Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“I think you Americans don’t believe we are smart enough,” said Makar, lighting a cigarette.

“Where exactly is the circuit breaker?” I asked, studying the drawings and ignoring his comment.

“We are smart, too!” he said, exhaling.

“Also,” I said, “can someone give me a tour of the house? I need to get an intimate understanding of the layout, etcetera.”

All of the men looked around at one another, seemingly uncomfortable with my request. This quick little lie I’d told reminded me of how easily I’d always been able to fool people.

Even when I’d originally been hired at the University of Paris and had shown them my diplomas, they’d asked why the name on them read Sidney Temple instead of Prescott Sweet, which was on my passport. I’d told them that upon moving to Paris, I wanted to completely embrace France and leave all of America and its backward ways behind me, to become an entirely new man. They’d liked my insult of the United States and it probably helped me land the job.

The reason I’d been okay with showing them my original diplomas was simple: I knew the name Sidney Temple would never be uttered aloud in the future for any British Intelligence spy to get lucky and overhear. And the odds of said spy unpro-vokingly visiting the university’s human resources department to inquire about some American named Sidney Temple was highly unlikely. At best he’d check the faculty listing and see no such name.

Moments later, I found myself in the bowels of Spaso House being given a tour by Sergei, the caretaker. He was in a foul mood to say the least. I got the distinct feeling he viewed all of us visiting Americans as intruders who’d overtaken the mansion he’d long considered partly his own. When we reached the actual basement, all he would show me was the circuit breaker. He claimed that the main room down here was his living quarters, and that it was locked and would stay that way as long as he lived there.

“Why are you so insistent that no one is allowed inside?” I asked.

“I am the caretaker of this house and the least you Americans can do is allow me to maintain a private space in which to live. There is nothing in there for you to see. There is a bed and a couch and a washroom. It is where I live. Do I ask to come to your house and look around your bedroom? No!”

“Very well,” I said. “Is this the only circuit breaker?”

“Yes.”

“I have to inspect this panel thoroughly. I am going to need some time here. Feel free to carry on with your daily routine. I can manage alone now.”

He looked at me with a bit of a frown before nodding and heading back upstairs.

“Oh!” I said, stopping him, as he was about halfway up. “I am going to need to get back up in the attic after I’m through here to begin inspecting the wires. I will need you to unlock that door again. Will you be around?”

“Of course! I never leave Spaso House. Where else did you think I’d be?” He began to head up again and I heard him mutter, “Stupid Americans!”

Before he reached the top step he began descending again, rapidly approaching like he wanted to come hit me.

“Comrade Sweet, let me show you the other, smaller circuit breaker at the far end of the basement on the other side. It’s a bit of a maze getting there.”

“Thought you said this was the only one.”

“I meant the only one that you need as far as the power that will involve the new ballroom. This is a big house, comrade.”

“Uh, I need to be the one who decides which breaker needs to control which sections of the house. I need to make all of the technical decisions based on a completely thorough understanding of the house’s electrical system. So, I’m going to ask you again… are these the only two circuit breakers. Or is there one inside your living quarters?”

“Excuse me, comrade! You think because you are speaking Russian to me with such confidence that this gives you the right to make accusations? According to Ambassador Bullitt, you are not a diplomat of any sort. You are an assistant. You are no higher than my level. Nor are you any higher level than the ambassador’s personal butler, Jean.”

“Just show me the breaker!” I somewhat angrily said. “I need to get on with it.”

“This way!”

As he and I continued winding through the dark basement hallways again, I kept thinking of what Ambassador Bullitt had said about hidden tunnels and secret passageways. Sergei’s insistence on not allowing me to see inside his living quarters had me all the more curious. I didn’t necessarily want to find any of this out for the ambassador, either. It was simply a personal curiosity, one that was actually becoming more of an obsession with each step we took.

I thought back to my spying days in Harlem and the time I’d drugged one of the UNIA Legionnaires so I could break into Marcus Garvey’s private file cabinet and sift through his documents. Now I found myself staring at the ring of keys dangling from Sergei’s waist, jingling with each step he took. How could I get my hands on them? My immediate dislike of him had me far too determined.

Later that evening, having brought Loretta home an assortment of fresh flowers, I sat with her and the children at the dinner table and we dined over baked sturgeon, mashed potatoes, and steamed carrots. This was my favorite thing in the world, eating peacefully with my family, listening to them carry on about the day’s happenings, speaking both French and English to one another. And Loretta seemed particularly enthused on this evening.

“Aimez-vous l’esturgeon?” said Loretta.

“C’est délicieux!” we all three answered at the same time, as it was customary to praise her cooking and mine.

“My goal is to learn Russian in one year,” said Ginger. “Then I’ll be trilingual. That’s what Mrs. Stapleton said to me.”

“Trilingual?” said a jovial James. “Well, I am going to be a poly… a poly… a polyglot! Yeah! I will speak ten languages. More than you, Daddy!”

“Une langue à la fois, le fils,” I said.

“Yes,” said Loretta. “One at a time, James. Being able to speak two already is very good for an eleven-year-old.”

“Anyway,” said Ginger, “what I was trying to say is I really want to set a goal to learn Russian in one year. And I’m serious, James.”

“That would be wonderful, sweetheart,” I said, savoring the warm fish. “ Ce sera marveilleux! Or, in Russian… Eto budet za-mechatel’no. ”

“I love when you speak Russian,” said Loretta, smiling, then turning to the children. “If your daddy will speak Russian at the dinner table more often, we can all learn faster. Lord knows it would help me navigate the art scene here!”

“Will you, Daddy?” said James, anxiously swinging his legs under the table and bouncing up and down.

“Yes, son. Stop jerking like that, though.”

“Changing the subject,” said Loretta. “Simone says she’s never seen anyone with a more natural feel for Socialist Realism painting than I,” she said.

Simone Dragic was a painter from Switzerland who’d married a Russian dentist and had lived in Moscow for ten years.

“But isn’t that particular form too limiting for you?” I said, forking my fish.

“Perhaps,” she said, “but it’s actually the first time in my career where I’ve been in a classroom full of students and been singled out by the teacher as the premier painter.”

“Wow, Mommy!” said a smiling Ginger.

“The fact that a woman as brilliant and well-trained as you is still taking classes is puzzling to me,” I said, pouring her some more water from the pitcher.

“An artist never stops trying to learn specific new forms, love. And ever since we arrived in the Soviet Union, I have been learning that Socialist Realism… not to be confused with social realism, by the way, can be powerful. This form is unique to this country and is the preferred style of Joseph Stalin.”