Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“It is a color-land!” I said. “But tell me again about us needing to bring our fine clothes in a suitcase to the party.”

“Oh, yeah! Nothing too bad would ever happen if you didn’t do it that way, but we like to show up to our parties dressed real plain, just so we don’t draw any attention. Such is the way in Moscow these days. I’m a communist, but unlike Stalin, I don’t equate nice dress with being bourgeois. Being a communist is about the way you treat people, your moral compass and vision of an everlasting, equal society, not about dress codes.”

“You married, Lovett?”

“Yes, I married a Russian woman. And nobody here even raised an eyebrow. Imagine that back home. Me with a white woman wouldn’t go over too well. But we feel as comfortable here as a couple could ever hope.”

“I look forward to meeting her.”

“You know, back to what I was meaning to tell you earlier. If the Comintern can be as effective as many believe, the revolution here in the Soviet Union will spread across the globe. And U.S. Negroes would benefit the most. Gotta believe, brutha! Or in this case… comrade !”

“Yup!” I said.

“You were raised in Milwaukee, huh?” he said.

“Yes, the Bronzeville section.”

“Well, shoot! I’m gonna have to call you Bronzeville Sweet then!”

He didn’t know it, but Lovett already felt like family to me. He was an impressive, spirited, and lovable man. He actually reminded me of my late friend, my son’s namesake, James Eason. I missed him dearly, still, after over a decade. My God, how the time had flown by .

Later that day at Spaso House I found myself with a flashlight in the portion of the multilevel attic that was only three feet high. I was crawling on all fours. All of the wire was old and shoddy. As I neared the area directly above the ambassador’s bedroom, I stopped, thinking I’d heard something in the distance. Maybe it was a rat , I thought. Still, it spooked me.

Again I heard a noise, like someone was crawling. I scooted forward, my belly scraping against the dusty wood, beads of sweat dripping from my chin. Holding the flashlight up and pointing it straight ahead, I heard a clank , like someone had dropped perhaps a metal object.

“WHO’S THERE?” I yelled.

No answer. I froze and waited. Nothing. I crawled forward really fast a few feet and abruptly stopped, hoping to provoke more movement. Nothing.

“Are you there, Sergei?” I said in firm Russian, knowing I’d just seen him downstairs. “ Vy tam , Sergei?”

I waited there a few more minutes and then made my way back out of the shallow attic. I needed to pay the ambassador a visit. He’d told me not to be shy about interrupting him to share any tidbits of conspicuous news.

I searched the entire mansion until I finally found him outside in front of the garage smoking a cigarette and, of all things, polishing his beautiful sports roadster—the little dog, Pie-Pie, sitting in the driver’s seat, and Stewart, the U.S. Marine, standing guard beside the garage door.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador,” I said, only to have him remain focused on the wax he was wiping from the rear bumper.

“Stewart!” he said without looking at him. “Give us a moment here.”

The big marine nodded and walked toward the main house.

“What can I do for you, Prescott?” he said, the white rag circling.

“I heard someone up in the attic just now above your bedroom.”

“Yeah?” he said with no surprise, his eyes fixed on the paint as if it were gold.

“Yes, sir. I believe your suspicions are correct. I didn’t see anyone in the flesh, but my instincts tell me someone was there, and they certainly didn’t want me to know they were there.”

“It was Sergei,” he said. “I’ll bet the farm on it.”

“Well, I had just seen him in the kitchen five minutes earlier.”

“What were you doing in the kitchen, Prescott?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

I frowned at his remark, but he didn’t see it. Hell, he never so much as peeked my way.

“As I was saying, Mr. Ambassador, I’d just seen him five minutes earlier.”

“And when he saw you, Prescott, he rushed upstairs and removed the microphone that was placed there yesterday.”

I waited for him to say something else, but he was transfixed on the polish. I could sense he had the weight of the Soviet world on his shoulders. Or maybe he was thinking about his ex-wife, Louise Bryant, or some other woman in his life. I wondered. He was so mysterious. The rag circling harder with every second, he finally continued talking to it rather than me it seemed, and his jaw clinched tighter and tighter.

“They’re so damn stupid to think I’d say anything of value while in my study. Boggles the mind! They honestly believe I have absolutely no fucking idea they’ve ever been up there piddling around. They’re so scientifically smart that it has rendered them socially inept. No proper instincts whatsoever!”

“Either that or they simply think we Americans are wholly ignorant people, sir.”

“Stay on top of this,” he said, as if not hearing a word I’d uttered. “I don’t want to catch them. Ever! Does us no good! I just want to be completely aware of their entire setup. It will serve the next ambassador well to know exactly how they’re spying on us.”

He stood and walked around to the front of the car, lifting the hood. “Carl is not here at the moment, Prescott. What do you know about engines?”

“Plenty,” I said, walking over.

“Good. It may look beautiful, but it won’t start. And it’s not the battery. Just had a new one put in.”

“Do you mind?” I said, signaling that I’d like to take a look. He nodded and moved aside. I leaned over the engine to get a bird’s-eye view, looking in every direction before jiggling various wires. “Could be a problem with the electrical portion of the ignition switch, a short or something,” I said. “Or, maybe even a plugged exhaust system. I’ll need some time to diagnose.”

“There’s a toolbox behind you just inside the garage there,” he said, and I immediately went to retrieve it.

“There you are, William!” said an approaching Bobby. “We’ve been searching every room in Spaso trying to find you.”

“Well, you found me,” said Bullitt, rag still in hand. “What is it?”

“You called a meeting, William,” said a confused-looking Bobby, who was accompanied by four others.

“I sent Charles to the chancery to tell you that I’d like to move the meeting to tomorrow,” said Bullitt, gazing at his watch. “You didn’t get the message, Bobby?”

“He never—”

“It’s fine,” said Bullitt. “You’re all here. We may as well take advantage of it. That damn Charles! He probably got sidetracked.”

“I spoke to him this morning,” said Bobby. “He mentioned nothing of a changed meeting time, but did say he was planning to fetch your ballerina friend for you, William. Maybe he—”

“He’s not fetching anyone for me. Her name is Lolya Lep-ishinkaya and she happens to be one of the finest dancers in the entire Moscow Ballet. She’s giving private lessons to Anne. Is that okay with you, Bobby?”

“Sorry, William. Your daughter is fortunate to have such a willing teacher. And Charles did indeed say she was a brilliant performer.”

Charles Thayer was whom he was referring to, the ambassador’s very young, “do everything” assistant and interpreter.

“Anne loves the performing arts,” said Bullitt. “She and I recently attended a play called ‘The Negress and the Monkey.’ She thoroughly enjoyed herself.”