Winter of the World (17 page)

Woody went to talk to her on Sunday morning. He was still walking on air after Joanne’s kiss, though he had spent half the night trying to figure out what it had meant. It could signify
anything from true love to true drunkenness. All he knew was that he could hardly wait to see Joanne again.

He walked into his grandmother’s room behind the maid, Betty, as she took in the breakfast tray. He liked it that Joanne got angry about the way Betty’s Southern relations were
treated. In politics, dispassionate argument was overrated, he felt. People
should
get angry about cruelty and injustice.

Grandmama was already sitting up in bed, wearing a lace shawl over a mushroom-coloured silk nightgown. ‘Good morning, Woodrow!’ she said, surprised.

‘I’d like to have a cup of coffee with you, Grandmama, if I may.’ He had already asked Betty to bring two cups.

‘This is an honour,’ Ursula said.

Betty was a grey-haired woman of about fifty with the kind of figure that was sometimes called comfortable. She set the tray in front of Ursula, and Woody poured coffee into Meissen cups.

He had given some thought to what he would say, and had marshalled his arguments. Prohibition was over, and Lev Peshkov was now a legitimate businessman, he would contend. Furthermore, it was
not fair to punish Daisy because her father had been a criminal – especially since most of the respectable families in Buffalo had bought his illegal booze.

‘Do you know Charlie Farquharson?’ he began.

‘Yes.’ Of course she did. She knew every family in the Buffalo ‘Blue Book’. She said: ‘Would you like a piece of this toast?’

‘No, thank you, I’ve had breakfast.’

‘Boys of your age never have enough to eat.’ She looked at him shrewdly. ‘Unless they’re in love.’

She was on good form this morning.

Woody said: ‘Charlie is kind of under the thumb of his mother.’

‘She kept her husband there, too,’ Ursula said drily. ‘Dying was the only way he could get free.’ She drank some coffee and started to eat her grapefruit with a fork.

‘Charlie came to me last night and asked me to ask you a favour.’

She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Woody took a breath. ‘He wants you to invite Mrs Peshkov to join the Buffalo Ladies Society.’

Ursula dropped her fork, and there was a chime of silver on fine porcelain. As if covering her discomposure, she said: ‘Pour me some more coffee, please, Woody.’

He did her bidding, saying nothing for the moment. He could not recall ever seeing her discombobulated.

She sipped the coffee and said: ‘Why in the name of heaven would Charles Farquharson, or anyone else for that matter, want Olga Peshkov in the Society?’

‘He wants to marry Daisy.’

‘Does he?’

‘And he’s afraid his mother will object.’

‘He’s got that part right.’

‘But he thinks he might be able to talk her around . . .’

‘. . . if I let Olga into the Society.’

‘Then people might forget that her father was a gangster.’

‘A gangster?’

‘Well, a bootlegger at least.’

‘Oh, that,’ Ursula said dismissively. ‘That’s not it.’

‘Really?’ It was Woody’s turn to be surprised. ‘What is it, then?’

Ursula looked thoughtful. She was silent for such a long time that Woody wondered if she had forgotten he was there. Then she said: ‘Your father was in love with Olga Peshkov.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Don’t be vulgar.’

‘Sorry, Grandmama, you surprised me.’

‘They were engaged to be married.’

‘Engaged?’ he said, astonished. He thought for a minute, then said: ‘I suppose I’m the only person in Buffalo who doesn’t know about this.’

She smiled at him. ‘There is a special mixture of wisdom and innocence that comes only to adolescents. I remember it so clearly in your father, and I see it in you. Yes, everyone in
Buffalo knows, though your generation undoubtedly regard it as boring ancient history.’

‘Well, what happened?’ Woody said. ‘I mean, who broke it off?’

‘She did, when she got pregnant.’

Woody’s mouth fell open. ‘By Papa?’

‘No, by her chauffeur – Lev Peshkov.’

‘He was the chauffeur?’ This was one shock after another. Woody was silent, trying to take it in. ‘My goodness, Papa must have felt such a fool.’

‘Your Papa was never a fool,’ Ursula said sharply. ‘The only foolish thing he did in his life was to propose to Olga.’

Woody remembered his mission. ‘All the same, Grandmama, it was an awful long time ago.’

‘Awfully. You require an adverb, not an adjective. But your judgement is better than your grammar. It
is
a long time.’

