– Go ahead.
One man was central to most of the photographs. Not Jesse Austin – a man that Leo didn’t recognize. Yolande said:
– That’s my father, Nelson, in his days as a campaigne
She pointed to one of the photographs, her finger moving away from her father and into the crowd, stopping at the face of a teenage girl.
– That’s me.
Leo noted that she did not look as engaged in the march as those around her, a young girl lost in the bustle. Yolande asked, with genuine curiosity:
– Your wife was Raisa Demidova?
Leo nodded.
– She did not kill Jesse Austin.
Yolande smiled kindly, like a benevolent schoolteacher.
– I know that. So does everyone who lives round here. No one in Harlem thinks your wife killed anyone, Mr Demidov. This neighbourhood might be the one place in the world where she’s innocent. Certainly my father didn’t believe it, not for one second. The press ran the story about how your wife was Jesse’s lover. The lie became truth. There was gossip and slander, written up as journalism, maybe they knew the truth and were too scared to print it. Can’t blame a person for that. Either way, the whole thing was forgotten a few months later and now it’s a scandal most people can’t put a name to. The strange thing was that your wife received a great deal of sympathetic coverage. People said it wasn’t her fault. They said she’d been duped. That all she wanted was to escape Soviet Russia, she’d been promised a life in America. She was distraught when she realized she’d have to go back. That lie flattered America. I suppose that’s why it was such a smart lie to tell.
Nara translated. Yolande was content to sit and watch Leo’s reaction. When Nara had finished, Yolande took down a photograph of her father working in the restaurant, handing it to Leo.
– I was fourteen years old when Jesse was shot. It changed my life, not because I knew the man but because it changed my father. Up until then he ran this restaurant and ran it well. He was a businessman to his bones. After Jesse’s murder, he became an activist, organizing speeches and rallies, printing leaflets. I hardly ever saw him. The restaurant got into trouble. It became a place to debate. Lots of customers stopped coming here, scared of being seen in case they were labelled a radical. Those who weren’t afraid, those who worked with my father, took free meals in payment for their services. Money ran short. Politics got him into trouble with the law: they almost closed the restaurant down. They sent inspectors who said the kitchens were dirty, which was a lie because I used to clean them myself.
Leo’s interpretation of the photograph had been correct: Yolande had been a girl caught up in the protests rather than being at the forefront of them. Her heart was here, in the business, not the politics of the time. There was anger too. She saw this restaurant as her inheritance: she’d cleaned it, learned how to manage it, only to have others threaten it. Most of the anger was towards the injustice of the inspectors but some of it was for her father too.
– In the end, my father’s health got worse, so I took over the restaurant, changed everything except the name, turned it back into a business. No more politics. No more talk of changing the world. No more free meals.
While Nara translated, William joined the conversation, saying:
– My father used to say the best kind of activism was to run a good business, to pay your taxes, to make yourself the establishment.
Yolande shrugged.
– Jesse paid a lot of tax, more in a year than I’ve paid in my lifetime. Didn’t buy him any favours. They still hated him.
She opened a drawer, taking out cigarettes and a glass ashtray shaped like a leaf. From her reluctance, it seemed to be a habit she was trying to quit. Leo asked:
– Who killed him?
Yolande lit the cigarette.
– Is that what matters to you? The individual responsible? Or the thinking behind it?
Leo checked with Nara to see if he’d understood her question. He didn’t need to consider his answer for very long.
– I’m only interested in the individual. I’m not fighting against any system.
Yolande inhaled.
– We don’t know for sure who killed Jesse. My father reckoned it was the FBI. I never contradicted him but it didn’t ring true. The FBI had already beaten Jesse down. They’d taken everything he had, his career and his money: they’d smeared his name. It didn’t make sense to kill him. Maybe they were just so full of hatred they didn’t need a reason but as a businesswoman I find that hard to swallow.
A waitress brought in coffee, pouring it for each of them, allowing Nara to catch up with the translation. Leo took out his notes, transcribed from Elena’s diary. He said to Nara:
– On the day of Jesse Austin’s murder, my daughter arrived in Harlem, to speak to him, to persuade him to address the demonstration outside the United Nations. She encountered an FBI agent coming out of Austin’s apartment. She refers to him in the document as Agent 6. Ask if they have any idea who this might be?
Yolande thanked the waitress as she left.
– An FBI agent at Jesse’s apartment. There was a man who’d go round there. I don’t remember his name. Anna – Austin’s wife – used to tell my father about him. That was a woman full of love, rarely had a bad word to say about anyone, but she hated that agent more than anyone else alive.
Yolande rubbed her head, unable to recall the name. She took a sip of her coffee, pained by the refusal of the name to come to her. They sat in silence for some time. Leo waited, watching her.
Even though her first cigarette was still lit and resting in the ashtray, Yolande lit a new cigarette and sucked on it, blowing smoke in the air.
– I’m sorry. I don’t remember.
She was lying. Leo had seen the transition in her expression. She’d tried to conceal the moment by smoking as she was reminded of the price that her father had paid for becoming involved. With the memory of Agent 6’s name came the memory of the type of man he was. Elena’s description of Agent 6 returned to Leo: He scares me. Yolande was scared. Leo turned to Nara. – Explain to Yolande that I understand why she doesn’t want to be involved. Promise her that I would never reveal her name. Also say to her that I will find out what happened on that night, with or without her help. Listening to the translation, Yolande leant forward, close to Leo. – Jesse’s murder is a secret that’s been buried a long time. Not too many people want you to dig up the truth. Not even people round here. Times have changed. We’ve moved on. She looked into Leo’s eyes. – I see the same determination I used to see in my father. And my father would never have forgiven me if I didn’t help you. She sighed. – Agent 6 was almost certainly a man called Yates, Agent Jim Yates.
New Jersey
Nara remained silent for most of the bus ride from New York, her attention fixed on the view out of the window. Realizing the depth of the implications, she’d grown ever more certain that the investigation posed a serious threat to their asylum and questioned the wisdom of attempting to expose a controversial case when their lives depended upon the grace of their American hosts. Their actions were wilfully provocative, unwise at a time when their existence was supposed to be secret. What did Leo expect to achieve after sixteen years? There would be no trial, no arrests, his wife’s name would not be cleared – the history books would not be rewritten. Though she had not articulated these thoughts, nor had she tried to talk Leo out of his decision, he clearly sensed her doubts. Perhaps, in turn, she did not oppose his plans because she sensed his own thoughts – a confrontation with Agent Yates was inevitable.
