never told you that I used to think about big stiff cocks."
"Chuck, this is disgusting!"
"No, it's not. It's the way some guys are made. More guys than you think--especially in the navy."
"There are pansies in the navy?"
Chuck nodded vigorously. "A lot."
"Well . . . how do you know?"
"We usually recognize one another. Like Jews always know who's Jewish. For example, the waiter in the Chinese restaurant."
"He was one?"
"Didn't you hear him say he liked my jacket?"
"Yes, but I didn't think anything of it."
"There you are."
"He was attracted to you?"
"I guess."
"Why?"
"Same reason Diana liked me, probably. Hell, I'm better-looking than you."
"This is weird."
"Come on, let's go home."
They continued on their way. Woody was still reeling. "You mean there are Chinese pansies?"
Chuck laughed. "Of course!"
"I don't know, you never think of Chinese guys being that way."
"Remember, not a word to anyone, especially the parents. God knows what Papa would say."
After a while, Woody put his arm around Chuck's shoulders. "Well, what the hell," he said. "At least you're not a Republican."
iii
Greg Peshkov sailed with Sumner Welles and President Roosevelt on a heavy cruiser, the Augusta, to Placentia Bay, off the coast of Newfoundland. Also in the convoy were the battleship Arkansas, the cruiser Tuscaloosa, and seventeen destroyers.
They anchored in two long lines, with a broad sea passage down the middle. At nine o'clock in the morning of Saturday, August 9, in bright sunshine, the crews of all twenty vessels mustered at the rails in their dress whites as the British battleship Prince of Wales arrived, escorted by three destroyers, and steamed majestically down the middle, bearing Prime Minister Churchill.
It was the most impressive show of power Greg had ever seen, and he was delighted to be part of it.
He was also worried. He hoped the Germans did not know about this rendezvous. If they found out, one U-boat could kill the two leaders of what remained of Western civilization--and Greg Peshkov.
Before leaving Washington Greg had met with the detective, Tom Cranmer, again. Cranmer had produced an address, a house in a low-rent neighborhood on the far side of Union Station. "She's a waitress at the University Women's Club near the Ritz-Carlton, which is why you saw her in that neighborhood twice," he had said as he pocketed the balance of his fee. "I guess acting didn't work out for her--but she still goes by Jacky Jakes."
Greg had w
ritten her a letter.
Dear Jacky,
I just want to know why you ran out on me six years ago. I thought we were so happy, but I must have been wrong. It bugs me, that's all.
You act scared when you see me, but there's nothing to be afraid of. I'm not angry, just curious. I would never do anything to hurt you. You were the first girl I ever loved.
Can we meet, just for a cup of coffee or something, and talk?
Very sincerely,
Greg Peshkov
He had added his phone number and mailed the note the day he left for Newfoundland.
The president was keen that the conference should result in a joint statement. Greg's boss, Sumner Welles, wrote a draft, but Roosevelt refused to use it, saying it was better to let Churchill produce the first draft.
Greg immediately saw that Roosevelt was a smart negotiator. Whoever produced the first draft would need, in all fairness, to put in some of what the other side wanted alongside his own demands. His statement of the other side's wishes then became an irreducible minimum, while all of his own demands were still up for negotiation. So the drafter always started at a disadvantage. Greg vowed to remember never to write the first draft.
On Saturday the president and the prime minister enjoyed a convivial lunch on board the Augusta. On Sunday they attended a church service on the deck of the Prince of Wales, with the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack draping the altar red, white, and blue. On Monday morning, by which time they were firm friends, they got down to brass tacks.
Churchill produced a five-point plan that delighted Sumner Welles and Gus Dewar by calling for an effective international organization to assure the security of all states--in other words, a strengthened League of Nations. But they were disappointed to find that that was too much for Roosevelt. He was in favor, but he feared the isolationists, people who still believed America did not need to get involved with the troubles of the rest of the world. He was extraordinarily sensitive to public opinion, and made ceaseless efforts not to provoke opposition.
Welles and Dewar did not give up, nor did the British. They got together to seek a compromise acceptable to both leaders. Greg took notes for Welles. The group came up with a clause that called for disarmament "pending the establishment of a wider and more permanent system of general security."
They put it to the two great men, who accepted it.
Welles and Dewar were jubilant.
Greg could not see why. "It seems so little," he said. "All that effort--the leaders of two great countries brought together across thousands of miles, dozens of staffers, twenty-four ships, three days of talks--and all for a few words that don't quite say what we want."
"We move by inches, not miles," said Gus Dewar with a smile. "That's politics."
iv
Woody and Joanne had been dating for five weeks.
Woody wanted to go out with her every night, but he held back. Nevertheless, he had seen her on four of the last seven days. Sunday they had gone to the beach; Wednesday they had dinner; Friday they saw a movie; and today, Saturday, they were spending the whole day together.
He never tired of talking to her. She was funny and intelligent and sharp-tongued. He loved the way she was so definite about everything. They jawed for hours about the things they liked and hated.
The news from Europe was bad. The Germans were still thrashing the Red Army. East of Smolensk they had wiped out the Russian Sixteenth and Twentieth Armies, taking three hundred thousand prisoners, leaving few Soviet forces between the Germans and Moscow. But bad news from afar could not dampen Woody's elation.
Joanne probably was not as crazy about him as he was about her. But she was fond of him, he could tell. They always kissed good night, and she seemed to enjoy it, though she did not show the kind of passion he knew she was capable of. Perhaps it was because they always had to kiss in public places, such as the cinema, or a doorway on the street near her building. When they were in her apartment there was always at least one of her two roommates in the living room, and she had not yet invited him to her bedroom.
