The Unwitting (15 page)

A crowd was waiting on the platform. They stared at us through the windows, curious, unsmiling, badly dressed, and, judging from their gaunt faces and gray skin, ill-nourished. A few of the cast members waved. Two of the girls blew kisses, as if they were onstage. The crowd went on staring.

The train slowed, then jerked to a halt. All along the platform, doors began opening. Wearing our best goodwill smiles, we stepped out of the cars and began making our way through the crowd. It parted for us like biblical waters, but the only sound was the occasional murmur of
“Amerikansky.”
The effect of the hush was uncanny. Little by little, we dropped our voices and let our sentences die unfinished, until we, too, were mute.

Buses took us to the Hotel Astoria. One of the translators from
the Department of Culture assured us it was the best in Leningrad, but the lobby had the look of a once great beauty trying to compensate for her fading looks by piling on more and more makeup. Every inch was crowded with chipped gilt tables, shredding satin-upholstered chairs and sofas, elaborate lamps that gave off little light, worn Oriental rugs, and swags of threadbare velvet. At one end, behind a low balustrade, a dozen Intourist workers sat at desks facing the lobby, the better to keep an eye on our comings and goings. Several Chinese men and a handful of Russians dressed in high-booted Cossack outfits navigated the labyrinth of furniture.

At the front desk, confusion reigned. Whoever had assigned the rooms, and Faith was busy assuring everyone that she was not responsible, had gotten things upside down. The stagehands and costume people had landed better accommodations—in some cases suites—than the director and stars.

“The proletarian state in action,” one of the fortunate stagehands said, but no one laughed.

Various members of the cast were arguing with the desk clerk, Faith was trying to calm everyone, and Mrs. Gershwin was assuring people that she would take any old room that was available when Woody cut through the crowd to the front desk. I couldn’t hear what he said, but within minutes the clerk began passing out keys.

“Nicely done,” I said a little later, as we stood side by side in the elevator, staring at the operator’s back. Two angry-looking boils on his neck made him look as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

He shrugged. “That’s one of the things I’m here for.”

“To assign rooms?”

“To look out for the cast. Keep them out of trouble. Save them from themselves as well as from the Soviets.”

The elevator operator pulled open the door of the metal cage, and I stepped off. Woody followed.

“I’m not tailing you,” he said and dangled his key.

I looked at the number. He had the room next to mine. I wondered if he had arranged that, but decided not to ask. If he hadn’t thought of it, I didn’t want him to know I had.

I said good night, went into the room, and locked the door behind me.

Before I unpacked, I did a search for bugs and cameras, though I doubted I would recognize one if I stumbled over it. Certainly, if I found anything, I wouldn’t try to dismantle it. That would only put me under suspicion. I was merely curious. And if there was a camera, I wanted to stay out of its range while dressing and undressing.

After I put my things away in a musty armoire decorated with gilt cherubs, I bundled up again. Beyond the windows, the city was black, but I could not wait until morning for my first glimpse of it. The ride from the station on the bus did not count.

At the end of the corridor, a large woman with a dark mustache had her meaty thighs tucked beneath a ludicrously delicate desk. I had been so busy worrying about the juxtaposition of Woody’s room and mine that I hadn’t noticed her when we’d gotten off the elevator. I nodded. She went on scowling. I pressed the button for the elevator.

“Nyet,”
she barked.

I remembered that only Americans took elevators down; the rest of the world used them solely to go up. I started for the stairs.

“Nyet,”
she barked again and said something in Russian. I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders to indicate that I didn’t speak Russian. She repeated whatever she had said. Woody came up as we were trying to sort it out.

“She wants your key,” he explained.

“I was going to leave it at the desk.”

“Who knows what you could do with it between here and the desk.” He took the key from me and handed it to her. She hung it on a small board on the wall beside the desk, then bent over a ledger
and began writing. I couldn’t make out the Cyrillic alphabet, but I understood the numerals. She was writing down the time.

