“I couldn’t resist.” She gave her uncle a mischievous look, as if waiting for approval that she didn’t really need. “I hope our guest likes beluga.” She smiled.
Jack blushed. For a moment he thought Elizabeth was going to ridicule him by recounting the embarrassing episode at the fish market, but to his surprise, not only did she not do so, but she graciously served him a spoonful.
“Thank you,” was all he managed to stammer.
He ate as he listened to a conversation on the marvelous deeds of the Soviet regime. Again, Wilbur Hewitt mentioned the Avtozavod, the gigantic factory that he was going to run and the difficulties that he would have to overcome. The latest inspections had revealed that the majority of the machinery being transported in the ship’s hold had been rendered unusable, and Dearborn had informed him by radio message that no new supplies would arrive for up to three months.
“And then there are the disappointing production figures I’ve been shown, so you can see why I’m concerned. I’m not questioning the Soviets’ organizational capacity”—he looked at Sergei as he spoke—“but we’re talking automobiles here, and I get the feeling they need an American with the guts to get what looks like a school yard the size of Wisconsin in order,” he crowed.
Sergei finished chewing a piece of fish he’d just put in his mouth.
“In our defense,” said the official in his Slavic accent, “I should say that Soviet Union is a young, inexperienced country, but full of energy, and like all hotheaded young persons, its enthusiasm sometimes take it down tortuous roads.” He wiped his mustache with his napkin. “We make mistakes, sure, but we can admit them, and then, fix them. Our hospitality and generosity for all who want to build future is great. But do not doubt it, Mr. Hewitt, I repeat, do not have any doubt whatsoever, that our leaders could not be more determined to ensure that Soviet people progress until inequality and poverty are wiped from face of earth.”
Wilbur Hewitt was silent for a moment, as if pondering Sergei’s prophetic words. Then he raised his glass.
“Well, I’ll toast to that.”
They all repeated Wilbur Hewitt’s toast in unison, raising their glasses as one. Sergei smiled as if he approved of the industrialist’s gesture, but Jack had a feeling that if hyenas could smile, they would undoubtedly look just like the Russian.
After dessert, the diners congratulated Jack, before leaving the room for their own cabins. Elizabeth, who was waiting with her uncle, held out her hand to Jack for less time than he would’ve liked, and she left with the same gracefulness that had captivated everyone when she came in. For a moment, Jack stood in a daze, unaware that Wilbur Hewitt was waiting to say good-bye to him. He only realized when he heard a little cough behind him. Jack, who had already put his hat on, took it off again.
“Mr. Hewitt.” He cleared his throat. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for giving me the opportunity to share a table with you. It’s been an unforgettable experience. I would—”
“Kid, save your soft-soaping for another time. If you get like this over lunch, I dread to think what you’d have done if I’d invited you to my house in the country.”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“All I mean is, if there’s anyone here who should be grateful, it’s Wilbur Hewitt, the man who, thanks to you, can still get himself dressed in the morning. The man who still has his own two hands. Tell me something, kid: How did you do it? How in hell’s name did you know what parts to dismantle to take apart a thirty-ton machine in five minutes? And where did you learn Russian?” Hewitt stood waiting for a reply from Jack, who was slow to answer.
“My parents were Russian. And I worked at a Buick supply workshop, sir,” he ad-libbed.
“Buick? Look, kid. I know those turkeys well, and they wouldn’t know a kingpin from a kingfisher. It’s all right,” he grouched, “if you don’t want to tell me, don’t. But I don’t like owing favors to anyone.” His hand went to his wallet, and he pulled out a hundred dollars. “Here.”
Jack flinched, as if he’d been offered stolen money.
“I . . . I can’t accept that, sir,” he stammered.
“Don’t be a fool, kid. If you don’t think it’s enough, you’re an idiot, and if you think it’s too much, well, I can assure you my arm’s worth much more. Take it. It’s not the first time I’ve traveled to the Soviet Union, and I can tell you without fear of being mistaken that you’re going to need every last dollar you can find.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Oh, you will, son. You will . . .”
The five-thousand boiler horsepower generated by the SS Cliffwood’s mighty GE Curtis turbine snorted away, driving the vessel at a speed of ten knots through the icy waters of the North Sea on the final stretch of the crossing. Wrapped in his jacket, Jack strolled around the bow deck, enjoying the light drizzle that landed on his face. With each spatter, he imagined the water washing away the misery that had clung to him, making him a new man, clean and different. Because that was how he now felt. He could still taste the salty flavor of the caviar and the champagne’s delicate sweetness. Remembering the lunch, Jack saw himself among the elite, accepted by all of them, speaking as an equal with those he envied, admired by them and receiving their praise. It was an intoxicating feeling, more so than anything he’d felt before, than anything he could have imagined.
His watch showed five o’clock in the afternoon and it was pitch-dark. He decided it was time to return to his friends and share his experience with them.
As soon as he entered the communal dormitory, the noxious smell given off by the dozens of scrawny men, women, and children tore Jack from his daydream. He was surprised, because he hadn’t noticed it before. In fact, since their departure, he would have sworn that they were eating enough, that they traveled with dignity, and that their lives were moving toward a brighter future. But after experiencing the sumptuous luxury of the officers’ dining room, after savoring the succulent delicacies and enjoying exquisite company, he could see the true face of his reality. A squalid existence, a world of poverty, hunger, and misery, a world of immigrants without hope. That was the world he belonged to.
He found Sue and Walter gnawing at some salt herring next to a porthole through which they looked out at the blackness of the sea. As soon as she noticed Jack, Sue turned away. But Walter stood to greet him and offered him a piece of fish.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say, Jack,” he admitted. “Anyway . . . I’m sorry for this morning. Really, I don’t know what came over me. I’m not used to drinking like that, and from what Sue tells me, I behaved like a chump.”