The Florentine Entanglement, page 21
“We can chitchat after, Mishie. Right now, it is time we reacquaint ourselves after our long separation, understand?” He straightened and began unbuttoning his shirt. “So. Go wash that face and hurry back to me. Now, my lovely.”
And because she had never set a limit with him, had always done as he asked, she acceded, absent any consideration of how she wanted this reunion to proceed. Silently, she retreated to the bathroom, the naughty girl who’d blundered into her mother’s make-up. She felt nineteen again, when she’d first grown aware of the high cost of disappointing him. As she ran the washcloth over her face, she wondered if she could fit through the small window above the bathtub. She examined her scrubbed face, eyes full of alarm, fearing there was no clean exit from this path, both her work for the Soviets and pleasing Gilberto. She removed her clothes and slipped on her robe, obedient, always, to her older, wiser professor.
Gilberto perched on the side of the bed, eager, his clothes puddled on the floor. Nearing fifty now, she still found him beautiful, his compact body and trim stomach, the arms and shoulders muscled. But the look on his face, the set of his jaw, was not the same as she’d known in Florence. Silently, he pulled her to his lap—none of the seductive preliminaries, the modulated choreography that first drew her in. He took her in an ardent, urgent coupling, still seated upright, his forehead pressed against her chest, his hands gripping her hips. It was brief. He didn’t whisper her name, draw his tongue across her neck, caress the skin of her thighs and breast. Instead of the smooth elegance he’d used to court her, he was brusque and businesslike. When he was finished, he lay back on the bed, forcing her to rise off him and pull away. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, he waved a hand, kissed his fingertips, as if to say that was just the thing he’d wanted. Then he pronounced himself exhausted, moved beneath the covers, and closed his eyes.
She felt a rush of heat at his selfishness, his disregard of her, but she could not summon the words to object. It had always been this way between them. He set the terms, first in how she was to approach her art, then in the rhythm and interplay of their liaisons, and now, in the ways she was obligated to serve the Soviet state and the wider world. Her questions, her opinions, her preference, her needs—he had never asked her what she thought and over time, she had learned not to speak up. But in their years apart, she’d grown accustomed to being attended to, listened to, consulted. Not once had Talbot satisfied himself then pushed her off to retreat under the bedcovers. Talbot. Would he sense what she had done?
While Gilberto slept, she showered and dressed then called room service to request cocktails and dinner. He awoke refreshed and pleased to see sustenance before him, but asked that she call room service one more time to see if there were any Italian wines available. He was annoyed there were none, saying in the future, she might need to bring something with her, or they might book a different hotel.
“And when do you suppose that might be?” she asked.
“Every few months, we will meet to review operations and reacquaint ourselves,” he winked.
Midway through their meal, Cossutta rose to retrieve the package he’d left on the credenza. “This is for you to give Talbot. A briefcase, made by Cheney. Very exclusive. And we’ve customized it, shall we say. Inside is a very sensitive recorder, triggered by sound. It will transmit his conversations to Rémy’s tape machine next door.”
It was a step beyond what Eleanor wanted to do. “He rarely carries a briefcase,” she said, waving a hand. “There are very few documents Tal can take out of the office.”
“So then, he will leave it in his office at home and it will pick up chats he has with colleagues who come to your house—to supplement what we get through the wiretap. You can bring them to me when you come.”
“Gilberto, I can only take so many shopping trips to New York before it draws attention.”
“You’ll arrange weekends with these college girlfriends we’ve invented and insist on museum trips as the artist you once aspired to be. Talbot won’t begrudge you that. We can also line your travel up with his so he’ll have no idea how often you’re away. We have detected no surveillance on you or on Rémy because the Americans—unlike the Soviets—are lazy and stupid.” He laughed. “So very stupid. I’m sure you have seen this for yourself. Their devotion to money and comfort makes them too undisciplined to ensure their citizens are behaving properly. But that is all to the good for us, no? A government so loosely constructed—so careless—cannot possibly survive. All your work contributes to the undoing.”
“I’m just saying it would be disruptive for me—for my life—to come to New York that often. I have a job now and taking time off work, putting off plans with our friends—someone might notice.”
“Disruptive for your life you say?” he said sharply. “I’ll remind you that your life is what we direct you to do. Has anyone ever commented about your movements? Your travel? Approached you?”
“Approached? No. Of course not.” She took a long pull of her water glass, not wanting to meet his eyes. “You’re right, Gilberto, they don’t pay attention to ordinary people here. What am I thinking? When I’ve been walking along the mall, where the museums are, or sitting in Rock Creek Park, DC police have zipped past on their bicycles without a look—more times than I can count. Same in Arlington when Rémy and I have our lunches. And there was the one time,” she paused, giving a little laugh, “and you may know about this, when I’d taken photos of a group Tal had over for drinks. I was instructed to take the film to the Soviet Embassy inside a copy of Anna Karenina. I told the library I was looking for verification that it was a signed first edition. Of course it wasn’t. But no one—not Talbot, none of my colleagues at the library—questioned it. This freedom of movement—just going about unchecked—is a stunning thing. A different world, to be sure.”
