Moscow Rules

Danilov. Michael and I work in the same office in Washington. If any of our colleagues found out we were here together, there would be a terrible scandal.”
     
     
    “So we share another secret? Just like the hiding place for the key to the nursery?” She was still clinging to Mikhail’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Michael.”
     
     
    “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Kharkov. I’ve been an admirer of your husband’s success for some time. When Sarah told me that she’d met you, I was extremely envious.”
     
     
    Hearing Mikhail’s accent, Elena’s face took on an expression of surprise. It was contrived, Sarah thought, just as her smile had been a moment earlier. “You’re a Russian,” she said, not as a question but as a statement of fact.
     
     
    “Actually, I’m an American citizen now, but, yes, I was born in Moscow. My family moved to the States not long after the fall of communism. ”
     
     
    “How fascinating.” Elena looked at Sarah. “You never told me you had a Russian boyfriend.”
     
     
    “It’s not exactly the sort of personal information one reveals during a business transaction. Besides, Michael is my secret Russian boyfriend. Michael doesn’t really exist.”
     
     
    “I love conspiracies,” Elena said. “Please, you must join me for lunch.”
     
     
    “Are you sure it’s not an imposition?”
     
     
    “Are you sure you want to have lunch with my children?”
     
     
    “We would love to have lunch with your children.”
     
     
    “Then it’s settled.”
     
     
    Elena summoned Jean-Luc with an imperious wave of her hand and, in French, asked him to add another table to the banquette so her friends could join her. There followed much frowning and pouting of lips, then a lengthy explanation of how the tables were too closely aligned already for him to possibly add another. The only solution, he ventured cautiously, was for Mrs. Kharkov’s two friends to trade places with two of Mrs. Kharkov’s entourage. This time it was Oleg, the chief of her detail, who was summoned. Like Jean-Luc before him, he offered resistance. It was overcome by a few tense words that, had they not been spoken in colloquial Russian, would have scandalized the entire room.
     
     
    The exchange of places was swiftly carried out. Two of the bodyguards were soon sulking at the far end of the table, one with a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Sarah tried not to think about whom he was calling. Instead, she kept her gaze focused on the children. They were miniature versions of their parents: Nikolai, fair and compact; Anna, lanky and dark. “You should see photographs of Ivan and me when we were their age,” Elena said, as if reading Sarah’s thoughts. “It’s even more shocking.”
     
     
    “It’s as if you produced exact duplicates.”
     
     
    “We did, right down to the shape of their toes.”
     
     
    “And their dispositions?”
     
     
    “Anna is much more independent than I was as a child. I was always clinging to my mother’s apron. Anna lives in her own world. My Anna likes time to herself.”
     
     
    “And Nikolai?”
     
     
    Elena was silent for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer the question with evasion or honesty. She chose the latter. “My precious Nikolai is much sweeter than his father. Ivan accuses me of babying him too much. Ivan’s father was distant and authoritarian, and I’m afraid Ivan is as well. Russian men don’t always make the best fathers. Unfortunately, it is a cultural trait they pass on to their sons.” She looked at Mikhail and, in Russian, asked: “Wouldn’t you agree, Michael?”
     
     
    “My father was a mathematician,” he replied, also in Russian. “His head was too filled with numbers to think much about his son. But he was gentle as a lamb, and he never touched alcohol.”
     
     
    “Then you should consider yourself extremely lucky. A weakness for alcohol is another trait our men tend to pass on to their sons.” She raised her wineglass and spoke in English again. “Although I must confess I have a certain weakness for cold rosé on a warm summer day, especially the rosé that comes from the vineyards around Saint-Tropez. ”
     
     
    “A weakness I share myself,” Sarah said, raising her glass.
     
     
    “Are you staying here in Saint-Tropez?”
     
     
    “Just outside,” said Sarah. “At the Château de la Messardière.”
     
     
    “I hear it’s very popular with