The Charm School by Nelson DeMille
“Sure.” Hollis ran toward the opposite sideline until Caruso and Lowry moved into defensive positions, then Hollis cut down-field in a deep fly pattern. The two boys were close, and Hollis could hear their cleats slapping on the sodden turf. Without a prearranged play Hollis thought he should hold the same pattern for Eschman. He held out his arms, glanced back over his right shoulder, and saw the ball as a brown blur hanging in the air, wide and long. He put on a burst of speed and felt the ball hit his fingertips, then got control of it and pulled it to his chest. His boots lost traction, and he shoulder-rolled forward, the ball tucked securely between his right hand and the crook of his elbow. He heard Eschman holler, “Complete! Way to go, Colonel!”
Hollis sat up as Caruso extended his hand toward him. “Nice going, Colonel.” Hollis pulled himself up by Caruso’s hand.
Lowry walked over and also put out his hand. As Hollis reached toward Lowry, he saw that Lowry was holding an automatic pistol. Hollis took the gun and slipped it back into his ankle holster, pressing hard on the Velcro strap.
Lowry said, “You move pretty fast, Colonel. Even with an iron ankle weight.”
Caruso stifled a grin.
Hollis said, “When I played end at the Academy, I shot three defensive backs.”
Both boys laughed.
Hollis looked at the boys. It must be lonely for them, he thought. No high school dances, no Saturday nights, no beaches, skiing, friends, girls. No America. He said, “Get something out of this tour of duty, guys. Get out into Moscow and meet the Russians.”
They nodded.
“Don’t let Vanya see you with those cleats,” Hollis warned, referring to the Russian groundkeeper who was obsessed with the lawn and actually called Scotts in Columbus, Ohio, for advice.
Hollis continued his walk across the quad. He approached the housing units, found Lisa Rhodes’ door, and pressed her buzzer. The brick row houses for singles were narrow, but they were three stories high. The first floor, that in the States might have a garage, was a laundry and storage room. A foyer with a staircase led up to the living room, dining area, and kitchen. The third floor held one or two bedrooms, sometimes a study or home office, depending on the rank of the officer. Lisa was in a one-bedroom unit along the east wall. Hollis heard her footsteps on the stairs, then the door opened. She smiled. “Hello. I thought you were running to me, then I saw the football.”
“Were you looking for me?”
“Just checking the weather. What did you drop?”
“My wallet.”
“Oh.” She stepped outside and did a complete turn. “Is this casual enough?”
Hollis glanced her over. She was wearing ankle-high boots, black corduroy slacks, and a dark blue quilt jacket that the Russians called a vatnik. From the collar of the jacket rose a black turtleneck like his own. He said, “Very nice.”
“Are you going to tell me why you requested I dress in casual clothes of dark colors?”
“I have a fetish. Let’s go.”
They walked on the path that ran parallel to the residences toward the pedestrian gate in the rear of the compound. She said, “Seriously, Sam… can I call you Sam?”
“Of course.”
“Why dark?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
They passed through the rear gate where the Marine barracks were located, and the single Marine watchstander saluted. Hollis walked up to the Soviet militia booth on the sidewalk and greeted the two young men in Russian. They returned the greeting stiffly. Hollis said, “When you get back to your barracks, you tell the two men who were at the main gate last night that Colonel Hollis apologizes for not acting correctly.”
Neither man spoke, then one of them said, “We will be sure to tell them, Colonel.”
“Good day.”
Hollis and Lisa walked up Devatinski Street. Lisa asked, “What was that about?”
Hollis replied, “I got a little nasty when they asked me for my passport. I guess I was on edge after the Rossiya.”
She said, “That was good of you to apologize.”
“It was militarily correct.” He added, “Also I don’t want the bastards to think they can get to me.”
They came into Tchaikovsky Street where the old embassy stood. Lisa said, “Where are we going for lunch?”
“The Prague.”
“Then we can walk up Arbat Street. I have to make a stop.”
They turned right and walked along the wide boulevard. Lisa said, “The sun is shining, for a change.”
“I see.”
“Do you go to the Prague often?”
“No.”
“Read any good books lately?”
“Can’t think of any.”
“Someone told me you were shot down over North Vietnam.”
“That’s right.”
“But you weren’t a POW.”
“No, I was rescued at sea.”
“This Major Dodson business has special meaning for you.”
“Perhaps.”
“You’re not into complex sentence structures, are you?”
“Depends on the subject.”
“Sorry.”
They walked in silence awhile, then crossed Tchaikovsky Street and turned up Arbat Street where it began at the massive Foreign Ministry building, another Stalinist skyscraper of pinnacles and spires. Lisa asked, “Have you ever been in there?”
“A few times.”
“What’s it like?”
“Have you ever been to the State Department building?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s what the Soviet Foreign Ministry is like, except the twaddle and bunkum is in Russian.”
They walked up Arbat, an old Moscow street that had recently been made into the Soviet Union’s first and only pedestrian shopping street. There were hundreds of people out on this promising Saturday, every one of them carrying a big bag. The street had been repaved with brick, and young trees struggled to take hold in concrete planters. There were benches, decorative streetlamps, and flower boxes running the length of the kilometer-long street that wound through the old Arbat district.
The Arbat was sometimes compared to the Left Bank or Georgetown, Greenwich Village, or Soho. But Hollis thought the Arbat was the Arbat, a unique glimpse of a vanished world that had not been well-known or chronicled even when it existed. For some reason the present regime was trying to preserve the Arbat’s heritage, rehabilitating the handsome buildings and restoring the facades of once chic shops. Though in a society that placed no value on chicness, gentility, tourism, or consumerism, Hollis could not comprehend what the government’s purpose was. It might be nothing more than creeping bourgeois sentimentality, though Hollis found that hard to believe. He said to Lisa, “Do you like this?”