Chuck's leave had ended weeks ago, and he was back in Hawaii. Woody still did not know what to think about Chuck's confession. Sometimes he felt as shocked as if the world had turned upside down; other times he asked himself what difference it made to anything. But he kept his promise not to tell anyone, not even Joanne.
Then Woody's father went off with the president, and his mother went to Buffalo to spend a few days with her parents. So Woody had the Washington apartment--all nine rooms--to himself for a few days. He decided he would look out for an opportunity to invite Joanne Rouzrokh there, in the hope of getting a real kiss.
They had lunch together and went to an exhibition called "Negro Art," which had been attacked by conservative writers who said there was no such thing as Negro art--despite the unmistakable genius of such people as the painter Jacob Lawrence and the sculptor Elizabeth Catlett.
As they left the exhibition Woody said: "Would you like to have cocktails while we decide where to go for dinner?"
"No, thanks," she said in her usual decisive manner. "I'd really like a cup of tea."
"Tea?" He was not sure where you could get good tea in Washington. Then he had a brainwave. "My mother has English tea," he said. "We could go to the apartment."
"Okay."
The building was a few blocks away on Twenty-second Street NW, near L Street. They breathed easier as they stepped out of the summer heat into the air-conditioned lobby. A porter took them up in the elevator.
As they entered the apartment Joanne said: "I see your papa around Washington all the time, but I haven't talked to your mama for years. I must congratulate her on her bestseller."
"She's not here right now," Woody said. "Come into the kitchen."
He filled the kettle from the tap and put it on the heat. Then he put his arms around Joanne and said: "Alone at last."
"Where are your parents?"
"Out of town, both of them."
"And Chuck is in Hawaii."
"Yes."
She moved away from him. "Woody, how could you do this to me?"
"Do what? I'm making you tea!"
"You've got me up here on false pretenses! I thought your parents were at home."
"I never said that."
"Why didn't you tell me they were away?"
"You didn't ask!" he said indignantly, though there was a grain of truth in her complaint. He would not have lied to her, but he had been hoping he would not have to tell her in advance that the apartment was empty.
"You got me up here to make a pass! You think I'm a cheap broad."
"I do not! It's just that we're never really private. I was hoping for a kiss, that's all."
"Don't try to kid me."
Now she really was being unjust. Yes, he hoped to go to bed with her one day, but no, he had not expected to do so today. "We'll go," he said. "We'll get tea somewhere else. The Ritz-Carlton is right down the street, all the British stay there, they must have tea."
"Oh, don't be stupid, we don't need to leave. I'm not afraid of you, I can fight you off. I'm just mad at you. I don't want a man who goes out with me because he thinks I'm easy."
"Easy?" he said, his voice rising. "Hell! I've waited six years for you to condescend to go out with me. Even now, all I'm asking for is a kiss. If you're easy, I'd hate to be in love with a girl who's difficult!"
To his astonishment, she started to laugh.
"Now what?" he said irritably.
"I'm sorry, you're right," she said. "If you wanted a girl who was easy, you would have given up on me long ago."
"Exactly!"
"After I kissed you like that when I was drunk, I thought you must have a low opinion of me. I assumed you were chasing me for a cheap thrill. I've even been worrying about that in the last few weeks. I misjudged you. I'm sorry."
He was bewildered by her rapid changes of mood, but he figured this latest phase was an improvement. "I was crazy a
bout you even before that kiss," he said. "I guess you didn't notice."
"I hardly noticed you."
"I'm pretty tall."
"It's your only attractive feature, physically."
He smiled. "I won't get swollen-headed talking to you, will I?"
"Not if I can help it."
The kettle boiled. He put tea in a china pot and poured water on top.
Joanne looked thoughtful. "You said something else a minute ago."
"What?"
"You said: 'I'd hate to be in love with a girl who's difficult.' Did you mean it?"
"Did I mean what?"
"The part about being in love."
"Oh! I didn't intend to say that." He threw caution to the wind. "But hell, yes, if you want to know the truth, I'm in love with you. I think I've loved you for years. I adore you. I want--"
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
This time it was the real thing, her mouth moving urgently against his, the tip of her tongue touching his lips, her body pressing against his. It was like 1935 except that she did not taste of whisky. This was the girl he loved, the real Joanne, he thought ecstatically: a woman of strong passions. And she was in his arms and kissing him for all she was worth.
She pushed her hands up inside his summer sports shirt and rubbed his chest, pressing her fingers into his ribs, grazing his nipples with her palms, grasping his shoulders, as if she wanted to sink her hands deep into his flesh. He realized that she, too, had a store of frustrated desire that was now overflowing like a busted dam, out of control. He did the same to her, stroking her sides and grasping her breasts, with a feeling of happy liberation, like a child let out of school for an unexpected holiday.
When he pressed his eager hand between her thighs she pulled away.
But what she said surprised him. "Have you got any birth control?"
"No! I'm sorry--"
"It's okay. In fact it's good. It proves you really didn't plan to seduce me."
"I wish I had."
"Never mind. I know a woman doctor who'll fix me up on Monday. Meanwhile we'll improvise. Kiss me again."
As he did so he felt her unbuttoning his pants.
"Oh," she said a moment later. "How nice."
"That's just what I was thinking," he whispered.
"I may need two hands, though."
"What?"
"I guess it goes with being so tall."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then I'll shut up and kiss you."
A few minutes later she said: "Handkerchief."
Fortunately he had one.