Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“I know. And that bothers me.”

“How can this all of a sudden bother you?” I said. “You’ve known for three years about the State’s laws concerning artistic expression. We’re only here still because you said this controlled , or better yet, forced form of art is one you loved. Don’t get upset, but you are sounding a bit naïve.”

I opened my eyes and looked at the children, both still with their heads in their books.

“You two go play catch,” I said. “Take the baseball and the mitts and go play. Your mother and I need to talk. You can read more in a few minutes. Go!”

They knew when I was serious, so there was no backtalk as they stood, gathered the ball and gloves, and ran off.

“I have been naïve,” said Loretta, both of us sitting up. “I have been naïve because perhaps I was only wanting to hear what they were telling me, that I am a great Socialist Realism painter. I thought the adoration would be enough. It isn’t. I need to try other forms. I need to be back in Paris. We need to be back in Paris. I’ve exhausted this form and I’m ready to move on. I can do exhibits in Paris and make a lot of money for us. It’s time.”

“Then we need to move soon,” I said. “I tried to tell you this back—”

“I know, Prescott. I have been on a high for so long that I couldn’t see clearly. But everyone eventually comes down from a high, at least if they are sane. Reconnecting with Natalia helped validate the restrictions I was already beginning to feel. This relationship between Russian artists and the State is abusive. I liken it to a woman in an emotionally abusive relationship who is with a man who showers her with gifts, takes her to fine places, even makes her fall in love. But then she realizes she’s being controlled and has been for some time. A light suddenly comes on. And she decides to leave.”

“I wanted us to leave with Bobby last year,” I said.

“And perhaps we should have. I’ll take responsibility for it, though. It’s my fault we are still here. There! Are you satisfied?”

“Not really,” I said. “This was a big mistake we made. People were having a very difficult time getting out of the country back when the Ellingtons left. It’s only gotten worse since. I mean, at that time we were under the assumption that it was only Soviets, both regular citizens and State officials, ones guilty of real crimes, who were being arrested. But now I fear they are just sweeping up whomever they damn well please.”

“Look around,” said Loretta. “There are families everywhere. People are picnicking and laughing and playing. There are folks in boats on the river in the distance. They hardly look worried about being arrested, Prescott.”

“That’s because Stalin has posted fucking signs everywhere that say, ‘LIFE HAS BECOME BETTER, COMRADES; LIFE HAS BECOME MORE FUCKING JOYFUL!’”

“Lower you voice!” she said, looking around, a few onlookers having heard me yell. “What is wrong with you, Prescott? Calm down! Now!”

I sat with my legs crossed on the blanket, opened the picnic basket, and took out a beer. Opening it, I took a big drink. It had all hit me at once, this anger. It was as if I had allowed myself for over a year to become blind to my surroundings, all in an attempt to unequivocally support Loretta and, in the process, rid myself of any lingering guilt I still had over lying to her about being a spy back in Harlem. But I was awake again now and felt the weight of our situation all at once. I knew, even as I watched the children playing in the distance, that we were already smack dab in the middle of a wall-less prison.

“The new U.S. ambassador,” she said, “Mr. Davies, has come out and said that the show trials are legitimate. He’s witnessed some himself and expressed no worry over them. He has told American expatriates to carry on doing their jobs. Let’s not overreact.”

“Well, Davies is a damn imbecile,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, he may have blood on his hands someday. And he does President Roosevelt a disservice by making these declarations about a normal Soviet Union. Hell, from what I’ve read while I’ve been in this unfathomable state of coma, Davies has his nose so far up Stalin’s ass, he wouldn’t be able to see one of us getting arrested by the blue tops right outside of the U.S. Embassy. His positive statements about the Kremlin probably have Roosevelt, the State Department, and diplomats like Bobby completely in the dark. It will probably be years before they all learn the truth, whatever that is.”

“When did you last write to Bobby?” said Loretta.

“Two days ago. I told him we had just returned from Leningrad and would be leaving for Kazan in two weeks.”

“Well,” she said, “I think you should go to the consulate and see about arranging for us to leave for Paris soon after we return from Kazan. In corresponding with Natalia Goncharova, she says—”

“Here goes that name again,” I said. “Why does she suddenly have her hands on the controls of your conscience?”

“Because it took an artist who’s already traveled the road I’m on to get my attention. But, then again, she’s only confirming what I’ve already been coming to terms with on my own, Prescott. She has said she thinks it’s in our best interest to leave, but I’ve also been listening to you.”

“It’s just frustrating,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll be fine, but I’m just frustrated. Today is Saturday, so I’ll go by the consulate on Monday and see to it that they have our passports cleared with the State.”

“Good,” she said. “I also need to go by the Anglo-American School and check in with the children’s teachers. I’ll need to make sure they’re up to speed with their lessons after missing all that time. At least this trip to Kazan will only be for one week.”

“I can do it,” I said. “I’m not supposed to be back until Tuesday, but I’ll stop by Monday and check in with my substitute. I’ll need to tell him that he’ll be filling in for me again in two weeks. Hell, he’s probably starting to write his own lesson plans as much as I’ve been gone. It’s okay, though. I detest teaching chemistry. I can’t wait to turn the job over to someone else. Maybe Robert will take it.”

“Robert Robinson?” she said, puzzled. “He has a fantastic job already.”

“Yeah, but he hates the politics at the ball-bearing factory. Still, he is so talented as an innovator that the State doesn’t want him to leave. They keep raising his pay. At least that’s what he told me. But the look on his face says otherwise. I think he’s being forced to stay here, not allowed to leave. I think he just hasn’t told anyone, including me, out of fear. Everyone believes that even their friends might be spies for the Kremlin. It’s paranoia run amuck, Loretta. I can’t believe that subconsciously I’ve had these thoughts all along but haven’t acted on them.”

“Stop, love. You can’t keep doing this. We’ve talked it through. We have a plan now. It’s not like our decision to stay and live here was some anomaly. For Christ’s sake, Paul Robeson’s son goes to school here in Moscow. And we both know Paul was just here again this past May to see his son. He expressed no negative feelings about Stalin, the Central Committee, or anyone else. I’m ready to move now, but let’s not characterize this place as hell on earth all of a sudden.”

I took a sip of beer and noticed James and Ginger running up with grins on their faces, both of them half out of breath.

“Daddy!” said Ginger, bending over, hands on her knees. “James asked me a question that I thought was pretty interesting. But I really don’t know the answer.”