The Last Paradise

Perhaps Jack Beilis lacked the glamour he would need for a liveried doorman to let him into a hotel just by looking at him, but he certainly knew how to bluff it. Wearing a perfect smile, he got out of the droshky, paid the coachman, and sauntered idly through the snow-covered gardens that led to the Hotel Metropol’s entrance, endeavoring to make sure that when the doorman caught sight of him, he’d think that the newcomer arriving with an aristocratic manner had come to close an important deal. As he reached the doorman, Jack stopped to take in the beautiful mosaic that adorned the building’s fa?ade. “Spectacular! The Princess of Dreams surpasses any of Mikhail Vrubel’s previous work!” he said, waving his bunch of flowers and addressing the sky. And without giving the doorman time to speak, he strode confidently into the building.

Jack shuddered when he felt the warmth from the heating. Braving the Moscow cold without a coat had been almost as audacious as trying to gate-crash the Metropol, but the short journey on the horse-drawn carriage had been worth it, considering that, for the five rubles it had cost, the coachman had thrown in the detail on the building’s fa?ade that Jack had used to impress the doorman.

Once inside the opulent foyer, he greeted any guests he crossed paths with as if he’d known them all his life, headed to the reception desk, where, without looking up, he commandeered a copy of the Izvestia, and sat on a gaudy armchair that would have made a much more comfortable bed than the sofa he’d spent the night on.

He was inside. He examined every detail around him. The reception clock showed a quarter to six, so he still had some time to amuse himself reading the news. He turned down the offer of tea from one of the waiters and took a look at the newspaper, noticing that the main differences compared to an American rag were the absence of advertising and the portrayal of all of its contents, even the death notices, as good news.

After scanning a couple of propaganda pieces, he turned his attention to the guests who were beginning to arrive. A mature man, dressed up like a peacock, positioned himself nearby, conversing with another older gentleman wearing a tuxedo and a blue sash. They were joined by a lean young man in an impeccably pressed brown army jacket, who paid his respects to the older gentlemen as if he held them in extremely high regard. Most of the guests appeared to be diplomats, businessmen, and foreign dignitaries, but there were also a number of Soviet military men and political leaders. He compared their garments with the suit he wore and decided to remain seated until he could more easily blend into the crowd.

Gradually, the foyer filled with men and women in formal attire, and the staid conversations turned to lighthearted chatter about the evening’s menu, or on the latest trends in Parisian fashion. Finally, at exactly six o’clock, the doors to the ballroom opened, revealing an extraordinary space flanked by brown marble columns with golden capitals, crowned by a multicolored glass dome that left the guests speechless.

Jack paled, not so much due to the magnificent and extraordinary ballroom as to the dazzling figure that approached him holding the arm of a Soviet official.

Elizabeth Hewitt was captivating. When she passed Jack, the young woman gave him a hint of a smile, before moving on without turning her head. Jack waited for a chance to approach her, but the man she was with followed her wherever she went. Jack looked at him. It wasn’t that he’d imagined anyone in particular, but the man with the slicked-down hair wasn’t the kind of guy that he would have envisioned escorting her. His chiseled features were ornamented by a perfectly crafted mustache almost as impressive as his dark eyes. He must have been about forty years old. Jack served himself some vodka and, keeping his distance, watched the man’s movements closely. The official moved energetically, arrogantly, and Elizabeth seemed to be enjoying his company as much as he did hers.

To Jack’s distaste, the quartet of Soviet musicians responsible for livening up the evening played nothing but dreary pieces by Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, and Borodin, which were dutifully applauded by the couples who flooded the center of the ballroom to enjoy the party. Elizabeth and her partner took the first dance.

Jack finished his drink and set about the dish of prawns, beside which he had abandoned his white wallflowers and violets. He wondered what Elizabeth saw in such a mature man.

He poured himself another glass of vodka and sat on an armchair in the ballroom.

The waltzes followed one another at the same rate at which Jack followed one drink with the next. From time to time, Elizabeth would give him a fleeting look, but not as often or with the intensity that he would have liked. Even so, every time their eyes met, he felt a stab in the belly, as if he’d been hooked by a grapnel.

With the bottle of vodka almost empty, Jack began to wonder what he was doing at a party to which nobody had invited him, surrounded by geriatrics with phony smiles and absurd costumes. He considered getting up and leaving, but one look from Elizabeth stopped him.

Why did she keep glancing at him? What was it she wanted?

He was trying to gather his thoughts when a man approached, his face vaguely familiar. He tried to remember where he’d seen it before, but nothing came to him. Fortunately, the man helped him.

“Well, I’ll be damned! It’s Beilis, from the ship. Isn’t it? It sure is a surprise to find you here! You’re staying at the Metropol, too?”

His reedy voice enabled Jack to identify him as Louis Thomson, the New York Times journalist he’d shared a table with on board the SS Cliffwood. Jack stood and greeted him and two men he was with, whom the journalist introduced as colleagues.

“I should tell you that, were it not for this young man, Wilbur Hewitt would now be ‘One-Armed’ Wilbur,” Louis chortled, raising his glass to celebrate their meeting.

Without much enthusiasm, Jack thanked him for the toast while he held out a hand to the other men. He thought he could see their heads dancing on their shoulders and understood that he’d drunk too much. “Yeah, I must admit I quite like playing the hero,” Jack said, carrying on the journalist’s jocular tone. “In fact, right now I was saving myself. From dying of boredom.” He signaled for the bottle of vodka and filled his audience’s glasses.

Suddenly, without intending it, Jack found himself engaged in an enjoyable conversation, in which the four men were as likely to celebrate the latest results of the New York Giants as poke fun at the pale flesh hidden under the Soviet women’s skirts.

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