The collected stories

  And smiling one night I said I was stepping out for a breath of fresh air. I did so and never returned. The morning I left Italy (this was in Milan) I thought I saw Marushka whiz past me, straddling the back of a Vespa and clutching the Italian driver with one hand and what I believe was the manuscript of Jack's unfinished novel {Spindles) with the other. But I may be wrong; many Italian girls had Marushka's knees, and all girls jounce the same on a scooter: I love to see their rolling bottoms and hear the seat springs oink! In any case, Marushka is doing all right for herself. I am pretty sure she pinched Spindles from Jack's flat; I know I never discovered what happened to it. The police were no help. I have a feeling that one of these days I'm going to see it in translation on the revolving paperback bookstand at my corner drugstore.

  During our last conversation Jack had a moment of panic. He saw the toilet roll of his whole incriminating diary spread out on my desk and said, 'Wait, Goldpork, I'll make a deal with you!' I

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  flapped my hand and brushed aside the terms he was stammering at me. I said, 'But don't you see you've already made one?' Then the guards appeared and led him away. I had not finished speaking. I wanted to say that we all make deals. It is a pity he did not live long enough to see that mine at least had a reasonably happy ending.

  A Real Russian Ikon

  Fred Hagberg, forewarned by his travel agent in Cleveland of the Russian hunger for hard cash, had been in Moscow for two days and there had not been even a glimmer of interest in his dollars. The plastic cover of his American Express wallet stayed buttoned; Intourist paid all the bills. He expected to be guided to seedy black-market shops off the beaten track or, at the very least, pestered for cigarettes and Chiclets. There wasn't a peep from the Muscovites, and Fred thought maybe his travel agent meant somewhere else.

  On the evening of the third day he was ambling along Karl Marx Prospekt, where it runs into Manege Square, returning from the Palace of Congresses where he had seen Verdi hysterically acted and shrieked to an audience of cows. The Mob of Shuffling Humanity, he called them, as they slushed along the sidewalk in felt boots, oblivious of everything, ignoring everything, tramping nowhere into the night. Fred hated their guts. He had just turned away from the revolting sight of two Russians eating (eating! on the sidewalk! at night!) when it happened.

  There was a voice, the thickened tongue lap of the impossible language, audible but disembodied. Fred looked down. A small boy in a blue Bolshevik beanie, hands crammed into the pockets of a capelike coat, lurched alongside him. The boy was looking away, looking around in the direction of a slapping banner which, secured by cables, was being driven against the trolley wires by the wind and making sparks.

  'Cherman?'

  The boy turned from the slapping banner to the Obelisk to Revolutionary Thinkers, peered at the spikes and spoke again.

  'Enklis?'

  'American,' said Fred.

  'Unidestates?'

  Fred nodded and blew on his hands. He saw that the boy was still avoiding his gaze, looking distractedly elsewhere, slouching

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  along the salt-gritty sidewalk, the perfection of KGB aplomb, furtive but at the same time very cool.

  The next exchange took Fred a while to understand, for each time the boy spoke he looked away. The boy apparently wanted chewing gum: Fred had none. The boy wanted a ballpoint pen (he called it a 'pallboint'): Fred said yes. He fingered his Parker Jotter. The boy turned sharply right and headed toward a newspaper kiosk, closed up for the night. Fred followed.

  In the glare of the sputtering arc lamp high above, Fred saw in the boy's palm a small enamel pin stamped with the gold head of Lenin and the dates i
  'Deal,' said Fred, offering it.

  The boy took a deep breath, rolled his eyes up, prodded the Parker up his sleeve and, turning away, deftly passed the little pin to Fred. The blue beanie disappeared into the darkness at the steps that led to 25th Oktober Street, behind the Ploshchad Revolutsii Metro entrance.

  Back at the Metropole Hotel, in a room heated to a skin-crinkling eighty, Fred flicked on the fake chandelier and examined the pin. He knew, with that certainty that comes quickly to travelers, that he had been swindled. He ground it into the squares of shrunken parquet with his heel, and then spat.

