The Charm School (5 page)
Fisher simply nodded.
“I am going to tell you a very strange story now. About the Charm School.” Dodson spoke and Fisher listened without interruption. Fifteen minutes later Dodson said, “You make sure they understand you and believe you. There are a lot of men whose lives depend on you as of this moment, Mr. Fisher.”
Fisher stared through the windshield with unfocused eyes.
“Are you a patriot, Mr. Fisher?”
“I guess . . . I mean in the last few weeks . . .”
“I understand. You’ll do what you have to do.”
“Yes.”
Dodson reached out and took Fisher’s hand, which was limp and wet. “Good luck, and as we used to say on the flight line, God speed.” Dodson opened the door and left quickly.
Fisher sat motionless for a few seconds, then looked out the passenger side window. Major Dodson was gone.
Gregory Fisher felt very alone. In a moment of crystal clarity, he completely grasped the meaning and the consequences of the secret that had just been revealed to him, and an awful fear suddenly gripped him, a fear unlike any he had ever known in his short, sheltered life. “This one’s for real.”
* * *
Gregory Fisher got his bearings from the Kutuzov obelisk shining in the moonlight. He found the lane flanked by the monuments to the Russian regiments, then spotted the white limestone museum, and within a minute he was on the poplar-lined road heading toward the iron gates.
Approaching the gates, he saw they were now closed. “Oh, for Christ’s sake—” He hit the accelerator, and the Trans Am smacked the gates, flinging them open with a metallic ring that brought him out of his trancelike state. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
Fisher pressed harder on the accelerator as he negotiated a series of shallow S-turns. Coming out of a long turn, he saw the old Moscow road dead ahead. He cut sharply left onto it with squealing tires.
Fisher snapped on his headlights and saw the signpost he’d passed earlier. He made a hard right into the farm lane that led back to the main Minsk–Moscow highway. “Should have taken this road the first time. Right? Did I need to see Borodino? No. Saw
War and Peace
once. . . . Read
War and Peace
too . . . that’s all I needed to know about Borodino. . . .”
War and Peace
once. . . . Read
War and Peace
too . . . that’s all I needed to know about Borodino. . . .”
His chest pounded as the Pontiac bumped over the potholed pavement. He could see lights from distant farm buildings across the flat, harvested fields. He had an acute sense of being where he wasn’t supposed to be, when he wasn’t supposed to be there. And he knew it would be some time before he was where he
was
supposed to be: in his room at the Rossiya—and longer still before he was where he wanted to be: in Connecticut. “I knew it.” He slapped his hand hard on the steering wheel. “I
knew
this fucking country would be trouble!” In fact, despite his nonchalance of the last eight hundred miles, he had felt tense since he’d crossed the border. Now a neon sign flashed in his head: NIGHTMARE. NIGHTMARE.
was
supposed to be: in his room at the Rossiya—and longer still before he was where he wanted to be: in Connecticut. “I knew it.” He slapped his hand hard on the steering wheel. “I
knew
this fucking country would be trouble!” In fact, despite his nonchalance of the last eight hundred miles, he had felt tense since he’d crossed the border. Now a neon sign flashed in his head: NIGHTMARE. NIGHTMARE.
The straight farm road seemed to go on forever before his headlights picked out a string of utility poles, and within minutes he was at the intersection of the main highway. “Okay . . . back where we started.” He turned quickly onto the highway and headed east toward Moscow.
He saw no headlights coming at him and none in his rear mirror, but he still had to resist the urge to floor it. As he drove he realized there were towns and villages ahead, and if there were police in any of them, he would be stopped and questioned.
Greg Fisher concocted several stories to tell the police, but as plausible as they might sound to him, it didn’t after the fact that the police—either here or in Connecticut—believed nothing you told them.
The clouds had returned, he noticed, and the night was deep and black with no sign of human habitation on this vast and fabled Russian plain. He had the feeling he was moving through a void, and as the time passed, the sensory deprivation began to work on his mind. He tried to convince himself that what had just happened to him had not happened. But by the time he reached Akulovo, he was left with nothing but the truth. “Jesus Christ . . . what am I supposed to do?”