“Sort of. But it’s a bit sanitized, if you know what I mean.”
“Have you seen the unsanitized parts of the Arbat?”
“Oh, yes. I know every block of what’s left of old Moscow.”
“Do you?”
“I’m doing a photographic essay.”
“Interesting. Hobby?”
“Sort of. I’m going to get it published.”
“Good luck.” He asked, “Are you a Russophile?”
She smiled with a touch of embarrassment. “Sort of. Yes. I like… the people… the language… old Russia.”
“No need to be defensive. I won’t have you arrested.”
“You make a joke of it, but on this job you have to be careful what you say publicly or privately.”
“I know.”
Lisa and Hollis strolled from one side of the street to the other, looking in shop windows. The shops were mostly of the basic variety, a svet—lighting fixture store, an apteka—apothecary, and so on. There were a number of snack bars and ice cream kiosks and what the Russians called health food stores that sold mostly processed dairy products. Hollis noticed a long line outside one of them, women, young children, and babies in strollers, which meant, he
“Maybe they eat them.”
“No, they put them in their drab apartments and dingy offices. Flowers are Russian soul food.”
“The Russians are a paradox—are they not? I can’t figure them out,” Hollis said. “They talk a lot about their Russian souls, but they never much mention their hearts.”
“Perhaps—”
“Instead of saying ‘a heart-to-heart talk,’ for instance, they say ‘dusha—dushe’—soul-to-soul. I get weary of all the soul talk.”
“It may be a matter of semantics—”
“Sometimes I think their problem is purely genetic.”
“Actually I have Russian blood.”
“Oh, do you? I’ve put my foot in my mouth.”
She took his arm as they walked. “I’ll forgive you.” She said, “My paternal grandparents were named Putyatov. They owned a large estate and a big brick house outside of Kazan on the Volga. I have an old picture of the house.”
“Is it still there?”
“I don’t know. When my grandmother, Evelina Vasileva, last saw it on the day she fled, it was still intact. My grandfather had five hundred peasants on the estate. I’d try to find it, but I can’t get permission from the Foreign Ministry.” She stayed silent awhile, then added bitterly, “What’s it to them if I spend a weekend out in the country looking for my roots?”
“Did you tell them you were an aristocrat and heir to five hundred peasants?”
“Of course not.” She laughed, then said thoughtfully, “I’ll bet the Putyatov name is still remembered there.”
“Fondly?”
“Who knows? This is not like Western Europe where you can go back and trace your ancestry. There’s been a complete break here, whole families wiped out, two world wars, revolution, civil war, purges, plagues, forced collectivization… what would I do if I found the house or found a Putyatov?”
“I don’t know. But you’d know what to do. You have a Russian soul.”
She smiled but said nothing and led him toward a shop whose gilded wooden letters spelled antikvar. She said, “This is the best of Moscow’s three antique shops. The other two are mostly secondhand-junk shops.”
They went inside, and the chicly dressed proprietress, an attractive young woman, greeted Lisa cordially, and Lisa gave the woman the mums. Lisa said in Russian, “Anna, this is my friend Sam.”
Hollis said in Russian, “Good afternoon.”
She appraised him a moment, then asked in Russian, “Are you with the embassy?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then you must know my good friend Seth Alevy.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Give him my regards, if you see him.”
“I will, if I see him.”
“Please”—she waved her arm—“look around.”
Hollis watched as Lisa browsed through the shop, crowded mostly with furniture, rugs, and lamps, none of which looked antique. There were, however, tables covered with interesting smaller items: silver pieces, ivory, troika bells, ceramics, gilded picture frames, jasper, porphyry, and other objects of semiprecious Ural stone—bits and pieces of a vanished world. Hollis wondered if Lisa was looking for the Putyatovs here.
Hollis noted there were no crosses or icons and in fact nothing of a religious nature, though religious art had been the predominant art form in pre-Revolution Russia. However there were things here that one would never find in a Moscow store, though nothing of true artistic value. Most of the good pieces had long since been appropriated by the government for museums or for the houses of the Soviet elite. The rest had made its way out of Russia long ago or had been destroyed in the initial frenzy of the Revolution. Now and then something significant surfaced in the West—a previously unknown Fabergé egg, a Rublyev icon, and recently a Levitan landscape had been auctioned at Sotheby’s for an anonymous client who was thought to be a Soviet defector. But for the most part, the evidence that Imperial Russia and Holy Russia had once existed could be seen only in Soviet museums between the hours of ten and six, closed Mondays.
Hollis picked up an inkwell made of Lithuanian amber. Embedded in the amber was an insect that he could not identify. He studied the inkwell as he thought about Seth Alevy, Lisa Rhodes, and the antique-shop woman who knew too much.
Lisa called out, “Do you like this?” She held up a round lacquer box.
Hollis walked over to her and took the small black box. On the lid was an uncommonly lithe Russian milkmaid, carrying a yoke with two milk buckets hanging from it. The black lacquer was deep and lustrous, and the girl’s clothing, bright and vibrant. On the bottom of the box was a four-hundred-ruble price sticker.
She said, “I think it’s a real Palekh box. Maybe pre-Revolution. Can you tell?”
Hollis’ limited knowledge of Palekh boxes told him that it was difficult to tell the old ones from the ones still made in the village of Palekh. The quality was consistently high, and the style unchanged, despite the Revolution or the fact that the craftsmen were now all state employees. Therefore, age had no meaning with Palekh boxes. Size counted. This one could be bought in a Beriozka for about a hundred rubles. He said, “I don’t think 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 t
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 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?”