“Just like signing in and out of the dorm,” Woody said. He winked again. I wished he would stop doing that.

Near the front desk in the lobby, Faith was directing a Russian in overalls, who was putting up a bulletin board.

“The pulsing heart of the operation,” she said and pointed to the lists of rehearsal times, government-sponsored excursions to the ballet, opera, and museums, and the dining room schedule.

She turned and looked us over. “Are you two going out?”

The question made me realize that, in the past few days, Woody and I had become a couple in the eyes of the troupe.

“I was just going for a walk,” I said.

“You’d better go along,” she told Woody.

“I was planning to.”

“I’m not going far,” I insisted. “I just want to take a look at the square and St. Isaac’s Cathedral.”

“Exactly what I had in mind,” he said.

“I can take care of myself.” I heard the impatience in my voice.

“This is going to come as a shock to you,” he said, “but you’re not on the Upper West Side of New York now. You’re in the Soviet Union, where strange things have been known to happen to unsuspecting people.”

“Stop being melodramatic.”

He started to answer, then stopped, took my arm, and steered me across the lobby. The only people within hearing were two Chinese men in shiny Western suits.

“This isn’t personal. Maybe some of the rest of it is. I admit I have some pretty good memories. And you must too, or you wouldn’t be so skittish around me.”

“I’m not skittish. Besides, I’m married.”

“Right, I forgot. Married people never stray. Especially if they’re thousands of miles from home.” He held up his hand before I could
speak. “Okay, forget that. Look at it another way. Which do you think your husband would prefer, your going out into the streets of Leningrad at night alone, or your going with me? Assuming he knows about me.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. If I told him Charlie knew about him, it meant he was important enough for me to talk about. If Charlie didn’t, he was too important for me to talk about.

“Come on, Slim.” He took my arm and started toward the door.

“Would you do me a favor?” I said as I let him. “Stop calling me Slim.”

He turned to look at me, and his mouth curled into a smile. It wasn’t practiced. It was pure glee.

Outside the hotel, the cold cut my face like shards of broken glass and made my sinuses sting and my teeth ache. I could barely see through the swirls of snow. The sidewalks, if there were sidewalks beneath the drifts, were icy hurtles into the darkness. I took one step and slid. He grabbed my arm.

“I’m fine,” I said.

He didn’t let go.

“Really,” I insisted.

He let go.

I lost my balance again, propellered my arms like a cartoon character, and regained it.

“You’re as stubborn as ever.”

The statement surprised me. I thought I’d been entirely too pliable with him.

We made our way around the square to the cathedral. Far above us, the gold dome glowed in the night like a candle. I was so transfixed that I didn’t hear the sound of shoes crunching on snow until it was directly behind us. I jerked around so suddenly I lost my balance again. Woody reached out to steady me.

The stranger who had made me jump said something I couldn’t understand, but his manner suggested it was an apology for frightening
me. Beneath a moth-eaten fur hat, his face was not unkind, but slanted amber eyes gave it an exotic cast. He tipped the moth-eaten hat and moved on.

“A little jittery?” Woody said.

“He startled me.”

“Apparently. Take my advice, Slim. Sorry. Take my advice, Nell. Don’t go into intelligence work.

“Incidentally,” he continued on our way back through the snow-shrouded square, “I think that was our tail.”

“But he was so polite.”

“The better to eat you with, Little Red Riding Hood.” At least this time he didn’t wink.

WHEN I CAME
downstairs the next morning, the desk clerk handed me a letter. The address was in Charlie’s handwriting.

I took it to a corner of the lobby, sat in one of the upholstery-sprung chairs, and tore it open. It was dated two days before I’d left. That didn’t surprise me, but the tone of it did. It was so much like the letter I had written him from the plane. He even used the same word I had. Touchstone.

Dear Red,

I’m writing this in the office, though I know you and Abby are waiting for me at home. Tonight is my turn to read her a story. I’m writing now because I miss you like nobody’s business, and you haven’t even left. And because if I wait, I doubt this will reach you, and I want to be with you in Leningrad, even if I’m not.