That sounded hopeful. ‘So you’ll do it?’

‘How do you think your father would feel?’

Woody considered. He could not bullshit Ursula – she would see through it in a heartbeat. ‘Would he care? I guess he might be embarrassed, if Olga were around as a constant reminder
of a humiliating episode in his youth.’

‘You guess right.’

‘On the other hand, he’s very committed to the ideal of behaving fairly to the people around him. He hates injustice. He wouldn’t want to punish Daisy for something her mother
did. Even less to punish Charlie. Papa has a pretty big heart.’

‘Bigger than mine, you mean,’ said Ursula.

‘I didn’t mean that, Grandmama. But I bet if you asked him he wouldn’t object to Olga joining the Society.’

Ursula nodded. ‘I agree. But I wonder whether you’ve worked out who is the real originator of this request?’

Woody saw what she was driving at. ‘Oh, you’re saying Daisy put Charlie up to it? I wouldn’t be surprised. Does it make any difference to the rights and wrongs of the
situation?’

‘I guess not.’

‘So, will you do it?’

‘I’m glad to have a grandson with a kind heart – even if I do suspect he’s being used by a clever and ambitious girl.’

Woody smiled. ‘Is that a yes, Grandmama?’

‘You know I can’t guarantee anything. I’ll suggest it to the committee.’

Ursula’s suggestions were regarded by everyone else as royal commands, but Woody did not say so. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’

‘Now give me a kiss and get ready for church.’

Woody made his escape.

He quickly forgot about Charlie and Daisy. Sitting in the Cathedral of St Paul in Shelton Square, he ignored the sermon – about Noah and the Flood – and thought about Joanne
Rouzrokh. Her parents were in church, but she was not. Would she really show up at the demonstration? If she did, he was going to ask her for a date. But would she accept?

She was too smart to care about the age difference, he reckoned. She must know she had more in common with Woody than with boneheads such as Victor Dixon. And that kiss! He was still tingling
from it. What she had done with her tongue – did other girls do that? He wanted to try it again, as soon as he could.

Thinking ahead, if she did agree to date him, what would happen in September? She was going to Vassar College, in the town of Poughkeepsie, he knew that. He would return to school and not see
her until Christmas. Vassar was for girls only but there must be men in Poughkeepsie. Would she date other guys? He was jealous already.

Outside the church he told his parents he was not coming home for lunch, but was going on the protest march.

‘Good for you,’ his mother said. When young she had been the editor of the
Buffalo Anarchist.
She turned to her husband. ‘You should go, too, Gus.’

‘The union has brought charges,’ Papa said. ‘You know I can’t prejudge the result of a court case.’

She turned back to Woody. ‘Just don’t get beaten up by Lev Peshkov’s goons.’

Woody got his camera out of the trunk of his father’s car. It was a Leica III, so small he could carry it on a strap around his neck, yet it had shutter speeds as fast as one
five-hundredth of a second.

He walked a few blocks to Niagara Square, where the march was to begin. Lev Peshkov had tried to persuade the city to ban the demonstration on the grounds that it would lead to violence, but the
union had insisted it would be peaceful. The union seemed to have won that argument, for several hundred people were milling around outside City Hall. Many carried lovingly embroidered banners, red
flags, and placards reading: Say No to Boss Thugs. Woody looked around for Joanne but did not see her.

The weather was fine and the mood was sunny, and he took a few shots: workmen in their Sunday suits and hats; a car festooned with banners; a young cop biting his nails. There was still no sign
of Joanne, and he began to think that she would not appear. She might have a headache this morning, he guessed.

The march was due to move off at noon. It finally got going a few minutes before one. There was a heavy police presence along the route, Woody noted. He found himself near the middle of the
procession.

As they walked south on Washington Street, heading for the city’s industrial heartland, he saw Joanne join the march a few yards ahead, and his heart leaped. She was wearing tailored pants
that flattered her figure. He hurried to catch up with her. ‘Good afternoon!’ he said happily.

‘Good grief, you’re cheerful,’ she said.

It was an understatement. He was delirious with happiness. ‘Are you hungover?’

‘Either that or I’ve contracted the Black Death. Which do you think it is?’

‘If you have a rash, it’s the Black Death. Are there any spots?’ Woody hardly knew what he was saying. ‘I’m not a doctor, but I’d be happy to check you
over.’

