“And the party you were talking about, what’s that for?”
“I needed an excuse to speak to you without making Viktor suspicious, and it was all I could think of.”
“But Viktor’s protecting us. That’s why I’m staying here.”
“We can’t trust anybody. As well as he’s treating us, Viktor is still OGPU,” he whispered in her ear. “Careful, here he comes!”
The Soviet official came down carrying a box full of cylinders about the size of cans of vegetables. “There’s a bit of everything: waltzes, jazz . . . It’s been a few years since I used it.”
“They’ll do just fine. Thank you,” said Jack.
“Good. And as for your uncle’s party, what idea for a surprise have you suggested to our good friend Jack, honey?”
Elizabeth was at a loss for words.
“I haven’t asked her yet,” Jack cut in, “but with the phonograph and his niece in attendance, I’m sure Hewitt will enjoy it.”
“Perfect! Then I’ll have it sent to the village. In the meantime, we’ll have some fun choosing what to wear to the celebration, right, Elizabeth? We’ll finally be going to one of those American parties you so sorely miss.”
Back in the American village, Jack cursed himself for being so stupid. He now had less than twenty-four hours to organize a fake party right under the nose of an officer of the secret police.
29
To organize the party, Jack decided to call on the same gang that he’d chosen to set up the store. Joe Brown, Miquel Agramunt, Harry Daniels, and his son Jim all accepted the job offer as if they’d won the lottery. Sergei Loban had them relieved from their previous duties without losing their salaries, and they would receive a small daily supplement and a special discount on the food sold at the store. As for the reason for the celebration itself, Jack had pretended that it was for the opening of the store to make sure that enough guests attended. Once they were all drunk, he would be able to get a toast to Wilbur Hewitt out of them with little trouble.
Joe Brown soon showed his worth in the role of store manager that Jack had assigned to him. Within ten minutes of his appointment to the position, he’d already organized a cleaning crew to clear up the old spare-parts store, the contents of which still needed to be moved out. He then improvised some display stands using wooden crates, and placed on them a couple of butchered pigs that Miquel Agramunt had obtained from his contacts. For his part, Harry Daniels, his wife, and his sons prepared the wooden chairs, the central fireplace for an enormous gridiron, and garlands made from strips of cardboard and pieces of colored sacking. Despite the cost of the occasion, Jack thought it was money well spent. He’d invited Ivan Zarko to the party, and if he could distract the Soviet guards, he would take the opportunity to introduce him to Wilbur Hewitt so they could discuss the cost of the counterfeit passports.
Though the party was advertised for six o’clock, a group of onlookers had already gathered at the door to the warehouse in the icy November cold before five. Jack saw through the window that the partygoers included some of his fellow passengers on the SS Cliffwood, and seeing them huddled together to ward off the cold, their gaunt faces brightened by the touch of excitement they felt at attending a party where they could put something hot in their bellies, he wondered how many of them dreamed of being back in America at that moment.
He went over the final details. After burning for a few hours, the fire lit over some sheet metal positioned on the ground had warmed the inside of the warehouse and was beginning to turn into a mountain of embers like little volcanoes bursting with lava. Miquel Agramunt had steeped the pigs in oil, pepper, salt, and rosemary, ingredients from his homeland that he’d managed to find in Ukraine, and which, according to the Catalan, would give the pork an excellent flavor. To accompany the food, he had made a drink typical of his country, consisting of a mixture of red wine, baking powder, lemon rind, sugar and cinnamon, and which he called by the strange name sangría. It was delicious. While the Daniels family busied itself putting up the last homemade garlands, Jack inspected the music cylinders that Viktor had supplied. The oldest ones, made of solid carnauba wax, reproduced tracks just a minute or two long, but the newer ones, made of Bakelite, contained modern hits and extended to four minutes. He inserted a Bing Crosby cylinder in the phonograph, turned the handle to wind up the mechanism, and positioned the needle on the helicoid groove that turned at a hundred revolutions a minute. The powerful voice of the American singer suddenly flooded the warehouse, for a moment turning the drab building into a Detroit nightclub. Only the dancers were missing.
He thought of Natasha. He’d have loved to spend the party with her, but when he called to invite her, he was told that she was operating on patients that evening. As he listened to the music, he couldn’t help remembering their kiss, fleeting yet intense and true.
At exactly six o’clock, Jack adjusted his bird’s-eye jacket, took one last glance at the gigantic “American Store” sign, which Jim Daniels had neatly written in the red, white, and blue of the national flag, and drew back the bolt to officially open the shop. The guests waiting outside, enticed by the lively music and the smell of barbecued meat, greeted their host and poured in to claim a spot near the fire.
Before long, the haggard forms that ten minutes earlier had been waiting outside were transformed into a merry band of compatriots who sang and smiled again. The main topic of conversation was how much they missed their country. Dances from the hills played on the fiddle alternated with the American tunes that emerged as if by magic from Smirnov’s phonograph. As he mingled among the guests, Jack came across Walter and Sue holding hands. When he saw them, he greeted them warmly and encouraged them to dance, but Sue barely smiled and Walter looked away. Jack kept trying, but he was unable to break through their coldness.
“You haven’t moved yet,” were his friend’s first words.
Since Walter had begun working for the OGPU, it was as if he hardly knew Jack. Perhaps he was bitter at Jack’s financial success, or maybe he’d never been as good a friend as he made out. Ultimately, their friendship was that of two classmates, and that had been ten years ago. Jack looked at Walter’s new Soviet jacket on which he’d pinned a little cardboard tag that read “Fordville Head of Security.” He didn’t know what to think.