The Charm School (42 page)

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Authors: NELSON DEMILLE

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BOOK: The Charm School
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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 questioningly, 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 Gethsemane”:
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, chain-smoking. 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 won’t 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.”
“Thank you for today.”
Hollis walked to the elevator as Lisa walked out the back toward the residences. As Hollis rode up to meet Alevy, it occurred to him that two of the great puzzles in life were women and espionage and that he was up to his eyeballs in both.

 

24
Hollis buttoned the blue tunic of his Air Force uniform and straightened his tie. “How do I look?”
“Very sexy,” Lisa said. “I’m going to lose you to some young secretary tonight.”
Hollis adjusted his row of ribbons.
Lisa asked, “Do you arrange them by color, chronologically, or what?”
“By order of importance. Good conduct last. Which secretary?”
She smiled. “Will you teach me how to put your uniform together?”
“It’s not important. I can do it.”
“Did your wife do it?”
“I don’t think she knew I was in the military. Do you have any scotch?”
“One bottle left in the kitchen. Help me with this zipper.”
Hollis zippered her black silk dress, then reached around and cupped her breasts in his hands. “World-class jugs.”
“Gross. You’re getting very gross. You used to be an officer and a gentleman.”
He kissed her on the neck, and they went downstairs. Lisa got the scotch and a bottle of soda. Hollis filled two glasses with ice.
She said, “These packing boxes are getting on my nerves.”
“Where’s the icon?”
“Over there on the bookshelf. I’m going to send it to my boss at the USIS in D.C. I wrote and asked him to hold it. Will you get it into the diplomatic bag for me?”
“I said I would.”
“Thanks. Can you pick it up for me when you go to Washington?”
“Sure.” He took the icon from the bookshelf and looked at it. It was a square, about two feet on each side. The painting was of a male saint, but Hollis couldn’t identify him. “Who’s this guy?”
She came up beside him. “That guy is the Archangel Gabriel. See his trumpet?”
“Right.”
“This is painted on larch. Too many of them were done on pine, which warps and cracks.”
“I see.”
“A lot of people don’t like icon painting. The figures have no perspective, no depth or movement. They’re just flat, and the faces seem stiff and distant.”
“Like eight million Muscovites.”
“But there’s a warmth to the colors they used, and there’s a certain serenity in that beatific face, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes. How much?”
“Is it worth? Well, they’re hard to get appraised in the West, but I found an art historian at Columbia once who said it was sixteenth century, Kazan region, which I knew. Worth maybe twenty-five thousand.”
“Jesus. What if I lose it?”
She poured scotch in his glass. “I can’t imagine a spy losing things. I trust you.”
“Okay.” He put the icon carefully back on the shelf.

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