Russian Spring (31 page)

If she told Pashikov what she now knew, it would save the Soviet Union about 10 percent of the combined space budget, a modest bureaucratic coup that would look good on her kharakteristika and make the economic strategy department look good, and not much more.

If she kept this to herself, she might not be blamed for being unable to come up with the information, but it would not exactly enhance the confidence of the Moscow Mandarins in her political loyalty. Nor would it exactly enhance her working relationship with Ilya, who would lose bureaucratic points with the Moscow Mandarinate too.

Under the circumstances, she was not about to tell Jerry about her day at the office with Ilya Pashikov and the bureaucratic vengeance they could take on Lourade, since as far as he was concerned Lourade was not the villain, but the more Jerry blamed it on Soviet pressure, the angrier she became at the treacherous Emile Lourade, and the sweeter the opportunity to deal him a little justice seemed.

It was in these dissonant but equally distracted moods that the two of them had cooked dinner, and she didn’t need Franja’s turned-up nose as she put the tureen down on the table to tell her that the linguini à la Romanoff showed it. The pasta had been overboiled into a sticky mess while they weren’t watching it, and the crème fraîche had been simmered long enough to fall apart into a runny goo, in which floated slices of overcooked beef and undercooked lumps of raw tomatoes.

But with Robert dressed in his ludicrous baseball jacket, always a bad sign at the dinner table, and with Franja fingering the packet of papers on her lap nervously, Sonya had the awful feeling that it was somehow going to be fitting fare for tonight’s table talk.

THE AMERICAN BLUFF

Despite the current posturing in Washington, it is hard to find anyone in the City who seriously believes that the impending entry of the Soviet Union into Common Europe will really result in a so-called unilateral junk bond rescheduling of the American overseas debt.

They simply can’t do it, so the smart thinking goes. Even if they suspended interest payments entirely, the American Federal Budget would still be deeply in deficit, and the need for overseas borrowing would still be there. And who would be willing to lend more money to a nation that had totally destroyed its financial credibility?

The United States would in the end only be committing financial suicide, and while the current American administration may indeed be foolish enough to do almost anything, the American financial and industrial establishment, which would be left to face the grim consequences as its overseas financing quite dried up as well, will never permit the politicians to carry their self-defeating policies to such a terminal extreme.

When the discount on American paper reaches 40 percent, institutional bond traders are set to leap into the market and gobble it up.

—
Financial Times

Mother put a horrid-looking meal on the table that Franja recognized all too well—a huge dish of overcooked spinach pasta
and a tureen of beef and mushrooms stewed in a tomato and crème fraîche sauce that she called “linguini à la Romanoff.”

Father emerged from the kitchen with the wine, plunked it down on the table, collapsed into his chair, and then just sat there leaning on his elbows staring into space with the most desolate look on his face. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were deep circles under them.

There was an unspoken rule at the dinner table that no one was to discuss anything but culinary matters until everyone had food on their plate and wine in their glass. Since what Mother had placed on the table appeared to be something that no one wanted to pay any more attention to than necessary, the loathsome linguini was dished out in silence while Franja squirmed in her seat, impatient for an opportune moment to present her papers for parental signature and get things over with.

But brother Bobby wasn’t going to allow that.

“What’ve you got there, Franja?” he said, as soon as everyone had begun the distasteful task of getting this ruined dinner down. No doubt he was just delighted to see Father in some kind of funk, under the circumstances, it would make it all that much easier for Bobby to play on his emotions.

“What are you talking about, Bobby?”

“The papers on your lap,” Bobby said disingenuously. “You’re not careful, you’re gonna spill sauce on them, why don’t you just put them on the table.”

“What
do
you have there, Franja?” Mother said, and now there was nothing to be done but go through with it as planned.

Jerry Reed stared at the packet of papers that Franja had laid out on the table as if they were a pile of dog turds. “Jesus Christ, Franja,” he moaned after she had finished her little speech, “why do you have to hit me with this stuff at a time like this?”

