Rourke had used the microwave to make a hearty dinner that the children would like, there had been showers for Michael and Annie and then, both children weary, they had been put to bed.
Rourke stood beside his wife now, looking from the doorway at Annie, already asleep in Natalia’s room, who seemed somehow lost in the king-sized bed. Michael was sleeping as well. Paul and Natalia sat on the couch in the Great Room, Natalia changed to a gray turtleneck knit top and black skirt, Paul wearing blue jeans with his shirt out of his pants.
Rourke had showered—he wore clean clothes, but clothes identical to what he always wore—except that he was without stockings and wore rubber thongs on his feet. He considered all that as he watched Sarah—he was a bland personality. He had always known that. In the days of civilization, when he had worn suits or neckties, his suits had always been conservative, his sports coats serviceable. He had early on realized that silk knit ties wrinkled less, lasted longer and were more comfortable about the neck. He had, consequently, used three neckties, replacing them with identical ties as needed—one blue, one brown, one black—all silk, all made in Italy, all knit, all identical in length and width—tying one was like tying the other. When a tie was given to him as a gift at a speaking engagement, or by one of the children for a birthday or Christmas, he had been perfunctorily grateful and hung the ties in the closet to gather dust and never be worn.
It was his way.
Sarah wore clothes Natalia had practically insisted that she borrow. Rourke had provided blue jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters in his wife’s size in the stores for the Retreat, as well as underwear and track shoes and two pairs of combat boots. But Natalia had insisted Sarah would feel more at ease in more normal clothes. Rourke surveyed her, standing beside her—a pale blue blouse, a navy blue cardigan sweater—Sarah had complained the temperature in the Retreat seemed cold to her—and a blue A-line skirt. The skirt was longer than Sarah usually wore—but Natalia had always seemed more conscious of clothing than Rourke had ever found his wife to be. Incongruously, she wore a pair of the rubber thongs Rourke had stockpiled for her—black soled and not matching the rest of what she wore at all.
“What’s the matter?” Sarah asked him.
“Just looking at you—it’s good to be able to say that—just looking at you.”
“I suppose I can always let Natalia borrow one of the three dozen pairs of Levis you stored here for me.”
“I didn’t know what to buy for you—you’d never even come up here.”
“I’m not blaming you,” she smiled.
He nodded, feeling himself smile at her as he let out a long sigh. “What do you say I buy you a drink, huh?”
“All right,” and he watched the little dimples at the corners of her mouth deepen as she smiled up at him. “All right—I’d like that.”
“Thanks for trying so hard—I mean—”
“Natalia seems like a good person—and I like Paul. But Natalia’s in love with you—you know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re in love with her—”
“I—”
“I didn’t say you weren’t in love with me—I know you are. I knew that wouldn’t change. You love us both. And she knows that and so do I. Do you have any idea what’s going to happen—to the three of us?” She leaned her head against his right shoulder, Rourke holding her left hand.
“You’re my wife—and—”
“I know a lot about you, John—I always did. Sometimes, before The Night of The War, sometimes a friend would intimate that you were fooling around when you were away from me on those trips—”
“I never—”
“I always knew that—I never questioned it. Whatever happened between you and Natalia just happened—I guess that’s why I can’t be mad at her, either—”
“We, ahh—”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had—the children and I could have been dead. You looking for us like you did—finally finding us—that’s an act of love no one in her right mind could argue with—dispute.”
“I’ve told her this—and it’s true—this was just something,” he whispered, “something I didn’t prepare for—do you know—”
“I know,” and she leaned up to kiss him lightly on the mouth. “Natalia had that letter from her uncle that she wanted us to hear—and you promised me a drink—we can’t settle anything now,” and she squeezed his hand.
Rourke took her in his arms, kissing her hard on the mouth—he loved her. . . .
Rourke sipped at a glass of Seagram’s Seven and ice, Natalia, Sarah, and Paul drinking the same. Rourke smoked one of his thin, dark tobacco cigars, Natalia smoking a cigarette—he wondered, absently, what it would be like for her when she ran out.
Natalia sat on the couch between Paul and Sarah, Rourke sitting in the reclining chair that flanked the coffee table opposite the couch.
Natalia opened the envelope. “It is addressed to you, John— “
He nodded, leaning forward, taking the envelope, his fingers touching hers as he took it.
Rourke sipped again at his drink. He looked at Sarah, “Natalia’s uncle is General Ishmael Varakov, he’s the supreme commander for the Soviet Army of Occupation in North America—but he’s been straight with me the times I’ve had dealings with him—he’s the head of the bad guys, you might say,” and his eyes flickered to Natalia, watching the muscles at the corners of her blue eyes tighten slightly, “but an honorable man. He’s a soldier doing his job—a patriotic Russian—I can’t fault him for that.” And then Rourke looked at the letter. It was dated some four weeks earlier. He began to read, out loud.
“Doctor Rourke—
If you read this letter, Natalia, my niece, has arrived safely to your care. You may wonder that my English is so good—I spent many years in Egypt and in order to understand as much as I could, it was necessary to improve what English I already knew or master Arabic—the Egyptian variant, precisely. I had dealt with American and British officers during World War II and spoke English well enough to make myself understood—so I polished my English. I have sent Natalia to you not only for the reason which you suspect—that her position here deteriorates, as does mine. But another, more grave reason. You have heard, I’m sure, at least casual reference to something called The Eden Project— an American project done in cooperation with the NATO, SEATO, and Pan-American allies, but not with their full knowledge. It was a counter-measure to a post thermonuclear holocaust scenario, and this scenario is unfortunately coming to pass. When it transpires—very soon now—few if any living things will survive. What I offer to you, to the young Jew Rubenstein, and to your wife and children should you have located them by now, or find them still, is the slim hope of survival. It will in no way compromise your beliefs as a capitalist, nor my beliefs as a communist, if either dialectic can even matter. I offer this in exchange for your continued care of my niece, Natalia—like a daughter to me she has been all these years. I helped to raise her as the child of my dead brother and his wife, my brother a physician of great reknown, his wife a prima ballerina. I assume that you read this aloud to Natalia—if such is the case, help her to understand me when she learns this. For I had no brother at all, only two sisters who died during the early days of World War II. Natalia’s father was indeed a physician of some great reknown—”
Rourke looked up—Natalia was staring, saying nothing, her eyes fixed—
“… but a Jew. Her mother indeed was a ballerina—of the most incredible beauty and grace, her background Christian, and she was a practitioner of this religion despite the numerous injunctions of the State.”
Rourke looked at Natalia again—Rubenstein held her left hand in his right.
“… I was deeply in love with Natalia’s mother—her name was Natalia too. But I learned—the original Natalia was as honest and decent a woman as is my Natalia, my niece—that she had secretly married Dr. Carl Morovitch, the Jewish physician. Considering myself a gentleman, I withdrew. But it was some years after the War-World War II, that Morovitch, himself only half Jewish, his mother’s family name Tiemerov, spoke out against the oppression of Jews in the Soviet Union. I learned through my sources in GRU that his wife, Natalia, the woman I had loved, had departed the ballet before Morovitch’s rash actions, which, had she been associated with them, would have forced her expulsion. And that Natalia was pregnant. I learned also that the KGB was plotting against Morovitch. I endeavored to warn Morovitch and Natalia—I still loved her, and she knew that I did. But they could not escape because Natalia was due to deliver her child. The child was born, a girl, long-legged and skinny, but with eyes the most beautiful blue color I had ever seen—except for the eyes of her mother. It was the father of my dead chauffeur, Leon, who accompanied me that night to the home outside Moscow where Morovitch and Natalia and the newborn child were in hiding from the KGB. Leon’s father and I went there, because, through my GRU contacts, I knew the KGB was alert to their whereabouts. It was our intent—Leon’s father was as loyal to me as Leon himself was—to spirit them away and get them to Finland and then to Sweden where they would be safe. We arrived too late—”