Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

Upon hearing Bullitt’s comment, I damn near dropped the flashlight I’d just taken out of the toolbox. Something about the words negress and monkey thrown together so casually didn’t fall easily upon my ears. Nevertheless, I ignored it and began digging through the toolbox in search of some fresh batteries.

“Chip found you some more wooden coat hangers, William,” said thirty-year-old George Kennan, a nice, handsome gentleman I had met already at the chancery, one of the ambassador’s third secretaries. I’d met all of the staff. The other third secretaries were Bertel Kuniholm and Chip Bohlen, both in their thirties, both in attendance.

“Ah, yes, wooden hangers!” said Bullitt, walking around to the driver’s side door, Pie-Pie panting behind the wheel. “Did you find any more of that good vodka we had last weekend, George?”

“Indeed.”

“Excellent!” said the ambassador, actually cracking a smile. “Nothing like drinking vodka in Russia! When in Rome, right, gentlemen?”

We all nodded, Bobby placing his hand on my shoulder, his big grin signaling how happy he was to see me. I was still thinking about the oddity of the ambassador asking his third secretary to fetch wooden hangers for him.

“Or in this case… when in Russia !” continued Bullitt. “Their vodka is about the only thing I can find worth praising at the moment. Can you handle this, Prescott, maybe get her up and running for me?”

“I’m sure I can, sir,” I said, turning the flashlight on and leaning over the engine again.

The ambassador smiled. “You’re a lifesaver, Prescott. You may never get him back, Bobby. I hate to tell you that.”

Bobby half smiled, all six of the men now standing beside the driver’s side door while I continued examining the engine. Of course I positioned myself so that I could still see them through the space between the open hood and frame. How could I not?

“I can’t help but be envious of you, William,” said Loy Henderson, admiring the white roadster. Loy was the second secretary. He was balding and had a rather egg-shaped head. Booby had informed me that Loy was forty-two. In fact, he’d informed me of all of the top staff’s ages.

Bullitt actually put some more polish on the rag, squatted down, and began shining the door again, his five staffers standing around him. It was as if the ambassador was suffering from some sort of compulsive disorder. He started talking to the rag again. “I cabled Washington at five this morning and informed the president of the latest regarding Stalin and his hopes for a partnership with us against Japan.”

“I fear the Soviet leader has expectations that most assuredly will never be met,” said Bobby. “Am I correct?”

“Yes,” said Bullitt.

Kennan shook his head in subtle disbelief. “It’s like talking to a wall. Does Mr. Stalin somehow not see—”

“Again,” said Bullitt, “it is Maxim Litvinov whom I’m dealing with here. He may have the title of People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, but he’s actually just Stalin’s mouthpiece. He continues to ask if the president will somehow agree to a pact of nonaggression between the U.S., Japan, China, and the Soviet Union. I told him, very diplomatically, that the answer was no … again. Still, as it stands today, they are insistent on securing a partnership in the Far East.”

“And what of their end of the original promises they made last year?” said Bobby. “Have they paid a penny yet of the war debt they agreed to finally make good on?”

“No,” said Bullitt, still squatting. “Back in January I thought Litvinov was about to crack and pay up. I believed they were so worried about an immediate attack from Japan that they’d pay us in the hopes that we’d protect them. But now it seems Litvinov is duplicitous in his thinking—still fearful on one hand, but on the other, of the belief that there will be no such attack. He’s halfway convinced himself that Roosevelt will prevent any such attack anyway, or side with Stalin if war did break out. And as far as promises go, Bobby, theirs are all empty it seems.”

“This is not going as we’d originally hoped,” said Chip Bohlen. “We’re spinning our wheels.”

Bullitt stood and flicked some lint off of the right sleeve of his fancy blue suit jacket. As fine as my suits were, all of them made in Paris, his were even finer. I’d learned that his had also been tailor-made in Paris. He was the first man I’d met who actually primped more than I, and I’d even overheard him telling his French servant that he didn’t give a damn about coming across too bourgeoisie in the eyes of the plain-dressing Soviets.

“I’m still hopeful, gentlemen,” said Bullitt, throwing the rag down and lighting a cigarette. “We’re not as prejudiced under Roosevelt as we were back in 1919 when Republicans were in charge. As a result, however naïvely optimistic I may be acting, I’m hoping the Soviets will see this new us and begin engaging in more honorable… truthful talks.”

“Then again,” said Kennan, “you’re not dealing with Lenin like you were back then on your secret visit. This is Stalin, who appears to have been born without a conscience. And didn’t he and Litvinov also agree to allow Americans here the right to freedom of religion and security of status? Seems hardly to be the case!”

Kennan, who sounded the most intellectual of them all, cleared his throat, as if summoning up the courage to continue offering his rather gutsy opinion to Bullitt. And he did.

“Why isn’t the president being more assertive here, William? I worry that he’s more concerned with assuaging the feelings of our countrymen rather than actually untangling these knotty problems of war debt and Communist Party interference in America’s domestic affairs. Does he simply want to massage his relationship with Stalin so as to make Americans feel safe and not grow more fearful of this rising madman, Adolf Hitler? I mean, it’s one thing to—”

“You’re wrong!” said Bullitt. “The president is depending on us to handle this. You don’t think he has enough on his plate domestically, George? Americans are standing in fucking soup lines! You don’t think he’s losing sleep over that, George?”

“Yes! But Germany and Japan are not going to just quietly go away because the president is friendly with the Soviets.”

“Friendly my ass!” said Bullitt. “I just told you we’re continuing to say no to any nonaggression pact. Litvinov is actually worried that Japan may be picking up signals that Roosevelt’s relationship with Stalin is strained. In fact, he has asked me not to say anything publically that might suggest such, as that would embolden Japan. As a result, I’ve made him no such promise. I’m saving it as leverage.”

“Smart,” said Bertel Kuniholm, who’d remained rather quiet to this point. “Perhaps dangerous, but… smart.”

“Our government,” said Bullitt, “will never give either a straight loan or an uncontrolled credit to the Soviets, and Litvinov never suggested that he wanted either. But now… oh now … he has the temerity to say he wants either a straight loan to make purchases anywhere, or uncontrolled credit to make purchases in the U.S. I told him a loan was off the table, and that at least ten percent interest would have to be built into any credit agreement. Still, he’s fixated more on a cash loan.”

“Yeah, so they can buy weapons with it,” said Kennan.

“Shit,” said Bullitt, smoking. “This entire problem hinges on the way a memorandum was written up during the initial agreement. The president uses the words loan and credit interchangeably. In this case, however, he used the word loan when he was strictly meaning credit . So the actual word credit was never written down, only the word loan . Litvinov is quick to point that out.”