Edge of Eternity (74 page)

But Tanya believed most Westerners did not think that way. Despite Tanya's dramatic precautions, Anna would have no real sense that she was guilty of a crime just by reading a typescript.

So the main question was whether Anna would like Vasili's work.
Daniil had, and so had the editors of
New World.
But they were the only people who had read the stories, and they were all Russian. How would a foreigner react? Tanya felt confident that Anna would see that the material was well written, but would it move her? Would it break her heart?

At a few minutes past eleven, Tanya returned to Room 305.

Anna opened the door with the typescript in her hand.

Her face was wet with tears.

She spoke in a whisper. “It's unbearable,” she said. “We have to tell the world.”

•   •   •

One Friday night Dave found out that Lew, the drummer in Plum Nellie, was homosexual.

Until then he had thought that Lew was just shy. A lot of girls wanted to have sex with boys who played in pop groups, and the dressing room was sometimes like a brothel, but Lew never took advantage. This was not astonishing: some did, some did not. Walli never went with “groupies.” Dave occasionally did, and Buzz, the bass player, never said no.

Plum Nellie were getting gigs again. “I Miss Ya, Alicia” was in the top twenty at number nineteen, and rising. Dave and Walli were writing songs together, and hoping to make a long-playing record. Late one afternoon they went to the BBC studios in Portland Place and prerecorded a radio performance. The money was peanuts but it was an opportunity to promote “I Miss Ya, Alicia.” Maybe the song would go to number one. And, as Dave sometimes said, you could live on peanuts.

They came out blinking into the evening sunshine and decided to go for a drink at a nearby pub called the Golden Horn.

“I don't fancy a drink,” said Lew.

“Don't be daft,” Buzz said. “When have you ever said no to a pint of beer?”

“Let's go to a different pub, then,” said Lew.

“Why?”

“I don't like the look of that one.”

“If you're afraid of being pestered, put your sunglasses on.”

They had been on television several times, and they were sometimes recognized by fans in restaurants and bars, but there was rarely any
trouble. They had learned to stay away from places where young teenagers might gather, such as coffee bars near schools, for that could lead to a mob scene; but they were all right in grown-up pubs.

They went into the Golden Horn and approached the bar. The bartender smiled at Lew and said: “Hello, Lucy, dear, what'll it be, vod and ton?”

The group looked at Lew in surprise.

Buzz said: “So you're a regular here?”

Walli said: “What's a vod and ton?”

Dave said: “Lucy?”

The barman looked nervous. “Who are your friends, Lucy?”

Lew looked at the other three and said: “You bastards, you've found me out.”

Buzz said: “Are you queer?”

Having been found out, Lew threw caution to the winds. “I'm as queer as a clockwork orange, a three-pound note, a purple unicorn, or a football bat. If you weren't all blind as well as stupid you would have figured it out years ago. Yes, I kiss men and go to bed with them whenever I can without getting caught. But please don't worry that I might make advances to you: you're all much too fucking ugly. Now let's have a drink.”

Dave cheered and clapped, and after a moment of shocked hesitation Buzz and Walli followed his lead.

Dave was intrigued. He knew about queers, but only in a theoretical way. He had never had a homosexual friend, as far as he knew—though most of them kept it secret, as Lew had, because what they did was a crime. Dave's grandmother Lady Leckwith was campaigning for the law to be changed, but so far she had not succeeded.

Dave was in favor of his grandmother's campaign, mainly because he hated the kind of people who opposed her: pompous clergymen, indignant Tories, and retired colonels. He had never really thought about the law as something that might affect his friends.

They had a second round of drinks, and a third. Dave's money was running low, but he had high hopes. “I Miss Ya, Alicia” was going to be released in the USA. If it was a hit there the group would be made. And he would never again have to worry about spelling.

The pub filled up quickly. Most of the men had something in
common: a way of walking and talking that was a bit theatrical. They called one another “lovey” and “precious.” After a while it became easy to tell who was queer and who was not. Perhaps that was why they did it. There were also a few girls in couples, most with short haircuts and trousers. Dave felt he was seeing a new world.

However, they were not exclusive, and seemed happy to share their favorite pub with heterosexual men and women. About half the people there knew Lew, and the group found themselves at the center of a conversational cluster. The queers bantered in a distinctive way that made Dave laugh. A man in a shirt similar to Lew's said: “Ooh, Lucy, you're wearing the same shirt as me! How nice.” Then he added in a stage whisper: “Unimaginative bitch,” and the others laughed, including Lew.

Dave was approached by a tall man who said in a low voice: “Listen, mate, do you know who could sell me some pills?”

