Edge of Eternity (30 page)

“It's okay, this is an emergency.”

“There's a drugstore right on the corner of the block.”

George put down his cup and shrugged on his coat.

Maria said: “Could I ask you an even bigger favor?”

“Sure.”

“I need sanitary napkins. Do you think you could buy a box?”

He hesitated. A man, buying sanitary napkins?

She said: “No, it's too much to ask, forget it.”

“Hell, what are they going to do, arrest me?”

“The brand name is Kotex.”

George nodded. “I'll be right back.”

His bravado did not last long. When he reached the drugstore he felt stricken with embarrassment. He told himself to shape up. So, it was uncomfortable. Men his age were risking their lives in the jungles of Vietnam. How bad could this be?

The store had three self-service aisles and a counter. Aspirins were not displayed on the open shelves, but sold from the counter.

To George's dismay, feminine sanitary products were the same.

He picked up a cardboard container with six bottles of Coke. She was bleeding, so she needed fluids. But he could not postpone the moment of mortification for long.

He went up to the counter.

The pharmacist was a middle-aged white woman. Just my luck, he thought.

He put the Cokes on the counter and said: “I need some aspirin, please.”

“What size? We have small, medium, and large bottles.”

George was thrown. What if she asked him what size sanitary towels he wanted? “Uh, large, I guess,” he said.

The pharmacist put a large bottle of aspirin on the counter. “Anything else?”

A young woman shopper came and stood behind him, holding a wire basket containing cosmetics. She was obviously going to hear everything.

“Anything else?” the pharmacist repeated.

Come on, George, be a man, he thought. “I need a box of sanitary napkins,” he said. “Kotex.”

The young woman behind him stifled a giggle.

The pharmacist looked at him over her spectacles. “Young man, are you doing this for a bet?”

“No, ma'am!” he said indignantly. “They are for a lady who is too sick to come to the store.”

She looked him up and down, taking in the dark-gray suit, the white shirt, the plain tie, and the folded white handkerchief in the breast pocket of the jacket. He was glad he did not look like a student involved in a jape. “All right, I believe you,” she said. She reached below the counter and picked up a box.

George stared at it in horror. The word
Kotex
was printed on the side in large letters. Was he going to have to carry that out in the street?

The pharmacist read his mind. “I guess you'd like me to wrap this for you.”

“Yes, please.”

With quick, practised movements she wrapped the box in brown paper, then she put it in a bag with the aspirin.

George paid.

The pharmacist gave him a hard look, then seemed to relent. “I'm sorry I doubted you,” she said. “You must be a good friend to some girl.”

“Thank you,” he said, and he hurried out.

Despite the October cold, he was perspiring.

He returned to Maria's place. She took three aspirins, then went along the corridor to the bathroom clutching the wrapped box.

George put the Cokes in the refrigerator, then looked around. He saw a shelf of law books over a small desk with framed photographs. A family group showed her parents, he presumed, and an elderly clergyman who must have been her distinguished grandfather. Another showed Maria in graduation robes. There was also a picture of President
Kennedy. She had a television set, a radio, and a record player. He looked through her discs. She liked the latest pop music, he saw: the Crystals; Little Eva; Booker T and the MGs. On the table beside her bed was the novel
Ship of Fools.

While she was out, the phone rang.

George picked it up. “This is Maria's phone.”

A man's voice said: “May I speak with Maria, please?”

The voice was vaguely familiar, but George could not place it. “She stepped out,” he said. “Who is—wait a minute, she just walked in.”

Maria snatched the phone from him. “Hello? Oh, hi . . . He's a friend, he brought me some aspirins . . . Oh, not too bad, I'll get by . . .”

George said: “I'll step outside, give you some privacy.”

He strongly disapproved of Maria's lover. Even if the jerk was married he should have been here. He had made her pregnant, so he should have taken care of her after the abortion.