I’m feeling a little shabby about trying to discourage you from going. It was foolish of me, and selfish. Whenever I had a chance for a junket somewhere, you were packing my bag before I even said yes. All I can plead in self-defense is that I was worried about you. Uncle Joe is dead, but life under the Soviets, as I understand it, is still no walk in the park. And you aren’t just an ordinary American tourist, if there are ordinary American tourists in Russia these days. You have a certain visibility at home that will make you more visible over there.

At first, I thought he was flattering me. I had published a few pieces. That didn’t exactly make me a household name. Then I remembered the package of pamphlets I had found in my room in West Berlin. When I’d asked around, I’d learned that no one else had received anything. Faith’s explanation about the West Germans being opposed to the tour made sense, but it didn’t explain why I was the only one they were trying to scare, unless they cared less about the tour itself than about the publicity it generated back home.

But I’m glad you’re going. It is, as you and Sonia keep saying, the chance of a lifetime. If I didn’t encourage you to grab it, if I tried to clip your wings, it would be not only unfair to you, but a betrayal of us.

You and I don’t have an ordinary marriage, Red. We’re too connected. I don’t mean we live in each other’s pockets, like couples who don’t trust enough to let each other out of sight. I mean a more essential bond—emotional, intellectual, spiritual, moral—you can call it what you want, but you can’t deny it exists. And I can’t imagine my life without it, any more than I can imagine it without you. Or rather I can, and it scares the living daylights out of me.

This isn’t much of a love letter, but you once said that you didn’t trust smooth-tongued Lotharios. Lucky for me. But you are my love. And my conscience. And my touchstone. You keep me honest, or as honest as I can be. Remember that.

Watch yourself with the Ruskies. I won’t say any more, because I’m sure this will be opened and read. Wring every drop from the trip. And remember that Abby and I are waiting at home for you.

All my love,

Charlie

I kept the letter for a long time, just as Charlie kept the one I wrote him on the plane. For a while, I’d take it out and read it for solace. For a while after that, it reminded me of a reversible coat I had owned around that time. If I wore it on one side, it looked a certain way. If I turned it inside out, it was an entirely different animal.

That morning, I put it in my bag, went to the desk, and told the clerk I wanted to make arrangements for a call to the States. We had been told that telephoning was possible, but preparations had to be made well in advance. After I filled out the papers and paid for the call, I sent Charlie a wire saying I had scheduled a call for six
P.M.
Leningrad time on Sunday, which would be ten
A.M.
in New York.

When I came out of the hotel, the man with the slanted amber eyes and moth-eaten hat was lingering across the street, a sad, seedy shadow in the white landscape. Later that morning, I stopped on the Nevsky Prospekt to look in a shop window and noticed him standing in front of what passed for a display several stores away. A few hours after that, when the falling darkness was beginning to camouflage the open wounds of the old buildings and soften the brutal lines of the new, I lost my footing in a snowbank. He held out his hand to help me up. He even insisted on brushing the snow from my coat before he pretended to go off in another direction.

That evening over dinner at the hotel, we compared our shadows. Woody had a big brute he said he wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. Faith said she wouldn’t mind meeting hers in a dark alley or anywhere else. He was a strapping fellow with a shock of straw-colored
hair who looked as if he had just stepped down from one of those propaganda posters showing Russian youths cutting hay or building factories or running tractors, as they turned their sharp handsome profiles to the future. He was enough, she said, to make a girl think of defecting.

Being followed was the least of it. Every time we started to think that life under the Soviets wasn’t so dire after all, an incident pulled us up short. When one of the actors took a picture of what looked like a perfectly ordinary building, a policeman confiscated his camera. A Russian reporter slipped one of the Bobs a note tucked inside a newspaper. “Please call my sister in New York and tell her I’m all right,” it read, and had a phone number.

“We were sitting right here in the lobby,” Bob said. “He was interviewing me about the show. Why did he have to slip me a note?”