The Charm School

live in Moscow come here. The food is genuinely ethnic.”
    Hollis nodded. In Moscow’s other so-called ethnic restaurants, the Prague, the Berlin, the Bucharest, and the Budapest, the food was distinctly Russian. And in the Havana the only thing Cuban was the sugar on the table. The Peking served borscht. He asked, “How did you find this place?”
    “Long story.”
    Hollis thought it could be told in one word:
Seth.
    She said, “We’re allowed to patronize these places. Most Westerners don’t know about them, or if they do, won’t eat in them.”
    “Can’t guess why.”
    “Do you smell those spices?”
    “Sort of. But the tobacco smoke is filled with air.”
    Lisa sat back and lit her own cigarette. “Restaurants,” she said, “are a sort of barometer of what is wrong with this country.”
    “How is that?”
    “I mean there are eight million Muscovites, and half of them are trying to get reservations in the twenty passable restaurants.”
    “Seating is tight,” Hollis agreed. “But they may be holding our table at the Prague.”
    “You see, if private individuals were allowed to open restaurants, five hundred would spring up overnight. Same with shops and everything else.”
    “That would be a threat to the system.”
    “What sort of threat?”
    “A very formidable threat. It would be like lighting a candle in the dark. Everyone would converge on it and light their own candles from it. Then the dimly perceived flaws in the system would be seen. Then who knows what would happen.”
    Lisa studied him for a moment before observing, “You’re rather profound for a military man.”
    “I thank you, I think. Read any good Gogol lately?”
    She smiled. “Actually, I’m a great fan of his. Have you read
Dead Souls
?”
    “Who hasn’t?”
    “He’s not that widely read in the West, and I think that’s because his characters are hard to appreciate outside a Russian context. Don’t you think so?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Gogol’s statue is actually at the end of this street, you know. In the Arbat Square. Have you seen it?”
    “Hard to miss it.”
    The plum wine came, and Lisa poured. Hollis touched glasses with her and toasted. “As the peasants say, ‘To a short winter, ample meat, and dry wood for the fire.’”
    “You forgot the last line.”
    “Yes. ‘And a warm woman for my bed.’”
    They drank.
    Lisa looked at him over the rim of her glass. She asked, “Sam, where are you from originally?”
    “All over. I’m an Air Force brat.”
    “Is this going to be like pulling teeth?”
    He smiled. “All right, let me tell you about myself. I was born at Travis Air Force Base during the Second World War. I moved all over the globe until I was eighteen. Then I spent four years at the Air Force Academy. I graduated and went on to fighter school. I did a tour in ’Nam in 1968, then another in 1972. That’s when I was shot down over Haiphong. I got the craft out to sea, bailed out, and was picked up by air-sea rescue. I was banged up a bit, and the flight surgeons said no more flying. My father was a brigadier general by this time and got me a temporary posting in the Pentagon until I was able to be more active. Somehow I wound up taking a language course in Bulgarian. As you might know, Bulgarian is the root Slavic language, sort of like Latin is to the Romance languages. So anyway, I did three years in Sofia as an air attaché, then did stints in a couple of other Warsaw Pact countries, then before I knew it, I was too involved with this business for them to let me go back to the line.” Hollis took a drink of his wine. “I always suspected my father was behind this embassy attaché business.”
    “So you’re a reluctant spy.”
    “No, not reluctant. But not enthusiastic either. Just sort of… I don’t know. And I’m not a spy.”
    “Okay. And then about two years ago, they sent you here. The big leagues.”
    “The only league in this business.”
    “And how about your family?”
    “My father retired some years ago. He and my mother live in Japan. I’m not sure why. They’re rather odd. I think they’re into Zen. Too much traveling around. They don’t even know America, and what they know they don’t like. Reminds me of the Roman centurions or British colonial officers. You know? Since World War Two, America has developed a whole class of people like that.”
    “Like us.”
    “Yes, like us. The emissaries of empire.”
    “Do you have brothers or sisters?”
    “A