she should be a respectable young lady and marry into the Buffalo social elite. There were a few places on the property where Josef never went, and the garage was one of them, so Olga came there to smoke. She would sit in the backseat of the Packard, her silk dress on the new leather, and Lev would lean on the door, with his foot up on the runningboard, and chat to her.
He was aware that he looked handsome in the chauffeur’s uniform, and he wore the cap tilted jauntily back. He soon discovered that the way to please Olga was to compliment her on being high-class. She loved to be told that she walked like a princess, talked like a president’s wife, and dressed like a Parisian socialite. She was a snob, and so was her father. Most of the time Josef was a bully and a thug, but Lev noticed how he became well-mannered, almost deferential, when talking to high-status men such as bank presidents and congressmen.
Lev had a quick intuition, and soon had Olga figured out. She was an overprotected rich girl who had no outlet for her natural romantic and sexual impulses. Unlike the girls Lev had known in the slums of St. Petersburg, Olga could not slip out to meet a boy at twilight and let him feel her up in the darkness of a shop doorway. She was twenty years old and a virgin. It was even possible she had never been kissed.
Lev watched the tennis party from a distance, drinking in the sight of Olga’s strong, slim body, and the way her breasts moved under the light cotton of her dress as she flew across the court. She was playing against a very tall man in white flannel trousers. Lev felt a jolt of recognition. Staring at the man, he eventually recalled where he had seen him before. It was at the Putilov works. Lev had tricked him out of a dollar and Grigori had asked him if Josef Vyalov really was a big man in Buffalo. What was his name? It was the same as a brand of whisky. Dewar, that was it. Gus Dewar.
A group of half a dozen young people were watching the game, the girls in bright summer dresses, the men wearing straw boaters. Mrs. Vyalov looked out from under her parasol with a pleased smile. A uniformed maid was serving lemonade.
Gus Dewar defeated Olga and they left the court. Their places were immediately taken by another couple. Olga daringly accepted a cigarette from her opponent. Lev watched him light it for her. Lev ached to be one of them, playing tennis in beautiful clothes and drinking lemonade.
A wild stroke sent the ball his way. He picked it up and, instead of throwing it back, carried it to the court and handed it to one of the players. He looked at Olga. She was deep in conversation with Dewar, charming him in a flirtatious way, just as she did with Lev in the garage. He felt a stab of jealousy and wanted to punch the tall guy in the mouth. He caught Olga’s eye and gave her his most charming smile, but she looked away without acknowledging him. The other young people totally ignored him.
It was perfectly normal, he told himself: a girl could be friendly with the chauffeur while smoking in the garage, then treat him like a piece of furniture when she was with her friends. All the same, his pride was wounded.
He turned away-and saw her father walking down the gravel path toward the tennis court. Vyalov was dressed for business in a lounge suit with a waistcoat. He had come to greet his daughter’s guests before retuning downtown, Lev guessed.
Any second now he would see Olga smoking, and then there would be hell to pay.
Lev was inspired. In two strides he crossed to where Olga was sitting. With a swift motion he snatched the lighted cigarette from between her fingers.
“Hey!” she protested.
Gus Dewar frowned and said: “What the devil are you up to?”
Lev turned away, putting the cigarette between his lips. A moment later Vyalov spotted him. “What are you doing here?” he said crossly. “Get my car out.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lev.
“And put out that damned cigarette when you’re talking to me.”
Lev pinched out the coal and put the butt in his pocket. “Sorry, Mr. Vyalov, sir, I forgot myself.”
“Don’t let it happen again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now clear off.”
Lev hurried away, then looked back over his shoulder. The young men had jumped to their feet, and Vyalov was jovially shaking hands all round. Olga, looking guilty, was introducing her friends. She had almost been caught. She met Lev’s eye and shot him a grateful look.
Lev winked at her and walked on.
Ursula Dewar’s drawing room contained a few ornaments, all precious in different ways: a marble head by Elie Nadelman, a first edition of the Geneva Bible, a single rose in a cut-glass vase, and a framed photograph of her grandfather, who had opened one of the first department stores in America. When Gus came into the room at six o’clock she was sitting in a silk evening dress, reading a new novel called The Good Soldier.
“How’s the book?” he asked her.
“It is extraordinarily good, although I hear, paradoxically, that the author is a frightful cad.”
He mixed an old-fashioned for her, the way she liked it, with bitters but no sugar. He felt nervous. At my age I shouldn’t be afraid of my mother, he thought. But she could be scathing. He handed her the drink.
“Thank you,” she said. “Are you enjoying your summer break?”
“Very much.”
“I was afraid that by now you’d be itching to get back to the excitement of Washington and the White House.”
Gus had expected that, too; but the holiday had brought unexpected pleasures. “I’ll return as soon as the president does, but meanwhile I’m having a great time.”
“Is Woodrow going to declare war on Germany, do you think?”
“I hope not. The Germans are willing to back down, but they want Americans to stop selling arms to the Allies.”
“And will we stop?” Ursula was of German ancestry, as were some half the population of Buffalo, but when she said “we” she meant America.
“Absolutely not. Our factories are making too much money from British orders.”
“Is it a deadlock, then?”
“Not yet. We’re still dancing around one another. Meanwhile, as if to remind us of the pressures on neutral countries, Italy has joined the Allies.”
“Will that make any difference?”
“Not enough.” Gus took a deep breath. “I played tennis at the Vyalovs’ place this afternoon,” he said. His voice did not sound as casual as he had hoped.
“Did you win, dear?”
“Yes. They have a prairie house. It’s very striking.”
“So nouveau riche.”
“I suppose we were nouveau riche once, weren’t we? Perhaps when your grandfather opened his store?”
“I find it tiresome when you talk like a socialist, Angus, even though I know you don’t mean it.” She sipped her drink. “Mm, this is perfect.”
He took a deep breath. “Mother, would you do something for me?”
“Of course, dear, if I can.”
“You won’t like it.”
“What is it?”
“I want you to invite Mrs. Vyalov to tea.”
His mother put her drink down slowly and carefully. “I see,” she said.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“I know why,” she said. “There is only one possible reason. I have met the ravishingly pretty daughter.”
“You’re not to be cross. Vyalov is a leading man in this city, and very wealthy. And Olga is an angel.”
“Or, if not an angel, at least a Christian.”
“The Vyalovs are Russian Orthodox,” Gus said. Might as well get all the bad news on the table, he thought. “They go to the Church of Saints Peter and Paul on Ideal Street.” The Dewars were Episcopalians.
