The Charm School

1890–1960.” Fresh flowers lay in the snow, and a book of Boris Pasternak’s poetry was being passed around, the students reading from it in turn. They barely took notice of Lisa and Hollis, but then a young girl motioned to the book questioningly, and Hollis replied in Russian, “Yes, I’d like to read.” He picked one of the Lara poems, which made Lisa smile, then passed the book to Lisa, who read from “Garden of Gethsemane”:
    And peering into these black abysses—
    Void, without end and without beginning—
    His brow sweating blood. He pleaded with His father
    That this cup of death might pass from Him.
    Afterward, on the way back to the city, Lisa said, “Could you imagine that in America? People traveling to a poet’s grave?”
    “No, I suppose not. But the Russians do it as much out of love of poetry as out of political protest. If the government made the place a national shrine, you’d see fewer poetry lovers around here. And if church attendance were encouraged, you might see fewer people there too.”
    “That’s cynical. I think you’re wrong.”
    “Maybe I see too much of the dark side of the Russian soul because I deal with the darker elements.”
    “Probably.”
    They had Sasha drive them around Moscow, revisiting places that had some memories for one or the other. Lisa said, “I want to share every place with you so we can talk about them after we leave.”
    “How about Gogol’s grave?”
    “Later.”
    At dusk they went up to the Lenin Hills and looked out over the city from the observation platform of the Moscow University campus. Lisa huddled against Hollis. “Thank you for a beautiful day. No matter what happens, this was our day.”
    Hollis looked at the city spread out beyond the Moskva. “I guess we can tell people we fell in love in Moscow.”
    “Yes, that’s true, and our first lovemaking was in a peasant’s cabin.”
    “I don’t think we should go into details.”
    “Oh, Sam, I’m so happy and sad at the same time. And optimistic and frightened… .”
    “I know.”
    Sasha stood ten feet or so down the stone parapet, chain-smoking. He and Hollis made eye contact and Sasha smiled. He called out in Russian, “Many lovers come here. And over there, you see that hill? That is Farewell Hill where the old Muscovites would go to say good-bye to their family and friends when they left on a long journey westward.”
    Sasha moved closer to his customers. “There is Mosfilm down there. See the buildings? Soviet films are good, but sometimes I like American films. We don’t get many. I saw
Kramer vs. Kramer
, and I took my daughter to see
Lady and the Tramp
.” He turned back to the city. “There is the Ukraina Hotel. Stalin knew how to build things to last. Today, everything they build is cheap and falls apart. Stalin would have shot half the building supervisors they have today. See, over there is the old Kiev Station, and there is the new circus—the round building. The best circus in all the world. And right here where we stand, every December the students gather to commemorate the death of John Lennon.”
    “Not Vladimir Lenin?” Hollis asked mischievously.
    Sasha roared with laughter. “No. The party takes care of that great man each twenty-first of January. Does it surprise you that the young people come here and sing John Lennon’s songs? He was a poet, like Pasternak. The Russians love poets. Did you like John Lennon?”
    “Yes,” Lisa replied. “He was a great musician and poet.”
    “We need more poets and fewer generals,” Sasha declared.
    Lisa pointed to a cluster of gold-domed buildings about half a kilometer away. “Sasha, isn’t that Novodevichy Convent?”
    “Yes. Peter put his first wife and his bitchy sister there for all their lives.” Sasha smiled at Hollis. “It’s not so easy now to get rid of troublesome women.”
    “Amen, brother,” Hollis replied in English.
    Lisa poked him in the side.
    Sasha continued, “You should go there on Sunday. The believers have mass in the cathedral there. I went once. It was very… interesting. Then go to the cemetery there too. You like our writers? Chekhov is buried there.”
    “And Gogol?” Hollis asked.
    “Oh, yes. He’s there too.”
    Hollis glanced at Lisa, who was smiling.
    Sasha went on, “Also Khruschev is there and other party members. Why do you suppose they wanted to be buried in holy ground and not at the Kremlin wall? Who can say? Maybe they’re taking no chances.” Sasha