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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I led a simple life then. For example, going from one place to another posed problems only when the distance required a form of transportation I could not afford. When this was the case, I stayed put. I was never vexed with the paradox of Zeno. It did not bother me that I could never, logically, travel distance A because this would require me to first travel one half of A, then one half of the one half, and so on, ad infinitum, never starting out, or never ending up. When I was twenty and wanted to go somewhere, I either stayed put or I went. It was that simple.

  Not so with Charlemagne. My parents lived three miles away. The discussion required to cover it took half an hour. First, should we take my new car or the Mercedes? I wondered how we would take the Mercedes when that was chosen, because I had not seen it outside. Next came a conversation, no, a plan — yes, it was in fact a carefully laid plan — of how we would leave the building, what route we would take to the car, and who would watch our backs.  

  Today, this procedure is second nature to me; then, I thought it silly. They took it seriously, though.

  The Mercedes was parked on another street half a block away. Vasily and I made our way to it. I say we "made our way" and not "walked" because what we did to get there cannot be construed as walking. Skulking might be a better word, but still not entirely accurate. Skulking in an apparently natural way? Maybe. At any rate, we stayed in shadows, often with a wall on one side. Vasily seemed to prefer this, and stopped frequently to listen.

  At the car, he produced a small, powerful flashlight and inspected the Mercedes before he touched it. He looked underneath it and in the wheel wells. Apparently satisfied, he unlocked the front passenger door and searched the interior, under the seats and under the dash board. This took only a few moments, but he was so careful and so serious that it frightened me.

  "Is this car more like me?" he asked when we were safely on our way.

  "Yes and no," I said. "It's not a girl's car, but it's not really you, either."

  "Do you like your new car?" he asked. "Does it suit you?"

  "I like it very much. Thank you. But it doesn't fit me, either."

  "Nothing fits for you tonight, does it?"

  "I guess not."

  "Why doesn't the car fit you?"

  "It's too pretty. I'm more the old Volkswagen type."

  He paused for a moment, then said with what sounded like anger, "Alex, you are not ugly. Stop talking that way. Stop thinking that way. It is not humility; it is foolishness, and it causes you problems in other areas, like sex. That was an incredibly stupid thing to say to Misha. You are hopelessly naive in some respects."

  I was still working on "you are not ugly." Besides Papa, no man had ever said that to me. This was new. This was a revelation. "Are you saying I'm pretty?" I asked incredulously.

  "A woman need not be pretty to be attractive, Alex."

  "I'm not pretty."

  "No. But you are not ugly."

  "Plain, then."

  "No. Definitely attractive."

  How can I describe how those two words affected me, especially to you, a young woman who has never doubted her own extraordinary beauty?

  I changed the subject so his complement could not be changed, expanded, or diminished by further explanation. "Why do men who take such pains to look inconspicuous," I asked, "drive such a distinctive car?"

  "It is not distinctive in the places where we usually drive it," said Vasily. "We have this car for three reasons. Frank gave it to us; it is equipped with everything we need, and Misha likes it."

  That made sense. "Misha likes things to be elegant and beautiful, doesn't he?"

  "Don't start insulting yourself again."

  "I'm not. I just get the impression Misha doesn't like me."

  "You are insignificant to him. That's all."

  "Who is significant?"

  "His friends and his enemies."

  "Who are his friends?"

  "Louis and I, and his family."

  "He has a family?"

  "Yes."

  "A wife?"

  "Yes. Stop acting so surprised and don't say a word of this to Frank."

  I could not help acting surprised. I could not imagine any of these men married. Another thought gave me a sudden pain. I approached the subject cautiously.

  "Does Louis?"

  "Does Louis what?"

  "Does Louis have a wife?"

  "No."

  I could not ask. There was a long pause, during which we pulled up in front of my parents' house. Vasily turned off the engine.

  "Neither do I," he said, "but in a few minutes, I think, that will not matter to you."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN