The Charm School

stared at the buildings and the people, trying to absorb every detail, making himself understand that he was actually
in
the streets of Moscow.
“Moskva.”
    The light changed, and Fisher moved forward. The road forked, but he knew to take the left fork. Ahead he saw the spire of the Ukraina Hotel, another Stalinist wedding cake that looked much like the Moscow university building. He passed beside the massive hotel and found himself on the Kalinin Bridge that spanned the Moskva River. On the far bank, off to the left, he could see a modern high-rise building of dark red brick, and he was fairly certain that was the American embassy compound. “Thank you, God.”
    Fisher came off the bridge into a confusing interchange. He was looking for a turnoff that would double him back toward the embassy near the river when a green and white police car pulled up beside him. The policeman in the passenger seat motioned him to pull over. Fisher decided he didn’t see him. The policeman shouted,
“Stoi!”
    Fisher considered making a run for the embassy.
Fastest car in the Soviet Union.
But a chase through central Moscow was probably not a good idea. He was past the interchange now and was on the busy Kalinin Prospect.
    “Stoi!”
    “Up your
stoi,
bozo.” Fisher took a deep breath, cut the wheel, and pulled over to the curb. His knees were so weak and shaky he had trouble applying the brakes.
    The police car pulled up behind him, and both men, dressed in green overcoats and fur hats, approached. They carried white billy clubs. One came to his window, and Fisher lowered it.
    “Amerikanets?”
    “Right.
Da.
”
    “Viza. Pasport.”
    Gregory Fisher controlled his shaking hands as he produced his visa and passport.
    The policeman studied the documents, looking alternately between Fisher and the papers again and again until Fisher thought the man was a half-wit. The other man was walking around the car, touching it. He seemed intrigued by the rear spoiler.
    No one said anything for a long time. Suddenly a man in civilian clothing appeared. He stared at Fisher through the windshield, then came to the driver’s side. He spoke in heavily accented but correct English. “The car documents, please. Your international driver’s license, your insurance papers, your motoring itinerary.”
    “Right.
Da.
” Fisher handed the man a large envelope.
    The civilian studied the paperwork for some time, then snapped his fingers, and one of the policemen quickly handed him Fisher’s passport and visa. The civilian said to Fisher, “Turn off your ignition, give me your keys, and step out of the car.”
    Fisher did as he was told. As he stood in front of the man he noticed that he was tall and very slender for a Russian. In fact, he was fair and Nordic-looking.
    The man studied Fisher’s face, then his passport and visa pictures just as the uniformed man had done. Finally he said, “You come from Smolensk?”
    “Connecticut.”
    “You just arrived in Moscow from Smolensk?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “You were driving in the country at night.”
    “No.”
    “But you said you just arrived in Moscow. It has been dark for two hours.”
    “I didn’t say I just—”
    “You were seen coming past the Arch.”
    “Oh… is that the city limit?”
    “What is your business in this quarter of the city?”
    “Tourism.”
    “Yes? Have you gone to your hotel yet?”
    “No. I thought I’d just drive around—”
    “Please don’t lie. That makes it worse. You were driving in the country at night.”
    “Yes.” Fisher looked closely at the man. He was about forty, wore a leather coat and a black fur hat, probably sable. He seemed neither friendly nor hostile, just inquisitive. Fisher knew the type. “Well, I got a late start from Smolensk.”
    “Did you?” The man looked at Fisher’s travel itinerary. “Yet it says here you left the Intourist office at thirteen-fifty—one-fifty P . M .”
    “I got lost.”
    “Where?”
    “At Bor—at Mozhaisk.”
    The man stared at Fisher, and Fisher stared back.
Fuck you, Boris.
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Lost. You know.”
    “What did you see in Mozhaisk?”
    “The cathedral.”
    “Where did you get lost?” The man added in a sarcastic tone, “Inside the cathedral?”
    Fisher’s fear gave way to annoyance. “Lost means you don’t
know
where.”
    The man suddenly smiled. “Yes. Lost means that.” The man seemed to be thinking. “So. That is what you say?”
    Fisher stayed silent. He