That voice . . . George had heard it before. Had he actually met Maria's lover? It would not be surprising, if the man was a work colleague, as George's mother surmised. But the voice on the phone was not Pierre Salinger's.

The girl who had let him in now walked by, on her way out again. She grinned at him standing outside the door like a naughty boy. “Have you been misbehaving in class?” she said.

“No such luck,” said George.

She laughed and walked on.

Maria opened the door and he went back inside. “I really have to get back to work,” he said.

“I know. You came to visit me in the middle of the Cuba crisis. I'll never forget that.” She was visibly happier now that she had talked to her man.

Suddenly George had a flash of realization. “That voice!” he said. “On the phone.”

“You recognized it?”

He was astonished. “Are you having an affair with Dave Powers?”

To George's consternation, Maria laughed out loud. “Please!” she said.

He saw right away how unlikely it was. Dave, the president's personal
assistant, was a homely-looking man of about fifty who still wore a hat. He was not likely to win the heart of a beautiful and lively young woman.

A moment later, George realized who Maria
was
having an affair with.

“Oh, my God,” he said, staring. He was astonished at what he had just figured out.

Maria said nothing.

“You're sleeping with President Kennedy,” George said in amazement.

“Please don't tell!” she begged. “If you do, he'll leave me. Promise, please!”

“I promise,” said George.

•   •   •

For the first time in his adult life, Dimka had done something truly, indisputably, shamefully wrong.

He was not married to Nina, but she expected him to be faithful, and he assumed she was faithful to him; so there was no question that he had betrayed her trust by spending the night with Natalya.

He had thought it might be the last night of his life but, since it had not been, the excuse seemed feeble.

He had not had sexual intercourse with Natalya, but that, too, was a lousy excuse. What they had done was, if anything, even more intimate and loving than regular sex. He felt wretchedly guilty. Never before had he seen himself as untrustworthy, dishonest, and unreliable.

His friend Valentin would probably handle this situation by cheerfully carrying on affairs with both women until he was found out. Dimka did not even consider that option. He felt bad enough after one night of deception: he could not possibly do it on a regular basis. He would end up throwing himself in the Moskva River.

He had to either tell Nina, or break up with her, or both. He could not live with such a mammoth deception. But he found that he was scared. This was ludicrous. He was Dmitri Ilich Dvorkin, hatchet man to Khrushchev, hated by some, feared by many. How could he be afraid of a girl? But he was.

And what about Natalya?

He had a hundred questions for Natalya. He wanted to know how she felt about her husband. Dimka knew nothing about him except his name, Nik. Was she getting divorced? If so, did the breakdown of the marriage have anything to do with Dimka? Most importantly, did Natalya see Dimka playing any role in her future?

He kept seeing her around the Kremlin, but there was no chance for them to be alone. The Presidium met three times on Tuesday—morning, afternoon, and evening—and the aides were even busier during the meal breaks. Each time Dimka looked at Natalya she seemed more wonderful. He was still wearing the suit he had slept in, as were all the men, but Natalya had changed into a dark-blue dress with a matching jacket that made her look both authoritative and alluring at the same time. Dimka had trouble concentrating on the meetings, even though their task was to prevent World War III. He would gaze at her, remember what they had done to one another, and look away in embarrassment; then, a minute later, he would stare at her again.

But the pace of work was so intense that he was not able to talk privately to her even for a few seconds.

Khrushchev went home to his own bed late on Tuesday night, so everyone else did the same. First thing on Wednesday, Dimka gave Khrushchev the glad news—hot from his sister in Cuba—that the
Aleksandrovsk
had docked safely at La Isabela. The rest of the day was equally busy. He saw Natalya constantly, but neither of them had a minute to spare.

By this time Dimka was asking himself questions. What did
he
think Monday night meant? What did he want in the future? If any of them were alive in a week's time, did he want to spend the rest of his life with Natalya, or Nina—or neither?

By Thursday he was desperate for some answers. He felt, irrationally, that he did not want to be killed in a nuclear war before he had resolved this.

