“Ah, but dear, I’m not dressing for the Bulgarians. I’m dressing for me. Some people drink for courage…I dress. You know that.”
“Jessica.”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
“In Saks, or in Bulgaria? In Saks, I plan to run amok. In Bulgaria, I plan to stand pat, bite the bullet, keep a stiff upper lip, and be the brave little woman we all know I am.”
“You should have gone into the theater.”
“Where do you think I’ve been for the past twenty years? You don’t think this is real life, do you?”
He sat looking at the door, wondering what he had done and, more to the point, why? And in his mind, the gears clicked and he heard Ray saying, “If anything ever happened to me, I’d rather have Jess beside me than anyone I know.”
It had been one of their typical Sunday mornings. Ray had picked up pecan buns and the Sunday papers and joined Jessica at her apartment. Max had given them time to do the crosswords, and had arrived to find them still sitting at the table in the kitchen, drinking coffee and preparing to sift through the mound of papers bearing thousands of ads and a modicum of news. He had read the paper from front to back, disregarding the ads, as usual. He had greeted them casually, gotten a cup of coffee, remarked on its resemblance to coal tar, and received a sharpish reply from the brewer. Neither of them paid much attention. For years, he’d been correcting her mistakes; for years, she’d been snapping back. And changing. Next week the coffee would not be as strong.
To a greater extent than either of them recognized, she was who he wanted her to be. She had met him at a difficult moment in her life. A brief but intense love affair had just ended; she was beginning to see that her career in music was not going to take her much higher. She was ready for a change. Max had provided emotional support and direction in her personal life and given her a career which allowed scope for her not inconsiderable performing skills. She was grateful, and repaid him by being the perfect consort. Both by nature and profession, Max was a social being. Jessica glittered at embassy receptions, was discreetly witty at Georgetown dinner parties, and opened all major theatrical events at the Kennedy Center. When she was in town. When she was not, Max, of course, escorted someone else. But he was forced to admit that over the years, he had never come across a woman who suited his needs as Jessica did.
She could be savagely witty at his expense, but she had never, in twenty years association, made an emotional scene. Had he been a more sensitive man, this might have given him pause. As it was, he was quite simply grateful. Never more so than when some young protégé was dissolving into tears at some real or fancied slight. Then he would escort her to the door of his life, and sit back to await Jessica’s return. She would twit him about it, since news of the debacle usually reached her at the airport, or before, if she was returning with diplomatic personnel, and their life would resume its even, if peppery, tenor.
For Jessica had other strings to her bow as well. She had Mrs. Crimmins, for one, who was the antithesis of everything Max’s Jessica stood for. And she had Ray, who was unsocial, comfortable, and her—and Max’s—best friend. Most people lead two or three lives. Jessica’s were just more clearly delineated than most. She knew, better than most people, what she had. What she couldn’t see, of course, was how fragile it was.
But she was in a strange mood on this Sunday. Max noticed it as soon as he walked in the door. She opened the Sunday New York Times and began a running commentary on the lead stories, translating into reality the careful accounts of world events. “Unconfirmed reports of fighting in the northernmost provinces. You saw it, I saw it, but the ministry says it’s not happening.” She looked at Max. “Who do we have in Iran?”
“Jack Femi.”
“That nice boy? I knew I hadn’t seen him for a while. He’s sitting in a village, isn’t he? And no one’s paying attention.”
“I am.” Max’s voice was bland.
“Of course you are, dear. And you’re bouncing right in there and pounding on desks and making other people listen too, aren’t you?”
“I send it along, Jessica. Just like everything else.”
She was flipping through, stopping briefly to read the Saks ads, when suddenly she groaned. “Oh, for God’s sake, here it is again. ‘Sources close to the intelligence community continue to report the presence of a Soviet spy in the upper echelons of the American system. The source, who wished to remain anonymous…’ I can bloody well believe he did. I know who this is, you know.” She looked challengingly at the two men. “It’s Sandy Carson. He was complaining only the other day that no one had ever approached him about defecting.”
