And where there were jobless, there were always cops.
Jack scanned his surroundings but didn’t spot any police. He helped Sue drag their luggage through the crowd, negotiating goods and passengers, and they filled their lungs with the intense salt air. He had improved his appearance by carefully shaving, and had used a touch of blusher that Sue had insisted on spreading over his cheeks, aware that they needed to look healthy in order to get past the tuberculosis checks. Even so, Jack, whose main concern was to go unnoticed, walked bent over to disguise his height and hide his features.
When they reached the wharf from which the American Scantic Line ships operated, Jack had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the cranes’ incessant screeching.
“Right. This is where we agreed to meet Walter,” he yelled, leaning their bags against the wall of a hut. “You should wait here while I buy the supplies we need.” He looked at his fistful of grubby bills and searched around for a marketplace. “Watch out for pickpockets. This place is swarming with them!”
Sue gave Jack a defiant look.
“Trust me, I ain’t gonna let some rat ruin the best day of my life,” she replied, and she sat on the suitcases, adopting one of the most determined poses that Jack had ever seen.
He left behind the crowds that had gathered at the entrance to the offices of the shipping company that ran the New York–Copenhagen–Helsinki route, and made for a vast warehouse where a sign over the door announced that it sold the finest salt fish in the city. As he walked in, the smell of sea and salt guided him to the stall of a fishmonger who was shouting himself hoarse, extolling the virtues of his herring. Yet, instead of succumbing to the man’s crowing, Jack stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the elegant young woman wearing a hat who was examining goods at a nearby grocery stall.
It had been a long time since he’d seen such a distinguished lady; the young woman looked straight out of one of the lounges of the Waldorf Astoria. Hypnotized, he slowly approached the stall and saw that the woman, dressed in an elegant fur coat, was inspecting a can of Petrossian beluga caviar. Jack observed the young woman’s gloved fingers caressing the overpriced cans as if they were jewels. With no premeditation, he positioned himself beside her and picked up a yellow can from the counter.
“Don’t be fooled. You’d do better to buy this Avruga. They make it near here, in Delaware. It’s cheaper and tastes delicious,” he advised her, surprised at his own gall.
The young woman looked him up and down.
“Are you a fishmonger?” she asked with a scowl.
Jack blushed. For a moment he’d imagined himself in Detroit, flirting with a secretary he could dazzle with little more than the sound of his convertible.
“No. I’m afraid not, but everyone knows that Delaware caviar is just as good as the—”
“On the contrary, young man: what everyone knows is that the sturgeon in the Delaware River all but died out twenty years ago, and since then they’ve sold substitutes. I’ll take six cans,” the young lady said to the stallholder. “Of the Petrossian,” she added.
Jack gazed at her as she walked off, spellbound by the surreal image of a siren among dockworkers. Then he looked at the exorbitantly priced cans of Petrossian caviar and compared it to the cheap substitute he had recommended. He figured there was as much difference between those two cans as there was between the women whom he had until then pursued and the elegant young lady who had just walked away.
When Jack, bearing a supply of kippers, arrived back at the spot where he’d left Sue, he found her with her arms around Walter, smothering him with kisses like a teenager with her first summer love. He fended off a stab of jealousy as his friend greeted him, waving the tickets that would get them out of the United States. Jack examined his ticket and saw that the reverse side showed the name and a photograph of the ship SS Cliffwood, along with its astronomical price of $180. He could not help gawking when he considered that the sum was the same as a year’s rent on the apartment from which he’d just been evicted.
“Here. Your passport.”
Jack looked over the forged document that Walter handed him. Jack ran his fingers over the imitation-leather cardboard. The material seemed genuine, but the official stamp that validated the photograph wouldn’t fool a child.
“The guy who made it assured me they’d only pay attention to the Amtorg recommendation in the Soviet Union,” Walter said, seeing Jack’s skeptical expression.
“I’m relieved to hear it.” Jack clenched his teeth. “And I guess that guy will be sitting comfortably on his sofa when I have to explain to the Russians why I’m trying to enter their country with a passport that looks like it was won in a raffle.”
“Oh, come on, Jack. Give me those kippers to carry, and stop being such a wet blanket. I promise you, compared to the trouble you have here, any problems you encounter in Russia will seem like a blessing.” With a smug expression, he pushed Jack toward the SS Cliffwood’s gangway.
While they waited to embark, Jack looked doubtfully at the dilapidated hull of the ocean liner and sighed. Despite its impressive size, the only thing about the ship that resembled the photograph on the back of the ticket was the black paint that covered it. None of the passengers in front of them seemed to notice the ship’s imperfections. On the contrary, the emaciated workers wearing donated suits chatted excitedly, their smiles disguising the scars that hunger and desperation had left on their faces.
At twelve o’clock sharp, the sailor guarding the entrance unknotted the rope that cordoned off the gangway and blew his whistle, prompting the impatient line of passengers, with their trunks, bundles, and cases of belongings, to start moving like a caravan of peddlers. Jack, Walter, and Sue got ready. The line climbed toward the deck at a sluggish pace until, when Walter was just a few yards from showing his ticket to the ticket collector, some yelling made him stop unexpectedly.
“What’s happening?” asked Jack. He looked ahead but couldn’t see anything unusual.
Walter, who as a precaution had positioned himself a couple of places ahead in the line, could see that there had been an altercation. He turned to Jack to warn him that a police officer was present and had begun to request passports.
“They’re saying they caught someone trying to stow away. If we try to board now, we’ll be arrested,” Walter whispered. His eyes were bright with fear. Jack saw more cops arriving, and he placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders to calm him down.
“It’s too dangerous. If we leave the line now, we’ll arouse suspicion. We have to carry on.”
“What about your passport? Shit! It might pass as genuine in Russia, but we’ll get busted for it here.”