Charm School v1_0

  Lisa asked the Turnbills, “Did you hear since you've been here that the Soviets have expelled two Americans from the embassy?”

  “We heard that right before we left, Tuesday,” George answered. “In fact, we read it in The New York Times at Kennedy Airport.”

  Dina said, “The Times story said they went into an unauthorized area, that the man was a military attache, and that those people are usually intelligence people. Spies.”

  George added, “I blame a lot of this tension on our government, I'm afraid. If we show we have peaceful intentions, then the Soviets will respond. They have a very responsive government in the Kremlin right now. You can see what a big thing they make of peace here. Mira” George said, trying out his Russian. “Peace. Same word as for world. Mira. I wonder if they say mira mira for world peace. That sounds Spanish. Anyway, there are peace exhibits, things named for peace, Prospect Mira, banners all over saying peace. Peace.”

  “Peace,” Hollis said. “'They have seduced my people saying, Peace; and there was no peace.' Ezekiel.”

  The Turnbills decided they couldn't wait for the main course and were anxious to get to the Economic Exhibition. They stood to leave.

  Hollis said to them, “A word of advice because you are my compatriots. Avoid black marketeers because they can get you in serious trouble, don't force your friendship on ordinary Russians because that can get them in trouble. Also, every dark street is not safe at night. And if you can get permission—which you need—see if you can get into the countryside for a day. Also, try not to criticize your own country too much, and above all, remember that you are free and they are not.”

  The Turnbills smiled tightly and departed.

  Lisa commented, “That's not like you to wave the flag.”

  “I was just trying to help them see.”

  “We all see what we want to see, Sam. This system here still has seductive powers as you indicated. Like an old whore on a good night.”

  Hollis nodded. “I remember when I first got here. I was impressed with what I saw, but I forgot to think about what I couldn't see—concepts and abstractions such as freedom of speech, the pursuit of happiness, and the right to assemble, to travel, and ultimately to emigrate. It takes a few months here before you realize what's missing from the picture.”

  Lisa smiled. “Maybe the Turnbills will be picked up by the KGB for taking a picture of a railroad bridge or something. A week in Lefortovo or Lubyanka will straighten them out.”

  “One wonders. The old Bolsheviks who were shot by Stalin were true believers to the end.”

  The main course finally came, a mystery meat covered with more heavy creamed mushrooms and the standard mashed potatoes on the side. Hollis said to the waitress, “Could you bring us asparagus tips and hearts of palm?”

  The waitress shook her head, pointed to the food, and left. They ate in silence for a while, then Lisa said, “It doesn't have to be this awful. Russian food can be quite good. I've done better myself. And there are about six good Russian restaurants in New York that serve authentic stuff. No one here cares.”

  “They'd care if they had to pay New York rents and get the customers in. That's the motivation to take care with any product. Not Socialist altruism, but capitalist greed. The only demanding and discerning consumer in this country is the military.”

  The waitress brought tea and ice cream. For some reason that Hollis could not fathom, Russian ice cream was quite good and quite plentiful, and the Russians ate it two or three times a day, all year long. Lisa said, “I saw another press release my office put out this morning. The ambassador again denies any wrongdoing on our part.”

  “If he keeps denying it every day, people might start to wonder.”

  “I know. I wish I had been allowed to write the damn thing. I used to have to rewrite everything his bitch of a secretary gave me for release. Now without my magic typewriter, he's starting to sound like the fool he is.”

  “My, my,” Hollis said, “aren't we sounding self-important? Do you think the diplomatic mission to the Soviet Union will survive your departure?”

  Lisa smiled good-naturedly. “Sorry. Just feeling mistreated.” She asked, “What's the first thing you're going to do when you get back to the States?”

  “I'm not sure. Maybe just get acquainted with my country again.”

  “Where will you stay?”

  “Here and there. Maybe on a military base around D.C. Go to the Pentagon and pester them for an assignment.”

