“Anyway,” Ruth said, “last night Sasha tried to stick up for Stalin and got his intellect all tied up in knots. This treaty’s put him in a real pickle.”
“What treaty?” Iris asked
“The Molotov treaty. Don’t you read the newspapers? Nazis and Soviets in bed together. It goes against everything, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Sasha snapped.
“You see what I mean?”
“Aw, lay off him, Ruth,” Harry said from the floor. “Everybody was a Communist in college. You grow out of it, that’s all.”
“But has he grown out of it? That’s the question.”
“You’re deliberately misrepresenting me,” said Sasha. “All I said was that capitalism has its problems, that’s obvious, and at least the Soviet system shows a way forward.”
“Yes, a shining way forward, all us good little workers marching in lockstep, dressed alike and thinking alike. If you ask me, communism and fascism aren’t all that far apart.”
“You’re wrong. They couldn’t be further apart.”
“They’re coming at tyranny from different angles, that’s all. But you both end up in the same place.”
Iris looked at Sasha’s pink, angry face. He opened his mouth, glanced at Harry, and stuffed a cigarette between his lips instead.
“I think communism sounds very noble,” Iris said. “I don’t think it’s wrong to have ideals.”
“Of course not. You can make a beautiful argument for communism, right until you put it into practice and end up with bolshevism.” Ruth crossed her ankles—she’d toed off her shoes long ago—and admired her long, elegant feet. “How many heretics has Stalin purged this year, Sasha?”
Sasha stood up and stalked to the kitchen.
“You shouldn’t,” Iris said.
“Oh, he’s all right. He’s just the type of fellow who doesn’t like having his opinions challenged.”
“Where’d you hear that about Stalin?” asked Harry. “Purges, I mean.”
“Because you get a lot of Communists in my line of work. Artist types and all that. And a lot of them know a lot of Russians who disappeared, the last few years.” Ruth snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”
“But there must be some explanation,” Iris exclaimed. “Maybe they went to work on a farm or something.”
“Oh, honey.” Ruth looked at Iris the way you might look at a kitten.
Harry sat up. “The reason I ask is because we’ve heard a lot of rumors, too. So if any of your friends might have information—”
“I’m not a snitch, Harry Macallister, and neither are my friends.”
“I don’t mean snitching. I mean it’s something we need to know about.”
“A snitch is a snitch, that’s all. The lowest of the low.” Ruth rose gracefully to her feet and bent to stub out her cigarette in the ashtray next to Iris. When she straightened, she caught sight of Sasha, who stood in the kitchen doorway holding a glass of either water or gin, just watching the three of them. Iris couldn’t tell the color of his face, and whether he was still mad. She wished she could jump up and run to him and put her arms around him.
“I guess I ought to be going,” he said.
“No, don’t. I’m sorry. I’m a troublemaker, that’s all.” Ruth held out her hand. “Friends?”
He took her hand and shook it briefly. “Friends, sure.”
“Aw, don’t let her bust your chops, Digby. Nobody thinks you’re some kind of goddamn Red.”
“’Sall right.” Sasha swallowed back the rest of whatever was in his glass, and Iris decided it was probably gin, after all. He turned to her and smiled. His eyes were awfully blue and not that steady. He made an extravagant bow before her and lifted her hand from her lap. “Pleasure to see you out of the sick bay and looking so smashing, Miss Macallister.”
“I do not look smashing. I look smashed.”
Sasha kissed the back of her hand. “When the soul is as beautiful as yours, madam, the face needs no adornment.”
“Digby! You dog. Stay away from my sister with that kind of malarkey.”
“Oh, be quiet, Harry,” said Ruth. “Can’t you see he’s being sincere?”
Iris stared at the rumpled gold hair and the loose collar—the blue eyes beneath the slight overhang of his brows. His lips were wet with gin. He still hadn’t let go of her hand.