“I doubt that Carson is going to be prime defector material for another ten years or so.” Max’s voice was lazy and amused.
“Well, of course not! And to give the devil his due, Sandy would never dream of defecting. He’s just humiliated that they haven’t asked. He knows everything there is to know about Philby and he thinks it’s a crime that the Russians would work on the British and ignore us.”
“Doesn’t he realize the Russians could get everything they need by reading the National Enquirer? Or the Washington Post?” Max was not taking this too seriously. The same story surfaced every six months or so.
“The Russians could save themselves a lot of time and money by just planting this story every once in a while. Although they’re rarely that straightforward.” Ray, too, was amused by Jessica’s vehemence. “I think you must be mistaken about Carson, Jess. Even a reporter could hardly call Sandy a ‘highly placed source.’”
“Oh, yeah? Now that’s naive, dear, if you don’t mind my saying so. He works for the Agency, doesn’t he? That’s high enough. Actually, I was only joking. Sandy makes me grind my teeth, but he’s harmless. He’ll outgrow it.”
“Being harmless?”
She looked startled. “He could, you know. He’s got a good mind. He could become a handful if someone doesn’t slap him down.”
“I understand you’ve taken the first steps in that direction.” Ray glanced at Max as he said this. Max grinned back.
“We had to repaint the foyer. Blistered, eyes flashing, heads rolling, all the usual. Carson doesn’t have our backlog of experience to see him through an attack such as this. Good training. If he ever faces a Senate Committee, he’s ready.”
“I love it when you sound like Colonel Blimp. So you have plans for young Carson, do you? You don’t send just anyone to the Hill. I only told him the facts of life. He nearly blew the whole assignment by being cute. I don’t like cute. Never send him with me again.”
“You know I can’t promise that. Besides, now that you’ve set him on the straight and narrow path, you surely don’t think he’d dare stray?”
“It isn’t an hypothesis I’d like to test in the field. I’ll just say this; only send him when you want me to fail.”
Max’s smile was smug. “It’s not like you to make excuses in advance. I’ll have to note that down.” He dodged the napkin she threw at him. “There’s no question of who the ‘highly placed source’ is. I’ve always known who was planting that damned story. You have only to pay attention to the timing to know exactly who it is. I have plans.”
Ray and Jessica glanced at one another. Max’s voice was grim. Max was rarely wrong about something like this; what he lacked in sensitivity in his personal life, he more than made up for on the job. Very little escaped him, and he was practically a genius at connecting seemingly unrelated events. In Max’s mind, every piece of information had a shape, and it fitted in snugly somewhere in the mass of information that was presented to him every day. Facts were no good unless they could be linked together to form a coherent picture. It was the job of his section to bring him the facts; it was his job to assemble the picture. He was an artist.
They had drifted off into other things; for years, they had spent most of their Sunday afternoons together refighting the Second World War. For weeks now, they had been debating
British efforts to hide the fact that they had broken the German code early in the war. Jessica had made omelets about two o’clock, with a little advice from Max, and it was four-thirty or so before the men rose to go.
“You know, it must be hard being a usually reliable source. It’s not something you can bruit about in fireside chats with your loved ones.”
Ray grinned. “It would seem, of necessity, to be a closet occupation.”
“What can you say when some tiny person looks up with trusting eyes and says, ‘What did you do in the war, mommy?’ I’ve always felt it would be best to murmur (keeping, of course, a stiff upper lip), ‘I upheld the national trust—a closely guarded secret known only to me, the Russians, and a half dozen of Jack Anderson’s most trusted minions.’”
The two men laughed and, kissing her lightly on the cheek, went out into the late afternoon sunshine. They strolled along in silence until Max said abruptly, “How did she seem to you?”
Ray was startled. “Who?”
“Jessica! Tall girl, expressive eyes, rawhide tongue.”
Ray chuckled.“Oh, that Jessica.” He shrugged. “Fine. How should she seem?”
Max frowned. “I don’t know. She seems nervy.”
