The Charm School

odd name of Seventh Heaven. Fifty yards from the metro pavilion was the huge entrance arch to the USSR Economic Achievements Exhibition, a two-hundred-acre park with some two dozen pavilions. A sort of theme park, Hollis thought, and the theme was Soviet power. He’d toured the place once, and it
was
impressive. The buildings, like the obscenely expensive titanium rocket, were built of the finest stone and metals. The exhibits, ranging from atomic energy and rocketry to agriculture and animal husbandry, were well-preserved and well-maintained. Yet, a few kilometers to the north were the log cabins, the mud streets, the outhouses, and the women carrying water buckets on yokes.
    Lisa said, “We can try to get into the Seventh Heaven or one of the snack bars in the exhibition, or maybe we can try the Cosmos Hotel.”
    Hollis looked across the six-lane Prospect Mira at the massive concave facade of the thirty-story aluminum-and-glass hotel. It had been a joint French and Yugoslav project, completed in time for the 1980 Olympics, and though it was stunning to look at, Hollis had heard rumors that the last maintenance and cleaning people had departed with the Olympic guests. He said, “All right, the hotel.”
    They crossed the wide avenue and walked up a long concrete ramp that took them to the front doors. A doorman asked for their
propusks
, and Hollis gave him two rubles instead, which got the door open.
    They entered the massive, blondwood-paneled lobby, surrounded by a mezzanine level, and consulted a wall directory. The theme here, as across the street, was rocketry and space travel. There was the Orbit Lounge, the Lunar Restaurant, and so forth. Hollis said, “I hope they don’t serve drinks in space capsule glasses.”
    “With rocketship stirrers.” She looked around the crowded lobby. The furniture was discolored and sagging, the floors were dirty, and half the lights didn’t work. She said, “What is that smell?”
    “I’d rather not speculate.”
    She shrugged. “I hope it’s not one of the restaurants. Let’s try the Lunar.”
    They walked up the closest out-of-order escalator to the sweeping mezzanine level and found the Lunar Restaurant. Hollis spoke to the hostess in English, which she partly understood. She seemed surprised to discover they weren’t hotel guests and had actually come from somewhere else to eat at the Lunar. She showed them into the dining room, a fairly pleasant if plain room with clean blue tablecloths.
    The Cosmos was an Intourist hotel, and as the Soviets considered it one of the best, they put Americans and West Europeans there, though Hollis thought it was inconveniently far from central Moscow. The restaurant was crowded with tourists on their lunch break, the two-hour respite between the bus jaunts of their Intourist-planned stay. The hostess pointed to the far end of the restaurant and said, “British and Americans.”
    “How about Canadians and Australians?”
    “Yes, yes. There, please.”
    They walked unescorted through the restaurant, which consisted entirely of tables for eight and twelve. Hollis said, “Tables for two in Russia are only in interrogation rooms.”
    “Always griping.”
    “Just making observations.” Hollis determined that they were now walking through the German section of the restaurant. There were well over a hundred of them, predominantly middle-aged couples. Most of them, like a good many Germans he’d seen in Moscow, looked dour and withdrawn. He could not imagine how they felt comfortable in a country that had lost twenty million of its people to the German armies and where half the tourist sights were memorials to the dead. He wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that some of the men had last seen Russia from the turret of a Panzer tank.
    In the English-speaking section of the dining room, Hollis and Lisa found a table occupied by only one other couple, and Lisa introduced herself and Hollis as Sam and Lisa Randall, tourists.
    The couple introduced themselves as George and Dina Turnbill of Rhode Island.
    Hollis and Lisa sat. The table, Hollis noticed, was set for ten, and he knew the busboys had no intention of removing the other settings. On the table were two bottles of mineral water, four bottles of a popular pear soda that Hollis had tried once, and two bottles of Russian Pepsi-Cola. Hollis had tried the Pepsi once, and it wasn’t.
    There was a basket of the ubiquitous black bread near them, white butter that was more