The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared

think about becoming a spy?’ asked Allan. ‘I myself am one, and it is actually rather exciting.’
    Yury choked on his fifth drink.
    ‘Spy?’ asked Larissa while her husband coughed.
    ‘Yes, or “agent”. I don’t really know what the difference is, actually.’
    ‘So interesting! Tell us more, please, Allan Emmanuel.’
    ‘No, don’t, Allan,’ Yury coughed. ‘We don’t want to know any more!’
    ‘Don’t be silly, dear Yury,’ said Larissa. ‘Let your friend tell us about his job; you haven’t seen each other for so many years. Go on, Allan Emmanuel.’
     
    Allan went on and Larissa listened with interest while Yury hid his face in his hands. Allan told them about the dinner with President Johnson and Secret Agent Hutton from the CIA and the meeting with Hutton the following day, during whichHutton suggested that Allan should travel to Moscow and find out how things were with the Soviet missiles.
    The alternative that Allan saw before him was to stay on in Paris where he would certainly have his hands full with preventing the ambassador and her husband from creating diplomatic crises just by opening their mouths. Since Amanda and Herbert were two, and Allan couldn’t possibly be in more than one place at a time, he agreed to Secret Agent Hutton’s proposal. It sounded less stressful. Besides, it would be nice to meet Yury after all these years.
    Yury still had his hands over his face, but he was peeping at Allan between his fingers. Had Yury heard Herbert Einstein’s name mentioned? Yury remembered him and it would certainly be good news if Herbert too had survived the kidnapping and the prison camp that Beria had sent him to.
    Oh, yes, Allan confirmed. And then he told the story briefly, the story of the twenty years together with Herbert; about how his friend first wanted nothing more than to die, but when he finally did so, dropping dead at the age of seventy-six last December in Paris, he had completely changed his mind about that. He left behind him a successful wife – now widow – who was a diplomat in Paris, and two teenage children. The last reports from the French capital said that the family had coped well with Herbert’s death, and that Mrs Einstein had become something of a favourite in important circles. Her French was admittedly dreadful, but that was part of her charm; now and then she said stupid things that she couldn’t possibly mean.
    ‘But we seem to have got off our subject,’ said Allan. ‘You forgot to answer my question. What about becoming a spy. Isn’t it time for a change?’
    ‘But Allan Emmanuel, my good friend. This simply can’t be happening! I am more honoured for my services to the mothercountry than any other non-military person in the modern history of the Soviet Union. It is absolutely out of the question that I should become a spy!’ said Yury and raised his glass to his mouth.
    ‘Don’t say that, dear Yury,’ said Larissa, and let her husband knock back drink number six, as he had knocked back number five.
    ‘Isn’t it better to drink your vodka instead of spraying it all over?’ Allan asked kindly.
    Larissa Popova expanded upon her reasoning, while her husband again put his hands in front of his face. She and Yury would both be sixty-five soon, and what did they actually have to thank the Soviet Union for? Yes, her husband had received lots and lots of decorations and awards, and that in turn led to fine tickets at the Opera. But otherwise?
    Larissa didn’t wait for her husband’s answer, but went on to say that they were both shut up inside Arzamas-16, a city the very name of which would make anybody depressed. And behind barbed wire too. Yes, Larissa knew that they were free to come and go as they wished, but now Yury mustn’t interrupt her because she was far from finished.
    For whose sake had Yury slaved day after day? First it was for Stalin, and he was completely mad. Then it was Khrushchev’s turn, and the only sign that man showed of any human warmth was that he had Marshal Beria executed. And now it was Brezhnev – who smelled bad!
    ‘Larissa!’ exclaimed Yury Borisovich in horror.
    ‘Now don’t you sit there and Larissa me, dear Jilij. That Brezhnev smells – those are your own words.’
    She went on to say that Allan Emmanuel had come at a most opportune moment, because she had recently become more and more depressed at the thought of dying inside that barbed wire fence in the city that officially didn’t exist.