“I work for the Evening Advertiser now,” she said.
Gus was surprised. “Does the editor know about your political views?”
“My views aren’t quite as extreme as they used to be, but he knows my history.”
“I guess he figured that if you can make a success of an anarchist newspaper, you must be good.”
“He says he gave me the job because I have more balls than any two of his male reporters.”
Gus knew she liked to shock, but even so his mouth dropped open.
Rosa laughed. “But he still sends me to cover art exhibitions and fashion shows.” She changed the subject. “What’s it like working in the White House?”
Gus was conscious that anything he said might appear in her paper. “Tremendously exciting,” he said. “I think Wilson is a great president, maybe the greatest ever.”
“How can you say that? He’s dangerously close to getting us involved in a European war.”
Rosa’s attitude was common among ethnic Germans, who naturally saw the German side of the story, and among left-wingers, who wanted to see the tsar defeated. However, plenty of people who were neither German nor left-wing took the same view. Gus replied carefully: “When German submarines are killing American citizens, the president can’t-” He was about to say turn a blind eye. He hesitated, flushed, and said: “Can’t ignore it.”
She did not seem to notice his embarrassment. “But the British are blockading German ports-in violation of international law-and German women and children are starving as a result. Meanwhile, the war in France is at a stalemate: neither side has changed its position by more than a few yards for the last six months. The Germans have to sink British ships, otherwise they lose the war.”
She had an impressive grasp of the complexities: that was why Gus always enjoyed talking to her. “I studied international law,” he said. “Strictly speaking, the British aren’t acting illegally. Naval blockades were banned by the Declaration of London of 1909, but that was never ratified.”
She was not so easily sidetracked. “Never mind the legalities. The Germans warned Americans not to travel on British liners. They put an advertisement in the papers, for goodness’ sake! What else can they do? Imagine that we were at war with Mexico, and the Lusitania had been a Mexican ship carrying armaments intended to kill American soldiers. Would we have let it pass?”
It was a good question, and Gus had no reasonable answer. He said: “Well, Secretary of State Bryan agreed with you.” William Jennings Bryan had resigned over Wilson’s note to the Germans. “He thought all we needed to do was warn Americans not to travel on the ships of combatant nations.”
She was not willing to let him off the hook. “Bryan sees that Wilson has taken a grave risk,” she said. “If the Germans don’t back down now, we can hardly avoid war with them.”
Gus was not going to admit to a journalist that he shared these misgivings. Wilson had demanded that the German government disavow the attacks on merchant shipping, make reparations, and prevent any recurrence-in other words, allow the British the freedom of the seas while accepting that Germany’s own ships were trapped in dock by the blockade. It was hard to see any government agreeing to such demands. “But public opinion approves what the president has done.”
“Public opinion can be wrong.”
“But the president can’t ignore it. Look, Wilson is walking a tightrope. He wants to keep us out of the war, but he doesn’t want America to appear weak in international diplomacy. I think he’s struck the right balance for the present.”
“But in the future?”
That was the worrying question. “No one can predict the future,” Gus said. “Not even Woodrow Wilson.”
She laughed. “A politician’s answer. You’ll go far in Washington.” Someone spoke to her, and she turned away.
Gus moved off, feeling a bit as if he had been in a boxing match that had ended in a draw.
Some of the audience were invited to take tea with the lecturer. Gus was among the privileged because his mother was a patron of the museum. He left Rosa and headed for a private room. When he entered, he was delighted to see Olga there. No doubt her father also gave money.
He got a cup of tea and then approached her. “If you’re ever in Washington, I’d love to show you around the White House,” he said.
“Oh! Could you introduce me to the president?”
He wanted to say Yes, anything! But he hesitated to promise what he might not be able to deliver. “Probably,” he said. “It would depend on how busy he happened to be. When he gets behind that typewriter and starts to write speeches or press releases, no one is allowed to disturb him.”
“I was so sad when his wife passed away,” Olga said. Ellen Wilson had died almost a year ago, shortly after the outbreak of war in Europe.
Gus nodded. “He was devastated.”
“But I hear he’s romancing a wealthy widow already.”
Gus was discomfited. It was an open secret in Washington that Wilson had fallen passionately, boyishly in love, only eight months after the death of his wife, with the voluptuous Mrs. Edith Galt. The president was fifty-eight, his paramour forty-one. Right now they were together in New Hampshire. Gus was among a very small group who also knew that Wilson had proposed marriage a month ago, but Mrs. Galt had not yet given him an answer. He said to Olga: “Who told you that?”
“Is it true?”
He was desperate to impress her with his inside knowledge, but he managed to resist the temptation. “I can’t talk about that sort of thing,” he said reluctantly.
“Oh, how disappointing. I was hoping you’d give me the inside gossip.”
“I’m sorry to be such a letdown.”
“Don’t be silly.” She touched his arm, giving him a thrill like an electric shock. “I’m having a tennis party tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “Do you play?”
Gus had long arms and legs, and was a fairly good player. “I do,” he said. “I love the game.”
“Will you come?”
“I’d be delighted,” he said.
Lev learned to drive in a day. The other main skill of a chauffeur, changing punctured tires, took him a couple of hours to master. By the end of a week he could also fill the tank, change the oil, and adjust the brakes. If the car would not go he knew how to check for a flat battery or a blocked fuel line.
Horses were the transport of the past, Josef Vyalov told him. Stablehands were low-paid: there were plenty of them. Chauffeurs were scarce, and earned high wages.
In addition, Vyalov liked to have a driver who was tough enough to double as a bodyguard.
Vyalov’s car was a brand-new Packard Twin Six, a seven-passenger limousine. Other chauffeurs were impressed. The model had been launched only a few weeks ago, and its twelve-cylinder engine was the envy even of drivers of the Cadillac V8.
Lev was not so taken with Vyalov’s ultramodern mansion. To him it looked like the world’s largest cowshed. It was long and low, with broad overhanging eaves. The head gardener told him it was a “prairie house” in the latest fashion.
“If I had a house this big, I’d want it to look like a palace,” Lev said.
He thought of writing to Grigori and telling him all about Buffalo and the job and the car; but he hesitated. He would want to say that he had put aside some money for Grigori’s ticket, but in fact he had nothing saved. When he had a little stash he would write, he vowed. Meanwhile Grigori could not write because he did not know Lev’s address.
There were three people in the Vyalov family: Josef himself; his wife, Lena, who rarely spoke; and Olga, a pretty daughter of about Lev’s age with a bold look in her eye. Josef was attentive and courteous with his wife, even though he spent most evenings out with his cronies. To his daughter he was affectionate but strict. He often drove home at midday to have lunch with Lena and Olga. After lunch he and Lena would take a nap.
While Lev was waiting to drive Josef back downtown, he sometimes talked to Olga.
She liked to smoke cigarettes, something that was forbidden by her father, who was fiercely determined that
