* * *
Alex found patrolling boring at best, and pointless at worst. It was five weeks before they spotted a Vietcong patrol. Lieutenant Lowell immediately gave the order to advance and fire at will, but they failed to hit anything other than the odd tree, and within seconds the enemy had melted back into the jungle.
When Alex described the incident in a long letter to his mother, he tried to reassure her that he was more likely to be killed crossing Brighton Beach Avenue than on patrol. This observation was redacted by the censors.
Alex received regular letters from his mother. Bernie had finally retired, and Elena confessed that since he’d left, they were just about breaking even. Alex didn’t have to read between the lines to realize that neither his mother nor Dimitri was a natural trader. Elena told him they couldn’t wait for him to get back, although Alex had to accept that it wouldn’t be for at least another year. As the long weeks turned into longer months, he wondered if he shouldn’t have taken Addie’s advice and applied for a deferral. He would have completed his final year at NYU and, more importantly, asked Addie to be his wife. He even had the ring.
20
SASHA
London, 1972
“I would like to request your permission, sir, to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“How gloriously old-fashioned,” said Mr. Dangerfield. “But, Sasha, don’t you think you’re both a little young to be considering marriage? Shouldn’t you wait a little longer before you make such an irrevocable decision?”
“Why wait, sir, when you’ve found the one woman you want to spend the rest of your life with?”
“I’d ask if you were confident my daughter feels the same way about you, if I didn’t already know the answer.” Sasha smiled, well aware that Charlie was sitting in the next room. “So, as your prospective father-in-law, I think I’m meant to ask about your prospects?”
“I’ve had three job offers for when I leave Cambridge, sir. My problem is that I can’t make up my mind which one to choose.”
“An embarrassment of riches,” said Mr. Dangerfield.
“Without any guarantee of riches,” admitted Sasha. “And what makes it worse, none of them is what I really want to do.”
“Now you do have me intrigued.”
“Trinity has offered me a prize fellowship, provided I get a first.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir. But I don’t think I’m cut out to be a don. I prefer the battlefield to the classroom.”
“Any particular battlefield?”
“A mandarin from the Foreign Office has approached me and suggested I sit their entrance exam. But I’m not sure if they want me to be a diplomat or a spy.”
?
??I didn’t realize there was a distinction,” said Dangerfield. “But I’ve no doubt you’d do both well. And the third job?”
“Mr. Agnelli, the owner of Elena’s restaurant, where my mother is head chef, has asked me to join him. He has no children of his own, and has hinted that in time I could take over.”
“Cambridge don, spymaster, or restaurateur. You couldn’t have a more eclectic choice, although a restaurateur would be the closest to the battlefield, and probably the best paid.”
“Not only would it be better paid, but I’m quite well qualified for the job. For the past five years I’ve worked in a restaurant during my holidays. I started out as a washer-up, moved on to laying tables, before having spells as a barman and a waiter. It sometimes felt as if I was taking two degrees at the same time.”
“But you say that none of the three jobs is what you really want to do.”
“No, sir. Like my father, I’m a politician at heart, and Cambridge has only made me more determined to become a Member of Parliament.”
“And have you decided yet which party’s colors you will be flying under?”
“No, I haven’t, sir. The truth is, I’ve never cared for either extreme. I prefer the center ground, as I often find myself agreeing with the other person’s point of view.”
“But you’ll eventually have to jump one way or the other if you’re hoping to pursue a political career,” suggested Dangerfield. “Unless of course you decide to join the Liberals.”