Tom Smith - Agent 6

It wasn’t Yates but Tom Fluker, a cantankerous man in his sixties who ran a small hardware store at the corner of the block. Beside him was a young white woman with long dark hair. He didn’t recognize her. Before Jesse could speak Tom launched into a tirade:

– I found this girl trying to sneak around the back, skulking like a thief. She says she’s looking for you. I ask why she can’t use your front door like everyone else. She gets confused, like she doesn’t understand. First I think she’s playing dumb then I realize she doesn’t understand English too good. Got an accent too. So I listen a little more. She’s a Russian! What’s a Russian girl doing round here, looking for you? We don’t need any more problems than we’ve already got, and we’ve already got plenty.

Jesse looked at the young woman, and then at Tom, his face scrunched up in anger. The FBI had tried to isolate Jesse among the local community. Friends and strangers, ministers and businessmen, went on record repudiating his Communist views and claiming that he was a disgrace, entirely unrepresentative of their desire to work hard and build a more integrated America. There were some who wouldn’t speak out against him on record but who thought the adverse attention Jesse generated was senseless. While they were trying to improve conditions for their communities and gain rights for their people, he was dragging them back. Tom was one such man. He’d worked hard. He owned a store. Jesse was an obstacle to his dream of success, of passing on money to his children, of getting them ahead in the world. He didn’t have time for ideology. He counted the dollars in his cash register at the end of the week, and people like Jesse were bad for business. Jesse had no time for this way of thinking. The fact that he’d been subjected to injustice had never made him reconsider his beliefs. That mindset was the worst kind of subjugation, to be fearful of doing what is right in case you upset those who were in the wrong.

Tom turned to the young woman, saying:

– You’re a Russian. Tell him.

She stepped forward.

– My name is Elena. Mr Austin, please may I talk to you? I don’t have much time.

She spoke English though it was obviously not her mother tongue.

– Thank you, Thomas. I’ll deal with this.

Tom was unsure whether to say something more. Though Jesse knew that Tom was tempted to call the FBI and distance himself from this event, he was sure that Tom – no matter how much he disagreed with Jesse – would never rat him out. He wasn’t that kind of man.

Tom turned, hurrying d of theirhe stairs and not looking back, shaking his head in disbelief, in disgust, and repeating aloud, as if it were an ancient, wicked curse:

– A Russian in Harlem!

Anna dropped her head, knowing that this would end badly. They had lied to Agent Yates – they were aware of the concert at the United Nations tonight. Four separate attempts to persuade Jesse to turn up had been made by members of the CPUSA. They’d wanted him to address the crowds that were expected to gather outside the gates, a pro-Communist demonstration. With each attempt they’d used a different technique: they’d sent a wise old man who could quote just about anything Marx had ever written, they’d sent a beautiful young woman to flatter Jesse with her attention, they’d sent a young militant Communist who’d aggressively demanded solidarity, they’d sent a middle-aged married couple who’d also suffered at the hands of the FBI, or so they’d claimed. But Jesse had rebuffed all of them, saying that he was retired, he was old and he’d given more than enough speeches for the cause. The fight needed to be made by someone else, someone new. When they’d accused him of being beaten he hadn’t denied it, waving them out of the door and ordering them not to bother a beaten man any more.

Earnest and wide-eyed, sugar-dusted with innocence and idealism, this girl was surely their last attempt at persuasion. She was a much smarter choice. This girl wasn’t stuffed full of theory and quotes. She was bright with hopes and dreams; she believed in something. Careful calculations had been made in choosing her and they had nothing to do with sex. Her husband had no sexual feelings towards the girl. It wasn’t that Anna was blind, believing in her husband’s fidelity while he cheated on her every chance he got. That was the lurid picture painted by the FBI. In nearly forty years of marriage Jesse had never cheated on her and there’d been countless opportunities. He was a handsome man with a voice that made women weep in admiration. In his early years, when he’d been touring, there were fans lining up outside his dressing room who would’ve stripped off every stitch if he’d so much as given them a suggestive look. Many called her a fool and him an expert liar, with a honey-sweet tongue and a siren’s voice that could make her believe anything he wanted. Anna knew better. Fidelity was his problem, not promiscuity. He was loyal to a fault – loyal to his mistress Communism even when she’d cost him his livelihood.

Anna had never blamed Jesse for the hardship that his beliefs had brought them. Her friends had pleaded with her to make him shut up, to retract his statements and apologize even if he didn’t mean it, just to alleviate the pressure. She’d refused to countenance the idea. He was outspoken and passionate – the characteristics of the man she’d fallen in love with. His music was an extension of his beliefs – they couldn’t be pulled apart, his personality couldn’t be unravelled or tampered with. He couldn’t be made more palatable or less provocative. However much she held by this view, and held it today, in truth, there had been times when bitterness rose through her veins like a tidal surge. She’d been his manager. She’d developed his career: all that work, all those achievements washed away like marks on a sandy beach. When she thought about everything they’d gained and everything they’d lost, sometimes her strength left her, her spirit crumbled and she imagined thei life without Communism. In those moments she hated the very sound of the word, despised each syllable, but she never loved Jesse less.

Anna noted her husband’s quick step as he hurried their young visitor inside and shut the door. His despondency after speaking to Yates evaporated like morning mist burnt off by a new day’s sun. The girl was nervous and trying hard to control it; far from making her less persuasive, her stuttering and awkward behaviour was beguiling. She spoke in English, stumbling over her words.

– My name is Elena. I am a student from the Soviet Union, visiting the United States as part of a tour. We are performing a series of concerts in New York and Washington DC. Tonight we perform in the United Nations.

Agent Yates, repulsive as he was, was no fool. He’d been correct – the Soviets hadn’t given up. They’d made contact. Jesse had always been disillusioned with the CPUSA, but he’d never been able to say no to anything the Soviets had asked of him. The young Russian seemed uncertain whom she should address, perhaps not expecting Anna to be at home.

– Mr Austin, and Mrs Austin, I volunteered to act as a messenger. My spoken English is not good. I was informed that you speak Russian, Mr Austin. May I speak in Russian? I am sorry, Mrs Austin. Please forgive me. There would be no mistakes if we could speak Russian.

Jesse glanced at Anna. He said:

– I will translate.

Anna nodded her consent. The young woman switched to Russian. Her husband’s face brightened with the sound of that language – a language Anna had never understood.

*

Jesse’s Russian came back to him in a rush and he was amazed at his fluency after so many years. It didn’t feel like a language he’d taught himself, it felt like a mother tongue.