Edge of Eternity (11 page)

Marga had been a nightclub singer, and at sixty-five she still moved as if she were going onstage in a slinky dress. Her black hair was probably dyed that color nowadays. She was wearing more jewelry than was appropriate for an outdoor occasion, George knew; but he guessed that as the mistress, rather than the wife, she felt the need for status symbols.

Marga had been Lev's lover for almost fifty years. Greg was the only child they had together.

Lev also had a wife, Olga, in Buffalo, and a daughter, Daisy, who was married to an Englishman and lived in London. So George had English cousins he had never met—white, he assumed.

Marga kissed Jacky, and George noticed people nearby giving them looks of surprise and disapproval. Even at liberal Harvard it was unusual to see a white person embrace a Negro. But George's family always drew stares on the rare occasions when they all appeared in public together. Even in places where all races were accepted, a mixed family could still bring out white people's latent prejudices. He knew that before the end of the day he would hear someone mutter the word
mongrel.
He would ignore the insult. His black grandparents were long dead, and this was his entire family. To have these four people bursting with pride at his graduation was worth any price.

Greg said: “I had lunch with old Renshaw yesterday. I talked him into renewing Fawcett Renshaw's job offer.”

Marga said: “Oh, that's wonderful! George, you'll be a Washington lawyer after all!”

Jacky gave Greg a rare smile. “Thank you, Greg,” she said.

Greg lifted a warning finger. “There are conditions,” he said.

Marga said: “Oh, George will agree to anything reasonable. This is such a great opportunity for him.”

She meant
for a black kid,
George knew, but he did not protest. Anyway, she was right. “What conditions?” he said guardedly.

“Nothing that doesn't apply to every lawyer in the world,” Greg replied. “You have to stay out of trouble, is all. A lawyer can't get on the wrong side of the authorities.”

George was suspicious. “Stay out of trouble?”

“Just take no further part in any kind of protest movement, marches, demonstrations, like that. As a first-year associate, you'll have no time for that stuff anyway.”

The proposal angered George. “So I would begin my working life by vowing never to do anything in the cause of freedom.”

“Don't look at it that way,” said his father.

George bit back an irate retort. His family only wanted what was best for him, he knew. Trying to keep his voice neutral, he said: “Which way should I look at it?”

“Your role in the civil rights movement won't be as a frontline soldier, that's all. Be a supporter. Send a check once a year to the NAACP.” The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People was the oldest and most conservative civil rights group: they had opposed Freedom Rides as being too provocative. “Just keep your head down. Let someone else go on the bus.”

“There might be another way,” said George.

“What's that?”

“I could work for Martin Luther King.”

“Has he offered you a job?”

“I've received an approach.”

“What would he pay you?”

“Not much, I'm guessing.”

Lev said: “Don't think you can turn down a perfectly good job, then come to me for an allowance.”

“Okay, Grandfather,” said George, although that was exactly what he had been thinking. “But I believe I'll take the job anyway.”

His mother joined the argument. “Oh, George, don't,” she said. She was going to say more, but the graduating students were called to line up for their degrees. “Go,” she said. “We'll talk more later.”

George left the family group and found his place in line. The ceremony began, and he shuffled forward. He recalled working at Fawcett Renshaw last summer. Mr. Renshaw had thought himself heroically liberal for hiring a black law clerk. But George had been given work that was demeaningly easy even for an intern. He had been patient and looked for an opportunity, and one had come. He had done a piece of legal research that won a case for the firm, and they had offered him a job on graduation.

This kind of thing happened to him a lot. The world assumed that a student at Harvard must be intelligent and capable—unless he was black, in which case all bets were off. All his life George had had to prove that he was not an idiot. It made him resentful. If he ever had children, his hope was that they would grow up in a different world.

His turn came to go onstage. As he mounted the short flight of steps, he was astonished to hear hissing.

Hissing was a Harvard tradition, normally used against professors
who lectured badly or were rude to students. George was so horrified that he paused on the steps and looked back. He caught the eye of Joseph Hugo. Hugo was not the only one—the hissing was too loud for that—but George felt sure Hugo had orchestrated this.

George felt hated. He was too humiliated to mount the stage. He stood there, frozen, and the blood rushed to his face.

Then someone began clapping. Looking across the rows of seats, George saw a professor standing up. It was Merv West, one of the younger faculty. Others joined him in applauding, and they quickly drowned out the hissing. Several more people stood up. George imagined that even people who did not know him had guessed who he was by the plaster cast on his arm.

He found his courage again and walked onto the stage. A cheer went up as he was handed his certificate. He turned slowly to face the audience and acknowledged the applause with a modest bow of his head. Then he went off.

His heart was hammering as he joined the other students. Several men shook his hand silently. He was horrified by the hissing, and at the same time elated by the applause. He realized he was perspiring, and he wiped his face with a handkerchief. What an ordeal.

