Fall of Giants

“So nouveau riche.”

“I suppose we were nouveau riche once, weren’t we? Perhaps when your grandfather opened his store?”

“I find it tiresome when you talk like a socialist, Angus, even though I know you don’t mean it.” She sipped her drink. “Mm, this is perfect.”

He took a deep breath. “Mother, would you do something for me?”

“Of course, dear, if I can.”

“You won’t like it.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to invite Mrs. Vyalov to tea.”

His mother put her drink down slowly and carefully. “I see,” she said.

“Aren’t you going to ask why?”

“I know why,” she said. “There is only one possible reason. I have met the ravishingly pretty daughter.”

“You’re not to be cross. Vyalov is a leading man in this city, and very wealthy. And Olga is an angel.”

“Or, if not an angel, at least a Christian.”

“The Vyalovs are Russian Orthodox,” Gus said. Might as well get all the bad news on the table, he thought. “They go to the Church of Saints Peter and Paul on Ideal Street.” The Dewars were Episcopalians.

“But not Jewish, thank God.” Mother had once feared that Gus might marry Rachel Abramov, whom he had liked enormously but never loved. “And I suppose we can be grateful that Olga is not a fortune hunter.”

“Indeed not. I should think Vyalov must be richer than Father.”

“I’m sure I have no idea.” Women such as Ursula were not supposed to know about money. Gus suspected they knew the net worth of their own and each others’ husbands to the nearest dime, but they had to pretend ignorance.

She was not as cross as he had feared. “So you’ll do it?” he said with trepidation.

“Of course. I’ll send Mrs. Vyalov a note.”

Gus felt elated, but a new fear struck him. “Mind you, you’re not to invite your snobbish friends to make Mrs. Vyalov feel inferior.”

“I have no snobbish friends.”

That remark was too ludicrous even to be acknowledged. “Ask Mrs. Fischer, she’s amiable. And Aunt Gertrude.”

“Very well.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Gus felt great relief, as if he had survived an ordeal. “I know Olga is not the bride you may have dreamed of for me, but I feel sure you’re going to become very fond of her in no time at all.”

“My dear son, you’re almost twenty-six years old. Five years ago I might have tried to talk you out of marriage to the daughter of a shady businessman. But lately I have been wondering if I’m ever to have grandchildren. If at this point you announced that you wanted to marry a divorced Polish waitress I fear my first concern might be whether she were young enough to bear children.”

“Don’t jump the gun-Olga hasn’t agreed to marry me. I haven’t even asked her.”

“How could she resist you?” She stood up and kissed him. “Now make me another drink.”

{V}

“You saved my life!” Olga said to Lev. “Father would have killed me.”

Lev grinned. “I saw him coming. I had to act fast.”

“I’m so grateful,” Olga said, and she kissed his lips.

He was startled. She pulled away before he could take advantage, but he felt himself to be on a completely different footing with her immediately. He looked nervously around the garage, but they were alone.

She took out a pack of cigarettes and put one in her mouth. He lit it, copying what Gus Dewar had done yesterday. It was an intimate gesture, obliging the woman to dip her head and allowing the man to stare at her lips. It felt romantic.

She leaned back in the seat of the Packard and blew out smoke. Lev got into the car and sat beside her. She made no objection. He lit a cigarette for himself. They sat for a while in the half dark, their smoke mingling with the smells of oil and leather and a flowery perfume Olga was wearing.

To break the silence, Lev said: “I hope you enjoyed your tennis party.”

She sighed. “All the boys in this town are frightened of my father,” she said. “They think he’ll shoot them if they kiss me.”

“Will he shoot them?”

She laughed. “Probably.”

“I’m not afraid of him.” This was near to the truth. Lev was not really unafraid, he just ignored his fears, always hoping he could talk his way out of trouble.

But she looked skeptical. “Really?”

“That’s why he hired me.” This, too, was only one step removed from reality. “Ask him.”

“I might do that.”

“Gus Dewar really likes you.”

“My father would love it if I married him.”

“Why?”

“He’s rich, his family are old Buffalo aristocracy, and his father is a senator.”

“Do you always do what your pa wants?”

She drew thoughtfully on her cigarette. “Yes,” she said, and blew out smoke.

Lev said: “I love to watch your lips when you smoke.”

She made no reply, but gave him a speculative look.

That was invitation enough for Lev, and he kissed her.

She gave a little moan at the back of her throat, and pushed feebly at his chest with her hand, but neither protest was serious. He tossed his cigarette out of the car and put his hand on her breast. She grasped his wrist, as if to shove his hand away, then instead pressed it harder against her soft flesh.