He had a date with Nina that evening: they were to go to a movie with Valentin and Anna. If he could get away from the Kremlin, and keep the date, what would he say to Nina?

The morning Presidium normally began at ten, so the aides got together informally at eight in the Onilova Room. On Thursday morning Dimka had a new proposal from Khrushchev to put to the
others. He was also hoping for a private talk with Natalya. He was about to approach her when Yevgeny Filipov appeared with the early editions of the European newspapers. “The front pages are all equally bad,” he said. He was pretending to be distraught with grief, but Dimka knew he was feeling the opposite. “The turning back of our ships is portrayed as a humiliating climb-down by the Soviet Union!”

He was hardly exaggerating, Dimka saw, looking at the papers spread on the cheap modern tables.

Natalya sprang to Khrushchev's defense. “Of course they say that,” she countered. “All those newspapers are owned by capitalists. Did you expect them to praise our leader's wisdom and restraint? How naïve are you?”

“How naïve are
you
? The London
Times,
the Italian
Corriere della Sera,
and
Le Monde
of Paris—these are the papers read and believed by the leaders of the Third World countries whom we hope to win to our side.”

That was true. Unfair though it was, people around the world trusted the capitalist press more than Communist publications.

Natalya replied: “We cannot decide our foreign policy based on the probable reactions of Western newspapers.”

“This operation was supposed to be top secret,” Filipov said. “Yet the Americans found out about it. We all know who was responsible for security.” He meant Dimka. “Why is that person sitting at this table? Should he not be under interrogation?”

Dimka said: “Army security may be to blame.” Filipov worked for the defense minister. “When we know how the secret got out, then we will be able to decide who should be interrogated.” It was feeble, he knew, but he still had no idea what had gone wrong.

Filipov changed his tack. “At this morning's Presidium, the KGB will report that the Americans have massively stepped up their mobilization in Florida. The railroad tracks are jammed with railcars carrying tanks and artillery. The racetrack in Hallandale has been taken over by the 1st Armored Division, thousands of men sleeping in the grandstands. Ammunition factories are working twenty-four hours a day producing bullets for their planes to strafe Soviet and Cuban troops. Napalm bombs—”

Natalya interrupted him. “This, too, was expected.”

“But what will we do when they invade Cuba?” Filipov said. “If we respond using only conventional weapons, we cannot win: the Americans are too strong. Will we respond with nuclear weapons? President Kennedy has stated that if one nuclear weapon is launched from Cuba he will bomb the Soviet Union.”

“He cannot mean it,” said Natalya.

“Read the reports from Red Army Intelligence. The American bombers are circling us now!” He pointed at the ceiling, as if they might look up and see the planes. “There are only two possible outcomes for us: international humiliation, if we're lucky, and nuclear death if we're not.”

Natalya fell silent. No one around the table had an answer to that.

Except Dimka.

“Comrade Khrushchev has a solution,” he said.

They all looked at him in surprise.

He went on: “At this morning's meeting, the first secretary will propose making an offer to the United States.” There was dead silence. “We will dismantle our missiles in Cuba—”

He was interrupted by a chorus of reaction around the table, from gasps of surprise to cries of protest. He held up a hand for quiet.

“We will dismantle our missiles
in exchange
for a guarantee of what we have wanted all along. The Americans must promise not to invade Cuba.”

They took a few moments to digest this.

Natalya was the quickest to get it. “This is brilliant,” she said. “How can Kennedy refuse? He would be admitting his intention to invade a poor Third World country. He would be universally condemned for colonialism. And he would be proving our point that Cuba needs nuclear missiles to defend itself.” She was the smartest person at the table, as well as the prettiest.

Filipov said: “But if Kennedy accepts, we have to bring the missiles home.”

“They will no longer be necessary!” Natalya said. “The Cuban revolution will be safe.”

Dimka could see that Filipov wanted to argue against this but could not. Khrushchev had got the Soviet Union into a fix, but he had devised an honorable way out.