The Charm School

might not have the right to remain so, he thought, but he had enough brains not to incriminate himself any further.
    The man regarded Greg Fisher for an uncomfortably long time, then motioned Fisher to follow him. They went to the rear of the car, and the man unlocked Fisher’s trunk and opened it. The trunk light revealed Fisher’s cache of spare parts, lubricants, and cleaning supplies. The man picked up a can of Rain Dance car wax, examined it, then put it back.
    Fisher noticed that the citizens of Moscow slowed imperceptibly but did not stop and did not stare—the only time in the last thousand miles that the Pontiac did not stop traffic. Greg Fisher suddenly comprehended the full meaning of the words “police state.”
    He noticed that the two uniformed men were bent over into the rear seat of his car, examining his luggage and burlap bags of fruit and vegetables.
    “What does this mean?”
    Fisher turned back to the civilian. “What?” Fisher saw he was pointing to the nameplate on the car. “Pontiac,” Fisher said.
    “Yes?”
    “Name of the company”—
shithead
—“General Motors. I think it’s an Indian word or something. Right. Chief Pontiac.”
    The man didn’t seem enlightened. He stared at Fisher’s nationality plate, a red, white, and blue shield with stars and stripes that Fisher had been required to purchase at Brest. The man snapped his finger against the American shield, almost, Fisher thought, as though he intended to be insulting. He then pointed to the front fender. “Trans Am?”
    “Trans—across. Am—America.”
    “Across America.”
    “Right.”
    “Across Russia.” The man smiled again, and Fisher noticed it wasn’t a pleasant smile. The man came around to the driver’s side and put his hand on the seat. “Leather?”
    “Yes.”
    “How much?”
    “Oh… about eighteen thousand dollars.”
    “Seventy—eighty thousand rubles.”
    Fisher noticed the man had given the black market rate of exchange instead of the official rate. Fisher replied, “No.
Fifteen
thousand.”
    The man smirked, then asked, “Are you a capitalist?”
    “Oh, no. I’m an ex-student. I took a course in Soviet economics once. Read Marx and a book called
The Red Executive.
Very enlightening.”
    “Marx?”
    “Karl. And Lenin. I’m very interested in the Soviet Union.”
    “For what reason?”
    “Oh, just to know about the Soviet people. World’s first socialist state. Fascinating. Did you ever see
Reds
? Warren Beatty—”
    The man turned away and joined the two policemen who were now standing on the sidewalk. They spoke for about five minutes, then the tall civilian returned. “You have broken a law: driving in the country at night. It is very serious, for a foreigner.”
    Fisher said nothing.
    The man continued, “You should have stopped in a town along the highway if you were lost.”
    “You’re absolutely right.”
    “I suggest you go now directly to the Rossiya and stay there for the evening. You may be asked to give a full accounting of yourself tomorrow, or perhaps tonight.”
    “Okay.” And here, in an ironic twist, Fisher realized, they didn’t cuff or frisk you after charging you with a serious offense; they simply had no previous experience with armed or dangerous citizens. Nor did they arrest you on the spot, because the whole country was a sort of detention camp anyway; they simply sent you to your room. The arrest was at their convenience. “Right. The Rossiya.”
    The man handed Fisher his papers and his keys. “Welcome to Moscow, Mr. Fisher.”
    “Real glad to be here.”
    The man walked away, and Fisher watched him descend into a Metro station. The two policemen got into their car without a word. They remained parked, watching Fisher.
    Greg Fisher shut his trunk and his right side door, then climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. He noticed a crowd forming now. “Sheep.” He replayed the incident in his mind and decided he’d done all right. “Schmucks.” He threw the car in gear and pulled out into traffic. The police car followed.
    “Assholes.” He was trembling so badly now he wanted to pull over but continued up Kalinin Prospect. The police car stayed with him, so the embassy was out of the question for the time being.
    Fisher barely noticed his surroundings as he drove. When he did, he realized he had crossed the Inner Ring Road and was heading straight for the Kremlin. He recalled from the map what he was supposed to do and turned