In late February 1934, the success of the store in the American village and his ever closer relationship with Natasha began to make Jack doubt his need and desire to escape. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he could have everything he wished for: work that earned him enough to enjoy the luxuries he wanted; a woman he not only loved but also admired; and though it was a paradox, a feeling of security. And yet, the more he persuaded himself that there was a future for him in the Soviet Union, the greater was his longing to return to the United States. He missed the little things, like wandering down avenues packed with busy pedestrians, being able to spend a few cents at a hot dog stand, admiring a shop window crammed with goods, or attending the latest premiere from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Perhaps his nostalgia was irrational, but when he remembered the United States on freezing Gorky nights, he was filled with an energizing warmth.
He missed his country. The land of freedom.
America might not be the perfect country. In fact, the crisis brought about by a financial system of insatiable greed had ended the hopes and dreams of millions of families, including his own. But Jack still believed in the land where he was born.
That didn’t stop him from appreciating the good things about Russia. Foremost among these, Jack recognized, was how quickly its leaders were lifting people out of poverty. After spending the year surrounded by Soviet workers, he’d learned that the revolution had transformed a medieval nation of nobles and serfs into a powerful state in which everyone, regardless of race, religion, or birth, had the right to a job, to a home, and to food. However, he also saw that the same leaders who so willingly shared out land and work among the dispossessed were fanatics who made the Soviet Union a dangerous place for anyone who dared take issue with their ideology.
Ordinary Russians were indefatigable workers—reserved, honorable, committed, and honest people. At least, that was how he saw Natasha Lobanova, the Soviet citizen he knew best and the woman he loved . . . Yet, despite loving her deeply, sometimes he was troubled by thoughts of Elizabeth Hewitt.
He couldn’t understand why it happened. Now and again, her image would suddenly appear in his mind like a slap in the face. It was as if for some inexplicable reason he was still attracted to her, not because of her beauty that he’d experienced for himself, but because of everything that surrounded her. He envied her position, her friendships, her upbringing; even her ridiculous manners and affected mannerisms were as seductive to him as they were impenetrable. He knew it was stupid, but despite being aware of his stupidity, he couldn’t prevent her from tormenting him.
He hadn’t seen Elizabeth since the night he discovered McMillan’s passport. He knew she was still living with Viktor Smirnov, and though he’d suggested to Natasha that they visit them, she had refused. He still hadn’t been able to uncover why she was so against the idea, but every time he mentioned Viktor’s name, Natasha’s expression turned dark. One person he had seen again was Walter, who seemed to have regained his old jocularity since he learned that Jack was going out with the OGPU boss’s daughter.
One night when his friend was doing a round of the village, he came into the store to suggest they all have dinner together at his house. “You have to try Sue’s cooking. You can’t imagine how much she’s learned.”
Jack tried to make his excuses, but Natasha, who was helping Jack cash up, got in ahead of him. “Tell Sue we’d love to come.”
When Walter left, Jack berated Natasha for accepting the invitation. “I don’t like you making decisions for me,” he said in a tone that took the young woman by surprise.
“I was just being friendly! You’ve often complained that you miss your life in America. It’s always just the two of us, and I thought you’d like it if we all spent an evening together. And I want to chat with the woman who was your wife, now that I know it was all a sham.”
Jack scowled as he padlocked the store entrance. He couldn’t explain to her that, though they’d processed their divorce, Sue’s presence still made him uncomfortable. “I’m sorry; it’s just that you always seem to be the one that decides whom we see. You got very worked up when I suggested meeting with Viktor Smirnov,” he said to vent his frustration. “That man could help me in the future. He’s very well connected and—”
“No! I’ve told you what I think about him. You don’t need that man’s help. If you need anything, my father—”
“Your father! And what would happen if your father changes his mind one day and decides to take the store away from me, or they transfer him to a different factory, or he gets annoyed over any little thing and sends me back to the ispravdom? Damn it! He doesn’t even know I’m sleeping with his daughter.” He opened the Ford’s door to take her home.
“But don’t you see? Viktor will never see any farther than the end of his nose!”
“How can you be so sure? It was thanks to him I was able to live in a proper home while the other Americans huddled together in pigsties. And the car I drive you back and forth in is his. You should be grateful.”
“I should? Well, look what I’m going to do with your car!” She got out of the vehicle and slammed the door. “Enjoy it, but count me out if you want to visit him.” She walked off in the direction of the tram.
That night, Jack could barely sleep. He didn’t like arguing with Natasha, but having to go along with her wishes without knowing why she was so angry annoyed him even more. He poured himself some vodka to calm himself down. The heat from the alcohol burned his throat but soothed him. As he served himself another glass, he wondered why women were so complicated. He had tried to understand their behavior, breaking everything down like he would with a complex mechanism, but as much as he tried to take them apart and reassemble them he never got the machine to work.