Unwilling to think about it any longer, he popped a tape in the deck and tried to immerse himself in the sound of an old Janis Joplin album. She sang “Bobby McGee” in that deep, husky voice that turned him on. He wondered what she had looked like.
When Fisher’s mind returned to the road again, he saw a strange, haunting shimmer of light sitting on the black horizon. For some seconds he stared at it, confused and anxious. Suddenly he looked at his clock and odometer, then back at the glow. “Moscow!”
The Trans Am rolled eastward, and Greg Fisher kept his eyes on the distant lights. Ahead the road dipped beneath a highway bridge, and he knew this was the Outer Ring Road, the unofficial city limits. The road widened to four lanes as it passed beneath the Ring Road. He saw a farm truck coming toward him, its poultry cages empty. Then a bus heading out of the city went by, and he could see by its bright interior lights that it was filled with darkly clad peasants, mostly old women with head scarves.
Still he saw no signs of urban life along the highway, no suburbs, no streetlights, no signs, only fields of cut grain as though each square meter of earth had to produce something until the moment it was excavated for construction.
Roads began branching off to the left and right, and in the far distance he could see rows of stark prefab apartment houses, some lighted, some under construction. The previous night in his hotel room in Smolensk, he had spent an hour studying his Moscow map for this approach into the city.
To his right in the far distance the land rose, and he knew these were the Lenin Hills. Atop the rise was a massive skyscraper with an ornate spire—Moscow State University, where he had intended to check out the coeds. But his plans had turned indefinite.
Straight ahead up the highway he could see the Triumphal Arch commemorating the Battle of Borodino, and beyond the arch were solid blocks of buildings, like a medieval city, Fisher thought, rural to urban just like that. No Glenwoods subdivisions here.
The highway passed to the right of the Triumphal Arch, and the Minsk–Moscow highway became Kutuzov Prospect, named after the general of Borodino. Suddenly there were streetlights and vehicles.
He did not see a sign that said, “Welcome to Moscow,” but that was where he was. With the luck of the damned he had made it, had driven through the countryside after dark in a flashy American car without being stopped. He felt somewhat calmer now that he was mingling into the traffic of Moscow. “So much for the vaunted efficiency of the police state.” He noticed that other drivers were pulling close to him to look at his car. “Go away,” he muttered.
He drove slowly through Victory Square. To his left was a huge statue of Kutuzov on horseback, and behind that a circular building housing another Borodino museum. “Moscow branch,” he muttered. Fisher felt an unpleasant association with his side trip to Borodino Field. “Goddamned museums . . . statues . . . victories . . . wars . . .” The Prospect was flanked by solid walls of grey masonry buildings. Fisher pulled up to his first stoplight. People in the crosswalk were looking at his car and license plate, then at him. “Jesus, you people never see a car with Connecticut plates before?”
Fisher savored the sights and sounds. “Moscow! I’m in Moscow!” He grinned. All the towns and villages from Brest on had been mere hors d’oeuvres. This was the pièce de résistance. The Capital, the Center, as the Russians called it. He stared at the buildings and the people, trying to absorb every detail, making himself understand that he was actually
in
the streets of Moscow.
“Moskva.”
in
the streets of Moscow.
“Moskva.”
The light changed, and Fisher moved forward. The road forked, but he knew to take the left fork. Ahead he saw the spire of the Ukraina Hotel, another Stalinist wedding cake that looked much like the Moscow university building. He passed beside the massive hotel and found himself on the Kalinin Bridge that spanned the Moskva River. On the far bank, off to the left, he could see a modern high-rise building of dark red brick, and he was fairly certain that was the American embassy compound. “Thank you, God.”
Fisher came off the bridge into a confusing interchange. He was looking for a turnoff that would double him back toward the embassy near the river when a green and white police car pulled up beside him. The policeman in the passenger seat motioned him to pull over. Fisher decided he didn’t see him. The policeman shouted,
“Stoi!”
“Stoi!”
Fisher considered making a run for the embassy.
Fastest car in the Soviet Union.
But a chase through central Moscow was probably not a good idea. He was past the interchange now and was on the busy Kalinin Prospect.