  Over a breakfast of syrupy coffee and flaking pastry Fred collected his thoughts. He had not, he decided, lost completely: a deal had been made. Only shrewdness had been missing, and that on his part. He had been too eager. Furthermore he had been dealing with a kid. But several things stood out in the incident, and these were important: the Russians made deals, they talked to foreigners, and they were cagey. Pondering these Russian qualities Fred missed the English Speakers' tour of the city. There was only one thing left, something Fred had counted on seeing: the graveyard of the Novod-evichy Convent, where Svetlana's mother was buried. She was the lady, mentioned in the Twenty Letters 1 to whom Stalin had called, l Hey you! 1 and who, miffed, had gone upstairs and shot

  herself.

  The taxi stand was at Sverdlovsky Square, near the Bolshoi Theater. A long line oi people, laden with fishnet shopping hags some showing withered trim , stood morosely in mangy fill hats

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  and ankle-length overcoats. Their noses glowed red, redder than the flags on the light poles or the banners on the Bolshoi which praised the Komsomol for fifty years of tireless devotion.

  Fred fumbled for a cigarette with cold hands. He picked open the crushed pack of Luckies and withdrew a bent one. Smoothing it slowly, he felt subtle pressure on his sides, two warm bears, then a voice, a steamy word.

  'Enklis?'

  'United States,' said Fred, squirming, feeling for his wallet of traveler's checks. He smelled pickpockets.

  'Amerikansk?'

  'Yeah,' said Fred, looking up into a raw knobby face.

  'Toureest?'

  'Mm.'

  Without moving a muscle Fred felt himself turning in the taxi line, revolving on an axis like a slow-motion soldier. Again, without any effort on his part, he was borne by the pressure of the two bears to the near sidewalk where the giant seated figure of Ostrovsky in bronze brooded over a bird-limed manuscript.

  Shortly, they were in a tearoom, the Uyut (Cozy) on Leninsky Prospekt, exchanging names. The bears were Igor and Nikolai and, by way of introduction, said they liked Willis Conover, someone Fred had never heard of, though Igor insisted he was a great American. Other names were dropped - Jim Reeves, the Beatles, Dave Brubeck, Jack London, President Kennedy - and then they got down to business.

  'Dollars?'

  'You mean, do I have dollars?'

  'To have dollars,' said Nikolai.

  'Sure, I've got everything. I'm going around the world on the Pan Am flight. Pan American. You know what I mean?'

  'American dollars. Very nice,' said Igor. 'You want rubles?'

  'I want an ikon,' said Fred. And added, 'For my mother.'

  Neither Russian understood.

  'Ikon, ikon, ikon.'

  Nikolai mumbled to Igor, whose face brightened. 'You want eekone?

  Fred nodded. It seemed useless to speak.

  'Eekone,' said Nikolai. He giggled.

  'We find eekone, you pay dollars us,' said Igor. 'To want rubles.'

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  'It's got to be a good one. A good one.'' 'Don't whorry.'

  They were in a battered taxi, Fred in the back seat with Nikolai, the silent one. Igor, taller, more garrulous, sat in front with the driver, giving instructions. Down the wide avenues they sped, jockeying through the traffic, the little taxi slipping between a Zyl and a Zym, two tanklike cars resembling old Packards, complete with chrome jaws. They drew up to a shop that looked like a pawnbroker's, where Igor fought to the front of a mob of people around a counter and shouted the familiar word. A shopgirl folded her arms across her smock and shook her
head.

  At another similar place a shopgirl pointed to an inferior painting on the wall depicting a muscular bleeding Christ. Igor looked ques-tioningly at Fred. Fred said, 'Nyet.'

  The taxi driver seemed to take an interest in the search. He muttered to Igor; Igor muttered back; Nikolai emitted a cluck, sucking at his front teeth, the sound that in most of Europe means yes. They were off again, and from the way the Russians settled back in their seats it looked as if it was going to be a long ride. They passed under the red banners which Fred drew their attention to. When they saw that Fred was interested they read each one -quite a feat, since there were three to a block and the taxi was going fast.

  'Great Russian People,' said Igor, pointing. 'Good Komsomol Fifty Year . . . Hail Russian Worker.' He interspersed the banners with sales talk as well: 'Work Hard . . . Dollars very nice . . . Build State . . . Cash or check? . . . Remember Comrade Lenin . . . We rind real Russian eekone . . . Crush Imperialism . . .'