“Jess has always had enough nerve for six people. That’s nothing new.”
“Not that kind of nerve. She just seems odd. You heard that crack about children. Jess doesn’t even like children!”
“But she’ll go to any lengths for a wisecrack. She seemed in rare form to me. And to be absolutely accurate,” he was sounding pedantic, he knew, but pushed on, “YOU don’t like children. I’ve never heard Jessica say she didn’t.”
Max was astonished. “She never said she did.”
Ray wisely decided to let that one go by. “I’ve been away, of course, but Jess appears to be that rare being, a contented woman. I’ll tell you one thing, however, since you bring it up.” Max looked down at him sharply, but Ray was not going to be caught. “You haven’t used Jessica anywhere near the limit of her capability. There’s good stuff there, Max. You ought to use it.”
“I have been using it for nearly twenty years.”
“On kindergarten stuff. I don’t think there’s anything she couldn’t do, Max, but I don’t think you know it, and I’m not sure she does. She hasn’t had a chance to find out. She’s not dumb, Max, and some day she’s going to wake up to the fact that she’s being sheltered. Perhaps she has already. Maybe that’s what you’re noticing.”
Max gave a little grunt. “I don’t think anyone but you would call Jessica’s life sheltered.”
“You know what I’m talking about, Max. We all tend to be protective of Jessica. Total strangers tend to be protective of Jessica. She has a vulnerability about her. She cares about things. But it’s an illusion. One which we foster because we enjoy taking care of her and want her to need it.”
“You think she’s not vulnerable?”
“She’s vulnerable, but she’s not fragile. She’s got a mind that is extremely able and a will to match. She has something else going for her as well. She’s a woman.”
Max stopped walking and looked down at Ray very seriously. “This is going to come as a great surprise to you, in view of the fact that you don’t think I’ve been that sensitive to nuances, but I knew she was a woman. I don’t know when it first struck me, possibly the winter of ‘72, but I said to myself, Max, that girl’s a woman!”
Ray was unperturbed by the sarcasm. “You’re absolutely right. She’s a damned sharp woman. And after twenty years, she still sees the whole thing as a game. Which is an asset. But if I were in a tight situation, I’d rather have Jessica beside me than anyone I know. She tends to get ahead of the evidence.” He was being carefully just. “But if something needed doing, she’d do it, no matter what it was. You haven’t grasped that yet.” He smiled at Max, to take away the sharpness of his next remark. “You are so intent on improving Jess that I don’t think you stand back and realize how far you’ve come.”
Max was looking at him with interest now. He hadn’t expected this conversation.
“She’s good at what she does. The best. Why should I switch her to something else?”
“It’s the American way.” Ray said mildly and patted Max on the shoulder. “Here’s my street. I’ll say goodbye.” He strode off, leaving a bemused Max to walk the half block to his own apartment. He was almost at the entrance when he decided he couldn’t let it drop. He went back to Jessica’s.
He let himself in with his key. The apartment was quiet; there was no sign of her in the kitchen or living room. He was into the empty bedroom before he heard sounds coming from the walk-in closet.
“If you haven’t worn something in a year, you’re not going to wear it. Out it goes!”
“Talking to yourself again?”
“Good grief, you startled me. Get rid of those gum shoes. They don’t suit you. Of course, I’m talking to myself. It’s the only time I get any decent conversation. I thought you left with Ray.”
“I came back.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “OK, I’ll bite. You left your secret decoder ring. You forgot to activate the bug in the bathroom.”
“Bedroom,” he said absently.
“Sorry.”
“You seemed funny today.”
“I’m funny every day.I’ve always been sorry I was born too late to be one of the Marx Brothers.” She cleared her throat delicately. “Groucho, for preference. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but closet cleaning is essentially a solitary occupation. A chance to get back to one’s roots, and Gucci’s and Anne Klein’s. To face one’s mistakes squarely and say once and for all—this is not me.”