He watched the rest of the ceremony in a daze, glad to have time to recover. As the shock of the hissing wore off, he could see that it had been done by Hugo and a handful of right-wing lunatics, and the rest of liberal Harvard had honored him. He should feel proud, he told himself.

The students rejoined their families for lunch. George's mother hugged him. “They cheered you,” she said.

“Yes,” Greg said. “Though for a moment there it looked as if it was going to be something else.”

George spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. “How can I not be part of this struggle?” he said. “I really want the job at Fawcett Renshaw, and I want to please the family that has supported me through all these years of education—but that's not all. What if I have children?”

Marga put in: “That would be nice!”

“But, Grandmother, my children will be colored. What kind of world will they grow up in? Will they be second-class Americans?”

The conversation was interrupted by Merv West, who shook George's hand and congratulated him on getting his degree. Professor West was a little underdressed in a tweed suit and a button-down collar.

George said: “Thank you for starting the applause, Professor.”

“Don't thank me, you deserved it.”

George introduced his family. “We were just talking about my future.”

“I hope you haven't made any final decisions.”

George's curiosity was piqued. What did that mean? “Not yet,” he said. “Why?”

“I've been talking to the attorney general, Bobby Kennedy—a Harvard graduate, as you know.”

“I hope you told him that his handling of what happened in Alabama was a national disgrace.”

West smiled regretfully. “Not in those words, not quite. But he and I agreed that the administration's response was inadequate.”

“Very. I can't imagine he . . .” George trailed off as he was struck by a thought. “What does this have to do with decisions about my future?”

“Bobby has decided to hire a young black lawyer to give the attorney general's team a Negro perspective on civil rights. And he asked me if there was anyone I could recommend.”

George was momentarily stunned. “Are you saying . . .”

West raised a warning hand. “I'm not offering you the job—only Bobby can do that. But I can get you an interview . . . if you want it.”

Jacky said: “George! A job with Bobby Kennedy! That would be fantastic.”

“Mother, the Kennedys have let us down so badly.”

“Then go to work for Bobby and change things!”

George hesitated. He looked at the eager faces around him: his mother, his father, his grandmother, his grandfather, and back to his mother again.

“Maybe I will,” he said at last.

D
imka Dvorkin was abashed to be a virgin at the age of twenty-two.

He had dated several girls while at university, but none of them had let him go all the way. Anyway, he was not sure he should. No one had actually told him that sex should be part of a long-term loving relationship, but he sort of felt it anyway. He had never been in a frantic hurry to do it, the way some boys were. However, his lack of experience was now becoming an embarrassment.

His friend Valentin Lebedev was the opposite. Tall and confident, he had black hair and blue eyes and buckets of charm. By the end of their first year at Moscow State University he had bedded most of the girl students in the Politics Department and one of the teachers.

Early on in their friendship, Dimka had said to him: “What do you do about, you know, avoiding pregnancy?”

“That's the girl's problem, isn't it?” Valentin had said carelessly. “Worst comes to the worst, it's not that difficult to get an abortion.”

Talking to others, Dimka found out that many Soviet boys took the same attitude. Men did not get pregnant, so it was not their problem. And abortion was available on demand during the first twelve weeks. But Dimka could not get comfortable with Valentin's approach, perhaps because his sister was so scornful about it.

Sex was Valentin's main interest, and studying took second place. With Dimka it had been the other way around—which was why Dimka was now an aide in the Kremlin and Valentin worked for the Moscow City Parks Department.

It was through his connections in Parks that Valentin had been able to arrange for the two of them to spend a week at the V. I. Lenin Holiday Camp for Young Communists in July 1961.

The camp was a bit military, with tents pitched in ruler-straight rows and a curfew at ten thirty, but it had a swimming pool and a boating lake and loads of girls, and a week there was a privilege much sought after.

Dimka felt he deserved a holiday. The Vienna Summit had been a victory for the Soviet Union, and he shared the credit.

Vienna had actually begun badly for Khrushchev. Kennedy and his dazzling wife had entered Vienna in a fleet of limousines flying dozens of stars-and-stripes flags. When the two leaders met, television viewers all over the world saw that Kennedy was several inches taller, towering over Khrushchev, looking down his patrician nose at the bald top of Khrushchev's head. Kennedy's tailored jackets and skinny ties made Khrushchev look like a farmer in his Sunday suit. America had won a glamour contest that the Soviet Union had not even known it was entering.

But once the talks began, Khrushchev had dominated. When Kennedy tried to have an amiable discussion, as between two reasonable men, Khrushchev became loudly aggressive. Kennedy suggested it was not logical for the Soviet Union to encourage Communism in Third World countries, then protest indignantly about American efforts to roll back Communism in the Soviet sphere. Khrushchev replied scornfully that the spread of Communism was a historic inevitability, and nothing that either leader did could stand in its way. Kennedy's grasp of Marxist philosophy was weak, and he had not known what to say.