  They drank tea and talked awhile, watching the other diners rise in mass groups each time an Intourist guide announced a bus tour departure. The dining room was nearly empty now. Lisa took out a cigarette. “Want one?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Do you smoke, or not?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  She looked at him doubtfully as she lit her cigarette. “I saw another press release on the Fisher business. It was in response to charges made by his parents that the embassy was being evasive regarding the circumstances of his death. Mr. and Mrs. Fisher want to know if there is any connection between their son's death and our expulsion. You remember you signed all that paperwork for Burov. Well, the Fishers have it all, and they're wondering about Colonel Samuel Hollis.”

  “And well they might. That's one of the advantages of having a free citizenry and an inquiring press.”

  “Yes. So my office said the two events were purely coincidental. That's so lame it might even pass as the truth.”

  “It might,” Hollis agreed. “But we don't lie very well, and the USIS Ministry of Truth should stick to covering cultural and scientific events.”

  Lisa waved her hand. “Not my problem anymore.”

  “Well, what are you going to do when you get home?”

  “Watch the six o'clock news, get my wardrobe updated, buy an avocado, see a football game, rake leaves—”

  “You're staying with your parents?”

  “Yes. I still have my room there. My little time capsule, my home base. You don't have that, do you?”

  “No. No nest for this eagle, if you'll pardon the bad analogy.”

  “Metaphor. I'll pardon anything but bad English.”

  “I'd like to get you in a high-performance jet, smart-ass.”

  “I'd love to get in one with you.” She leaned across the table and looked him in the eye. “Well, are we going to be together?”

  “I hope so.”

  “And you think you can work it out?”

  “Yes, it's called blackmail.”

  She took his hand and squeezed it. “I don't care what it's called as long as it gets us together. And I don't care if it's Paris or Borneo.”

  “That's very nice, Lisa. I was thinking, maybe the States. Maybe it's time to go home.”

  “Maybe it is time to go home, Sam.”

  The waitress presented them with a bill for six rubles, which Hollis thought very reasonable for lunch in the abstract but too much for the food that was served during the lunch. Lisa paid.

  They left the dining room, and Hollis found the Intourist Service Bureau. With some difficulty he booked a car and driver, prepaying in American dollars.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Surprise.”

  A man in his thirties, scruffily dressed, introduced himself as Sasha and led them outside to a black Volga. Hollis wrote in Cyrillic on a piece of paper and handed it to him. Sasha looked at it and shook his head. “Nelzya” he said, using one of the Russians' most used words. Not allowed. “Nyet.”

  Hollis handed him a ten-dollar bill and said in Russian, “Be a good fellow. No one will know.”

  Sasha glanced back at Hollis, then took the ten and put the Volga in gear. “Okay.”

  Lisa slid next to Hollis and put her arm through his. “An itinerary and a currency violation. You've outdone yourself this time.”

  The Volga, like every Russian cab Hollis had been in, was dirty. They headed north on Prospect Mira, hit the Outer Ri
ng Road, and followed it southwest on its great circle around Moscow. There was still snow outside the city, and the vast stretches of evergreens were dusted with white powder.

  Sasha turned onto the Minsk—Moscow highway. Lisa said to Hollis, “Not Borodino…?”

  Hollis smiled. “Please.”

  They left the highway, went down a two-lane paved road, and entered a good-sized village of pre-Revolution clapboard houses. Lisa asked, “Where are we?”

  Hollis pointed to the train station, and Lisa read the name,

  “Peredelkino.” She kissed Hollis on the cheek. “Oh, what a sweetheart you are.”

  Sasha said in Russian, “I have to ask where the cemetery is.” He stopped the car and asked a passing boy on a bicycle. The boy pointed. “That road. You'll see his grave easily enough. There are students there.”

  Sasha drove up a narrow street that passed through the village and came out into open farmland again. By the side of the road was a grove of pine trees and bare birch surrounded by a low brick wall. Sasha stopped the car. Hollis and Lisa got out and walked through the small opening in the wall.

