The Charm School

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,