The Charm School

it’s worth four hundred.”
    “That’s what I’d expect a man to say.”
    Hollis shrugged.
    She added, “Besides, I like Anna.”
    “Anna doesn’t own the place. The great Soviet people own it. Anna works for the government.”
    “Actually, this is a unique sort of operation. It’s called a commission shop. Do you know what that is?”
    “No.”
    “People bring things here on consignment. Whatever Anna sells, she takes a commission. The rest goes to the person who brought it in. Anna splits her commission with the government. It’s almost free enterprise.”
    “I’ve never heard of that.”
    “It’s only allowed with used goods.”
    “Interesting.”
    “Anna has what we call incentive. She’s nice, and she holds things for me.”
    “And Seth.”
    “Yes. She likes Camels.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Cigarettes. Camel cigarettes.”
    “Oh.”
    “I’m going to buy this.” She went to the counter and chatted with Anna, then counted out four hundred rubles. Lisa wrapped the Palekh box in a piece of tissue and slipped it into her bag. She pushed a pack of Camels across the counter. “Let me know if you ever get anything porcelain with inlaid silver or gold.”
    “I’ll call you if I do.”
    They bade farewell, and Hollis walked out into the pedestrian street. Lisa followed and they continued walking in the afternoon sun. Hollis ventured, “That was a lot of money for that box.”
    “I know.”
    “Do you usually carry four hundred rubles with you?”
    “I’m a real Russian. No credit cards, no checks. Just hundreds of rubles in case I see something to buy.”
    “They usually look for food and clothing. That box was—well, it’s not my business.”
    They walked for a few minutes before she said, “Does that place remind you of anything?”
    “Not offhand.”
    “Think. A novel. The one we all think about here.”
    “Oh, yes. The secondhand store in
1984.
The one run by the Thought Police, where poor Winston Smith was entrapped. That did cross my mind, now you mention it. Is that place run by the Thought Police?”
    “I hope not.”
    “How does that woman know you and Alevy and that you are both with the embassy? Why does Seth Alevy frequent that place?”
    “That’s a good question. I thought you could tell me.”
    “I’m sure I can’t.”
    “Seth gives me money to buy things there. In fact, he tells me what to buy. It’s always an overpriced item. This time it was the box. I shouldn’t tell you this, but he hasn’t been up front with me.”
    Hollis did not respond.
    “Was that disloyal of me?”
    “Do you owe him loyalty?”
    She shrugged. “In some areas. Anyway, I told you, so you wouldn’t think I was a complete bubble brain. I was under orders to buy the box.”
    Hollis nodded, then said, “That did seem out of character.”
    “Out of character and out of my price range.” She asked, “So you don’t know
anything
about the antique shop?”
    “No.” But Hollis thought he might look into it.
    They walked on, and Hollis watched the people sitting on the benches and planters, eating ice cream and small meat pies. Most people gave them a passing glance, and some stared. Westerners were still rare enough in Moscow to attract attention, and a Muscovite could pick out a Westerner as easily as a Westerner could pick out a Cossack on horseback. The sun, Hollis thought, had the unfortunate effect of putting Moscow and its citizens in the most unfavorable light; somehow the drabness was not so drab under an overcast sky.
    Lisa had taken his arm again, and Hollis gave her a sidelong glance. Now that she’d mentioned it, there was something vaguely Russian about her. But perhaps it was only the power of suggestion, as when he’d seen Julie Christie as Pasternak’s Lara against the background of Hollywood’s Moscow.
    Hollis thought Lisa was quite pretty, and he noticed she had the high cheekbones and sharp features of some Slavic women. But her complexion was light, and her eyes were big and blue. Her auburn hair was cut in a shag-pixie style that Hollis noticed was popular with many younger Moscow women. Her lips, he saw, had the capability of being pouty, though he hadn’t seen that so far. Mostly she smiled or bit her bottom lip in thought.
    She said without looking at him, “Do I have a fly on my nose?”
    “No… I… I was just looking for Russian features.”
    “Not in the face. Feet and legs. Short, stubby legs and big feet. Fat thighs.”
    “I doubt