Our Woman in Moscow(11)

“Sure you don’t,” says Aunt Vivian.

“As your lawyer—”

“Oh, shimmy off that high horse, Uncle Charlie. You’d have done the same. Iris and I may not be the closest of pals—”

Aunt Vivian snorts.

“—but I’m no snitch, not even to my worst enemy.”

“It’s hardly snitching to tell the nice FBI man you’ve received a postcard from your sister in Moscow,” says my aunt. “Under the circumstances.”

“Please. Something’s fishy, or he wouldn’t have turned up now, after all these years. Digby’s gotten her into a mess of some kind, and I don’t just mean having another baby.”

“What kind of mess?” demands my uncle. “They’ve already defected. What more mess could there be?”

I dangle my glass at him. “You know, these martinis are really terrific. I don’t suppose you’ll allow me another before dinner?”

When Uncle Charlie rises to refill the martini glass, Aunt Vivian sits back in her chair and drags from her cigarette. “Odd, about that postcard. Is she really having another baby, do you think?”

“I suppose she must be. Unless it’s some kind of code, but why write something obviously false? I mean, they must have censors or something, watching the mail.”

“You know she has a terrible time having babies. I don’t know why she allows that man near her anymore.”

“Love finds a way, I guess.”

Aunt Vivian watches the movements of her husband’s arms as he mixes and shakes at the liquor cabinet. “He drinks, you know.”

“Everybody drinks, Aunt Vivian.”

“Maybe she’s finally leaving him.”

“Then why defect with him in the first place?”

“I don’t know. Tell me, why did they defect? You did stay with them in England, that summer before they left. You and the girls.”

Aunt Vivian sits back in her chair and crosses her long legs. “Never mind. Tell me about this FBI man.”

“What’s there to tell? He looks the part, if that’s what you mean. Sumner Fox. Do you remember him, Uncle Charlie? He played football somewhere.”

“Sumner Fox. Christ. The Sumner Fox?”

“How many could there be?”

He hands me the glass. I lick the drops from the edges.

“He played fullback for Yale, mid-’30s,” says Uncle Charlie.

“Then what happened?”

“Flew torpedo bombers off a carrier in the Pacific. Crashed on an island somewhere and spent the rest of the war in a Japanese prison camp. Don’t you read the newspapers?”

“Only the news I like.”

“Well?” says Aunt Vivian. “Is he handsome?”

I throw up my hands. “For the last time. Not every girl needs a husband. For God’s sake, look what it’s done to you! No offense intended, Uncle Charlie.”

He settles in his chair and picks up a newspaper. “None taken.”



Now, I forgot to mention that Aunt Vivian and Uncle Charlie have children of their own. Three of them, to be exact, all of whom come tumbling into the dining room at the appointed hour and spoil our hard-won cynicism. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve always liked Tiny best. Pepper and Vivian are so goddamn exhausting and far too much like me. Tiny turned thirteen a few weeks ago and her personality’s changing by the minute. She’s always been a serious child, always worried about beggars and stray animals and the atom bomb, and now she spends all her time buried in schoolbooks and newspapers. At dinner she’s awfully quiet while her sisters yammer on about Singin’ in the Rain, which they’ve just seen for the ninth time, and how Pepper’s going to be an actress when she grows up. Over dessert, I ask Tiny what’s wrong, and she says she’s been worried about the missing diplomats.

Which missing diplomats? I ask.

“The Englishmen,” she tells me. “Mr. Burgess and Mr. Maclean. They’ve been gone a year now. Didn’t you see the story in the Times?”

I don’t know what she’s talking about, of course, and I’m just drunk enough not to pay much attention when she tells me. What’s a pair of British diplomats to me?

Still, something bothers me about the incident, though I can’t say what. Coming so adjacent to the postcard and the FBI visit, possibly. When I stagger home to my apartment in Sutton Place, I stop by the little grocery around the corner to buy the usual quart of milk, and at the last instant I pick up a newspaper, too.

Mike the doorman nods as I swing through the revolving door. I collect my mail from the slot and climb the stairs as a form of exercise, as is my habit, in order to maintain my maidenly figure. Inside my apartment, I pour the milk into a glass and spread out the newspaper on the table. The story about the diplomats appears on page 7, below the fold.

still no word from missing british diplomats, runs the headline.

A year has now passed since the disappearance of Mr. Guy Burgess and Mr. Donald Maclean, both of the British Foreign Office, caused an international uproar, and the British government admitted yesterday there is still no definitive word on their fate. The two men were last seen boarding a pleasure cruise aboard the ship Falaise in the English Channel on Friday, May 25th of last year and went ashore during a brief stop at the French port of Saint Malo, at which passports are generally not checked, according to the French government. Clothing and personal effects of both men were discovered in their cabin when the schooner returned to port at Southampton the following Sunday morning, and the alarm was raised when Mr. Maclean did not report to work as usual on Monday morning. His wife, Mrs. Melinda Maclean, who was then expecting their third child in a matter of weeks, apparently saw nothing amiss and did not inform his superiors at the Foreign Office until . . .