Dave knew what he was talking about. A lot of musicians took pep pills. Various kinds could be bought at places such as the Jump Club. Dave had tried some but did not really like the effect.

He looked hard at the stranger. Although he was dressed in jeans and a striped sweater, the jeans were cheap and did not go with the sweater, and the man had a short military-style haircut. Dave had an uneasy feeling. “No,” he said curtly, and turned away.

In one corner stood a tiny stage with a microphone. At nine o'clock a comedian came on, to enthusiastic applause. It was a man dressed as a woman, although the hair and makeup were so good that in a different setting Dave might not have twigged.

“Could I have everybody's attention, please?” the comic said. “I'd just like to make an important public announcement. Jerry Robertson's got VD.”

They all laughed. Walli said to Dave: “What's VD?”

“Venereal disease,” Dave said. “Spots on your cock.”

The comedian paused, then added: “I know, because I gave it to him.”

This got another laugh, then there was a commotion at the door. Dave looked that way and saw several uniformed policemen coming in, pushing people out of the way.

The comic said: “Ooh, it's the law! I do like a uniform. The police come here a lot, have you noticed? I wonder what attracts them?”

He was making a joke of it, but the police were unpleasantly serious. They shoved their way through the crowd, seeming to enjoy being unnecessarily rough. Four went into the men's toilets. “Perhaps they've just come for a pee,” said the comic. An officer got up on the stage. “You're an inspector, aren't you?” the comic said flirtatiously. “Have you come to inspect me?”

Two more cops dragged the comic away. “Don't worry!” he cried. “I'll come quietly!”

The inspector grabbed the microphone. “Right, you filthy pansies,” he said. “I have information that illegal drugs are being sold on these premises. If you don't want to get hurt, stand face to the wall and get ready to be searched.”

The police were still pouring in. Dave looked around for a way out, but all the doors were blocked by blue uniforms. Some of the customers moved to the edges of the room and stood facing the walls, looking resigned, as if all this had happened to them before. The police never raided the Jump Club, Dave reflected, even though drugs were sold there almost openly.

The cops who had gone into the toilet came out frog-marching two men, one of whom was bleeding from the nose. One of the cops said to the inspector: “They were in the same cubicle, governor.”

“Charge them with public indecency.”

“Right you are, guv.”

Dave was struck painfully in the back, and cried out. A policeman wielding a nightstick said: “Get over by the wall.”

Dave said: “What did you do that for?”

The cop stuck the club close to Dave's nose. “Shut your mouth, queer boy, or I'll shut it with my truncheon.”

“I'm not a—” Dave stopped himself. Let them believe what they like, he thought. I'd rather be with the queers than with the police. He stepped to the wall and stood as ordered, rubbing the painful spot in his back.

He found himself next to Lew, who said: “Are you all right?”

“Just a bit bruised. You?”

“Nothing much.”

Dave was learning about why his grandmother wanted to change the law. He felt ashamed for having lived so long in ignorance.

Lew said in a low voice: “At least the cops haven't recognized the group.”

Dave nodded. “They're not the type to be familiar with the faces of pop stars.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the inspector talking to the badly dressed man who had asked about buying pills. Now he understood the cheap jeans and the military haircut: the man was an undercover detective, poorly disguised. He was shrugging his shoulders and spreading his arms in a helpless gesture, and Dave guessed he had failed to find anyone selling drugs.

The police searched everyone, making them turn out their pockets. The one who examined Dave felt his crotch a good deal longer than was necessary. Are these cops queer too? Dave wondered. Is that why they do this?

Several men objected to the intimate searching. They were beaten with truncheons, then arrested for assaulting the police. Another man had a packet of pills he said were prescribed by his doctor, but he was arrested all the same.

Eventually the police left. The barman announced drinks on the house, but few people took up the offer. The members of Plum Nellie left the pub. Dave decided to go home for an early night.

“Does that sort of thing happen a lot to you queers?” he asked Lew as they were saying good-bye.

“All the time, mate,” said Lew. “All the fucking time.”

•   •   •

Jasper went to visit his sister at Hank Remington's Chelsea flat one evening at seven o'clock, when he was sure Anna would be home from work but the couple would not yet have gone out. He felt nervous. He wanted something from Anna and Hank, something vital to his future.

He sat in the kitchen and watched Anna make Hank his favorite food, a fried-potato sandwich. “How's your work?” he asked her, making small talk.

“Wonderful,” she said, and her eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “I've discovered a new writer, a Russian dissident. I don't even know his real
name, but he's a genius. I'm publishing his stories set in a Siberian prison camp. The title is
Frostbite.
”

“Doesn't sound like much of a laugh.”

