The Charm School

nervous.”
    “That too—”
    “And you’ve discovered I’m not as interesting as you first thought.”
    “On the contrary. May I speak? I was going to say that I’m worried about this whole mess. I mean, I was sitting in my office last night, before Greg Fisher’s call, thinking that we’re getting it together with them again.
Glasnost
and all that. You understand?”
    “Yes.”
    “I said to myself, ‘Please, God, no more Afghanistans, no KAL airliners, no Nick Daniloffs this time.’”
    “That’s like praying for an end to death and taxes.”
    “But why does it always have to be
something
? This thing is going to ruin it all again, isn’t it? We’ll be kicking out each other’s diplomats and staff again, canceling cultural and scientific exchanges, and heading further down that fucking road to the missile silos. Won’t we?”
    Hollis replied, “That’s not my area of concern.”
    “It’s
everybody’s
area of concern, Sam. You live on this planet.”
    “Sometimes. Once I was high above it, sixty thousand feet, and I’d look around and say, ‘Those people down there are
nuts.
’ Then I’d look into the heavens and ask, ‘What’s the big plan, God?’ Then I’d come in and release my bombs. Then I’d dodge missiles and MiGs and go home and have a beer. I didn’t get cynical or remorseful. I just got narrowed into my little problem of dropping my bombs and getting my beer. That’s the way it is today.”
    “But you talked to God. You asked Him about the big plan.”
    “He never answered.” Hollis added, “For your information, however, the word still seems to be détente. Think peace. Subject to change without notice.”
    She pulled a pack of Kents from her bag. “Mind?”
    “No.”
    “Want one?”
    “No. Crack the window.”
    She lowered the window and lit up.
    Hollis cut off the highway onto a farm road and continued at high speed, churning up gravel as the Zhiguli bounced along a narrow lane.
    She asked, “Why did you leave the highway?”
    Hollis referred to a sheet of paper in his hand and made a hard left onto another road, then a right. He said, “A Brit some years ago fortunately charted back routes to bypass a lot of major towns around Moscow. This route bypasses Mozhaisk. No road names, just landmarks. Look for a dead cow.”
    She smiled despite her growing anxiety. She said, “You’re committing an itinerary violation.”
    “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
    “We’re going to Borodino, I suppose.”
    “That’s correct.” Hollis continued to navigate the intersecting farm lanes. He passed an occasional truck or tractor and waved each time. He said to Lisa, “The damned linkage does stick, but the car handles alright. They’re Fiats, you know, and this one handles like its Italian cousin. Good trail cars.”
    “Men. Cars. Football. Sex.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Nothing.”
    They crossed the Byelorussian railroad tracks, and a short time later Hollis saw the utility poles of the old Minsk–Moscow road and the town of Mozhaisk in the distance. “Well, we got around Mozhaisk. I wonder if Boris and Igor are pacing up and down Main Street waiting for us.”
    “Who are Boris and Igor?”
    “Embassy watchers.”
    “Oh.”
    Hollis crossed the main road and continued on the farm roads. Within fifteen minutes he intersected the poplar-lined road to Borodino Field and turned onto it. Ahead he saw the stone columns and towering gates that led to the battlefield. The gates were closed, and as they drew near they could see the gates were chained.
    Lisa said, “I think these outdoor exhibits and such close early this time of year.”
    “That’s what I counted on.” Hollis swung the Zhiguli between two bare poplars and into the drainage ditch. He followed the ditch that skirted the gates, then cut back onto the road and proceeded toward the museum. “You’ve never been here?”
    “As I said, I’ve never been able to get a pass out of Moscow… except to stay at the Finnish
dacha.
”
    Hollis nodded. The Finnish dacha—so named because of its architecture and saunas—was a newly built country house for American embassy staffers on the Klyazma River, about an hour’s drive north of Moscow. The ambassador’s dacha for senior staff such as himself was nearby. An invitation to spend a weekend at the ambassador’s house was very nearly a punishment. But the Finnish dacha had quickly earned a reputation, and families did not go there. One night, from his