The strategy developed by Dimka and other advisers had triumphed. When Khrushchev returned to Moscow he ordered dozens of copies of the summit minutes to be distributed, not only to the Soviet bloc, but to the leaders of countries as far away as Cambodia and Mexico. Since then Kennedy had been silent, not even responding to Khrushchev's threat to take over West Berlin. And Dimka went on holiday.

On the first day Dimka put on his new clothes, a checked short-sleeved shirt and a pair of shorts his mother had sewn from the trousers of a worn-out blue serge suit. “Are shorts like that fashionable in the West?” Valentin said.

Dimka laughed. “Not as far as I know.”

While Valentin was shaving, Dimka went for supplies.

When he emerged he was pleased to see, right next door, a young woman lighting the small portable stove that was provided with each tent. She was a little older than Dimka, he guessed twenty-seven. She had thick red-brown hair cut in a bob, and an attractive scatter of freckles. She looked alarmingly fashionable in an orange blouse and a pair of tight black pants that ended just below the knee.

“Hello!” Dimka said with a smile. She looked up at him. He said: “Do you need a hand with that?”

She lit the gas with a match, then went inside her tent without speaking.

Well, I'm not going to lose my virginity with her, Dimka thought, and he walked on.

He bought eggs and bread in the store next to the communal bathroom block. When he got back there were two girls outside the next tent: the one he had spoken to, and a pretty blonde with a trim figure. The blonde wore the same style of black pants, but with a pink blouse. Valentin was talking to them, and they were laughing.

He introduced them to Dimka. The redhead was called Nina, and she made no reference to their earlier encounter, though she still seemed reserved. The blonde was Anna, and she was obviously the outgoing one, smiling and pushing her hair back with a graceful gesture.

Dimka and Valentin had brought with them one iron saucepan in which they planned to do all the cooking, and Dimka had filled it with water to boil the eggs; but the girls were better equipped, and Nina took the eggs from him to make blinis.

Things were looking up, Dimka thought.

Dimka studied Nina while they ate. Her narrow nose, small mouth, and daintily protruding chin gave her a guarded look, as if she were perpetually weighing things up. But she was voluptuous, and when Dimka realized he might see her in a swimsuit, his throat went dry.

Valentin said: “Dimka and I are going to take a boat and row across to the other side of the lake.” This was the first Dimka had heard of such a plan, but he said nothing. “Why don't the four of us go together?” Valentin went on. “We could take a picnic lunch.”

It could not possibly be that easy, Dimka thought. They had only just met!

The girls looked at one another for a telepathic moment, then Nina said briskly: “We'll see. Let's clear away.” She began to pick up plates and cutlery.

That was disappointing, but perhaps not the end of the matter.

Dimka volunteered to carry the dirty dishes to the bathroom block.

“Where did you get those shorts?” Nina asked while they were walking.

“My mother sewed them.”

She laughed. “Sweet.”

Dimka asked himself what his sister would have implied by calling a man sweet, and he decided it meant he was kind but not attractive.

A concrete blockhouse contained toilets, showers, and large communal sinks. Dimka watched while Nina washed the dishes. He tried to think of things to say, but nothing came. If she had asked him about the crisis in Berlin he could have talked all day. But he had no gift for the mildly amusing nonsense that Valentin produced in an effortless stream. Eventually he managed: “Have you and Anna been friends long?”

“We work together,” she said. “We're both administrators at the steel union headquarters in Moscow. I got divorced a year ago, and Anna was looking for someone to share her apartment, so now we live together.”

Divorced, Dimka thought; that meant she was sexually experienced. He felt intimidated. “What was your husband like?”

“He's a shit,” said Nina. “I don't like talking about him.”

“Okay.” Dimka searched desperately for something bland to say. “Anna seems like a really nice person,” he tried.

“She's well connected.”

That seemed an odd remark to make about your friend. “How so?”

“Her father got us this holiday. He's Moscow district secretary of the union.” Nina seemed proud of this.

Dimka carried the clean dishes back to the tents. When they arrived, Valentin said cheerily: “We've made sandwiches—ham and cheese.” Anna looked at Nina and made a gesture of helplessness, as if to say that she had been unable to halt the Valentin steamroller; but it was clear to Dimka that she had not really wanted to. Nina shrugged, and so it was settled that they would picnic.

They had to stand in line an hour for a boat, but Muscovites were
accustomed to queuing, and by late morning they were out on the clear cold water. Valentin and Dimka took turns rowing, and the girls soaked up the sun. No one seemed to feel the need for small talk.