“It is funny in parts, but it will break your heart. I'm having it translated right now.”

Jasper was skeptical. “Who wants to read about people in a prison camp?”

“The whole world,” said Anna. “You wait and see. How about you—do you know what you'll do after graduation?”

“I've been offered a job as junior reporter on the
Western Mail,
but I don't want to take it. I've been editor and publisher of my own paper, for Christ's sake.”

“Did you get any replies from America?”

“One,” said Jasper.

“Only one? What did they say?”

Jasper took the letter out of his pocket and showed it to her. It was from a television news show called
This Day
.

Anna read it. “It just says they don't hire people without an interview. How disappointing.”

“I plan to take them at their word.”

“What do you mean?”

Jasper pointed to the address on the letterhead. “I'm going to show up at their office with this letter in my hand and say: ‘I've come for my interview.'”

Anna laughed. “They'll have to admire your cheek.”

“There's only one snag.” Jasper swallowed. “I need ninety pounds for the airfare. And I've only got twenty.”

She lifted a basket of potatoes out of the fryer and set them to drain. Then she looked at Jasper. “Is that why you've come here?”

He nodded. “Can you lend me seventy pounds?”

“Certainly not,” she said. “I don't have seventy pounds. I'm a book editor. That's almost a month's salary.”

Jasper had known that would be the answer. But it was not the end of the conversation. He gritted his teeth and said: “Can you get it from Hank?”

Anna layered the fried potatoes on a slice of buttered white bread.
She sprinkled malt vinegar over them, then salted them heavily. She put a second slice of bread on top, then cut the sandwich in halves.

Hank walked in, tucking his shirt into a pair of orange corduroy hipster trousers. His long red hair was wet from the shower. “Hi, Jasper,” he said with his usual cordiality. Then he kissed Anna and said: “Wow, baby, something smells good.”

Anna said: “Hank, this could be the most expensive sandwich you will ever eat.”

D
ave Williams was looking forward to meeting his notorious grandfather, Lev Peshkov.

Plum Nellie were on the road in the States in the autumn of 1965. The All-Star Touring Beat Revue gave performers a hotel room every second night. Alternate nights were spent on the bus.

They would do a show, get on the bus at midnight, and drive to the next city. Dave never slept properly on the bus. The seats were uncomfortable and there was a smelly toilet at the back. The only refreshment was a cooler full of sugary soda pop supplied free by Dr Pepper, the sponsor of the tour. A soul group from Philadelphia called the Topspins ran a poker game on the bus: Dave lost ten dollars one night and never played again.

In the morning they would arrive at a hotel. If they were lucky, they could check in right away. If not, they had to hang around the lobby, bad-tempered and unwashed, waiting for last night's guests to vacate their rooms. They would do the next evening's show, spend the night at the hotel, and get back on the bus in the morning.

Plum Nellie loved it.

The money was not much, but they were touring America: they would have done it for nothing.

And there were the girls.

Buzz, the bass player, often had several fans in his hotel bedroom during the course of a single day and night. Lew was enthusiastically exploring the queer scene—though Americans preferred the word
gay
to
queer.
Walli remained faithful to Karolin, but even he was happy, living his dream of being a pop star.

Dave did not much like sex with groupies, but there were several
terrific girls on the tour. He made a play for blond Joleen Johnson from the Tamettes, who turned him down, explaining that she had been happily married since she was thirteen. Then he tried Little Lulu Small, who was flirty but would not go to his room. Finally one evening he got talking to Mandy Love from the Love Factory, a black girl group from Chicago. She had big brown eyes and a wide mouth and smooth midbrown skin that felt like silk under Dave's fingertips. She introduced him to marijuana, which he liked better than beer. They spent every hotel night together after Indianapolis, though they had to be discreet: interracial sex was a crime in some states.

The bus rolled into Washington, DC, on a Wednesday morning. Dave had an appointment for lunch with Grandfather Peshkov. This had been arranged by his mother, Daisy.

He dressed for the engagement like the pop star he was: a red shirt, blue hipster trousers, a gray tweed jacket with a red overcheck, and narrow-toed boots with a Cuban heel. He got a cab from the cheap hotel where the groups were staying to the swankier place where his grandfather had a suite.

Dave was intrigued. He had heard so many bad things about this old man. If the family legends were true, Lev had killed a policeman in St. Petersburg, then fled Russia leaving a pregnant girlfriend behind. In Buffalo he made his boss's daughter pregnant, married her, and inherited a fortune. He had been suspected of murdering his father-in-law, but never charged. During Prohibition he had been a bootlegger. While married to Daisy's mother he had had numerous mistresses, including the movie star Gladys Angelus. It went on and on.