  They rode for several miles more, into a dingy suburb squeezed with old one-story houses. The eaves of these houses were carved, but all were in disrepair. The taxi parked on the sidewalk. The driver got out, shouted something to Igor, and then disappeared through a gray wooden door. Fred made a move to get up, but Igor waved him back.

  'Nice scarf, 1 Igor finally said. 'This one? 1 Fred fingered his scarf. 'Sell?'

  '1 need it. It's cold here.' 'Ten rubles, fifty kopeks.'

  A REAL RUSSIAN IKON

  l I want an ikon, an ikon! I need this scarf. It's cold-'

  Igor stirred. The driver was giving a signal from the doorway of the ramshackle house. 'We go,' said Igor.

  Fred was allowed to go in first. On entering, he did not notice the old lady, but when his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he saw her - small, pale, standing fretfully among draped furniture, her white hair appearing in several tendrils from under her shawl. Her facial skin was loose and wrinkled, as if she had once been fat, the skin stretched and retaining its former size. Her eyebrows were heavy, her hands were large, she wore three sweaters and appeared much afraid.

  Igor addressed the old lady. In the conversation that went on Fred heard the word Amerikansk again. The second time he heard it he smiled at the old lady, who looked incredulous for a moment, then stepped closer to Fred and smiled. It was an open, trusting smile which revealed her small fine teeth and creased her whole face like an old apple. She spoke to Fred in Russian.

  'She asking you to want tea. She have her brother in America.'

  'Look, I didn't come here for tea,' said Fred. The old lady implored him with an odd grace. 'Okay, I'll have a cup of tea.'

  A smoking, steaming samovar was brought. It was brass and, even in that dingy room stuffed with junk, gleamed like a church fixture. A small valve at the top popped open, shooting jets of steam into the chill air. The old lady placed a teapot under the spigot and twisted the key: hot water bubbled out. There were no wires anywhere.

  Fred smacked his lips. 'That's some contraption!'

  'You like?' It was Igor, smiling like a cat and rubbing his hands.

  'How much?'

  The smile left Igor's face. He turned to the old lady who, when Igor spoke, shut the hot water off and looked quickly at Fred. She showed her large gnarled hands, shrugged and said several words.

  'No sell, she say.'

  'I'll give her fifty dollars.' Fred began flashing fingers at the old lady, two hands at a time, ten, twenty, thirty . . .

  'Karasho, said Igor impatiently, 'Okay, okay.' He spoke again, his voice rising, his eyeballs rolling. The old lady muttered another reply and drew her shawl tighter.

  'She want. For tea. No sell.'

  'Oh, for God's sake,' said Fred. 'Listen, for fifty bucks she can

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  buy two of them, electric ones, any kind she wants. Doesn't she want a nice electric one?'

  Nikolai said nothing. He simply snatched up a candle and wagged it in Fred's face, giving Fred a crazy grin that said, 'No electricity - isn't it awful?'

  'Okay, forget it.'

  But he wanted his trophy. The faint stamp in his passport cccp, mockba and a date was not enough. Something substantial was needed, like the bierstein, the rosary, the blue Wedgwood pot. And even if he could not be the traveler who brought home a demure full-breasted peasant girl, he would have his modest souvenir. If not, what was the sense in coming so far? And to Russia, no less.

  In silence, the tea was drunk. Fred finished his first. He placed his chipped cup on the floor and said, 'What about the ikon? I haven't got all day.'

  'Eekone, yes.'

  The three Russian men gathered around the old lady. Igor did all the talking, pointing to Fred and, once, asking the taxi driver's opinion. While he spoke Fred saw a vivid moment in his mind, a very familiar one: he was back in Cleveland with his pals and they were making a deal. The faces were eager, joshing American ones, reddish, large nosed, rough. The Russians even had crew cuts, the same thick ears and deep wrinkles. They were grinning and pushy-looking in a Midwestern way. They even seemed to be yak-king in English!

  The sight of the worn carpet, the sheets over the furniture, the coldness of the room, brought Fred back to reality. He was halfway around the world from Cleveland, in enemy territory. He reminded himself to be careful.

