Amerika (8 page)

Kimberly looked at him, his words sinking in, “I’m going to do Robert’s satire.”

Andrei shook his head, looking more like a father dealing with a willful teenager than a man speaking to his lover. “You do this, it is at your own risk.”

She turned angrily and headed toward the door.

“Kimberly. I am not free to do anything I want, the way I want. I have superiors to whom I must answer. I am surrounded by spies and informers—both American and Soviet. There are old men in the Kremlin who have always been, and still are, suspicious of our entire plan of occupation. They would feel much more comfortable with America crushed by an iron fist. And they may yet do it.”

She watched him a moment, then walked out the door. Andrei turned back to his desk.

Peter Bradford sighed as he stopped the Wagoneer in his driveway and saw the Harley. He promised himself he’d be civil to Justin, if only out of respect for the Milfords. But as a father he couldn’t be expected to approve of this romance. Justin had no future; it was that simple. Maybe he’d gotten a raw deal because of Devin, but the local PPP would never give him a college recommendation, or a travel permit, or an employment certification. Justin was left with few options: a laborer’s job, if he were lucky, jail or exile if he continued his “antisocial” behavior.

Peter got out of his car and headed for the back door just as Jacqueline and Justin came through the front door. “Hi Justin. Where are you guys going?”

“Out for a ride,” Justin answered.

“You got gas?”

“Sure, com gas,” Justin replied, smiling. “Borrowed from the tractor.”

Peter looked at Ms daughter, who kept her face slightly averted from him. “Honey, can I speak to you for a minute?”

“What for?” Her eyes were still red from crying after her disappointment that afternoon at the dance tryouts. “Just come here, please. Excuse us, Justin,”

“Sure.” He shrugged, watching Jackie. She followed her father back into the house and then stopped at the door, remaining a dozen feet behind him. Peter realized instantly that she would come no closer.

“Where are you going?”

“We told you. Out. For a ride.”

“I don’t like you going out with Mm.”

“Really? I’d never guess. You’re so subtle.”

“Look, Jackie. He’s a loser. And you’re not. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I like Mm. His father works for you.”

“And I can tell you that boy is no source of pride to the Milfords.”

“Well, that’s what’s important, all right,” she snapped, and headed for the door.

He did not want to fight. “Look, your mom and I have to go to Omaha. I don’t want you out after curfew.”

She turned to look at him, tears in her eyes. “God, Daddy, you don’t understand anything.” She raced from the house and moments later he heard the roar of H the motorcycle. Peter shook Ms head, wondering what he had done wrong.

An hour later, Peter, in his best suit and tie, and Arnanda, dressed in a simple blue evening gown, were speeding along the freeway toward Omaha. They had an armed escort, two UNSSU motorcyclists, their red lights flasMng. The lights blotted the stars out of the vast midwestem sky.

“These escorts make me feel like a fool,” Peter grumbled.

“Worse yet, they make you look like the enemy.”

“Thanks.”

“I gather you had words with Jackie and Justin when they left.”

“She knows how I feel about that boy.”

“Did you ask Jackie how her day went?”

“I didn’t have time. Why, something special?” “Tryouts for the district company.”

“Damn, I forgot. How’d it go?”

“She was rejected.”

“Somebody beat her out?”

“Yes, the bitches who were doing the judging.” “Why?”

“She was too good. Too original. Too individual.” She laughed darkly. “Ail the things we taught her to

be.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means the judges denounced modem dance. They want the Bolshoi in Nebraska. Politically acceptable ballet. You know what one of them had the nerve to say to me? ‘Sometimes cooperation is more important than talent.’ ”

“Somebody actually told her that?”

“They told me. But we know ail about cooperation, don’t we?” she said bitterly.

“That’s not fair.”

“Jackie losing isn’t fair. I watched it. She was amazing.”

“Maybe I can look into it.”

“You’d better do a damned sight more than just look into it. She’s our daughter and she deserves to have a chance.”

“Everybody feels that way.”

“I don’t care. Everybody’s not as good as she is.”

“Settle down,” he said quietly. “I know you’re upset...”

“Look, Peter. I understand why I have to stand in line for tomatoes, and why Scott has to sneak extra meat from the training table when you could have practically anything you wanted delivered to the back door, but this is different. This is your daughter’s life and I don’t know whether it’ll be worth a damn—but she has a right. . . not to be penalized for being good.”

“You don’t think I love her as much as you do?”

Amanda looked out into the darkness at the emptiness of the barren fields and deserted highway. “I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes I think what you love most is some idea of what’s fair you carry around in your head.”

“None of this is fair. We have to hang on to what we believe in.”

Amanda realized that she had gone too far. She saw the hurt on Peter’s face and regretted having caused it. She took his hand, not wanting the evening to be lost. “I believe in my daughter. I believe in you—maybe sometimes I even believe in myself. That’s all I believe in.”

Peter squeezed her hand. She took his arm and put it around her shoulders, sliding across the seat next to him like a teenager. She put her head on his shoulder.

The car, with its motorcycle escort, disappeared into the night.

Justin, with Jackie hanging on behind him, piloted the old Harley along a moonlit, tree-flanked country road. He kept his lights off. He knew the way, and at the proper moment he steered across a field to an abandoned barn that loomed dark and ominous against the moon-bright, snowy fields. He turned off the engine and a heavy blast of rock music, forbidden by the authorities, rang out in the sudden quiet.

“You sure you still want to go?” he asked. “Omaha’s rough and gettin’ there is dangerous.”

“Good,” she said.

“Jackie, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I won’t get hurt.”

