Just then, another man entered at the front from a side door, and the hall erupted in deafening applause. Even Molotov turned and stopped speaking midsentence, the premier joining in the riotous clapping. His turn was clearly concluded as this new man, stern and squat, with features of blade-sliced granite strode assuredly toward the front. From my balcony seat I could just barely make out his thick mustache over dark, unsmiling lips. His gray military tunic nearly matched the wan shade of his skin. And amid the roar of the crowd’s applause, a buzz of reverent whispers skittered across the massive hall.
“Joseph Stalin,” Joe said, his voice low in my ear. “Leader of the politburo and the Communist Party. The sole ruler here since Lenin’s death.” When Joseph Stalin raised his paw-like hand and the entire assembly of thousands went silent in one obedient instant, I pulled my thick sable coat closer around my shoulders, feeling a chill run through my body, one that I was sure had nothing to do with the bitter Russian winter or the drafty Kremlin hall.
* * *
—
Now, back at Spazzo House, my focus was turned entirely to our hosting duties. “So who is coming tonight? Will that awf—” I sealed my lips before the thought could escape; I knew we were being listened to. Bullitt, our predecessor, had advised us that the residence was wired from floor to ceiling. He’d spent hundreds of his own dollars on hiring technicians to take out the pesky little recorders, but the electricians, of course, reported to the Soviet secret police, and thus could not be counted on. Besides, all of the locally hired household staffers, ostensibly provided as a friendly service by the Russians, were also spying on us and relaying everything back to the all-powerful intelligence services. There was no point in trying to combat the eavesdropping; they’d easily install new bugs as quickly as we could have them removed. Our only way was to watch our words with vigilance. And so that’s what I did as I forced a neutral tone to my voice and posed a new question to my husband: “Will Secretary Stalin be honoring us with his presence this evening?”
“No,” Joe said, the quick lift of his brow showing me that he appreciated my discretion. “Prime Minister Molotov, and his wife, Polina, will be here. She herself is a member of the government. She’s been named Commissar of Cosmetics and Perfume, so she has business dealings of her own. Perhaps you’ll find common ground with her.”
“Wonderful. If I need any makeup while we’re over here, I’ll know whom to ask.” I scrutinized my appearance one final time, looking into a gilded mirror from Mar-a-Lago, since the ones that had already been at Spazzo House were all cracked and dim. “How do I look?”
“Lovely,” Joe said, admiring my cream-colored gown and simple strand of small but lovely pearls. When he leaned in to kiss me, I felt warm for the first time all day. As I raised my hands to pull him closer, the lights overhead flickered, and a moment later we found ourselves cloaked in sudden and total darkness. “The power just went out,” Joe said, and I didn’t need functioning lightbulbs to show me how on edge he was all of a sudden. We had hundreds of important people on their way to our first official dinner party, and the Russian night outside was bitter cold, not to mention black as ink. How could we possibly host with no power?
A servant appeared at the threshold of the room, bearing a candelabra that cast just enough of a glow for me to see his concerned face. “It’s the coolers, Mrs. Davies. Our refrigerators are putting more of a strain on the electrical wiring than this house is up to.”
I glowered. I knew a thing or two about botched electrical wiring. Half a world away, in another lifetime, it seemed, I’d seen my house burned to the ground, my girls huddled on a lawn in their nightgowns surrounded by the scorched remains of family mementoes.
“Turn on the generators,” I ordered, grateful that I’d seen fit to transport several miniature units on my yacht, along with everything else. “And add it to the list—we’ll have the electrical wiring overhauled from top to bottom.” I’d pay out of my own pocket. And I’d ship my electrician over if need be.
Chapter 37
Spazzo House, Moscow
“Premier Molotov, it is so nice to meet you.” I extended my gloved hand for the handshake I had been prepared to expect, and Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov, the top-ranking man in the Soviet Union, took it in his firm, viselike grip. He spoke his thanks, his Russian greeting passing to me through our interpreter as I took my chance to quickly study his features. Even though I had seen Molotov from afar just a few days earlier at the Kremlin, I was surprised by the impression he made up close—his face was not unattractive. In fact, with his big eyes and wide, apple-round cheeks, he looked almost boyish. Yet he gave off the unmistakable aroma of a heavy cigarette smoker and his teeth were the shade of a yellow onion.