‘Stop being irrepressible. I know it’s charming, but I’m not in the mood.’

Woody tried to calm down. ‘We missed you in church,’ he said. ‘The sermon was about Noah.’

To his consternation she burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Woody,’ she said. ‘I like you so much when you’re funny, but please don’t make me laugh today.’

He thought this remark was probably favourable, but he was far from certain.

He spotted an open grocery store on a side street. ‘You need fluids,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He ran into the store and bought two bottles of Coke, ice-cold
from the refrigerator. He got the clerk to open them, then returned to the march. When he handed a bottle to Joanne, she said: ‘Oh, boy, you’re a life saver.’ She put the bottle
to her lips and drank a long draught.

Woody felt he was ahead, so far.

The march was good-humoured, despite the grim incident they were protesting about. A group of older men were singing political anthems and traditional songs. There were even a few families with
children. And there was not a cloud in the sky.

‘Have you read
Studies in Hysteria
?’ Woody asked as they walked along.

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Oh! It’s by Sigmund Freud. I thought you were a fan of his.’

‘I’m interested in his ideas. I’ve never read one of his books.’

‘You should.
Studies in Hysteria
is amazing.’

She looked curiously at him. ‘What made you read a book such as that? I bet they don’t teach psychology at your expensively old-fashioned school.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I guess I heard you talking about psychoanalysis and thought it sounded really extraordinary. And it is.’

‘In what way?’

Woody had the feeling she was testing him, to see whether he had really understood the book or was merely pretending. ‘The idea that a crazy act, such as obsessively spilling ink on a
tablecloth, can have a kind of hidden logic.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘That’s it.’

Woody knew instinctively that she did not understand what he was talking about. He had already overtaken her in his knowledge of Freud, but she was embarrassed to admit it.

‘What’s your favourite thing to do?’ he asked her. ‘Theatre? Classical music? I guess going to a film is no big treat for someone whose father owns about a hundred movie
houses.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well . . .’ He decided to be honest. ‘I want to ask you out, and I’d like to tempt you with something you really love to do. So name it, and we’ll do
it.’

She smiled at him, but it was not the smile he was hoping for. It was friendly but sympathetic, and it told him that bad news was coming. ‘Woody, I’d like to, but you’re
fifteen.’

‘As you said last night, I’m more mature than Victor Dixon.’

‘I wouldn’t go out with him, either.’

Woody’s throat seemed to constrict, and his voice came out hoarse. ‘Are you turning me down?’

‘Yes, very firmly. I don’t want to date a boy three years younger.’

‘Can I ask you again in three years? We’ll be the same age then.’

She laughed, then said: ‘Stop being witty, it hurts my head.’

Woody decided not to hide his pain. What did he have to lose? Feeling anguished, he said: ‘So what was that kiss about?’

‘It was nothing.’

He shook his head miserably. ‘It was something to me. It was the best kiss I’ve ever had.’

‘Oh, God, I knew it was a mistake. Look, it was just a bit of fun. Yes, I enjoyed it – be flattered, you’re entitled. You’re a cute kid, and smart as a whip, but a kiss
is not a declaration of love, Woody, no matter how much you enjoy it.’

They were near the front of the march, and Woody saw their destination up ahead: the high wall around the Buffalo Metal Works. The gate was closed and guarded by a dozen or more factory police,
thuggish men in light-blue shirts that mimicked police uniform.

‘And I was drunk,’ Joanne added.

‘Yeah, I was drunk, too,’ Woody said.

It was a pathetic attempt to salvage his dignity, but Joanne had the grace to pretend to believe him. ‘Then we both did something a little foolish, and we should just forget it,’ she
said.

‘Yeah,’ said Woody, looking away.

They were outside the factory now. Those at the head of the march stopped at the gates, and someone began to make a speech through a bullhorn. Looking more closely, Woody saw that the speaker
was a local union organizer, Brian Hall. Woody’s father knew and liked the man: at some time in the dim past they had worked together to resolve a strike.

The rear of the procession kept coming forward, and a crush developed across the width of the street. The factory police were keeping the entrance clear, though the gates were shut. Woody now
saw that they were armed with police-type nightsticks. One of them was shouting: ‘Stay away from the gate! This is private property!’ Woody lifted his camera and took a picture.