The Charm School (40 page)

There was a basket of the ubiquitous black bread near them, white butter that was more like stiff cream than butter, and a bowl of pickled beets. There was apparently no menu, and a waitress brought four
pannikins
of mushrooms floating in hot cream. A waiter set down a tureen of borscht on which floated a film of sour cream.

Hollis and Lisa fell into conversation with the Turnbills. They were a casually dressed couple, attractive and in their mid-thirties. They were both instructors at Brown; he taught anthropology and she taught psychology. Hollis told them he was a used car salesman from Hoboken, New Jersey, and Lisa was a housewife, which earned him a kick under the table.

George Turnbill said to Hollis, “Our tour group is having lunch at the downtown Intourist so they can go to GUM department store afterward. But Dina and I came back here to see more of this Economic Exhibition across the street.”

Hollis replied, “We’re in the same situation.”

Dina said, “Isn’t it marvelous?”

“What?”

“The exhibition. They’ve done so much in so short a time.”

Hollis thought the old “so short a time” tagline was wearing a little thin after seventy years.

George exclaimed, “You can eat off the streets here! Have you seen the subways yet? My God, they’re marble and brass!”

Lisa smiled. “We’ve been exploring the subways quite a bit.”

Dina said, “George and I walked around Red Square last night—eleven o’clock at night, and we never once felt afraid. Right, George?”

“There’s no crime here,” George agreed. “This is a very well-run city and country. The people seem content, prosperous, healthy, and well fed.”

Hollis poured the
pannikin
of mushrooms into the beet soup and studied the result.

Lisa responded, “I’ve noted that almost no one smiles—”

“That,” Dina interrupted, “is just a national character trait. It doesn’t mean they’re not happy.”

“For instance,” George explained, “Orientals smile when they’re embarrassed.”

Hollis had the feeling he was getting a combined psychology and anthropology lecture. He tried the pear soda, then washed the taste out with the mineral water, then tried the borscht and mushroom concoction. Hollis badly wanted a drink, but the anti-alcohol campaign made it impossible to buy the stuff before four
P
.
M
., not even wine or beer in a tourist restaurant. He poured Pepsi, pear soda, and mineral water into one glass and swirled it around.

George asked him, “Did you notice how cheap everything is? Five kopeks for the metro, two kopeks for the telephone. I bought a beautiful photo book of Moscow for two rubles, and the room here is about thirty rubles, and there’s no tipping.”

Hollis thought about mentioning the price of fresh food if you could get it, or that badly made shoes cost about sixty dollars, junk cars about nine thousand dollars, and freedom couldn’t be bought at any price. He said to George, “What exactly did you come here to find?”

George answered without hesitation. “The truth. I came to Moscow to look for the truth.”

“That,” Hollis said, “is sort of like going to Forty-second Street to look for virtue.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Lisa interjected, “We’re having a somewhat different experience here than you.”

“You have to stay open-minded,” Dina advised.

Hollis turned to Lisa and said in Russian, “I’m not sure I want to go back to America if there are any more shitheads like these two here.”

Lisa replied, “Just stay away from college campuses.”

George asked, “Is that Russian?”

“Polish,” Hollis said.

They finished the mushrooms, the bread, the mineral water, and the pickled beets, but there was no sign of the main course. From where he sat, Hollis could see behind the screen that shielded the kitchen door. Six waiters and waitresses sat there at a table, drinking tea and talking. Hollis said dryly, “I’m glad they’re having a good time on their day off.”

The Turnbills were extolling the virtues of black bread, mineral water, and pear soda, though they couldn’t find much good to say about the communist Pepsi.

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 attaché, 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, pre-paying 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 Ring 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 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—