Waiting in the hotel lobby, Dave wondered what Lev looked like. They had never met. Apparently Lev had visited London once, for Daisy's wedding to her first husband, Boy Fitzherbert; but he had never returned.

Daisy and Lloyd came to the USA about every five years, mainly to see her mother, Olga, now in a retirement home in Buffalo. Dave knew that Daisy did not have much love for her father. Lev had been absent most of Daisy's childhood. He had had a second family in the same city—a mistress, Marga, and an illegitimate son, Greg—and apparently he had always preferred them to Daisy and her mother.

Across the lobby Dave saw a man in his early seventies dressed in a silver-gray suit with a red-and-white striped tie. He recalled his mother saying that her father had always been a dandy. Dave smiled and said: “Are you Grandfather Peshkov?”

They shook hands, and Lev said: “Don't you have a tie?”

Dave got this sort of thing all the time. For some reason the older generation felt they had the right to be rude about young people's clothes. Dave had a number of stock replies, ranging from charming to hostile. Now he said: “When you were a teenager in St. Petersburg, Grandfather, what did cool kids like you wear?”

Lev's stern expression broke into a grin. “I had a jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons, a waistcoat and a brass watch chain, and a velvet cap. And my hair was long and parted in the middle, just like yours.”

“So we're alike,” Dave said. “Except that I've never killed anyone.”

Lev was startled for a moment, then he laughed. “You're a smart kid,” he said. “You've inherited my brains.”

A woman in a chic blue coat and hat came to Lev's side, walking like a fashion model although she had to be near Lev's age. Lev said: “This is Marga. She ain't your grandma.”

The mistress, Dave thought. “You're obviously too young to be anyone's grandmother,” he said with a smile. “What should I call you?”

“You are a charmer!” she replied. “You can call me Marga. I used to be a singer, too, you know, though I never had your kind of success.” She looked nostalgic. “In those days I ate handsome boys like you for breakfast.”

Girl singers haven't changed, Dave thought, remembering Mickie McFee.

They went into the restaurant. Marga asked a lot of questions about Daisy, Lloyd, and Evie. They were excited to hear about Evie's acting career, especially as Lev owned a Hollywood studio. But Lev was most interested in Dave and his business. “They say you're a millionaire, Dave,” he said.

“They lie,” said Dave. “We're selling a lot of records, but there's not as much money in it as people imagine. We get about a penny a record. So if we sell a million copies, we earn enough maybe for each of us to buy a small car.”

“Someone's robbing you,” said Lev.

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Dave said. “But I don't know what to do about it. I fired our first manager, and this one is much better, but I still can't afford to buy a house.”

“I'm in the movie business, and sometimes we sell records of our soundtrack music, so I've seen how music people work. You want some advice?”

“Yes, please.”

“Set up your own record company.”

Dave was intrigued. He had been thinking along the same lines, but it seemed like a fantasy. “Do you think that's possible?”

“You can rent a recording studio, I guess, for a day or two, or however long it takes.”

“We can record the music, and I suppose we can get a factory to make the discs, but I'm not so sure about selling them. I wouldn't want to spend time managing a team of sales representatives, even if I knew how.”

“You don't need to do that. Get the big record company to do sales and distribution for you on a percentage basis. They'll get the peanuts and you'll get the profits.”

“I wonder if they would agree to that.”

“They won't like it, but they'll do it, because they can't afford to lose you.”

“I guess.”

Dave found himself drawn to this shrewd old man, despite his criminal reputation.

Lev had not finished. “What about publishing? You write the songs, don't you?”

“Walli and I do it together, usually.” Walli was the one who actually put the songs down on paper, for Dave's handwriting and spelling were so bad that no one could ever read what he wrote; but the creative act was a collaboration. “We make a little extra from songwriting royalties.”

“A little? You should make a lot. I bet your publisher employs a foreign agent who takes a cut.”

“True.”

“If you look into it, you'll find the foreign agent also employs a
subagent who takes another cut, and so on. And all the people taking cuts are part of the same corporation. By the time they've taken twenty-five percent three or four times you got zip.” Lev shook his head in disgust. “Set up your own publishing company. You'll never make money until you're in control.”

Marga said: “How old are you, Dave?”

“Seventeen.”

“So young. But at least you're smart enough to pay attention to business.”

“I wish I was smarter.”

After lunch they went into the lounge. “Your uncle Greg is going to join us for coffee,” Lev said. “He's your mother's half brother.”

Dave recalled that Daisy spoke fondly of Greg. He had done some foolish things in his youth, she said, but so had she. Greg was a Republican senator, but she even forgave him that.

