“Am I dreaming?” said a half-drunk Dorene over the laughing spectators. Her black dress, high heels, and gold earrings were stunning. “Are those actual seals, Bobby?” she continued. “Or are they midgets in costume?”
“They’ve been dancing for minutes now, Dear. You’ve only just noticed?”
“I’ve noticed. I just can’t believe it still.”
“Charles met the trainer at the circus after seeing them perform there,” said Bobby. “He tried to get more animals from the zoo but couldn’t.”
“Thank God!” giggled Dorene, spilling a little champagne on Bobby’s black tuxedo.
The room was dark, save for some light emanating from the hallway and a spotlight on the seals, their trainer hidden in the dark, all of us guests positioned on one side of the room. One seal balanced a small, lit Christmas tree on her nose, another, a tray of wineglasses, the last, a bottle of champagne.
“They’re so adorable!” said Loretta.
I looked at my wife taking in the entertainment with such delight. She and Dorene were wearing dresses by the same French designer, a woman named Augusta Bernard. Dorene’s was a black V-back gown made of crêpe silk, accentuated by peach-colored lamé ribbon along the sleeves and sides of the V-back. The sleeves stopped about three inches above her elbows.
Loretta’s was also a V-back gown, except it was sleeveless. It was a shell pink silk, which captured her long, thin frame, the light silk laying smoothly on her brown skin. And what truly made this a stunning dress was how the V-back was outlined with magenta velvet, which captured the beauty of my wife’s sexy back and narrow waist. At the point of the V, the velvet tied into a bow and covered the top half of her buttocks. My simple black tux was hardly a match for her, and rightfully so. The women were front and center.
“Take a look, Press,” said Bobby, nudging me. “I see that France, the U.K., and Germany are in attendance. Those are their three ambassadors drinking and laughing on the far left near the hallway—Charles Alphand, Lord Chilton, and Schulenberg, respectively. I wonder if they’re enjoying their Soviet postings more than Bullitt! I’ll bet they are. At least at the moment! If only Stalin were here. Perhaps he’d love the seals, too.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
As the show continued—the seals now balancing balls, the audience oohing and aahing—I thought about Sergei, the caretaker, whom we’d run into earlier with his wife. It was the first time I’d seen him smile. I figured when the lights came back on and the conversing commenced again, I’d find him and have a little chat. I needed to take advantage of his good mood.
“OOH! The crowd moaned at once, as the largest seal had slid across the floor and was relieving himself near one of the marble pillars. Fully, it appeared.
“Excuse me!” I said to Loretta. “I’m going to go downstairs to the kitchen and see if I can find the whiskey I hid there last week.”
“Oh!” she said. “Bring me some, love.”
“Where you going?” said Bobby.
“I’ll be right back.”
When I got to the kitchen, which was full of cooking staff and waiters cursing in Russian, German, Spanish, and French, I found the box of whiskey in the cupboard way above the sink, but I hadn’t run into Sergei in the hallway as I’d hoped. The whiskey was actually a gift I’d gotten for the ambassador for his birthday next month on January 25, but being that he’d still be gone then, I decided to use it for something else.
After nearly knocking over a busboy carrying a massive silver tray full of caviar—freshly shipped in from the Caspian Sea per young Thayer’s explicit orders—I began searching the mansion high and low, but couldn’t find the son of a bitch. I knew he was out and about because when I’d seen him earlier, he was dressed in a suit and shaking hands with all of the Soviet dignitaries who’d shown up, perhaps before they headed off to Litvinov’s house.
Grabbing my coat, hat, and gloves, I headed outside and searched the grounds, saying hello to the various marines along the way, one of whom was near the work shed fondling a young woman. I recognized her as one of the many ballerinas who’d been a constant presence at Spaso since I’d arrived some months back. Bullitt was the one who wanted them around, and now, with him gone, they were keeping the marines from doing their jobs. I was betting they were spies for NKVD. How effective they were, however, only time would tell.
I finally headed to the garage, which had no marine standing guard. I opened the side door and it was dark inside. Flipping on the lights, I realized my search had come to a conclusion, for sitting inside Bullitt’s prized possession was Sergei; his wife was in the passenger’s seat. I was certain the ambassador had not given them permission to smoke cigarettes and drink wine in his roadster, but there they were.
“Comrade Sweet!” said a surprised Sergei, opening the door and hopping out, his olive skin covered in sweat, which was surprising considering it was about twenty degrees outside, though not nearly that cold inside the garage. Even his mustache was glistening with moisture.
“Hello, Sergei!” I said.
“I was showing my wife the ambassador’s beautiful car,” he nervously said in English. “She never saw such an automobile. She wanted to… how do you say… pretend! Yes! Pretend we were driving real fast in the country! But, of course, we did not start the automobile. No keys!”
He smiled and sipped his wine. I looked at his lips, which had his wife’s lipstick smeared all over them. I looked down at her, then quickly away, as she was casually pulling her panties up, her bright red dress still bunched up at the waist, her brown hair much more ruffled than it had been earlier.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “The ambassador doesn’t need to know about this. You were simply trying to get away from all of the chaos inside. I can understand that.”
“I’m so appreciative, Comrade Sweet.” He was practically bowing over and over, begging me with his eyes not to tell on him, a far cry from the short-tempered jackass he’d shown himself to be in the past.
“Yes, Comrade Sweet, it’s chaos inside. I’ve never seen so many people.”
“Do you recognize most of the Russian guests?”
“Yes, I mean, I don’t know them all, but I have read about them in Izvestiya.”
“What are some of their professions? What do they do for work, besides the obvious ones who work at the Kremlin?”
“Ah, Comrade Sweet!” He shook his head like he didn’t want to tell me. “I don’t—”
“You don’t want me to tell the ambassador that you were in his car. We’ve established that. Now just tell me about the guests.”
“Okay. Only two are from the Kremlin!”
“Only two?” I said. “Maybe Stalin sent them to take notes.”
He half blushed and continued. “Others are local scientists. Some are teachers at the universities. I recognize a couple of artists and musicians, some sculptors. But, of course you know, eighty percent of the people here are just expatriate Americans along with your friends from the chancery. And some of the foreigners are journalists or maybe, you know, diplomats, visiting here to better their relations with our great Stalin.”
“Thank you.” I held up the box of whiskey and eyed the ring of keys hanging from his waist just inside his jacket. “And now let me tell you why I was looking for you, Sergei. I wanted to give you your Christmas gift. A bottle of Redbreast Irish! For you to enjoy with your lovely wife.”
“Oh my! You are far too kind, Comrade Sweet.”
I handed it to him and he gladly accepted, extending both arms up at me like a little boy, overjoyed to be receiving a gift from his father on Christmas morning. I was every bit of six-two, but had never felt so tall.