She wondered if he understood how her life had changed that day, when those judges had rejected her dance, had shattered her dream. She looked at Justin, touched by his concern, and somehow felt older than he, wiser, ready for whatever came.

Justin shrugged and pulled his goggles off. “Okay, then let’s party.”

They hurried into the bam and were greeted by about a dozen teenagers. Lanterns cast long, eerie shadows across a floor still strewn with hay. Couples danced amid the bales as bottles of homemade wine circulated along with homegrown joints. Jackie took a swig of the wine and, when a joint made its way to her, considered taking a hit.

Justin pulled her close. “Hey, you don’t do that stuff, remember?” She looked at him defiantly, then laughed. “Just take it easy,” he said. “It’ll be a long night.”

“Not long enough for me,” she said.

Andrei arranged to receive Marion Andrews in Ms office while Kimberly was still dressing. The three of them would take the flight together, but he knew that Marion would expect time alone with him. He didn’t mind; he thought she was one of the most interesting American women he had met. She had become a powerful political figure in the PPP stronghold of Chicago, and she was also Petya Samanov’s mistress— an intoxicating combination.

Marion swept in, elegant as always in a blur of French perfume, pale blue silk, and glowing pearls. “Marion, you look stunning,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Petya sends Ms love.”

“I’m jealous. You saw Mm today, and I haven’t been with him in two weeks.”

“He plans to rectify that situation very soon,” Andrei said. “Can I fix you a dr
ink
?”

“No, thank you. We have a long night ahead.”

“As you wish,” said Andrei. “But tell me what is on your mind.”

“I hate to trouble you with what may seem a personal matter.”

Andrei sat beside her on the sofa. “I understand from Mikel that your former husband has been released and you are concerned for your safety and that of your sons.”

Her eyes darted quickly to meet Andrei’s stare. “I don’t know why they paroled him,” she said bitterly.

“I imagine he’s rehabilitated,” he said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have been released.”

“He could be dangerous. He should never have been freed. Maybe there was a bureaucratic error,” she continued.

“I understand you have police protection.”

“Yes. But that’s not enough. I want assurance that he never leaves Milford County.”

Andrei nodded. “I’ve given tMs some thought, Marion. You know Peter Bradford, the Milford County administrator?”

“Of course I do. He was Devin’s best friend—they were in Vietnam together. I haven’t seen Mm in years.”

“Is he a man you would trust?”

She gave the question a moment’s thought. “Yes. He’s an effective administrator.” She paused for a moment. “He’s not a stooge, if that’s what you mean.” “I’m going to meet him tonight at the Omaha dinner. Maybe he would find it in his interest to look after your husband. I’ll make it clear that certain bureaucratic plums he wants for this county depend on his satisfying me on this matter.”

Marion smiled for the first time that evening. “Thank you, Andrei.”

“Tell me more about Peter Bradford,” he said. “He’s not particularly imaginative or ambitious politically. People like him. I imagine he is a good county administrator.”

“Excellent. He’s emerged as a dark-horse candidate for governor-general of the entire five-state Central Administrative Area. The Heartland, as it will soon be called.”

“You know the party advisory committee supports Governor Smith of Missouri.”

“The wonderful thing about advisory committees is that you can always tell them what to advise.”

Marion nodded. “He’s not dangerous like Devin, there’s nothing visionary about him. But there’s this streak of midwestem stubbornness in him. You might regret such an appointment.”

“The question is, can a man serve two masters? Could Peter Bradford, a patriotic American, serve our interests and those of his own people too?”

She smiled icily. “That depends on who defines those interests.”

Andrei looked at Ms watch. “Kimberly should be here soon. The plane is waiting.”

“Oh, you’re still seeing your actress?”

“Yes.”

“Appearance and illusion.”

“Beauty and soul,” he countered.

“Instability.”

“Madness.”

Marion laughed. “Yes. I forgot. With you that would be a virtue.”

Kimberly arrived, and walked into their conversation. She was dressed elegantly in a low-cut, black sequined gown. “I’m not interrupting, am I?” She kissed Andrei. He breathed deeply against her hair, which gave off a scent of hothouse orchids.

“Not at all.” Marion rose from the couch. “You look beautiful.”

“I’ll second that,” Andrei said, moving toward the door. “Ladies, shall we?”

The gilt and red plush ballroom of Omaha’s Riverfront Hotel was packed with several hundred middle-aged county administrators and their spouses. Streamers and balloons adorned the huge room, and, above the speaker’s platform, a giant U.S.-UN-USSR flag hung limp amid blue clouds of cigar smoke.

Kimberly, backed by a twelve-piece band, was singing “Younger Than Springtime.” The music, and the women’s gowns—carefully preserved, most of them, from pre-Transition days, and vaguely brittle—created a kind of time warp, as if the Forties or Fifties had somehow returned. Peter and Amanda were among the dancers, Amanda humming along with the music, eyes closed.

“Reminds me of the senior prom,” Peter said. “Wanna neck?” Peter spun Amanda around expertly. She laughed, her tension melting away. “Glad you came?”

“Sure, but what’s it all about?”

“Coordination. Regional unity. All that good stuff.” “What was the call from Chicago about?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Chicago calls for nothing?”

“Well, we’ve had a good production record, and I may get some award or something.”

“My hero.”

Kimberly concluded her medley with “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right out of My Hair.” “Let’s go outside,” Amanda said, taking Peter’s hand.

He guided her onto a terrace that overlooked the Missouri River; mist rose lazily from the placid water.

“Do you remember,” asked Amanda, “when we were first going out, you used to hold your breath during a kiss. I always expected you to suddenly turn blue and keel over.”