The Charm School

on videotape, then sign up for lessons in America. We play a little tennis here, but the real game is learned there. Here we mostly stress physical conditioning for its own sake. Social sport comes later. This way, please.”
    They walked to the end of the corridor, which opened into a large gymnasium. Several young men were engaged in gymnastics, working on the bars, beams, and rings. Burov said, “This is something at which we excel. It produces very good bodies. Our students, male and female, are partly chosen for their physical attributes. Many of them, when they go West, form romantic liaisons with Americans who can be of some help. Do you understand?”
    Lisa replied tersely, “Do you have any idea how morally corrupt you are?”
    “Yes, by your standards. We have different standards.”
    “You have
no
standards. That’s why this country is morally and spiritually bankrupt. Do you teach your students Judeo-Christian morality?”
    “There’s not an overwhelming amount of that over there as far as I can determine.”
    “Have you ever been to America?”
    “Unfortunately not. Do you think it would do me some good, Ms. Rhodes?”
    “Probably not.”
    Burov smiled. He pointed to the far end of the gym where six young men in shorts were shooting baskets. “Come.” They walked around the hardwood gym floor and approached the six students. Hollis noted that their hairstyles were very American, and he was surprised at how they carried themselves: their walk, their smiles, their facial expressions, and hand movements. They were like no Russians he had ever seen, and he thought they closely approximated the American subtleties of physical presence.
    Burov said to them, “Gentlemen, this is Sam Hollis and Lisa Rhodes. They may be joining the faculty. Introduce yourselves.”
    The six young men greeted them pleasantly, pumping their hands and saying things such as, “Nice meeting you,” “Glad you could come,” and “Welcome aboard.”
    Their names, Hollis learned, were Jim Hull, Stan Kuchick, John Fleming, Kevin Sullivan, Fred Baur, and Vince Panzarello. Hollis thought their Anglo and ethnic names somewhat fit their appearance.
    Fred Baur asked, “Didn’t I read about you two in the newspapers?”
    Burov replied, “Yes. They died in a helicopter crash.” The young men seemed to light up with recognition. They all chatted awhile, and Hollis was impressed with not only their English, but with their informal manner in front of and with Colonel Burov. This, he knew, must have been a difficult cultural breakthrough for them
and
for Burov.
    Lisa listened to the conversation awhile, then looked at the man named Jim Hull. He was in his early twenties, blond, and rather good-looking, dressed in only shorts and sneakers. Lisa surveyed his body up and down, then caught his eye and gave him a look of unmistakable meaning. Hull seemed alternately ill at ease and interested. Finally he broke into a silly grin, dropped his eyes, and lowered his head. Burov and Hollis both noticed, and Hollis realized that Jim Hull suddenly didn’t look American anymore. American men of that age could be shy and awkward with women, Hollis knew, but Hull’s manner of expressing his shyness and discomfort revealed the Russian boy behind the mask.
    Lisa commented to Burov, “That man doesn’t get out much, does he?”
    Burov seemed annoyed and said curtly, “I’m afraid my students aren’t used to aggressive American women.” He added, “Let’s go.”
    They walked through the gymnasium. Lisa spoke to Hollis as though Burov weren’t there. “You know, Sam, when a young man’s hormones are bubbling and his heart is racing and the color comes to his face, he is not in complete control of himself.”
    “I think I remember that.”
    Burov interjected, “Well, aside from that, what did you think of them? Truthfully, now.”
    “I think,” Hollis answered, “your six basketball players smelled of kolbassa and cabbage.”
    “You mean literally or figuratively?”
    “Both.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Then don’t bother to ask me.”
    Burov turned down a short corridor and opened a glass door that led to a large swimming pool. Burov motioned toward the pool in which two men and two women were swimming laps. He said, “This is a focal point of social activity at night and, I’m afraid, for some rather uninhibited parties on Friday night. That’s skinny-dipping night. The wilder bunch congregates here then. I’m not