Winter of the World

The Rouzrokh house was less than a mile away and Woody walked there. None of the Rouzrokhs would be at the Yacht Club tonight. Dave had been all over the papers after a mysterious incident at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Washington. A typical headline had read: CINEMA MOGUL ACCUSED BY STARLET. Woody had recently learned to mistrust newspapers. However, gullible people said there must be something in it, otherwise why would the police have arrested Dave?

None of the family had been seen at any social event since.

Outside the house an armed guard stopped Woody. ‘The family aren’t seeing callers,’ he said brusquely.

Woody guessed the man had spent a lot of time repelling reporters, and he forgave the discourteous tone. He recalled the name of the Rouzrokhs’ maid. ‘Please ask Miss Estella to tell Joanne that Woody Dewar has a book for her.’

‘You can leave it with me,’ said the guard, holding out his hand.

Woody held on firmly to the book. ‘Thanks, but no.’

The guard looked annoyed, but he walked Woody up the drive and rang the doorbell. Estella opened it and said at once: ‘Hello, Mr Woody, come in – Joanne will be so glad to see you!’ Woody permitted himself a triumphant glance at the guard as he stepped inside.

Estella showed him into an empty drawing room. She offered him milk and cookies, as if he were still a kid, and he declined politely. Joanne came in a minute later. Her face was drawn and her olive skin looked washed-out, but she smiled pleasantly at him and sat down to chat.

She was pleased with the book. ‘Now I’ll have to read Dr Freud instead of just gabbing about him,’ she said. ‘You’re a good influence on me, Woody.’

‘I wish I could be a bad influence.’

She let that pass. ‘Aren’t you going to the ball?’

‘I have a ticket but if you’re not there I’m not interested. Would you like to go to a movie instead?’

‘No, thanks, really.’

‘Or we could just get dinner. Somewhere really quiet. If you don’t mind taking the bus.’

‘Oh, Woody, of course I don’t mind the bus, but you’re too young for me. Anyway, the summer’s almost over. You’ll be back at school soon, and I’m going to Vassar.’

‘Where you’ll go on dates, I guess.’

‘I sure hope so!’

Woody stood up. ‘Okay, well, I’m going to take a vow of celibacy and enter a monastery. Please don’t come and visit me, you’ll distract the other brethren.’

She laughed. ‘Thank you for taking my mind off my family’s troubles.’

It was the first time she had mentioned what had happened to her father. He had not been planning to raise the subject but, now that she had, he said: ‘You know we’re all on your side. Nobody believes that actress’s story. Everyone in town realizes it was a set-up by that swine Lev Peshkov, and we’re furious about it.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But the accusation alone is too shameful for my father to bear. I think my parents are going to move to Florida.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you. Now go to the ball.’

‘Maybe I will.’

She walked him to the door.

‘May I kiss you goodbye?’ he said.

She leaned forward and kissed his lips. This was not like the last kiss, and he knew instinctively not to grab her and press his mouth to hers. It was a gentle kiss, her lips on his for a sweet moment that was over in a breath. Then she pulled away and opened the front door.

‘Goodnight,’ Woody said as he stepped out.

‘Goodbye,’ said Joanne.

(viii)

Greg Peshkov was in love.

He knew that Jacky Jakes had been bought for him by his father, as his reward for helping to entrap Dave Rouzrokh, but despite that it was real love.

He had lost his virginity a few minutes after they had returned from the precinct house, and the two of them had then spent most of a week in bed at the Ritz-Carlton. Greg did not need to use birth control, she told him, because she was already ‘fixed up’. He had only the vaguest idea what that meant, but he took her at her word.

He had never been so happy in his life, and he adored her, especially when she dropped the little-girl act and revealed a shrewd intelligence and a mordant sense of humour. She admitted that she had seduced Greg on his father’s orders, but confessed that against her will she had fallen in love. Her real name was Mabel Jakes and, although she pretended to be nineteen, she was in fact just sixteen, only a few months older than Greg.

Lev had promised her a part in a movie but, he said, he was still looking for just the right role. In a perfect imitation of Lev’s vestigial Russian accent she said: ‘But I don’t guess he’s lookin’ too fuckin’ hard.’

‘I guess there aren’t many parts written for Negro actors,’ Greg said.

‘I know, I’ll end up playing the maid, rolling my eyes and saying “Lawdy”. There are Africans in plays and films – Cleopatra, Hannibal, Othello – but they’re usually played by white actors.’ Her father, now dead, had been a professor in a Negro college, and she knew more about literature than Greg did. ‘Anyway, why should Negroes only play black people? If Cleopatra can be played by a white actress, why can’t Juliet be black?’