*
Dimka had been married to Nina for a year, and their child Grigor was six months old, when he finally admitted to himself that he was in love with Natalya.
She and her friends frequently went for a drink at the Riverside Bar after work, and Dimka got into the habit of joining the group when Khrushchev did not keep him late. Sometimes it was more than one drink, and often Dimka and Natalya were the last two left.
He found he was able to make her laugh. He was not generally considered a comedian, but he relished the many ironies of Soviet life, and so did she. ‘A worker showed how a bicycle factory could make mudguards more quickly by moulding one long strip of tin then cutting it, instead of cutting it first then bending the pieces one by one. He was reprimanded and disciplined for endangering the five-year plan.’
Natalya laughed, opening her wide mouth and showing her teeth. The way she laughed suggested a potential for reckless abandon that made Dimka’s heart beat faster. He imagined her throwing her head back like that while they were making love. Then he imagined seeing her laugh like that every day for the next fifty years, and he realized that was the life he wanted.
He did not tell her, though. She had a husband, and seemed to be happy with him; at least, she said nothing bad about him, although she was never in a hurry to go home to him. More importantly, Dimka had a wife and a child, and he owed them his loyalty.
He wanted to say: I love you. I’m going to leave my family. Will you leave your husband, live with me, and be my friend and lover for the rest of our lives?
Instead he said: ‘It’s late, I’d better go.’
‘Let me drive you,’ she said. ‘It’s too cold for your motorcycle.’
She pulled up at the corner near Government House. He leaned across to kiss her goodnight. She let him kiss her lips, briefly, then pulled back. He got out of the car and went into the building.
On the way up in the elevator he thought about the excuse he would make to Nina for being late. There was a genuine crisis at the Kremlin: this year’s grain harvest had been a catastrophe, and the Soviet government was desperately trying to buy foreign wheat to feed its people.
When he entered the apartment, Grigor was asleep and Nina was watching TV. He kissed her forehead and said: ‘I was kept late at the office, sorry. We had to finish a report on the bad harvest.’
‘You shit-faced liar,’ said Nina. ‘Your office has been calling here every ten minutes, trying to find you, to tell you that President Kennedy has been killed.’
*
Maria’s tummy rumbled. She looked at her watch and realized she had forgotten to have lunch. The work she was doing had absorbed her, and for two or three hours no one had come into this area to disturb her. But she was almost done, so she decided to finish off then get a sandwich.
She bent her head over the old-fashioned ledger she was reading, then looked up again when she heard a noise. She was astonished to see George Jakes come in, panting, his suit jacket wet with perspiration, his eyes a little wild. ‘George!’ she said. ‘What the heck . . . ?’ She stood up.
‘Maria,’ he said, ‘I’m so sorry’ He came around the table and put his hands on her shoulders, a gesture that was a little too intimate for their strictly platonic friendship.
‘Why are you sorry?’ she said. ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing.’ She tried to pull back, but he tightened his grip. ‘They shot him,’ he said.
Maria saw that George was close to tears. She stopped resisting him and stepped closer. ‘Who was shot?’ she said.
‘In Dallas,’ he said.
Then she began to understand, and a terrible dread rose inside her. ‘No,’ she said.
George nodded. In a quiet voice he said: ‘The President is dead. I’m so sorry.’
‘Dead,’ Maria said. ‘He can’t be dead.’ Her legs felt weak, and she sank to her knees. George knelt with her and folded her in his arms. ‘Not my Johnny,’ she said, and a huge sob erupted from inside her. ‘Johnny, my Johnny,’ she moaned. ‘Don’t leave me, please. Please, Johnny. Please don’t leave.’ She saw the world turn grey, she slumped helplessly, then her eyes closed and she lost consciousness.
*
On stage at the Jump Club in London, Plum Nellie performed a storming version of ‘Dizzy Miss Lizzy’ and came off to shouts of: ‘More!’
Backstage, Lenny said: ‘That was great, lads, best we’ve ever played!’
Dave looked at Walli and they both grinned. The group was getting better fast, and every gig was the best ever.
Dave was surprised to find his sister waiting in the dressing room. ‘How did the play go?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.’
‘It stopped in the first act,’ she said. ‘President Kennedy has been shot dead.’
‘The President!’ said Dave. ‘When did this happen?’
‘A couple of hours ago.’
Dave thought of their American mother. ‘Is Mam upset?’
‘Terribly.’
‘Who shot him?’
‘No one knows. He was in Texas, in a place called Dallas.’
‘Never heard of it.’
Buzz, the bass player, said: ‘What shall we do for an encore?’
Lenny said: ‘We can’t do an encore, it would be disrespectful. President Kennedy has been assassinated. We have to do a minute’s silence, or something.’
Walli said: ‘Or a sad song.’
Evie said: ‘Dave, you know what we should do.’
‘Do I?’ He thought for a second, then said: ‘Oh, yeah.’
‘Come on, then.’
Dave went on stage with Evie and plugged in his guitar. They stood at the microphone together. The rest of the group watched from the wings.
Dave spoke into the microphone. ‘My sister and I are half British, half American, but we feel very American tonight.’ He paused. ‘Most of you probably know by now that President Kennedy has been shot dead.’
He heard several gasps from the audience, indicating that some had not heard, and the room went quiet. ‘We would like to play a special song now, a song for all of us, but especially for Americans.’
He played a G chord.
Evie sang:
‘O, say can you see by the dawn’s early light
What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming . . .’
The room was dead silent.
‘Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight
O’er the ramparts we watch’d, were so gallantly streaming?’
Evie’s voice rose thrillingly.
‘And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there . . .’
Several people in the audience were crying openly now, Dave saw.
‘Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?’
‘Thank you for listening,’ said Dave. ‘And God bless America.’