Читать книгу An Affair of State - Harry Hart Frank - Страница 21

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It was eight that night when Gerald Matson drove to his Alexandria home. For two weeks he had been working late in the Department, for Count Igor Lewenski, his wife’s younger brother, was their house guest. The Count’s dress shop had failed, and his perfume establishment had failed, and Matson knew he would be wanting capital to start another business. Matson was fending off the inevitable moment when money would be discussed. Whenever they discussed money, it ended with his having less, and the Count more, or at least some.

After coffee Matson remarked that it had been a long time since they had been to a movie, and Bob Hope was playing in Alexandria. He was aware that the Count professed to scorn American comedy, on the grounds that it was not understandable.

The Count, who had his sister’s sad eyes, and who for twenty years had defended himself against the ways of this strange land by an air of bewilderment and surprise, as if he had just passed Ellis Island, saw his opportunity. “I hear there is much money in Hollywood—much.”

“When did you learn that?” Matson said.

“I hear it. It is said that there is more money in Hollywood than there is in New York. I was told that if I had opened my salon in Hollywood I would have been a huge success. In Hollywood they have respect for blood and ancestry.”

Matson made a rude noise with his thin lips.

“Gerald!” his wife said. “Let Iggy say what he has to say! I think he has a very good idea.”

“Yes,” the Count said. “It came to me last night when I heard the government has ordered there should be anti-Bolshevist pictures.”

“The government didn’t do any such thing,” said Matson. “Some Congressman merely suggested it. The government can’t order movies made.”

The Count shrugged. “When anti-Bolshevist pictures are made they will need technical advice. I will be there. It will be a great chance to make money and inform everyone about the Bolsheviks too.”

“Meanwhile,” said the Countess, “Iggy can open a dress shop. He will no doubt meet influential people. When they need technical advice he will be available. I think it’s a remarkable idea.”

“Yes,” said the Count, “it will be a double opportunity.”

“Iggy doesn’t want another loan,” said the Countess. “He just wants you to make an investment.”

Matson knew he was trapped, yet he continued to struggle. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow. I’m tired. They keep unloading pacifists on me. It’s disheartening.” He could always distract his wife with Department shop talk.

“Pacifists!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, pacifists.” He told them about Jeff Baker, and how he had tried, unsuccessfully, to keep this dreamer out of the Department, and then out of Europe, and finally out of his own Division.

“Sometimes,” said the Count, “it is apparent this government is crazy—insane. How this country ever became the leader among the nations is to me utterly incredible.”

“And if he goes to Budapest he will work on the Atlantis Project?” said Anya.

“He might.” Anya was still beautiful, and an imaginative and popular hostess, and she had been a great help to him in his career, but sometimes he wished she would not speak so carelessly of secret matters.

“What is this Atlantis Project?” asked Iggy.

“I don’t think it should be discussed here, Anya,” Matson said.

“Now, Gerald, don’t be ridiculous. Iggy is one of the family, and anyway he’d be the last person in the world to mention it. I think it would be much safer to tell Iggy than have men like this Baker know about it, and perhaps even get into it.”

“I don’t want it discussed!” Matson said. He decanted a thimbleful of brandy into one of his King Alexander glasses.

“Don’t you trust me?” the Count asked. “Me, your own brother-in-law—me, a man who is a victim of the Bolsheviks?”

“Gerald, you’re so silly,” Anya said. She talked on, and before Matson could stop her she had said, “I think it’s the most wonderful idea, to build another underground.”

“Shut up!” Matson yelled.

“Come, come,” said the Count. “No quarreling. I don’t wish to know your secrets, Gerald, if you do not trust me.” He poured brandy to the rim of his glass. “I drink to the downfall of the Bolsheviks!”

“To their end,” Matson said mechanically, and raised his own glass. It had to come sooner or later, and it was his judgment that the sooner it came the better. It should come before the Reds had atom bombs. To the war! The war would end this constant rasping of his nerves, his worry over money and his future in the Department. The war would eliminate the radicals and emasculate the unions and placate his brothers. The war would give jobs to his in-laws, and eventually send them back to their estates in Russia. For Matson, the war would mean peace.