The War in 2020

'He puts in very much whiskey. I must not drink so much. Tonight I forgot to have dinner.'

'Would you rather have something else to drink? Ryder asked hurriedly.

'No. Oh, no,' the woman answered quickly, alarmed at the suggestion. 'This has made me happy. Thank you.' He had the urge to ask her to join him in the dining room. He had not eaten, either. And the service hours had been extended for the well-paying Americans. He was no longer so concerned that she might be KGB. Somehow, he could not imagine that this woman of all women was some sort of undercover agent.

And yet, he thought.

He put off asking her. Not because he feared being compromised so much as because he was afraid she would say no, that his offer would force them to separate all the sooner.

'Do you know many Americans? he asked.

'No,' she said, then added hurriedly, 'I do not come often to hotels such as this. Tonight, you see, I have only come to keep company with my girlfriend. She has invited me '

Ryder sensed that her girlfriend's character was not the stuff of which good recommendations were made. But. He refused to think badly of the woman sitting beside him. She had asked him for nothing. And he knew that few of the women in the bar were actually hookers. The Americans were a feature attraction in a glum season. And who knew what this woman had gone through in her life? All at once it struck him that he and all of his peers were far too quick to judge.

His silence bothered the woman, who offered an additional line to keep things going. 'I think Americans are very friendly.'

Ryder nodded. Then he smiled. Yes. Indeed. Every American in the room would be glad to be friendly toward this woman.

In a moment of near panic, followed by deep relief, he saw the beery lieutenant colonel return to his table. Ryder was sure the man would head right for the bar when he noticed that he had been deserted, coming to take the woman back. But the big man just tottered for a moment, then sat down hard, reaching for his waiting glass.

'Americans are pretty friendly people,' he agreed, as if he had given it a great deal of thought. 'Most of the time.'

'But you are sitting alone. That is not very friendly.'

'I'm not alone,' Ryder smiled. 'You're here.'

A shadow of annoyance passed over her face, and Ryder realized with the insight of a longterm language student that his response had spoiled the sequence of verbs and nouns she had planned ahead in her mind.

'You should not sit alone,' she said adamantly.

'I had a long day. Hard work.'

'And what is your work, Jeff?'

'I work with computers.'

She thought for a moment. 'That is very interesting. But I could not do it. The mathematics are very difficult for me.'

'Math's only part of it,' Ryder said. But he wanted to steer the conversation well away from his work. If she was KGB, she was not going to get anything out of him.

'Listen, Valya,' he said boldly. 'I haven't eaten yet. Would you join me for dinner? You said you haven't eaten.'

He had taken his cowardice by surprise, pushing the words out. But the last breath of speech brought with it a collapse into fear. She would leave him now.

'That would be very nice,' she said quickly. Her response came so fast that he almost missed it in his anxiety.

He still could not believe that she had come to him, that she was still sitting beside him. 'I think I would like that very much,' she continued. 'To dine together.'

'Great,' Ryder said, aware, somewhere down under his exuberance, that he was suddenly willing to risk far more with this woman than he had ever intended.

* * *

Valya struggled not to eat too quickly. She wanted to appear well-mannered, elegant. But it was difficult to offer sensible responses to the American's words. The food was simply too good, too bountiful. Even Naritsky, with all of his black market connections, had not been able to obtain meat of such quality. Valya had never tasted anything like it, and each bite — carefully, agonizedly restrained — left her in a fermenting mix of gratitude and anger. The quality of this meal, served to foreigners in her own city, was humiliating to one who had never been allowed to experience this world. She trimmed the beef into ladylike bits, wanting all the while to pick it up with her hands and devour it like a bad child. She believed that she had never known how hungry she really was until the waiter placed this meal before her.

'The food is very good,' she told the American. Thank you very much.'

The American nodded. 'Glad you like it. God, I wish I could serve you up a real American steak. Something right out of the Kansas City stockyards. You'd be knocked out.'

His words seemed to imply that American beet would be much better than this. But such a thing was unimaginable to Valya. She had never tasted meat of this quality, had not even supposed that it might exist. Now this American seemed to think it was not very good at all. He picked at his food. It made her angry.

Perhaps he was just a braggart. Like so many of them. Not just Americans. Men in general. And yet. This one truly did not seem that way. So quiet. Anxious to please.

Imprisoned by the boors to whom Tanya had introduced her, Valya had spent a long time watching him in the mirror before he noticed her. He was very handsome, in an immature American sort of way, and at first she thought he was sitting alone out of arrogance. But his gestures were too unsure, and when their eyes finally met, his face showed nothing of the wolflike traces she would have expected to encounter in so handsome a man, had he been a Russian.

Perhaps he was truly a good man, decent and generous.

Then why should he speak badly about the best meal she had ever had?

'This is very good,' she insisted, her voice polite but definite.

He seemed to sense that he had made a wrong move.

'Yeah, this certainly isn't bad. They're doing their best. Would you like some more potatoes? I can't eat them all.'

'No,' Valya lied. 'This is very much food. Thank you.' She wanted to close her eyes and listen to the splendid melody the dinner sent singing through her body. She took another forkful of the vegetables in their thick sauce, careful not to spill anything on her dress. She felt as though she would give anything she had, as though she would even steal, for just one more meal like this.

She had watched him sitting at the bar, and she had made up her mind. The swine with whom Tanya had thrown in her lot were so obviously after only one thing that she knew there was no future with them. They offered no real possibilities. But the handsome, boyish one at the bar. Perhaps he had something to offer. He was young enough to be unattached, to have more future to him than past. She decided he was worth an effort. If nothing else, she wouldn't end the evening being pawed by a middle-aged drunk.

'How about some more wine?' he asked her, with the bottle already raised in his hand.

'Oh, yes. Please. You see it is very good, the Russian wine. It derives from the Crimea.'

She saw a slight frown of disagreement cross his face, evidence of further dissatisfaction. What on earth was wrong with this man? What did he want? What did he expect?

She decided that he was simply trying to impress her. Perhaps not in such a bad way. He was still so much a boy. And he wanted her to think he was a man.

Valya warned herself again to slow down, to stop eating like a stray dog. As a penalty for her bad behavior she forced herself to put down her knife and fork for a moment, to talk to the American.

'Jeff. You are such a nice man. I think you are married, yes?'

She watched his face closely. It did not change in a bad way. There was no sudden embarrassment. No stupid furtiveness. Just a barely visible stiffening, a look of pain in the eyes.