The Charm School

attribution. In that respect, at least, the Soviet and American press were alike. She looked up at Kay. “Do I have to be nice to Van Halen or to the audience?”
    Kay glanced up from her newspaper. “Oh… are you still working on that? That has to go out today. Just sound up.”
    “Where do you get your orders from?”
    “I don’t get orders, Lisa. Only direction.”
    “From
where
?”
    “High up.”
    “Someday I’m going to write what I want. What I really saw here.”
    “Some day you can. But today you write what you’re told.”
    “That’s what some
apparatchik
is being told at the Tass office tonight.”
    “Maybe. But we won’t shoot you if you don’t do what we say. So don’t tell me we are no different from them.”
    “No, I meant… there’s more to the story. The whole idea of the Russian youth enthralled by Western pop culture. Every kid there was dressed in blue jeans. They were shouting in English, ‘Super,’ ‘Beautiful, baby.’ It was…” She thought a moment. “It was surreal is what it was. But was it revolution?”
    Kay Hoffman stared at her awhile, then said, “If it was, that is
not
what you will write about.”
    Lisa went back to her press release.
    Kay went back to her newspaper.
    Lisa thought,
But what was it? What is going on here?
Questions such as that, however, were not within the purview of the USIS. Working for the USIS was like working for the Ministry of Truth; when the party line changed, you changed with it.
    At the moment, Soviet-American relations were on the verge of a breakthrough. Thus all this cultural activity was a precursor to the diplomatic activity. Her orders—her directions—were to be positive, upbeat. Think peace.
    Those had been her orders some years back, before Nicholas Daniloff, an American correspondent, had been arrested by the KGB on a trumped-up spy charge. Then new orders came down: cancel all cultural exchanges. And so it went, in an Orwellian about-face, in mid-sentence, the word processors ceased churning out puff pieces and began issuing terse sentences of canceled events. But for the moment, puff was required. Though now there was the Fisher affair. She said to Kay Hoffman, “I don’t appreciate you writing that press release about Fisher’s death and you putting my name on it.”
    Kay shrugged. “Sorry. Orders.” She asked, “What
did
happen to that Fisher boy?”
    “Exactly what you said in my press release.”
    “I guess I deserved that.”
    “Maybe I should resign over that.”
    Kay stayed silent, then said, “I don’t think you need bother.”
    “Meaning what?”
    “Forget it.”
    Lisa finished her cigarette and lit another. Her tour of duty was four years. She had less than two to go. As a Foreign Service Officer, she was assigned overseas duty somewhat as a military officer was. In fact, her rank of FSO-6 was roughly equivalent to an Army captain. Her title was Deputy Public Affairs Officer. Kay Hoffman was the PAO. They had six FSPs—five women and one man—working for them. It was all very exciting, very boring; very easy, very trying.
    Kay looked up from her newspaper. “Are you all right?”
    “No one is all right here,” Lisa replied. “This is what State calls a hardship tour. Do you think the Soviet government is insulted by that?”
    Kay smiled grimly. “They don’t give a damn. This whole fucking country is on a lifetime hardship tour, and the government put them there.” Kay added, “It helps if you have a lover.”
    “No, it doesn’t.”
    “Yes, it does. Did I ask you what happened to that political affairs guy? Seth.”
    As she gathered her things and contemplated another lonely evening, she thought of Seth Alevy. Embassy romances, she thought, were partly a result of enforced intimacy. There had been talk of marriage, of career conflicts, of two world-traveling spouses on different assignments. They both agreed it wouldn’t work unless one of them resigned from service. And there it ended. She answered, “That was nothing.”
    “It must have been something, Lisa. You practically moved into his place.”
    “Embassy life is like living in a small town, isn’t it, Kay?”
    “Yes. Population: two hundred seventy-six at last count. Didn’t mean to be nosy. Just concerned.”
    “I know.” She smiled. “I’ll take a Russian lover. That will complete my understanding of the Russian psyche.”
    “They’re awful lovers.”
    “How do you know?”
    Kay winked. She threw down her