The Charm School (7 page)

Fisher noticed that the parking lot hung out over a steep incline that ran down to the Moskva River. The hotel was a monstrosity, surrounded by small, old buildings and a half dozen tiny churches in bad repair.

Fisher looked in his rearview mirror. On the entrance drive behind him he saw the police car parked. Fisher pulled up to the front doors of the hotel and shut off the engine.

He saw a green-uniformed doorman standing inside the glassed-in outer foyer of the hotel. The man studied the Trans Am but made no move to open the door. Fisher got out of the car with his shoulder satchel. He had discovered that in a Soviet hotel a doorman’s job was not to help people in, but to keep Soviet citizens out, especially, but not limited to, black marketeers, prostitutes, dissidents, and the curious who might want to see how people on the West side of the tracks lived. Fisher opened the door himself and approached the doorman. “Allo.”

“Allo.”

Fisher motioned toward his car.
“Bagazh.
Okay?”

“Okay.”

He handed the doorman his car keys. “
Garazh.
Okay?”

The doorman looked at him quizzically.

It occurred to Fisher that there was probably not a parking garage in the whole of Moscow. Fisher was tired, scared, and annoyed. “Sweet Jesus. . . .” He realized he didn’t have a ruble on him. He reached into his satchel and grabbed an item he’d been saving. “Here.” He held up an eight-inch copper reproduction of the Statue of Liberty, complete with pedestal.

The doorman’s eyes darted around, then he took it and examined it suspiciously.
“Religiozni?”

“No, no. It’s the Statue of Liberty.
Svoboda.
For you.
Podarok.
Take care of the auto. Okay?”

The doorman shoved the statue into the pocket of his tunic. “Okay.”

Fisher pushed through the swinging glass door and entered the lobby, which seemed deserted and, like most public places, overheated. The Russians equated heat with luxury, Fisher suspected. He looked around. The lobby was mostly grey stone and aluminum. A mezzanine ran from end to end above the pillared lobby. There was no bar, no newsstand, no shops, no services in evidence. There was nothing in fact to suggest he was in a hotel except for a sort of ticket window in the left-hand wall that he assumed was the front desk. He walked to it, and a disinterested young woman looked up. He gave her his Intourist reservation, his passport and visa. She examined the passport a moment, then without a word disappeared through a door behind the desk.

Fisher said aloud to himself, “Welcome to the Rossiya, Mr. Fisher. How long will you be staying with us? . . . Oh, until the KGB comes for me. . . . Very good, sir.”

Fisher turned and looked down the long, narrow lobby. There were no bellhops or hotel staff in view except the doorman sitting in the glass-enclosed foyer. He could see his car, and parked right behind it was the police car.

The place not only looked deserted, but spooky. “This is not a hotel.”

Fisher now noticed a couple near a far pillar arguing in French, which echoed through the lobby. They were well dressed and both were good-looking. The woman seemed on the verge of tears. The man gave a very Gallic wave of dismissal and turned his back on her.

“Oh,” Fisher said, “give the woman a break. You should have my problems, buddy.” Fisher recalled Paris as he’d last seen it in June and wondered why he’d ever left. Napoleon probably wondered the same thing as Moscow burned around him and the snow was falling. He might have stood right here, Fisher thought, a hundred yards from the Kremlin wall, Red Square to his back and the Moskva to his front.
And he would have felt that sense of doom that the Westerner feels when he enters this foreboding land, like I feel now.

He noticed that someone had moved his car, but he didn’t see his bags being brought in, and that bothered him. He thought about where his car might be.
Probably at KGB headquarters, being stripped to its frame.
The police car was also gone.

Fisher needed a drink. He looked at his watch: 8:30
P
.
M
. Someone behind him said, “Gree-gory Feesher.”

He turned back to the desk. A middle-aged woman with short red hair, black roots, and a polyester pantsuit of aquamarine said, “I am from Intourist. I may see your papers?”

Fisher handed her the large envelope. She went through each paper carefully, then looked at him. “Why are you late?”

Fisher had rarely been asked that question in that tone by anyone, and he felt his anger rising in him again. He snapped, “Late for
what
?”

“We were worried about you.”

