Jack savored the moment as if he were taking a long pull on a good cigar after a large meal. For the first time, he felt at home in Russia, enjoying himself like an American, surrounded by Americans. And not destitute Americans, but real ones. Successful ones. As the conversation progressed, he began to talk about the American miracle as if he were part of it, with almost as much energy as he used to criticize the Soviet system. Amid the laughter, he felt like just another member of the privileged few. Suddenly, even the tedious classical waltzes seemed less annoying, though Jack wondered whether the Russian musicians knew a fox-trot that would really get the party going. He decided to ask for one, and his new friends enthusiastically offered to back him up.
He was heading toward the orchestra when he crossed paths with Elizabeth Hewitt. He looked at her as coolly as he could. She was truly radiant, in a tulle dress that, hugging her waist, gave her a swanlike air. For the first time, he found her alone, without the Soviet official. He had been waiting for this moment for so long that, now it was here, he didn’t know what to say. For a second, he turned his head toward the bunch of flowers that lay scattered by the dish of prawns, but figured that it wasn’t such a good idea. He turned back to Elizabeth and smiled. “I promised you we’d see each other again,” Jack finally said.
“I must admit I was surprised.” She gave him a cursory examination. “I’d go so far as to say that scarecrow’s jacket you’re wearing doesn’t look too bad on you.” She smiled.
“It’s a Russian thing. My Soviet tailor’s hands froze up.” He smiled back. “You, on the other hand, look incredible. By the way, I brought you a gift . . .” He changed his mind and just pointed at what was left of the wallflowers and violets. “But I’ll have to leave it for another time.”
“A Russian thing?” She smiled again.
“Something like that. How’s your uncle getting on? Still in Helsinki?” He hoped he was wrong.
“My uncle Wilbur? In Helsinki?” She let out a burst of laughter that caught the attention of everyone around them. “It’s obvious you don’t know us Hewitts. We won’t be held back by a little thing like an accident.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Oh? What have you seen?”
“That nothing stops you. You wouldn’t stop dancing. I was hoping you’d take a break so I could ask you for a dance.”
“Well, I was having fun.”
“Me, too, watching these old fogeys dancing.”
“You didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“You were watching me?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Well, I have to go now.”
“Wait.” He took her hand. He didn’t feel her pull it away. “You haven’t told me how your uncle is.”
Elizabeth saw that Jack was swaying a little, and she smiled again. “In better shape than you. He’s staying here, at the Metropol. May I have my hand back?”
Jack gently let her go. He waited for her to walk off, but she stood in front of him for a moment that seemed endless. He was about to ask her for a date, when a figure suddenly appeared.
“Sorry for the delay. Political business,” said the newcomer, and he took Elizabeth by the arm. “Excuse me. And you are . . . ?”
“This is Jack . . . Jack . . .” Elizabeth quickly introduced him, his surname apparently already forgotten.
“Beilis. Jack Beilis,” he added, holding his hand out to the Soviet official Elizabeth had been dancing with. The officer returned his greeting energetically.
“That’s it. Jack Beilis,” said Elizabeth. “I met him on the SS Cliffwood. He’s an American immigrant.”
“That’s right.” It bothered Jack that she had introduced him as a simple immigrant and left out the detail about his saving her uncle Wilbur. “An American immigrant,” he repeated.
“Beilis . . . You wouldn’t have anything to do with . . . ?”
“No. Definitely not,” he said, cutting him off. “It’s interesting. I’ve been asked about my surname so often lately that I’m wondering if I should change it. And your name is . . . ?”
“Oh! How rude of me,” said Elizabeth. “Jack, this is Finance Commissar Viktor Smirnov. Viktor’s a distant cousin of Stalin’s. We met on my first visit to the Soviet Union, and he’s always been the perfect host.” She smiled.
“Elizabeth, darling, with you it’s always a pleasure. And anyway, it would be rude not to redouble the customary Soviet hospitality for those who come to our country to contribute to its development.” He returned her smile. “And speaking of the perfect host.” He paused for dramatic effect, like an amateur actor, Jack thought. “Here. A small gift from our government.” He handed Elizabeth a velvet-lined case.
The young woman’s eyes opened as wide as her mouth when she discovered its contents. “Oh, Viktor . . . It’s . . . it’s beautiful.” Elizabeth took the almond-sized emerald and went to hang it around her neck. Viktor helped her.
“The necklace belonged to Anastasia, daughter of the tsarina. I took it from her dressing table myself the day we overthrew them.” He gave the American woman a smug look.
Jack feigned a smile. He tried to think of a witty remark, but nothing came to him. In any case, seeing Elizabeth overflowing with happiness and Viktor so triumphant, he knew it wouldn’t be welcomed. In fact, Jack was certain that, to Viktor, he was nothing more than a ridiculous insect whom he would never see as a romantic rival. He sensed it because Viktor would glance at him from time to time, but not see him. Jack looked at Elizabeth, beautiful, smiling, out of reach. For a moment, he’d believed that his stature, his smile, and his blue eyes would distract from his humble thirdhand jacket and mended shoes, but now it seemed obvious that for Elizabeth, it wouldn’t be nearly enough.
He decided that he’d better say his good-byes.
He was rejoining his fellow Americans, when the final notes of the last waltz were played, and as if by magic, the musty old Soviet ballroom was transformed into New York’s buzzing Cotton Club. Suddenly, the rhythms of a frenetic fox-trot filled the room, and the guests delighted in the change. It was enough for Jack to forget about all of his problems for a moment, and he turned toward Elizabeth. He was forced to swallow his envy when he noticed that the young woman was attracting the glances of the entire room with her sensual movements, while Viktor was flailing ridiculously in an attempt to follow her lead.
He guessed the best thing to do would be to return to his guesthouse. There, even if he had to endure one of Walter’s boring political discussions, at least the night would be bearable.
He was saying good-bye to the journalists, when he saw a man with his arm in a sling waving at him from the other end of the room. It was Wilbur Hewitt. He said his farewells as quickly as he could, then headed over to Hewitt.
“Well I never, kid! You’re the last person I’d have expected to see among this bunch of bourgeoisie-turned-revolutionaries. What in hell’s name are you doing here?” asked Elizabeth’s uncle.
“It’s good to see you, sir. I was chatting with Louis Thomson and—”