This was a family crisis. Chuck had announced that as soon as he was eighteen he was going to join the navy. Without a college degree he would be an enlisted man, with no prospect of ever becoming an officer. This horrified his high-achieving parents.
‘He’s bright enough for college, damn it,’ said Gus.
‘He beats me at chess.’
‘He beats me, too. So what’s his problem?’
‘He hates to study. And he loves boats. Sailing is the only thing he cares about.’ Woody looked at his wristwatch.
‘You’ve got a party to go to,’ his father said.
‘There’s no hurry—’
‘Sure there is. She’s a very attractive girl. Get the hell out of here.’
Woody grinned. His father could be surprisingly smart. ‘Thanks, Papa.’ He got up.
Greg Peshkov was leaving at the same time, and they went out together. ‘Hello, Woody, how are things?’ Greg said amiably, turning in the same direction.
There had been a time when Woody wanted to punch Greg for his part in what had been done to Dave Rouzrokh. His feelings had cooled over the years, and in truth it was Lev Peshkov who had been responsible, not his son, who had then been only fifteen. All the same, Woody was no more than polite. ‘I’m enjoying Washington,’ he said, walking along one of the city’s wide Parisian boulevards. ‘How about you?’
‘I like it. They soon get over their surprise at my name.’ Seeing Woody’s enquiring look, Greg explained: ‘The State Department is all Smiths, Fabers, Jensens and McAllisters. No one called Kozinsky or Cohen or Papadopoulos.’
Woody realized it was true. Government was carried on by a rather exclusive little ethnic group. Why had he not noticed that before? Perhaps because it had been the same in school, in church, and at Harvard.
Greg went on: ‘But they’re not narrow-minded. They’ll make an exception for someone who speaks fluent Russian and comes from a wealthy family.’
Greg was being flippant, but there was an undertone of real resentment, and Woody saw that the guy had a serious chip on his shoulder.
‘They think my father is a gangster,’ Greg said. ‘But they don’t really mind. Most rich people have a gangster somewhere in their ancestry.’
‘You sound as if you hate Washington.’
‘On the contrary! I wouldn’t be anywhere else. The power is here.’
Woody felt he was more high-minded. ‘I’m here because there are things I want to do, changes I want to make.’
Greg grinned. ‘Same thing, I guess – power.’
‘Hmm.’ Woody had not thought of it that way.
Greg said: ‘Do you think there will be war in Europe?’
‘You should know, you’re in the State Department!’
‘Yeah, but I’m in the press office. All I know is the fairy tales we tell reporters. I have no idea what the truth is.’
‘Heck, I don’t know, either. I’ve just been with the President and I don’t think even he knows.’
‘My sister, Daisy, is over there.’
Greg’s tone had changed. His worry was evidently genuine, and Woody warmed to him. ‘I know.’
‘If there’s bombing, even women and children won’t be safe. Do you think the Germans will bomb London?’
There was only one honest answer. ‘I guess they will.’
‘I wish she’d come home.’
‘Maybe there won’t be a war. Chamberlain, the British premier, made a last-minute deal with Hitler over Czechoslovakia last year—’
‘A last-minute sell-out.’
‘Right. So perhaps he’ll do the same over Poland – although time is running out.’
Greg nodded glumly and changed the subject. ‘Where are you headed?’
‘To Joanne Rouzrokh’s apartment. She’s giving a party.’
‘I heard about it. I know one of her room-mates. But I’m not invited, as you could probably guess. Her building is— good God!’ Greg stopped in mid-sentence.
Woody stopped, too. Greg was staring ahead. Following his gaze, Woody saw that he was looking at an attractive black woman walking towards them on E Street. She was about their age, and pretty, with wide pinky-brown lips that made Woody think about kissing. She had on a plain black dress that might have been part of a waitress uniform, but she wore it with a cute hat and fashionable shoes that gave her a stylish look.
She saw the two of them, caught Greg’s eye, and looked away.