“But you’ve thrown out one whole side.” He looked through the pile of dresses on the bed and pulled out a deep blue chiffon Adolpho with ruffles around the deep vee neck and on the long sleeves. “I chose this dress! You look stunning in it! With the opals…”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. But I felt like Dolly Madison. Out.”
He sat down in the chair by the dressing table and leaned his elbow on the table. “Identity crisis? Don’t know who you are?”
“Crisis, yes. Identity, no. I know who I am and how I got here. I know what I’ve got, and what I’ve given up to get it. I like what I do. It’s a great game that actually means something.” She stopped and stood looking at him across the pile of discarded clothing.
“But.”
She nodded. “But, is this it? Is this all I’m ever going to be, to do?”
“Ah, midlife crisis.”
“Oh Max, for God’s sake, have you been reading women’s magazines again?” She looked at him helplessly. “I knew you were going to reduce it to some popular common denominator. Next you’re going to tell me you know where I’m coming from, where my head’s at.” She chuckled at his look of distaste. No one asked you to share my space, ya’ know what I mean?”
“You feel the need for a change?”
“I don’t know what I feel the need for. I’m forty-three years old and I’ve got it all. Listen, go away and let me clean my closet and I’ll be fine.” And that’s all she would say.
He had gone away, but he wasn’t satisfied. He hadn’t brought it up again, however, and neither had she. And now he was sending her to Bulgaria.
The buzzer on his intercom rang and he reached out and pressed a button.
“She’s going.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Jessica left the office, drove back into Washington, turned the Jaguar over to George, and went upstairs to pick up the bag she kept packed. It had lingerie and cosmetics already; she hesitated just a moment before adding a silk shirt and a light tweed skirt. She called the doorman, who had a cab waiting when she got downstairs. She made it to the airport with time to spare and caught the two o’clock shuttle for New York.
The plane took off on time, filled with young business types, and she settled back. Planes were so
rting out places for Jessica; Ray had taught her that. Don’t read, don’t talk to people. You can do those things anywhere; planes, he’d said, are the closest thing you’re going to find to meditation machines. Lean back and let it come.
Max thought Ray was dead. My goodness, the subconscious was getting right to it today, wasn’t it? She’d barely closed her eyes when the thought presented itself, full blown and unanswerable.
She could hear Ray’s voice, cautioning even as he praised. “You tend to get ahead of the evidence, Jess. Most often you’re right in your intuitive leaps, but it’s a dangerous habit to get into. Certainly it’s true that we always know more than we realize we know. The mind is both a camera and a computer. It sifts and stores information; and, if we let it, feeds it back. But do the legwork, review the process, and be sure you’re not leaving some important element out.”
She loved him. They had never been lovers, but they had long been friends. The kind you could count on, without having to say anything. Just knowing that if one had a need, the other would try to help. They were crossword puzzle addicts, and they spent a lot of their time (wasted a lot of their time Max said) reading old mystery novels. For preference the classics…S.S. Van Dine, Margery Allingham, Manning Coles. If pressed, however, they read modern authors, Christie, Marsh, anyone with good characters and adequate plots. One of Jessica’s greatest treasures was a John Buchan adventure novel that Ray had found in a rubbish heap in Irkutsk. She had concocted an elaborate tale explaining its presence in the Siberian city. Built on absolutely no evidence at all. Except the one fact…its presence there.
Although he had given her a lot of advice over the years, he had never tried to change her, as Max did. He simply accepted her as she was. He was as comfortable as an old shoe.
She opened her eyes, looked around the plane and smiled slightly to herself. You don’t want to face Max’s conclusions, do you? Back down went the eyelids as the young man next to her glanced up from his charts. Did she think Ray was dead? Max had all the controls, the signals. If Ray hadn’t used them, it did look bad. But this was one time she was going to wait for more evidence. Her mind drifted back to Ray himself. He was a slight dapper man who looked, Jessica always felt, exactly like Tommy Hambledon, that fictional British agent. He’d been pleased when she told him that. He loved James Thurber and al ways traveled with two or three paperbacks of Thurber’s works. Wherever he was now, she hoped he was laughing.
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