Fastest car in the Soviet Union.
But a chase through central Moscow was probably not a good idea. He was past the interchange now and was on the busy Kalinin Prospect.
“Stoi!”
“Up your
stoi,
bozo.” Fisher took a deep breath, cut the wheel, and pulled over to the curb. His knees were so weak and shaky he had trouble applying the brakes.
stoi,
bozo.” Fisher took a deep breath, cut the wheel, and pulled over to the curb. His knees were so weak and shaky he had trouble applying the brakes.
The police car pulled up behind him, and both men, dressed in green overcoats and fur hats, approached. They carried white billy clubs. One came to his window, and Fisher lowered it.
“Amerikanets?”
“Right.
Da.
”
Da.
”
“Viza. Pasport.”
Gregory Fisher controlled his shaking hands as he produced his visa and passport.
The policeman studied the documents, looking alternately between Fisher and the papers again and again until Fisher thought the man was a half-wit. The other man was walking around the car, touching it. He seemed intrigued by the rear spoiler.
No one said anything for a long time. Suddenly a man in civilian clothing appeared. He stared at Fisher through the windshield, then came to the driver’s side. He spoke in heavily accented but correct English. “The car documents, please. Your international driver’s license, your insurance papers, your motoring itinerary.”
“Right.
Da.
” Fisher handed the man a large envelope.
Da.
” Fisher handed the man a large envelope.
The civilian studied the paperwork for some time, then snapped his fingers, and one of the policemen quickly handed him Fisher’s passport and visa. The civilian said to Fisher, “Turn off your ignition, give me your keys, and step out of the car.”
Fisher did as he was told. As he stood in front of the man he noticed that he was tall and very slender for a Russian. In fact, he was fair and Nordic-looking.
The man studied Fisher’s face, then his passport and visa pictures just as the uniformed man had done. Finally he said, “You come from Smolensk?”
“Connecticut.”
“You just arrived in Moscow from Smolensk?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You were driving in the country at night.”
“No.”
“But you said you just arrived in Moscow. It has been dark for two hours.”
“I didn’t say I just—”
“You were seen coming past the Arch.”
“Oh . . . is that the city limit?”
“What is your business in this quarter of the city?”
“Tourism.”
“Yes? Have you gone to your hotel yet?”
“No. I thought I’d just drive around—”
“Please don’t lie. That makes it worse. You were driving in the country at night.”
“Yes.” Fisher looked closely at the man. He was about forty, wore a leather coat and a black fur hat, probably sable. He seemed neither friendly nor hostile, just inquisitive. Fisher knew the type. “Well, I got a late start from Smolensk.”
“Did you?” The man looked at Fisher’s travel itinerary. “Yet it says here you left the Intourist office at thirteen-fifty—one-fifty
P
.
M
.”
P
.
M
.”
“I got lost.”
“Where?”
“At Bor—at Mozhaisk.”
The man stared at Fisher, and Fisher stared back.
Fuck you, Boris.
Fuck you, Boris.
“I don’t understand.”
“Lost. You know.”
“What did you see in Mozhaisk?”
“The cathedral.”
“Where did you get lost?” The man added in a sarcastic tone, “Inside the cathedral?”
Fisher’s fear gave way to annoyance. “Lost means you don’t
know
where.”
know
where.”
The man suddenly smiled. “Yes. Lost means that.” The man seemed to be thinking. “So. That is what you say?”
Fisher stayed silent. He might not have the right to remain so, he thought, but he had enough brains not to incriminate himself any further.
The man regarded Greg Fisher for an uncomfortably long time, then motioned Fisher to follow him. They went to the rear of the car, and the man unlocked Fisher’s trunk and opened it. The trunk light revealed Fisher’s cache of spare parts, lubricants, and cleaning supplies. The man picked up a can of Rain Dance car wax, examined it, then put it back.
Fisher noticed that the citizens of Moscow slowed imperceptibly but did not stop and did not stare—the only time in the last thousand miles that the Pontiac did not stop traffic. Greg Fisher suddenly comprehended the full meaning of the words “police state.”
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