"Natashka." She could hear the pleasure in his voice. " Privet. You caught me just as I was leaving. I have to put my time in as a peasant, you know."
She laughed. "I won't keep you long, Father. I just wanted to know how you are."
"Ah," he said. She could hear the reticence in his voice. "I survive. That's the most important thing."
"You are well?" she asked.
"Better than some," he replied. Then he went on to list the troubles of various relatives and friends: divorces, drunkenness, unruly children, poor wages. It was all something of a ritual with them. "And poor Dmitri Sergeivich. His leukemia is very stubborn."
Dmitri was one of her father's oldest comrades from his days as a rocketchiki. Natalya knew that the incidence of all sorts of cancer and blood diseases was extraordinarily high among the former rocketchiki; her father attributed it to "sitting like a hen on nuclear eggs" for years at a time. Fortunately, her father was as yet free of such "souvenirs of service," as the ex-soldiers called them.
"And you, Natashka? How is my little diplomat?"
"I am fine, Father. I had lunch with the president just yesterday," she joked. "He agreed to see about increasing your pension."
She knew her father's so-called military pension was a ridiculously small amount, given his years of dedicated service. He worked now with a branch of the State Bank in Dubna, looking after their security and planning for various emergencies and disasters. He described the difference in responsibilities this way: "Once I held the fate of the planet at the tip of my finger. Now I use that finger to plug leaks."
She spoke for a few minutes about her work at the Cultural Center, trying to make it sound more glamorous than it really was, as she knew this made her father feel a sense of pride. She mentioned the Bolshoi reception, and he responded that she was living the life of an aristocrat.
"How things have changed," he said, somewhat wistfully.
She laughed again. "An aristocrat that works like a dog," she said. And, since she knew he was about to say he had to leave for his garden, she finally broached the subject she'd been working up to.
"Nikolai," she tried to keep the increased tension and formality out of her voice. "You know I am contacted from time to time by American professors, seeking help with books from the archives." She waited for a moment, but he didn't respond. "Well, I received a very curious request the other day, about such a book. But I cannot find anything about it in the places I usually look. I thought perhaps it was a book you might have encountered in… your extensive reading."
Now her father's silence was palpable. "Yes?" he said finally.
"It is a book with a strange name. Or actually, it might not be the book's name at all. The American was not certain about that. He knows only that it was published sometime between 1960 and 1970." She waited.
"And this book's maybe-name?" her father asked.
"Something like Stzenariy 55. Or perhaps it is Borba s tenyu. You see? Very confusing."
Again, there was silence.
"Have you ever heard of a book with either title?" she prodded.
"No," her father said finally.
She waited again, for some question, some comment. But he said nothing.
"Are you certain," she said, though she already knew his answer. "Nothing like that at all?"
"I've read so many books, Natalya," and she noticed his return to the formal address, "it's hard to remember them all. But a title like that… and who is this American academician who is asking about this maybe-book? A boyfriend?"
She laughed, even though she felt the joke was forced. "No, I've never met him." She was about to tell him Jeremy Fletcher's name, when for some reason she decided not to. "Just someone at an American university. Probably someone whose Russian is very bad, and he simply mixed it all up."
"Yes," her father said. "I'm certain that's it. Probably best just to leave it alone. You know how persistent these Americans can be." He paused for a moment. "Probably someone you should not contact."
Then they exchanged a rather awkward "pakah," too informal a farewell for the tension she suddenly felt; and then, instead of hanging up, her father had added, "Natalya, you know I love you very much."
She was surprised. He wasn't usually this emotionally forthcoming in their phone chats. "And I love you too, Father," she said.
And then they hung up.
Natalya sat for a while in the overstuffed chair, looking out the window, and wishing desperately for a cigarette. In all the years of her rebellions, her alien tastes and desires, her difficult marriage with Sander, her parents' separation and divorce… through all those years, she'd never suspected that her father actually ever lied to her.
But he was lying to her now. Of that she was certain.
It was nearly 1:30, far past her usual bedtime. Perhaps she would try to do something different on Sunday, something away from the center and the embassy, away from this search that was leading nowhere. Perhaps tomorrow she would go to the Mall, visit the Lincoln Memorial, and find some sort of wisdom there. Or at least comfort.
She turned out the light by the chair and made her way through the darkened apartment into the bedroom, where, as soon as she'd undressed and stretched out on the bed, she immediately fell asleep.
CHAPTER 13
Once back in his room, Benjamin had looked around for glasses for Gudrun's brandy. He was nervous, and felt silly for being nervous. There was always the chance she'd change her mind and not show up. Or maybe he was making too much of this. Perhaps she really did want to talk to him about Jeremy. Which, he reminded himself, smiling, was what he was supposed to want, too.
As he was washing two glasses he found in the bathroom a knock came at his door. Holding the glasses, still dripping, in one hand, he went into the room and opened it.
"As promised," announced Gudrun, holding aloft a squat bottle of brandy. She was still in her evening dress, though she'd let her hair down, so that it shone like a mane against her bare shoulders. Once again, Benjamin thought she was one of the most striking women he'd ever seen. "Are you going to invite me in?" she asked.
"Oh, of course." He pointed to the two chairs set next to the small table, but Gudrun sat down unceremoniously on the bed.
"Is one of those for me?" she asked, pointing to the wet glasses.
"Yes." He shook the water from it. "Sorry, all I could find." As he held forth the glass she tilted the bottle, poured a healthy portion into it, then motioned for the other, did the same. She set the bottle on his nightstand, took one of the glasses from him, and tapped glasses.
"To making new friends," Gudrun said.
"And absent old ones," Benjamin answered.
"Yes, of course." She took a sip of her brandy. "So tell me, Benjamin, how do you… sorry, did you know Jeremy Fletcher?"
Benjamin sipped his own, found it pretty strong stuff. "In college," he said. "But I hadn't heard from him in years."
"But then he called you to come out here? To help with his work?" Benjamin just nodded. "And your field is Colonial history?"
"How did you-?"
"Samuel told me." Gudrun leaned back on the bed. "Though he didn't explain why Jeremy suddenly needed a Colonial historian."
Benjamin paused. "Why do you say suddenly?"
"Well," Gudrun smiled, "you arrived late yesterday afternoon with a single suitcase, you weren't on the roster of new fellows sent around last week, and there wasn't a single rumor about your coming." She laughed lightly at Benjamin's look of surprise. "The Foundation is like a village, Ben. Everyone knows everyone else's business. Oh, do you mind if I call you Ben?"
Benjamin was beginning to feel uncomfortable still standing over Gudrun. He perched at the head of the bed, on a pillow. "Not at all," he said, lying. "But now let me ask you something. Why do you think Jeremy suddenly needed you, an expert in counterterrorism?"