Our Woman in Moscow(18)

“Well, this fellow’s different. He’s a true believer. He’ll rationalize anything.” I pause to inhale. “He’s also married to my sister.”

Herbert tries to purse his lips for a whistle. Doesn’t quite succeed. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

“Because I’m not a snitch, Herbert, for all my many faults. I make no windows into men’s souls, as a wise woman said before me, and anyway he’s my brother-in-law, for God’s sake.”

“So what gives now?” Herbert asks. “Maybe something to do with Sumner Fox walking through my office yesterday?”

“How’d you know that?”

“Walls made of glass, my dear.” He waves his hand. “And you can’t mistake Sumner Fox, not if you’re a Yale man.”

“Well, I’m not a Yale man, nor yet a football lunatic. I never could see the point of grown men smashing each other up on a grass field for no good reason. But I do pay attention when the FBI wants to ask me a question or two about my sister.”

“You need a lawyer?”

“Don’t worry, the family’s lousy with them. I was just thinking about the Rosenbergs.”

Herbert makes another noise. “Fixed trial if I ever saw one.”

“Well, maybe it was. But there must be a whole stack of evidence they couldn’t reveal in a public court of law, because it’s top secret. That just stands to reason. And you can’t deny the Soviets exploded an atom bomb in—what was it, ’49?—anyway, long before anyone expected they could. You can’t tell me there weren’t scientists leaking information, probably a whole network of them, whether the Rosenbergs were in it or not. The thing is, most of those traitors probably didn’t consider themselves traitors at all. Just smart, well-meaning men like my brother-in-law, who thought they were doing the world a favor by bringing forward the great Communist revolution.”

Herbert stubs out his cigarette and folds his arms at me. “So what’s your point, doll?”

“I don’t know what my point is. I guess I’m just trying to figure something out.”

The morning sun leaks through a corner of the modern plate glass behind him. My God, he looks so much older than he did when we first met—so much older than when I started working for him. I used to take dictation at this desk, pencil poised, while Herbert rattled off a mile a minute. Now his face sags to the right and his eyes have that rheumy sheen to them, so you wonder if he can really see you at all. Over the years, his attitude toward me has taken on an avuncular quality, which might strike some of you as distasteful since we began as lovers. But nothing ever stays the same, does it? The accumulation of age and experience changes us daily. If it doesn’t, you’d better worry.

Still, Herbert’s changed more than most. He drinks his coffee with an unsteady hand and contrives to light another cigarette while the wheels spin in his head, manufacturing advice to his unruly protégée.

At last he speaks in his slow, halting voice.

“Do as you think best, doll. That’s why I hired you.”



I keep myself busy as best I can. I order the prints for Barbara’s portfolio and make at least two dozen calls on her behalf. By lunchtime, I’ve found my stride. I prop my feet on the desk and call up Barbara herself to deliver the good news. I feel like Santa Claus.

“That’s nice, sugar,” she says, “but I’ll wait to celebrate once I see my face on something bigger than an Aunt Jemima advertisement.”

“Now, Barbara. That’s the wrong way to look at things. Sunny side up, I always say. In the first place, that’s a big account, Aunt Jemima. In the second place, we’ve got the ball rolling, haven’t we?”

“Sure we do. Just like that Sisyphus fellow.”

“Say, I’ll tell you what. I’ll take you out tonight, champagne and everything, some nice club where we can listen to good music and get our picture in the paper.”

“Have you got rocks for brains, sister? Just what club do you think is going to let the pair of us in, like one of those black-and-white cookies?”

I stub out my cigarette. “I see what you mean.”

“Think you can just snap your white fingers and say abracadabra?”

I swing my feet to the floor and lean into the receiver. “You think I can’t? Is that some kind of challenge, Miss Kingsley?”

“I got five bucks says we end up uptown at Smalls where they aren’t so particular about pedigree.”

“You’re on. Meet me outside the Palmetto at eight thirty on the nose in your best dress. Some number that looks good in photographs, say.”

“Oh, you think you got a plan, boss lady?”

“Miss Kingsley,” I say, “we can’t miss.”



All right, so I like to manage things. I like to take charge of people’s affairs—it’s one of my many talents. Boss lady, Barbara called me, and what’s the matter with that? Someone has to be the boss, or nothing would get done. I’ve managed the careers of dozens of women—a few men, too—and nobody’s complained about the results, at least not to my face. The fact is, most people are too softhearted, or they lack a certain clarity of vision, or they don’t want to make mistakes, or—this is the big one—they’re afraid of what others will think of them. They don’t want to take that kind of responsibility. It’s hard work and requires you to make decisions people won’t like. But I’ll tell you what, there’s nothing like the satisfaction of a plan brought off to perfection, of knowing you’ve led your flock to greener pastures.