The Charm School

off the road to the right, and he felt the two tires sink into the sandy shoulder. The car slowed and he tugged at the wheel until he got the tires back on the blacktop and continued down the gradual slope.
    Fisher turned his head slightly toward Dodson. As he tried to sort out the dark images in his peripheral vision, he focused now and then on his passenger. He saw the man running his fingers over the dashboard, then touching the rich leather on the side panels—like he’d never sat in an American car before, Fisher thought. Like a Russian.
    They sat in silence as the car continued down the ridge line. The pine trees thinned toward the base of the slope, and Fisher was able to see better.
    The night had become very still, he noticed, and bright twinkling stars shone down between scattered clouds. He hadn’t been in the Russian countryside at night, and the deep, dark quiet surprised him.
Spooky.
    Through an opening in the trees, he saw the rolling fields below. The moon broke through a cloud and revealed a dozen polished obelisks standing like shimmering sentries over the dead. “Borodino.”
    Dodson nodded.
    Fisher thought he saw something in his rearview mirror. Dodson noticed and looked back through the rear window.
    Fisher ventured, “Someone following us?”
    “I don’t see anything.” He added, “They’re searching on foot, because they think I’m on foot.”
    “Right.”
    “I wish you hadn’t left that tire mark in the sand, however.”
    “Sorry.” Fisher thought a moment, then added, “This mother can outrun anything in the USSR.” He smiled in spite of himself.
    Dodson smiled in return.
    Fisher found the car slowing as the slope flattened. He said, “Who’s after you? What did you do?”
    “Long story.”
    Fisher nodded. “Fucked-up country.”
    “Amen.” Dodson studied an Intourist highway map, then slipped it into his side pocket. “You have a city map of Moscow?”
    “Under your seat.”
    Dodson found the folded map and opened it.
    Fisher said, “It’s all in Russian. You know Russian?”
    “Hardly a word. Everything was in English. That was rule number one.”
    Fisher began to ask something, then thought better of it.
    Dodson studied the map. “I did read in American newspapers that there was a new American Embassy somewhere near the Moskva River, but the articles weren’t too specific. I don’t see it here.”
    “It’s near the Kalinin Bridge. You want to go there?”
    “Ultimately.”
    “Okay… we have to cross that bridge on my way to the Rossiya.”
    “That’s where you’re staying?”
    “Right. I can drop you off at the embassy.”
    “I wouldn’t get past the Soviet militia at the gates.”
    “Why not?”
    “No passport,” said Dodson. He looked at Fisher a moment, then said, “Let me see your passport.”
    Fisher hesitated, then drew his passport from the inside pocket of his windbreaker.
    Dodson took it, studied it and the visa stapled to it by the light of the glove compartment, then handed it back.
    They were nearly out of the pine forest now. Ahead lay copses of bare birch, a few lonely poplars, and the fields of Borodino. A hundred meters beyond the base of the ridge, the Pontiac came to a gradual halt. Fisher looked at Dodson, waiting for instructions.
    Dodson said, “If they catch us together, they’ll shoot you.”
    Fisher felt his mouth go dry.
    “Or worse, they’ll send you to where I just escaped from. So we’re going to part company here. I’m going cross-country to Moscow. You’re going to find the highway and drive there. You’re going to the embassy. I’m going to figure out what to do when I get to Moscow. I may try to contact you at the Rossiya. Understand?”
    “Yes.”
    “I may try to contact the embassy by phone. I need all the rubles and kopeks you’ve got on you.”
    Fisher took out his wallet and removed the one-, five-, and ten-ruble notes. “About a hundred and fifty.”
    Dodson took the notes.
    Fisher found seventy-five kopeks in his pocket and handed them over.
    “Can’t promise I’ll pay you back.”
    Fisher shrugged. Fisher didn’t care if he never saw the money or Dodson again. Especially if it meant getting shot. He thought he should have listened to the Intourist lady and stayed in Smolensk.
    Dodson glanced back in the rear of the car. “You going to open a farm stand?”
    “Huh…? Oh, no. Gifts. You can take what you need.”
    “You have candy? Packaged food?”
    “Candy in the plastic bag back