  The discussion was still going on, the old lady appearing not to understand. She asked many questions and got many shrugs, many gestures, many little sharp cries of admonishment as replies. Then the old lady rose very reluctantly, with sighs, .nd beckoned Fred into a little room at the side. The room was damp and even darker than the outer parlor. It was hung with heavy tapestries which, when the old lady lit a candle, appeared to he delicately embroidered. The room had the eerie glow of a chapel; in fact, the candle was m a red glass chimney on a gold-wrought stand. It was a vigil light and could have come from a very large church.

  Warming the wax, the candle flared up. Above it gleamed the

  M-

  ikon, a painting the size of an airline calendar, Mary and child with tiny carefully made faces and thin hands. Each head wore a coronet of little sparkling gems; in places there were pocks where gems had been. And Fred noticed that the paint had cracked, the boards had warped, the cloth around the frame had frayed. Still, it was beautiful. The candle flame grew higher, picking out tiny cherubs with trumpets, lilies, roses and fishes, scrolls and, at the top of the ikon, a wordy motto in elongated characters like gold washing hung on a line.

  'Boy,' said Fred.

  'You like?' asked Igor. To Nikolai he said, 'He like.'

  Nikolai grunted.

  'Is good,' said Igor, turning to Fred. 'Is nice Russian eekone.'

  'How much?' asked Fred.

  'Is good eekone,' Igor replied. 'Not much. Three hundred.'

  'Rubles?'

  'Dollars.'

  'Two fifty,' said Fred.

  'Okay. Two fifty.'

  Fred cursed himself for not saying two hundred. 'Traveler's checks?'

  'Is better dollars cash.'

  'I don't carry that kind of money around in cash,' said Fred obstinately. 'So it's traveler's checks or nothing. You understand? Traveler's checksV

  Ignor winced. Fred realized he had shouted in the little chapel; he apologized. The apology seemed to bewilder them more than the offense.

  'Ask her if it's okay.'

  Igor sidled up to the old lady and spoke, flicking his finger at the ikon. At Igor's words the old lady drew away, her back to the little altar, as if protecting it. She clapped her hands to her mouth, stifling a shriek; then, petrified, she wagged her head rigidly from side to side.

  'No sell,' said Igor, inexplicably grinning.

  'No sell,' mumbled Fred. 'Did you tell her the price?'

  'Now I tell.' Igor shot fingers into the old lady's face and, at the same time, brayed numbers.

  The old lady lowered her eyes and shook her head in a gentle negative.

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  Fred understood. 'Not enough, eh? Fine, how much does she want for it?'

  The old lady glanced up at Fred and spoke quickly. Her head dropped once more.

  Grinning in the manner of Igor, Nikolai blessed himself with the sign of the cross, finishing by kissing his bitten finger tips.

  'She wants. For pray,' said Igor.

  'What?'

  Igor blessed himself as Nikolai had done, but Igor did it with his left hand and cast his eyes up to the ikon. Fred looked at the taxi driver. He smiled sheepishly and did the same.

  'What! Are you kidding me? Listen, you people don't pray - it's against the law, for God's sake. Listen . . .' Fred knew he was talking too fast for the Russians. He tried in broken English: 'Communist no like church. Huh? Church very bad. Praying bad. Priests bad. No pray in Soviet Union. Huh?' His patience was exhausted. He went on angrily, 'So what the hell is this old lady talking about, will you just tell me that?'

  Igor got the point. He leered. 'Komsomol no like this.' He clapped his hands prayerfully under his chin and attempted an appearance of devotion.

  'Right. Tell her that,' Fred said coldly.

  Igor began to speak, but was interrupted by Fred again. 'And tell her,' Fred went on, 'that she'll get into trouble if she keeps on praying, because it's against the law. And you know what that means! Siberia, right? Right. Go ahead, tell her.'

  'Is good idea,' said Igor. He tapped the side of his head and puckered his mouth appreciatively, as if to say, 'Good thinking.' And then he spoke to the old lady. He had not said ten words when the old lady looked fearfully at Fred and sucked in her breath. She seemed trapped, as if the floor of the fragile chapel was about to give way and drop her onto a rock pile. She started to protest, but broke off in the middle of a word and wept. She averted her eyes from the four men in the room; she stared at the (rayed carpet and, taking the knotted end of her shawl into her mouth, bit it, the way a person being tortured tries to endure pain. She moaned.