  A group of ten young men and women stood in the snow-dusted cemetery around a white tombstone into which was carved an impression of the poet's craggy features and the simple line, “Boris Pasternak, 1890—1960.” Fresh flowers lay in the snow, and a book of Boris Pasternak's poetry was being passed around, the students reading from it in turn. They barely took notice of Lisa and Hollis, but then a young girl motioned to the book ques-tioningly, and Hollis replied in Russian, “Yes, I'd like to read.” He picked one of the Lara poems, which made Lisa smile, then passed the book to Lisa, who read from “Garden of Gethse-mane”:

  And peering into these black abysses—

  Void, without end and without beginning—

  His brow sweating blood. He pleaded with

  His father

  That this cup of death might pass from Him.

  Afterward, on the way back to the city, Lisa said, “Could you imagine that in America? People traveling to a poet's grave?”

  “No, I suppose not. But the Russians do it as much out of love of poetry as out of political protest. If the government made the place a national shrine, you'd see fewer poetry lovers around here. And if church attendance were encouraged, you might see fewer people there too.”

  “That's cynical. I think you're wrong.”

  “Maybe I see too much of the dark side of the Russian soul because I deal with the darker elements.”

  “Probably.”

  They had Sasha drive them around Moscow, revisiting places that had some memories for one or the other. Lisa said, “I want to share every place with you so we can talk about them after we leave.”

  “How about Gogol's grave?”

  “Later.”

  At dusk they went up to the Lenin Hills and looked out over the city from the observation platform of the Moscow University campus. Lisa huddled against Hollis. “Thank you for a beautiful day. No matter what happens, this was our day.”

  Hollis looked at the city spread out beyond the Moskva. “I guess we can tell people we fell in love in Moscow.”

  “Yes, that's true, and our first lovemaking was in a peasant's cabin.”

  “I don't think we should go into details.”

  “Oh, Sam, I'm so happy and sad at the same time. And optimistic and frightened…”

  “I know.”

  Sasha stood ten feet or so down the stone parapet, chainsmoking. He and Hollis made eye contact and Sasha smiled. He called out in Russian, “Many lovers come here. And over there, you see that hill? That is Farewell Hill where the old Muscovites would go to say good-bye to their family and friends when they left on a long journey westward.”

  Sasha moved closer to his customers. “There is Mosfilm down there. See the buildings? Soviet films are good, but sometimes I like American films. We don't get many. I saw Kramer vs. Kramer, and I took my daughter to see Lady and the Tramp.” He turned back to the city. “There is the Ukraina Hotel. Stalin knew how to build things to last. Today, everything they build is cheap and falls apart. Stalin would have shot half the building supervisors they have today. See, over there is the old Kiev Station, and there is the new circus—the round building. The best circus in all the world. And right here where we stand, every December the students gather to commemorate the death of John Lennon.”

  “Not Vladimir Lenin?” Hollis asked mischievously.

  Sasha roared with laughter. “No. The party takes care of that great man each twenty-first of January. Does it surprise you that the young people come here and sing John Lennon's songs? He was a poet, like Pasternak. The Russians love poets. Did you like John Lennon?”

  “Yes,” Lisa replied. “He was a great musician and poet.”

  “We need more poets and fewer generals,” Sasha declared.

  Lisa pointed to a cluster of gold-domed buildings about half a kilometer away. “Sasha, isn't that Novodevichy Convent?”

  “Yes. Peter put his first wife and his bitchy sister there for all their lives.” Sasha smiled at Hollis. “It's not so easy now to get rid of troublesome women.”

  “Amen, brother,” Hollis replied in English.

  Lisa poked him in the side.

  Sasha continued, “You should go there on Sunday. The believers have mass in the cathedral there. I went once. It was very… interesting. Then go to the cemetery there too. You like our writers? Chekhov is buried there.”

  “And Gogol?” Hollis asked.

  “Oh, yes. He's there too.”

  Hollis glanced at Lisa, who was smiling.