Her attempt to appease him, to assure him her perspective aligned with his, had failed. Cossutta’s eyes clouded. He placed an elbow on the table, chin in hand, a plume from his cigarette circling above him. “Those we work for would not appreciate hearing your praise for this ‘freedom of movement,’ Mishie.”
Eleanor swallowed hard then started to speak. He waved her off, the small shake of his head silencing her.
“Indeed, it is a different world. But remember: it is not better. It will not last. In the Soviet Union, there is proper vigilance, scrutiny, most certainly of foreigners and their families. We know who they meet with, how they spend their time. Here, chaos rules, with all these freedoms, all these opinions, and that will rot this country from the inside out. You understand that, no?”
“I do,” she lied.
“Ah. Good. See that you remember that, remember who you are, and what you’re here to do. Because if you don’t, we will pull you out. Send you home. That’s it. Your erstwhile husband could meet an unhappy end, too. Depends.”
She gave an uncertain nod and resumed eating her dinner.
Cossutta reached for the wine bottle then pointed at her with his free hand.
“Why do you insist on doing that?” he asked.
“What? Eating? Drinking? I’m enjoying my meal. With you. What am I doing?”
“Holding your fork in your right hand like an American. So…pretentious.”
“Gilberto,” she sputtered, “it’s…it’s…how I eat now. This is not to show off or make a point. I can’t very well switch back and forth. For God’s sakes, it’s part of my cover.”
“No need to overreact. It’s just off-putting, is all. Like you’ve forgotten who you are.”
“My life depends on my forgetting,” she said. “We did a lot of hard work so I could present myself as an educated American woman. So that’s all I’m doing. That’s it.”
“As you say. So. We have one more matter of business today. An issue that has concerned me that is, thankfully, easily resolved.”
Now is the time, Eleanor thought, to see if she could open the door, at least plant a seed. “Can we discuss the future of my work?”
He shook his head. “Not that. Your fertility. You no longer need it. In fact, it presents problems.”
Eleanor’s heartbeat accelerated. “What do you mean? That you don’t want me having children? We never discussed this…”
“Two issues, Mishie. One, you cannot afford to get pregnant and deliver a black haired baby built like me—not with your tall, athletic American husband. But more than that, there is too much at stake to risk your becoming pregnant at all. Next time you’re here, we will take care of it.”
“I’ve been reading. They are working on pills.”
“Not pills, my dear. A hysterectomy. No point in taking any chances.”
. . .
He insisted on a second interlude with her and she cooperated, knowing there was no distracting him when he wanted her, no pleading fatigue. After, he pulled her into the shower with him, dragging a washcloth between her legs as if to make up for his lack of consideration earlier. Rather than arouse her, it merely irritated the soft skin of her thighs. They returned to the bed, where he announced that a back rub would help him relax and within a few minutes, he fell into a deep sleep. His snores helped muffle her sobs. Eleanor lay still, facing away from him, sheet pressed to her face to catch her tears, a fist at her mouth. She had always imagined herself a mother, but here was yet another thing she would be made to relinquish. Would her own mother have agreed to this? She wished she could speak to her—that she had a single person in her life she could trust who could advise her what to do. Given Cossutta’s threat to send her away or even harm Talbot, she believed she had no choice but to cooperate.
Sunday night, Eleanor returned to Washington with the beautiful new briefcase. When she presented it to Talbot, the pleased look on his face, his effusive gratitude, nearly broke her. She knew now that she was a danger to him, and resolved to do whatever she had to, to protect them both.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
1951
New York, NY/Arlington, VA
Nine months later, while Talbot was on an extended trip to London, Eleanor boarded the train for New York a second time, heading to a hotel in the Bronx to meet Cossutta, close to Little Italy where Italian wines were plentiful and cheap. After a restless night, Eleanor awoke to find a chipper Cossutta, urging her into the shower, reminding her not to wear a speck of make-up, forbidding her even coffee before her appointment. In the cab ride to the surgical center, he reminded her not to open her mouth in front of the medical staff.
As she sat in the exam room, a thin sheet clutched awkwardly around her naked body, he explained that this was his niece, mildly retarded but sexually active. He had promised her mother, now deceased, that he would take care of her, make sure the boys she allowed to take advantage of her didn’t impregnate her. The staff agreed this was the right thing to do; in fact, it was something they were asked to do all the time.
When Eleanor swam up from the anesthesia, pain sliced across her middle. As she remembered where she was, a deeper, unrelenting pain swelled within her soul. A day later, Cossutta came to retrieve her, ignoring the protests of nurses who insisted the patient needed at least a week’s convalescence in the facility. He said he had to take her home because her younger siblings needed him, too. He couldn’t manage their needs with her across town in the hospital. Reluctantly, they let her leave, the uncle listening earnestly to every scrap of post-op instructions they offered, promising he would do his utmost to ensure she recovered fully.
Laid out on the bed in the hotel, she endured a difficult week, Cossutta having to get a hold of more penicillin once her incision turned red and angry and began to ooze. She vomited repeatedly, eventually realizing it was a reaction to the painkillers she’d been prescribed. Cossutta made another call and got her some promethazine, which stopped her vomiting but sent her into an immediate dreamless sleep. Each time she awoke, her torso still felt like it was on fire, as she only had aspirin, now, to address the deep gash in muscle and tissue. But uneasy with the blocks of time she lost on the promethazine, she began to drop the pills Cossutta gave her into tissues, which she then gathered and stuffed into her pocketbook. Holding onto multiple doses of the sedative gave her some kind of insurance, she thought, if things truly became intolerable.
. . .
His trip overseas concluded, Talbot was surprised to arrive home to an empty house, the change in time zones and the several glasses of bourbon on his empty stomach making him especially irritable. When he saw Eleanor step from the taxi, pale and unsteady, it alarmed him: had she contracted the flu or worse during his week away? She had been unprepared to see him when he opened the front door, dropping her tote as she reached for him, the afghan she had clutched around her for the past five days spilling out into the foyer. He pressed her to explain what was wrong, where she had been, when she had fallen ill. Why hadn’t she asked the office to locate him? He would have rushed home, he said. She responded in an unfamiliar, hollow voice, recounting the terrible conclusion she’d just learned from the doctor that she was sterile. She said she had just come from his office and only just found out. So what he was seeing wasn’t physical illness, she insisted, but emotional pain.
As he grew more animated, eager to solve this for her, for them, to find another way, she nearly wept. His kindness. His heartbreak. His belief in her. His wish to find an answer that would restore her hope. But she knew she now must make herself immune to his reassurance, immune to Talbot himself, with his easy charm, his persistent interest in her. She didn’t want a second opinion, she said, and she didn’t want to adopt. And inside her head, spun a whirl of realizations, about how she’d have to maneuver around the scar now—make love to him in darkness, change clothes when she was sure he wouldn’t walk in on her. She and Talbot would never be the same; rather, the Eleanor she had created and Talbot—would never be the same. She had a dance to do, keeping her distance, but still keeping him on a string. She needed him to do her job, to fulfill the obligation to Cossutta, to keep herself in place and Talbot safe. To stay in the home she’d grown to love, keep her job at the library, preserve friendships she’d made—even if they were mostly false and based on lies—to hang on to this stilted independence she had found.
Sunday morning, Talbot said he felt like church might do him some good under the circumstances. Eleanor was still in bed, the Sunday paper in her lap, feeling incrementally better but not completely herself.
“I understand if you’re not up to going,” he said, moving towards the bathroom to shower. “It’s been a tough few days.”
“If I stay home, every woman in the Ladies’ Auxiliary will call this afternoon and poke around to find out why.”
“This is true. It could work out for us, though, Ellie. If I say you’re under the weather, we’ll have a half-dozen casseroles here by dinnertime. Maybe cookies too.”
She laughed, eyes rolling heavenward as if she were weighing the enticement of homemade cookies against spending the afternoon answering the phone.
“I’ll come,” she said, casting the covers aside.
“Do you want to shower first? Or,” he snapped his towel in her direction, “we could save water and do it together.”
She claimed to need more coffee, urging him to go ahead.
When she announced herself ready to go, Talbot commented on the raw silk sheath that hung loosely over her slim body—so different from the skirts and tops and belted dresses she usually wore.
. . .
After the usual preliminaries—the hymns, the announcements, the anthem—Reverend Grant climbed into the pulpit to read the Gospel.
“From Matthew,” he began. “‘Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.’
“Now, were I to ask who our enemy is, our collective enemy, I imagine most of you—most of official Washington for that matter—would say the Soviets. This verse tells us that the only way out of the anxiety we’re all living under isn’t building more missiles or more nuclear weapons or radiation shelters. It’s love. Prayer. ‘Doing good to them that hate you.’ As we sit here under the nuclear shadow—our new bomb shelter is even now under construction in the basement—I wonder: how might our world transform if we loved our enemy?”
Eleanor wrestled with his argument in her mind, realizing that despite her upbringing, despite Cossutta’s indoctrination, she no longer had a clear picture of who her enemy was, who it was who deserved her prayers and love and consideration.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Friday, June 24, 1960
The Bronx, NY
“So, Mishie, despite your grousing, you are not in peril. There are any number of directions we can take you should you need to disappear.” Cossutta reached for another piece of garlic bread. “Kirov, perhaps? It is pleasant enough. The weather may not be as comfortable as Washington, but it’s come a long way in the twenty years since you were home.”
“There is no home to return to now, Gilberto. You know that. My father has been dead ten years, and I assume mother is still in the home for the aged in Gorky—unless you have new information. My brothers and sisters are scattered. But sure. We can keep Kirov on the list.”
She picked at her veal parmigiana, nodding and smiling at Cossutta’s small talk, her mind working. What sort of person might she have become had she stayed in Kirov or returned there once the war began? With her mother’s influence, her worldview might have turned out much the same. But she would not have had this man regulating her every thought and action.