On the far side of the lake they tied up the boat at a small beach. Valentin pulled off his shirt, and Dimka followed suit. Anna took off her blouse and pants. Underneath she was wearing a sky-blue two-piece swimsuit. Dimka knew it was called a bikini, and was fashionable in the West, but he had never actually seen one, and he was embarrassed by how aroused he felt. He could hardly take his eyes off her smooth flat stomach and her navel.

To his disappointment, Nina kept her clothes on.

They ate their sandwiches, and Valentin produced a bottle of vodka. No alcohol was sold in the camp store, Dimka knew. Valentin explained: “I bought it from the boat supervisor. He has a small capitalist enterprise going.” Dimka was not surprised: most things people really wanted were sold on the black market, from television sets to blue jeans.

They passed the bottle around, and both girls took a long swallow.

Nina wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “So, you two work together in the Parks Department?”

“No,” Valentin laughed. “Dimka's too clever for that.”

Dimka said: “I work at the Kremlin.”

Nina was impressed. “What do you do?”

Dimka did not really like to say, because it sounded like boasting. “I'm an assistant to the first secretary.”

“You mean to Comrade Khrushchev!” Nina said in astonishment.

“Yes.”

“How the hell did you get a job like that?”

Valentin put in: “I told you, he's smart. He was top of every class.”

“You don't land a job like that just by getting top marks,” Nina said crisply. “Who do you know?”

“My grandfather, Grigori Peshkov, stormed the Winter Palace in the October Revolution.”

“That doesn't get you a good job.”

“Well, my father was in the KGB—he died last year. My uncle is a general.
And
I'm smart.”

“Modest, too,” she said, but her sarcasm was genial. “What's your uncle's name?”

“Vladimir Peshkov. We call him Volodya.”

“I've heard of General Peshkov. So he's your uncle. With a family like that, how come you wear homemade shorts?”

Dimka was confused now. She was interested in him for the first time, but he could not make out whether she was admiring or scornful. Perhaps it was just her manner.

Valentin stood up. “Come and explore with me,” he said to Anna. “We'll leave these two here to discuss Dimka's shorts.” He held out his hand. Anna took it and let him pull her to her feet. Then they walked off into the woods, holding hands.

“Your friend doesn't like me,” said Nina.

“He likes Anna, though.”

“She's pretty.”

Dimka said quietly: “You're beautiful.” He had not planned to say it: it just came out. But he meant it.

Nina looked at him thoughtfully, as if reappraising him. Then she said: “Do you want to swim?”

Dimka did not care much for water, but he was keen to see her in her swimsuit. He pulled off his clothes: he was wearing swimming trunks under his shorts.

Nina had on a brown nylon one-piece, rather than a bikini, but she filled it out so well that Dimka was not disappointed. She was the opposite of slim Anna. Nina had deep breasts and wide hips, and there were freckles on her throat. She saw his gaze on her body, and she turned away and ran into the water.

Dimka followed.

It was bitingly cold despite the sun, yet Dimka enjoyed the sensual feel of the water all over his body. They both swam energetically to keep warm. They went out into the lake, then returned more slowly to the shore. They stopped short of the beach, and Dimka let his feet drift to the bottom. The water came to their waists. Dimka looked at Nina's breasts. The cold water made her nipples stick out, showing through her swimsuit.

“Stop staring,” she said, and playfully splashed his face.

He splashed her back.

“Right!” she said, and grabbed his head, trying to duck him.

Dimka struggled and caught her around the waist. They wrestled in
the water. Nina's body was heavy but firm, and he relished its solidity. He got both arms around her and lifted her feet off the bottom. When she thrashed, laughing and trying to free herself, he pulled her more firmly to him, and felt her soft breasts pressing against his face.

“I give in!” she yelled.

Reluctantly he put her down. For a moment they looked at one another. In her eyes he saw a gleam of desire. Something had changed her attitude to him: the vodka, the realization that he was a high-powered apparatchik, the exhilaration of horseplay in the water, or perhaps all three. He hardly cared. He saw the invitation in her smile, and kissed her mouth.

She kissed him back with enthusiasm.

He forgot the cold water, lost in the sensations of her lips and tongue, but after a few minutes she shivered and said: “Let's get out.”

He held her hand as they waded through the shallows onto dry ground. They lay on the grass side by side and started kissing again. Dimka touched her breasts, and began to wonder whether this was the day he would lose his virginity.

Then they were interrupted by a harsh voice speaking through a megaphone: “Return your boat to the dock! Your time is up!”

Nina murmured: “It's the sex police.”

Dimka chuckled, despite his disappointment.

He looked up to see a small rubber dinghy with an outboard motor passing a hundred yards offshore.

He waved acknowledgment. They were supposed to keep the boat for two hours. He guessed that a bribe to the supervisor would have secured an extension but he had not thought of it. Indeed, he had hardly dreamed that his relationship with Nina would progress so fast.