The Charm School

that.”
    “Want to bet?”
    “Well… sure.”
    She smiled and led him down a side street called Kalachny, or pastrycook. The streets in the Arbat recalled the names of the sixteenth-century court purveyors who once lived and worked there: Plotnikov—carpenter, Serebryany—silversmith, and so on. The names had been changed after the Revolution but had recently been changed back again. It was, Hollis thought, as if the country was on a nostalgia trip, like in America, a sure sign that the twentieth century had gotten out of hand. Hollis said, “Where are you taking me now? To see your Russian features?”
    “No. To lunch. Didn’t you invite me to lunch?”
    “Yes, but I called in a favor to get a reservation at the Prague.”
    “Oh, I thought I could pick.”
    “All right, but there aren’t any restaurants this way.”
    “There’s one.”
    “What’s it called?”
    “I don’t think it has a name.” She crossed Pastrycook Street, and he followed her up the steps of an old stucco building that looked like the former residence of a wealthy merchant. They entered the large foyer, and Hollis smelled cabbage and old fish. She said, “That’s not the restaurant you smell. That’s the tenants.” She motioned him to a door under a sweeping staircase, and they descended into the basement.
    Lisa opened another door at the end of the stairs, and Hollis could see a large dimly lit room with a low wooden ceiling. The floors and walls were covered with Oriental carpets, and a layer of aromatic tobacco smoke hung in the air. An old woman approached and smiled widely, giving Hollis the impression she was wearing someone else’s dentures. The woman said, “
Salaam aleihum.
”
    Lisa returned the greeting and followed the woman to a low table laid with a dirty red cloth and mismatched flatware. Lisa and Hollis sat, and Lisa exchanged pleasantries with the woman, who spoke flawed Russian. The woman asked Lisa, “Does your friend like our food?”
    “He loves it. Could you bring us a bottle of that plum wine?”
    The woman moved off.
    Hollis looked at his surroundings. “Is this place in the Blue Guide?”
    “No, sir. But it ought to be. The food is great.”
    “Is it Jewish?”
    “No. Azerbaijanian. I said
salaam aleihum,
not
sholom aleichem.
Close, but it’s sort of Arabic.”
    “I see.” Hollis noticed the room was full, and the other diners, mostly men, were obviously not ethnic Russians, and in fact he heard no Russian being spoken. Moscow, Hollis had observed, was becoming ethnically diverse as more of the Soviet minorities found their way to the center of the empire. The regime discouraged this immigration, and the Russian Muscovites were appalled by it. Though the Soviet government claimed they had no figures on ethnic breakdown, Seth Alevy had done a report in which he estimated nearly twenty percent of Moscow’s population was now non-Russian. The city had become home to Uzbeks, Armenians, Georgians, Tartars, Turks, and a dozen other Soviet minority groups. Alevy had concluded that Moscow was becoming more cosmopolitan and sophisticated because of this ethnic diversity. He also concluded that it was becoming the sewer of the empire, like former imperial capitals, filled with wheeler-dealers, men on the make, profiteers, and parasites. Such as Misha. Where the Russians saw a problem, Seth Alevy and Sam Hollis saw an opportunity.
    Hollis noticed that most of the patrons were glancing at them. Hollis asked, “Is this place safe?”
    “I guess.”
    “This doesn’t appear to be a government-owned restaurant.”
    “It’s a catering establishment. Almost a private club. It’s owned and operated by an Azerbaijanian produce cooperative. It’s legal.”
    “Okay.”
    “Have you ever eaten in a catering co-op?”
    “No.”
    “The food is better than in the best restaurants. Especially the co-ops with access to fresh produce such as this one.”
    “Okay.”
    A young boy came to the table and set down a bowl of small white grapes and another bowl of tangerines.
    Lisa said, “See? When was the last time you saw a tangerine?”
    “In a dream last week.” Hollis took a sharp knife and peeled a tangerine. He pulled the sections apart, and he and Lisa ate in silence, picking at the sweet white grapes between bites of tangerine. Lisa said, “Do you believe this?”
    “You saved me from scurvy.”
    Lisa wiped her mouth with her handkerchief as there were no napkins. “All the Azerbaijanians who