Marga said: “My son, Greg, never married, but he has a son of his own, called George.”

Lev said: “It's kind of an open secret. Nobody mentions it, but everyone in Washington knows. Greg ain't the only congressman with a bastard kid.”

Dave knew about George. His mother had told him, and Jasper Murray had actually met George. Dave felt it was cool to have a colored cousin.

Dave said: “So George and I are your two grandsons.”

“Yeah.”

Marga said: “Here come Greg and George now.”

Dave looked up. Walking across the lounge was a middle-aged man wearing a stylish gray flannel suit that needed a good brush and press. Beside him was a handsome Negro of about thirty, immaculately dressed in a dark-gray mohair suit and a narrow tie.

They came up to the table. Both men kissed Marga. Lev said: “Greg, this is your nephew, Dave Williams. George, meet your English cousin.”

They sat down. Dave noticed that George was poised and confident, despite being the only dark-skinned person in the room. Negro pop stars were growing their hair longer, like everyone else in show business, but George still had a short crop, probably because he was in politics.

Greg said: “Well, Daddy, did you ever imagine a family like this?”

Lev said: “Listen to me, I'll tell you something. If you could go back in time, to when I was the age Dave is now, and you could meet the young Lev Peshkov, and tell him how his life was going to turn out, do you know what he'd do? He'd say you were out of your goddamn mind.”

•   •   •

That evening George took Maria Summers out to dinner for her twenty-ninth birthday.

He was worried about her. Maria had changed her job and moved to a different apartment, but she did not yet have a boyfriend. She socialized with girls from the State Department about once a week, and she went out with George now and again, but she had no romantic life. George feared she was still mourning. The assassination was almost two years ago, but a person could easily take longer than that to recover from the murder of her lover.

His affection for Maria was definitely not that of a brother. He found her sexy and alluring, and had ever since that bus ride to Alabama. He felt about her the way he felt about Skip Dickerson's wife, who was gorgeous and charming. Like his best friend's wife, Maria was simply not available. If life had turned out differently, he felt sure he might be happily married to her. But he had Verena; and Maria wanted no one.

They went to the Jockey Club. Maria wore a gray wool dress, smart but plain. She had no jewelry on, and wore her glasses all the time. Her hairpiece was a little old-fashioned. She had a pretty face and a sexy mouth, and—more importantly—she had a warm heart: she could have found a man easily, if only she had tried. However, people were beginning to say that she was a career girl, a woman whose job was the most important thing in her life. George did not really think that could make her happy, and he fretted about her.

“I just got a promotion,” she said as they sat down at the restaurant table.

“Congratulations!” said George. “Let's have champagne.”

“Oh, no, thank you, I have to work tomorrow.”

“It's your birthday!”

“All the same, I won't. I might have a small brandy later, to help me sleep.”

George shrugged. “Well, I guess your seriousness explains your promotion. I know you're intelligent, capable, and extremely well educated, but none of that counts, normally, if your skin is dark.”

“Absolutely. It's always been next to impossible for people of color to get high posts in government.”

“Well done for overcoming that prejudice. It's quite an achievement.”

“Things have changed since you left the Justice Department—and you know why? The government is trying to persuade Southern police forces to hire Negroes, but the Southerners say: ‘Look at your own staff—they're all white!' So senior officials are under pressure. To prove they're not prejudiced, they need to promote people of color.”

“They probably think one example is enough.”

Maria laughed. “Plenty.”

They ordered. George reflected that both he and Maria had succeeded in breaking the color bar, but that did not show that it was not there. On the contrary, they were the exceptions that proved the rule.

Maria was thinking along the same lines. “Bobby Kennedy seems all right,” she said.

“When I first met him he regarded civil rights as a distraction from more important issues. But the great thing about Bobby is that he'll see reason, and change his mind if necessary.”

“How's he doing?”

“Early days yet,” George said evasively. Bobby had been elected as the senator from New York, and George was one of his close aides. George felt that Bobby was not adjusting well to his new role. He had been through so many changes—leading adviser to his brother the president, then sidelined by President Johnson, and now a junior senator—that he was in danger of losing track of who he was.

“He ought to speak out against the Vietnam War!” Maria clearly felt passionately about this, and George sensed that she had been planning to lobby him. “President Kennedy was
reducing
our effort in Vietnam, and he refused again and again to send ground combat troops,” she said. “But as soon as Johnson was elected he sent thirty-five hundred marines, and the Pentagon immediately asked for more. In June, they demanded another one hundred seventy-five thousand troops—and
General Westmoreland said it probably wouldn't be enough! But Johnson just lies about it all the time.”