  Sasha went on, “Also Khruschev is there and other party members. Why do you suppose they wanted to be buried in holy ground and not at the Kremlin wall? Who can say? Maybe they're taking no chances.” Sasha laughed again.

  They all got back into the Volga. Sasha said, “You have almost two hours left for what you paid.”

  “I think we've had enough,” Hollis said.

  “Good. Me too. I invite you to my flat for food. My wife always wanted to meet Americans. I told her someday I'd bring some home. You're the first I've met who speak our language. Also, I like you.”

  Lisa looked at Hollis and nodded. Hollis said to Sasha, “Thank you, but we can't.”

  “I know who you are. I saw both your pictures on television last night. But we have glasnost now. It doesn't matter.”

  Hollis wondered how Soviet TV had gotten their pictures. Hollis replied, “I'm afraid this is beyond glasnost, and it does matter. For you, not for us.”

  Sasha pulled the car away and chuckled. “Maybe they'll kick me out too.”

  “Do you know where the American embassy is?”

  “Who doesn't?”

  “We'll go there now.”

  The Volga came down from the Lenin Hills, crossed the Moskva, and headed toward the embassy along the embankment road.

  Lisa put her head on Hollis' shoulder. “Busy tonight?”

  “Meeting until about nine.”

  “With whom?”

  “Spies.”

  “Do you want to come over afterward?”

  “I'd love to.”

  “Stay the night?”

  “Stay the rest of the week, if you want.”

  She smiled. “Good. Move in. Shake up the diplomats and their stuffy wives.”

  “Hang my underwear from your clothesline.”

  “I don't have a clothesline, but I'll put your name on my buzzer.”

  The Volga slid along the misty embankment road following the loop of the Moskva. The red brick chancery building appeared all alight through the river fog. Lisa said, “I thought you were relieved of your duties.”

  “I'm just briefing and being debriefed.”

  “Kay wont even let me in my office. I guess this really is serious business. Are we in more trouble than we know?”

  “Not at the moment. But we will be if we don't keep our mouths shut.”

  “You're still on
the case, aren't you? You're still working with Seth.”

  Hollis didn't reply immediately, then said, “Discharges don't come so easily in this war.”

  He leaned over the front seat and said to Sasha, “Don't slow down until you're at the gate, then stop quickly, as close to the gate as you can.”

  Sasha glanced at him. “I can't cross the militiamen on the sidewalk.”

  “No, but get close. We'll be leaving the car quickly, so I'll say good-bye now.”

  “Da svedahnya” Sasha replied.

  “Someday we'll have that dinner.”

  “Someday.”

  Hollis pulled his hat down and slid back low in his seat.

  Lisa slid down beside him. “Is this necessary?”

  “No, it's my idea of fun.”

  Sasha maintained his speed, then suddenly pulled over to the curb and hit his brakes. Hollis opened the curbside door, and he and Lisa jumped out. He took Lisa's arm and moved her quickly past the militia guards just as they stepped out of their booth. “Stoi! Pasport!”

  Hollis called out to the Marine guard. “Hit it, son.” The electric gates began to part as Hollis heard running boots behind him. He pushed Lisa through the opening, then followed, returning the guard's salute. Hollis looked over his shoulder at the two militiamen glaring at him through the gate. Beyond them he saw that Sasha now had two embassy watchers in his Volga and was looking rather uncomfortable.

  Lisa remarked, “I think I've had enough cloak and dagger for the day. I think what I'll do is have a drink, then I'll move your things over while you're at your meeting. Maybe I can have someone from housekeeping help me. I'll call the Kellums.”

  “No, I'd rather you and I did it later. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  They walked into the chancery building, and Hollis said, “I'm going up to my office awhile, then to my meeting.”

  “Will Seth be there?”

  “I guess. Why?”

  She hesitated, then said, “You're jealous that we were involved… I'm jealous of his relationship with you.”

  Hollis didn't think it was quite the same thing but didn't reply.

  Lisa added, “Be careful of him, Sam.”

  Hollis glanced at his watch. “Well, see you later.”