“Well, nothing to worry about now, is there? May I go to my room?”

“Of course. You must be tired.” She added, “It has been some time since I met an American who traveled by auto from the West. The young are so adventurous.”

“And stupid.”

“Perhaps.” She handed him his papers minus his passport and visa, then gave him a green hotel card. “This is your
propusk.
Carry this always with you. Your passport and visa will be returned when you check out. You must produce the
propusk
when anyone in authority asks for it.”

“Maybe I should just tape it to my forehead.”

She seemed to appreciate the joke and smiled. She leaned across the counter and said softly, “You have been here long enough to know that it is not easy for a Westerner traveling without a tour group, Mr. Fisher. Don’t call attention to yourself.”

Fisher didn’t respond.

“Avoid barter, currency deals, prostitutes, political talk, and itinerary violations. I give you good advice because you seem a pleasant young man.”

Fisher thought he’d been anything but pleasant. “Thank you. I’ll be good.”

She stared at him awhile, and Fisher had the disturbing thought that she knew he was already in trouble and was worried about him. He suddenly liked her. He asked, “Where is my luggage?”

“It will be along.”

“Shortly?”

“Presently.”

He thought it was being searched by now. He asked, “Will they park my car safely?”

“Of course. Who could steal an American car?”

Fisher smiled. “Couldn’t get too far.”

A bellhop suddenly appeared who Fisher thought looked like Genghis Khan’s nephew. He motioned Fisher to follow him to the elevator bank. They waited nearly five minutes before an elevator came. Fisher rode up with the Tartar to the seventh floor. The elevator doors opened to reveal a small vestibule where a pretty young woman sat at a desk. In Paris or Rome, Fisher would have been pleasantly surprised to find a floor concierge in attendance. But in Moscow, Fisher knew this woman was the floor’s
dezhurnaya,
a guardian of public morals, and according to a Pole he’d met in Warsaw, also a KGB snoop.

The blond woman looked up from a copy of
Cosmopolitan.
“Allo. Your
propusk,
please.”

Fisher gave it to her. She handed him his room key. “Give me key when you leave. I give you
propusk.
”

“Sounds fair.”

The bellman pointed down the hall, and Fisher found himself leading the way. At a turn in the corridor Fisher saw his room, 745, and opened the door with his key. He went in, followed by the bellman. Fisher said, “Your room, sir.”

“Please?”

“Forget it.” Fisher looked around. It was a medium-sized room decorated in stark Scandinavian blondewood. The two single beds were undersized, and the mattress would be thin foam rubber, and the sheets, coarse cotton. The rug was brick-red, but that didn’t hide the fact that it needed a shampoo. He doubted, however, that such a thing existed east of Berlin.
Oh, the things we take for granted.
The rest of the room looked clean enough except for the window. He had not seen a single clean window in the whole of the Soviet Union. “Windex. I’ll sell them Windex.” A smell of pine disinfectant reminded him of his side trip to Borodino.

The bellman said, “Good room.” He tried a lamp switch and seemed surprised that it worked. “Good light.”

“Excellent fucking light. Volts, watts, lumens, the works.”

The bellman ducked into the bathroom for a second, opened the closet, pulled out a few bureau drawers, then held out his arms as if to say, “It’s all yours.”

Fisher sighed and rummaged through his satchel, finding a small sampler of Aramis cologne. “This drives the women wild.”

The Tartar took it and sniffed. “Ah.” The man beamed, his slanted eyes narrowing. “Thank you.” He turned and left.

Fisher examined the door. As in all other rooms he’d stayed in east of the curtain, this door had no peephole, no bolt, or security chain. He walked to the bed, fell back onto it, and kicked off his Reeboks. He stared at the ceiling awhile, then sat up and looked at the telephone. The hotel service directory was a single sheet of typed paper. He dialed a three-digit number, got room service, and ordered a bottle of vodka. “First thing that went right all day.”

He considered the events of the last few hours. He had managed to suppress his fear in front of the police and to act natural and a bit cocky as he checked in. But his resolve was draining away fast in the quiet, empty room. He began to shake, then bounded out of bed and paced the room.
What if they come for me now? Maybe I should try to get to the embassy now. But that bastard said to stay in the hotel. They’re watching me. Can they know what happened at Borodino?

