Aeroflot SU-1247 from Tersk arrived at Vnukovo at 12:56 A.M. The flight was nearly empty, and at that hour, the taxi stand in front of the terminal was deserted. Andrew approached with shoulder bag and carry on. A black Volga sedan — engine running, lights on — was parked a short distance down the arrivals loop. The driver had no trouble recognizing the rangy young American. He drove forward and pulled to a stop next to him. Andrew saw the large letter T set against a checkered background on the door that identified it as a taxi, tossed his bag into the backseat, and got in.
“Hotel Berlin, please,” he said.
The driver grunted and pulled away, heading for the M2 highway. The taxicab’s radio was set to MAYAK, Moscow’s state radio station. Shostakovich’s fiery Symphony No. 7, written in 1941 during the German siege of Leningrad, overwhelmed the tiny speaker.
Andrew had spent four days in Tersk. They were extremely successful ones for Churchco Equestrian. He had filled all his clients’ orders — acquiring the franchise-maker for $825,000—and purchased breeding stock for his own stable as well. The stud farm threw a post-auction bash to celebrate forty million dollars in sales; then Yosef drove Andrew back to Mineral’nye Vody, where he caught the last flight to Moscow.
The cab was turning off the M2 into the Sadovaya outer ring road when the symphony suddenly faded. A long silence was followed by a somber Chopin dirge.
The Chopin better suited Andrew’s mood. Despite his success in Tersk, he was unable to relax and savor it. Raina had left for Moscow immediately after their “altercation” to make arrangements for his trip to Leningrad. And he was preoccupied with the upcoming drive, and how he would go about making contact with refusenik Mordechai Stvinov.
Fifteen minutes later, the taxi had ringed the city, and was driving south on Zhadanova, approaching the Hotel Berlin, when the Chopin segued to the score from Boris Godunov, Mussorgsky’s sorrowful opera.
“Ah,” the cabdriver said, nodding as if something he had been wondering about had just been confirmed. “Y’hero myortviy oonyevo.”
“Pardon me?” Andrew asked.
“Groosvniy, groosvniy,” the driver said, drawing out the vowels mournfully. He pointed to the radio to indicate he was referring to the sad tone of the music. “Kermanska Dmitrievitch Kaparov myortviy.”
“Your Premier has died?” Andrew asked.
“Da, da, died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Andrew said, realizing there had been no Russian spoken on the radio, no news report. The sudden change in the nature of music was clearly the message. Odd, he thought, in this brusque blue-collar nation, that the government announced the death of the Premier to its workers so gently, in such subtle highbrow fashion. He decided it went hand in hand with a self-proclaimed godless society living in cities packed with cathedrals and churches — over 150 in Moscow alone.
The cab arrived at the Hotel Berlin. Andrew paid the driver and got out. The cab pulled away. Andrew was putting the change into his wallet when he noticed the slip of paper amongst the rubles the driver had given him. He picked up his propoosk from the doorman and hurried into the hotel. The hall attendant was in a chatty mood, and was slow to exchange it for his room key. Once inside, he locked the door, sorted through the currency, and found a note — it outlined when and where Raina would meet him with her car, how to get there, and exactly how to proceed on arriving.
The next morning, Melanie stood in her bathtub in the Hotel Berlin — the plastic flowered curtain pulled around her in a little circle — taking a shower. The water was lukewarm, and came in a limp rain from the old shower head. But she hardly noticed. She was just feeling good — a little anxious perhaps, but very optimistic. She closed her eyes, the water running over her lithe body, and thought about Andrew. He was due back, and she was anxious to tell him about the letter she’d sent to her father. The fact that she wanted to share things with Andrew, and hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind the last four days, caused her to start trusting her feelings.
The shower suddenly got hotter. Melanie arched her torso, letting the water wash the soap from her long hair. When finished, she stepped from the tub and wrapped herself in one of the huge bath towels. She was thinking Russian girth must have dictated their size, when she heard the knock. The hall attendant with a message from her father? Could it be him? Whoever it was knocked again as she hurried, barefoot, across the worn runner to the door.
“Yes?”
“Melanie? It’s Andrew.”
Her apprehension turned to elation, as she unlocked the door and opened it.
Andrew stood there for a moment and stared at Melanie, almost as if seeing her for the first time. They had spent barely twelve hours together; tense, hectic ones. And he’d never really just stopped and looked at her. The fresh scrubbed rawness he saw made her all the more appealing to him.
“Good morning,” he said with a little smile.
“I agree,” she said as he entered and closed the door. He reached to embrace her, and she opened the towel and pressed her naked body against him, enfolding them both in the yards of coarse terry cloth.
Andrew buried his hands in her wet hair, his head filling with the clean scent that made him desire her all the more, and kissed her passionately.
They fell back onto the bed, their hunger for each other surging undeniably now; and soon, his lean body was naked and sliding against hers. She shuddered and arched her tiny frame, her breaths quickening as his tongue gently circled her breast, spiraling toward its center while his fingers, tracing down across the smooth planes of her torso, found the slick wetness they sought. Melanie moaned softly at their touch and dissolved into a sultry liquid haze, surrendering to the overwhelming rush. She felt no compulsion to be in control, no need to suppress her emotions; he was consuming her, and she was pleasureably surprised to learn that she could allow it, indeed enjoy it. He kissed her deeply, then slipped between her thighs, setting off a chorus of blissful sighs. Soon, he had found the slow, rolling rhythm that brought her, achingly, closer and closer. And then, as if suspended in time, they were adrift in the romantic ether until, deliriously inflamed, they were overcome by wave after wave of blinding passion, and lay embracing in the afterglow.
“Hello—” Melanie finally purred, her face radiant. “You free for breakfast?”
“I wish,” Andrew whispered in a tone that left no doubt he wasn’t.
“Why not?”
He shook his head no mysteriously, and put his finger to her lips. “Let’s take a walk,” he said softly.
She nodded, and, lingering in his arms for a few moments, told him about the mystifying lack of phone books and copying services, and sending the letter to Deschin. “I thought it was my father at the door when you knocked,” she concluded.
“Now I know why you were so disappointed when you saw it was me.”