“At a time like
what
, Father?” Franja said, furrowing her brow.

And now he had gone and done it! Now he was going to have to tell his
kids
about what the damn Russians had done to him! Well, he was going to have to tell them sooner or later, and now at least, he thought as he took a huge gulp of wine, I’ve got a head start on getting drunk enough to do it.

“Those sons of bitches!” Bobby exclaimed when Dad was finished. “You can’t let them get away with that, Dad!”

“What am I supposed to do, Bob, call up the American Embassy and ask for a Terminator sortie against Moscow?”

“Maybe you
should
call up the Embassy,” Bobby found himself saying. “Maybe they’d let you build your own Grand Tour Navettes for America, so the Russians won’t end up owning the solar system. . . .”

“Bobby, Bobby,” Dad said in a little sad voice, “the people running the United States these days aren’t interested in exploring the solar system. Besides, the way they see it, I’m the guy who gave Common Europe American sat-sled technology. If I show up in Downey asking for my job back, they’ll ship me to Leavenworth and throw away the key.”

“Then why can’t you understand that Yuri Gagarin is the place for me, Father?” Franja butted in.

“Merde, Franja, how can you still be thinking about sliming into the Russian space program after what the bastards have done to your own father!” Bobby snapped at her.

“Because it’s obvious that being the daughter of Jerry Reed is not exactly going to open doors for me at
ESA
!” Franja shouted back.

“Franja!”
Mother shouted. Not that she had to, for Franja was regretting the words almost in the act of shouting them, furious at Bobby for having goaded her into it.

But Father just sat there waving his wineglass woozily, nodding his head slightly, and looking at her with only sadness in his eyes.

“No, Sonya, she’s right,” Father said. “I can’t even open the door to the men’s room at
ESA
. . . .”

“Dad . . .”

“Jerry!”

“Then you
will
sign my papers?” Franja said, reaching into a pocket, pulling out a pen, and laying it down on top of the packet.

Jerry Reed stared at the papers before him in somewhat Scottish befuddlement.

Why had he really been against his daughter going to Yuri Gagarin anyway? With his dream of being Franja’s fairy godfather at
ESA
shattered, Jerry had to admit that Gagarin
was
the place for Franja. The two programs
were
going to be merged anyway in some fashion, and Common Europe had nothing like Yuri Gagarin; careerwise Gagarin graduates
would
have the fast track.

He reached down somewhat clumsily and picked up the pen.

“Wait a minute, Dad,” Bobby blurted, “what about
me?
”

Dad’s pen hand froze in midair. “What about
you
, Bob?” he said, staring at Bobby perplexedly.

“It isn’t fair! Why should Franja get to go to school in Russia if I can’t go to college in the States?”

“Oh no, not
that
again!” Mom moaned.

“Yes,
that
again, Mom! It isn’t fair! If Dad’s gonna let Franja go to Russia, you’ve got to let me go to the United States!”

“Have you been putting him up to this again, Jerry?” Mom said, looking at Dad, not at him.

“Putting him up to what?” Dad said confusedly.

“It’s Bobby who’s been putting
Father
up to it!” Franja whined.

“Shut up, Franja!”

“Shut up yourself!”

“Shut up everyone who
says
shut up!” Dad roared at the top of his lungs. He shrugged, threw up his hands. “Including me,” he added in a much smaller voice. And he led the laughter at his own expense.

And all at once, Bobby could see that Dad had taken charge of the table, not by outshouting everyone, but by making them laugh. And in the act of so doing, seemed to have recovered his full faculties.

“It seems to me we’ve had this discussion a few million times before,” Dad said.

“But not with Franja’s admission papers handed over to be signed, Dad,” Bobby told him, and then he found himself telling an inspired lie, which he would certainly turn into the truth tomorrow morning. “I’ve already written away for applications to Berkeley and
UCLA
, because if I want to get in for next fall’s term, I’ve got to apply before this one is over. . . .”