He stopped pacing. “This is not a business problem. This is life or death.” He realized he had to calm down before he could think. Don’t think about getting arrested or shot.
Then
you can go through the bullshit of problem solving.

He walked to the window and looked out through the grime. From his corner room he could see toward Red Square. The Kremlin was to the left, and he could look down into it. St. Basil’s ten phantasmal onion domes seemed to hang suspended like giant helium balloons above the dark cobbled pavement, and beyond them lay the huge GUM department store. The streets looked deserted, the buildings were dark, but the monuments were bathed in floodlight. A night fog, like a vapor, rolled off the Moskva and swirled around the streetlights, rolled over the Kremlin walls, and seemed to turn covers, as if it were looking for something. There was a sinister essence about this city, Fisher decided. Something unnatural about its cold, dead streets.

There was a loud rap on the door, and Fisher turned with a start. Another knock. Fisher took a breath, went to the door, and threw it open. A matronly woman stood there with an ice bucket from which protruded a liter of Moskovskaya. Fisher showed her in, gave her a tube of toothpaste, and showed her out.

His hand shook as he poured a half tumbler of the chilled vodka. He drank it down, and it made his eyes water. He refilled his glass and continued pacing.
The next knock will be my luggage or the KGB.
“The fucking K—” He stopped. He’d heard and believed that every room was bugged. He’d read somewhere that some rooms had a fiber optic embedded in the wall or ceiling and everything in the room could be seen. He put his glass on the nightstand, turned off the light, put on his shoes, and took his shoulder satchel. He went into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and shut the light. As the toilet was still flushing, he left the bathroom and slipped quietly out of his room into the hallway. He looked both ways, then retraced his path and found the elevator lobby. The
dezhurnaya
’s face was hidden by the copy of
Cosmopolitan.
She didn’t seem to know he was there or didn’t care. Fisher read the string of subheads on the cover:
Beating the Man Shortage! Cosmo Finds the Best Place to Meet Them; The Shy Girl—How She Can Compete; Why Friends Make the Best Lovers; The Joy of Resuming an Old Romance.

Fisher put his keys on her desk. She looked up. “Allo, Mr. Fisher.” She gave him his
propusk.

He pushed the elevator button and prepared for a long wait. The vodka finally reached his brain. He said to the woman, “Good magazine?”

“Yes. Very sexy.”

“Right.”

“American women have too much.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

She tapped the magazine. “They have so many problems with men.”

“Cosmo women have more problems than most.”

“Ah.”

Fisher hesitated, then took a tube of lip gloss from his satchel. It was a frosted pink and seemed to match her coloring.

She smiled as she examined it. “Thank you.” She took a compact mirror from her bag and went to work immediately.

Fisher noticed it wasn’t really her color, but she didn’t seem to care. He liked the way she puckered her lips. The elevator came, and he stepped in. Two Russian men who smelled of salami stood quietly behind him. Fisher felt perspiration under his arms.

Fisher stepped out into the lobby and felt somewhat better in a public place. He found the foreign exchange window, but it was closed. He went to the front desk and asked the clerk if she would cash an Intourist voucher for five rubles. She said she wouldn’t. Fisher asked for the Intourist woman and was told she was gone.

He looked around. All he needed was a lousy two-kopek piece.
For want of a nail
. . . “Damn it.” He saw that the French couple was still there, and he approached them.
“Pardon, monsieur, madame. J’ai besoin de . . . deux kopeks. Pour le téléphone.”

The man gave him an unfriendly look. The woman smiled nicely and searched through her bag.
“Voilà.
”

“Merci, madame. Merci.”
Fisher moved off and found a single telephone booth in a short corridor that led to the Beriozka. He went inside, pulled the door closed, and took his Fodor guide from his satchel. Fisher found the number of the American embassy, inserted the two-kopek piece, and dialed.

Gregory Fisher listened to the short, distant ringing signals, very unlike the ones he was used to at home. He cleared his throat several times and said “hello” twice to try his voice. The blood was pounding in his ears. He kept his eyes on the corridor. The phone continued to ring.