“You’re kidding?” I said. “Look at me now.”
“But they know you work for the American embassy. I’m talking about the masses. They’re okay with the way I dress flamboyantly because they think I’m making a positive statement to the U.S. They actually think I’m protesting the U.S., and that brings a smile to Stalin’s face. I’ve been told as much by a member of his Politburo.”
“You’ve met one of them?”
“Of course! Time magazine didn’t label me the ‘Reddest of the Blacks’ for nothing. I was the first organizer of the American Negro Labor Congress that got this damn flood of coloreds-to-Russia thang started. Back in 1924, I actually spoke to a large contingent here in Moscow during the Fifth Comintern Congress, and Joseph Stalin was in attendance. The Comintern is simply the international organization that advocates world communism. I like to call it the League of Nations for communists. Damn near every country in the world has its own party, and representatives from each gather in Moscow quite often. Headquarters is here! But, yeah, in 1924 I spoke in front of Stalin.”
“I’ll be damned!” I said.
“I spoke about America’s Negro problem being a race thang and not a class thang. Stalin and company didn’t like that too much. His men made it clear to me that dealing with class always came first. Shoot! These Soviets still don’t know that being colored in America ain’t got a damn thang to do with class. It’s race first! The wealthiest nigga in the U.S. is still a lowlife nothin’ to greater America.”
“Preach, Lovett!”
“Shoot! I wanted to tell Stalin that the poorest white man in the U.S. is treated far greater than said wealthy Negro. You don’t see any poor white men being lynched all over the South. We’re far away from it over here, but lynchings are still rampant back home. I wanted to make Stalin understand that if he snapped his fingers and all at once, every American suddenly became of the same class, Negroes would still get lynched. But these Soviets just don’t get the complexity of our homeland. Our color-land! Shh! Let me watch my tongue!”
“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?”