“He’s got a point, Sonya,” Dad said. “We’re going to have to decide where he goes to school sooner or later, so it might as well be now—”

“So that the two of you can blackmail me with Franja’s admission papers to Gagarin?” Mom said angrily.

“That isn’t fair, Sonya. . . .”

“No, Jerry, it certainly isn’t! You never
really
objected to Franja’s going to Gagarin. It’s been a bluff all along! You’ll sign Franja’s papers no matter what I do, because you love your daughter too, and you’re not mean enough to destroy her life as an act of vengeance against me.”

Dad shrugged. “You
do
know me,” he said.

“Dad!” Bobby cried, feeling it all starting to slip away.

“Your mother’s right on this one, Bob,” Dad told him. “You really
wouldn’t want me to ruin Franja’s life to punish her for your not getting what
you
wanted, now would you? How would you feel if you were in
her
shoes?”

“Just like I feel now,” Bobby moaned miserably.

“Well, I’m going to give you a chance to feel a little better, Bob,” Dad said, picking up his wineglass and sipping at it lightly, but never taking his eyes off Bobby’s. “I’m going to leave it up to you.
You
tell me whether to sign Franja’s papers or not. I won’t sign them until
you
give your permission—”

“Jerry!”

Dad held up his left hand for silence, but he didn’t even look at Mom. His bloodshot eyes kept staring into Bobby’s until Bobby felt that his father was staring right down into the center of his soul.

“It’s simple, Bob. Would you feel better doing what those Russian bastards just did to me or would you rather feel like an American?”

Bobby stole a sidelong glance at Franja, and for a moment their eyes met. There was nothing he could read in his sister’s eyes but the intensity of their focus on him. What must she be thinking? Cringing inside knowing that now he had his shot at vengeance? Fear that he was going to take the dream of her lifetime away from her?

That he was going to do to her what Mom was doing to him?

Bobby sighed. Franja had tormented him for as long as he could remember and certainly had never done anything noble for him. Was it really possible to love such a sister?

But that wasn’t the point, was it? Nor was vengeance, however sweet, however richly deserved.

Dad was teaching him a hard, loving lesson about himself that he would never forget.

Clean vengeance was one thing, but a deliberate act of naked injustice was just something he couldn’t make himself commit.

“Sign the papers, Dad,” he muttered unhappily.

“Spoken like a man, Bob,” Dad said, gathering up Franja’s admission papers. He turned his gaze on Mom for a long silent moment. “Spoken like a
real
American.”

Never before had losing felt like having won.

Sonya sat there marveling at her husband as Jerry signed the papers. After what had been done to him today, he was still able to see his way through to the fair thing and make Robert show it to himself in the bargain!

During the last few years of travail and conflict and career stagnation, she had in her darker moments seen Jerry as a lead anchor, whom she had somehow had to marry to get transferred to Paris.

But moments like this reminded her that she really had married Jerry Reed because she loved him, for they reminded her of
why
. This was the Jerry Reed who had left his country for love and a dream. This was the Jerry Reed who had kept his faith all these long years of bitter disappointment.

And understanding that anew, she also knew that Emile Lourade was indeed Jerry’s friend, that in a sense he had understood Jerry better than she had lately. He might be too much of a bureaucratic infighter to make a futile gesture that would endanger his position, but he had given Jerry the only thing he could, the chance, at whatever cost to his pride, to work on the dream of his lifetime.

And knew too that she could never report tonight’s conversation to Ilya Pashikov, though she couldn’t quite fully understand why. Did she really care that much about betraying Lourade, when all it would do was change some figures in a treaty by a few percentage points? Because it would be a betrayal of Jerry even though it did him no harm?

Or was it for the same reason that Jerry had put the decision to sign Franja’s papers in Robert’s hands? The same reason that made Robert tell him to sign them? She was sure that was true.

But she couldn’t quite put her finger on what that reason was.

Nevertheless, she knew she had to act on it anyway, even though it was going to make trouble with Pashikov and put her even further out of favor with the Moscow Mandarins.

Sometimes even a professional bureaucrat had to follow her own heart.