His wife, at his side, was not a particularly beautiful woman, but she made a striking impression with her dark hair and thick eyebrows, her face a collection of large features—full, unsmiling lips, a prominent nose, and long, wide-set eyes. Polina Molotova was introduced to me through our interpreter, and then she handed me a parcel wrapped in clean cloth, with a bow tied around it. “Madam Molotova would like for you to open it, please, Mrs. Davies,” the interpreter explained.
I did as Madam Molotova asked, finding a loaf of bread and a small cellar of salt in the package. “How kind,” Joe said beside me. “A traditional Russian greeting—bread and salt. It is considered a welcome gift.”
“I am so appreciative,” I said, smiling toward our guests in turn. “Welcome to Spazzo House.”
I had gone over every detail with my staff in exacting precision, and our evening began in a solidly American fashion: cocktails and passed hors d’oeuvres. My white-coated waiters stood poised to take and deliver orders, and both of the Molotovs asked for vodka, while Joe had a scotch and I sipped on a glass of club soda.
After that, Joe and I welcomed the Molotovs and our other guests into our circular dining room, where the table was spread with a colorful feast that could just as easily have covered my banquet tables in Palm Beach or Manhattan: shrimp cocktail, skewers of pineapple and chicken breast, meatballs, carrots glazed in maple syrup. My white table linens were crisp and freshly laundered; my crystal stemware glistened beneath the newly polished candelabra.
“Kak krasivo!” Polina Molotova surveyed the spread with her wide-set eyes going even wider. Then she turned to me, rattling off something that her translator quickly interpreted into English: “Madam Molotova hears that Madam Davies is the owner of a vast farm in America?”
“Something like that,” I said with a smile. “My family business is in food and drink.” I saw Joe engaged in conversation with Premier Molotov, whose unmoving features gave away little about the contents of their conversation or his opinions on it.
“Then you own many large warehouses?” Polina Molotova asked.
“Yes, we do have warehouses. And factories.”
“Your workers are lucky,” my Russian guest said, looking once more at the feast. “Once our winter passes, we will have all of this food as well.”
My eyes went to the pineapple, the shrimp, the carrots, but I smiled politely and posed a question of my own: “I hear that you, Madam Molotova, are in charge of managing the cosmetic and perfume businesses here in the Soviet Union?”
“Yes.” Polina Molotova nodded. “Lipstick, soap, perfume. We have everything you Americans have. Better than Paris and New York.” Madam Molotova nodded once more, decisively, then she lowered her gaze to where I held my hands folded before my waist. She rattled off another quick sentence in Russian.
Her interpreter pointed to my finger. “Madam Molotova wishes to compliment your white stone.”
I looked down at my ring, which had a large but tasteful diamond, a solitaire setting in a pear cut. “Thank you. It’s a diamond.”
“No, it can’t be,” Madam Molotova responded, shaking her head. “Diamonds only grow round.”
“How about some food?” I offered. “I know I am hungry.”
* * *
—
Later that night, before climbing into bed, Joe and I sat soaking in a warm tub. It served a dual purpose: we were cold all the time, so it helped us thaw out just a bit, and we’d heard from Bullitt that tapping a pencil or running the water were two of the best ways to thwart the recording bugs that filled every wall and light fixture. Since we wanted to discuss the evening we’d just had, the warm tub was a welcome haven.
“The Molotovs are an interesting pair. Polina Molotova was stern, but not unfriendly,” I whispered. The room smelled pleasantly of lavender—one of our own imported essential oils—and the mirrors were steam-smudged. “She invited me out with her this weekend.”
Joe’s dark brows shot up. “Really?”
“Yes. For a drive and lunch.”
“That’s great, Mumsie.”
“How was your end of the table?” I asked. “Premier Molotov looks as if he rarely gets excited by anything.”
Joe splashed the water, leaning closer as he lowered his voice. “Don’t let his dull expression fool you. He’s a sharp one. He’s one of the original Bolsheviks. He was right next to Lenin during the revolution. Now he’s backed Stalin, and he was smart to do so. Molotov will continue to wield great power.”