limited means who rarely travelled outside of Moscow. They would smile, polite, condescending – certain that she’d been plucked from obscurity, from mediocrity, and pushed onto an international stage. And this would be gleaned from a quick glance at her plain shoes and the cut of her jacket. In ordinary circumstances she wouldn’t have cared what a stranger made of her appearance. She was not vain. On the contrary, she preferred not to be noticed. But in a situation like this she needed to command respect. If they didn’t trust her, they’d be tempted to interfere in her plans.
In the elevator, Raisa stole a final glance at herself. The guide caught sight of her nervous self-appraisal. The young man, educated, with hair slicked to the side, wearing a no doubt expensive suit and polished shoes, afforded her a patronizing smile as if to confirm that her anxieties were exactly correct: her shoes were plain, her clothes poor and her appearance not to the standards typical of those working in this building. Worse was the implication that he was being generous to her, understanding the limits of her situation and making necessary allowances. Raisa remained silent, feeling out of her depth. She composed herself, doing her best to dismiss the incident, before stepping into the offices of the Soviet representative to the United Nations.
Two men, in immaculate suits, stood up. She knew one of them already, Vladimir Trofimov, a handsome man in his forties. He worked for the Ministry of Education, where the plans for the trip had been formalized. She’d met him in Moscow. While she’d expected him to be a political creature, largely indifferent to the children, he’d proved to be gregarious and friendly. He’d spent time with the students, engaging them in conversation. Trofimov introduced Raisa to the other man:
– Raisa Demidova.
He switched into an imitation American accent:
– This is Evan Vass.
She hadn’t expected any Americans in the meeting. The man was tall, in his late fifties. Vass stared at her with such intensity that she was momentarily taken aback. His eyes didn’t casually wander over her clothes, or note her simple shoes. She reached out to shake his hand. He took hold of it, loosely, as if it were something awful. He didn’t shake it: he merely held it. She found herself wanting to pull away. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was making her feel uncomfortable. Though she’d been practising, Raisa’s English was limited.
– It is my pleasure to meet you.
Trofimov laughed. Vass did not. He answered in perfect Russian, releasing her hand:
– My name is Evgeniy Vasilev. They call me Evan Vass as a joke. It is a joke, I suppose? I have never found it funny.
Trofimov explained his joke:
– Evan has been in America so long and is so corrupted by American ways we have renamed him.
Even this light exchange left Raisa confused – to claim someone was corrupted by American ways was hardly a laughing matter, yet it seemed the remark were no more than banter. These men existed in a rarefied atmosphere where even serious accusations carried no danger. As Trofimov poure glass of water she reminded herself that no matter what leniency they showed each other she was not of their level and rules that did not apply to them still applied to her.
Putting the disconcerting introduction behind her, Raisa reiterated the plans for the concert, pointing out the significance of the arrangements, from the choice of songs to the blocking. There had been one meeting in her hotel last night with her American counterpart: she was about to have a second meeting in the Grand Assembly Hall. There would be a dress rehearsal in the afternoon. Trofimov smoked throughout, smiling and nodding, occasionally watching his cigarette smoke swirl in the air-conditioned currents. Vass gave no reaction, regarding her with unmoving coal-black eyes. As she finished, Trofimov stubbed out his cigarette.
– That sounds excellent. I have nothing to add. You seem to have everything under control. I’m sure the concerts will be a great success.
The men stood up. It was her cue to leave. Raisa couldn’t believe it, standing uncertainly.
– You don’t have any comments?
Trofimov smiled.
– Comments? Yes, good luck! I’m looking forward to the concert. It will be a great success. A triumph, of that I have no doubt. We will see you tonight.
– Won’t you be attending the dress rehearsal this afternoon?
– No, that won’t be necessary. And it might spoil the experience. We trust you. We trust you completely.
Trofimov stepped forward, showing Raisa to the door. The young guide was waiting outside, ready to escort her to the General Assembly Hall. Trofimov said goodbye. Evan Vass said goodbye. Raisa nodded, heading towards the elevator, perplexed by their response. They hadn’t interrogated her. They hadn’t imposed their authority. They’d behaved as if the concert that they’d spent so long seeking diplomatic permission for was of absolutely no concern.
She touched the arm of her guide, saying in English:
– Where is the bathroom?
He changed direction, taking her to the bathroom. She entered, checking that she was alone before leaning on the sink and looking at her reflection, regarding her ugly, unfashionable set of clothes, registering the tension in her shoulders. Leo’s instincts about this trip had been correct.
New Jersey Bergen County The Town of Teaneck
FBI agent Jim Yates stood beside his sleeping wife, looking down at her as if she was a corpse and he was the first officer on the scene. She was wrapped up in a thick comforter in the height of summer, in a bedroom that was as hot as a sauna. Hypersensitive to noise, twirls of cotton wool spiralled out of her ears like wisps of campfire smoke. A thick black eye mask protected her in perpetual darkness, closing out the world, for she despised even this brilliant sunny morning. He leaned down, his lips hovering above her forehead and whispered:
– I love you.
She rolled onto her side, turning away from him, creasing up her face in irritation, shooing him awaywith the furrows of her brow. She didn’t lower her eye mask and didn’t reply. As he straightened up, the image flashed through his mind of taking off that mask, placing his fingertips on her eyelids, forcing them open and making her look at him – repeating, calmly, in a measured voice, not shouting, or losing his temper: I. Love. You.
He’d keep repeating it, louder and louder until she said it back to him. I. Love. You. Too.
He would say thank you. She would smile sweetly. And that was how a normal day should begin. A husband tells his wife he loves her, she should tell him she loves him back. It didn’t even have to be true but there was a formula to follow. That was how it worked in every other household, in every decent suburb, in every normal American family.
Walking to the window, Yates pulled back the curtain and looked out onto their garden – it was overrun, the flowerbeds choked with knee-high weeds knotted together like witch’s hair. The lawn had died a long time ago, the earth split into rock-hard chunks: jagged fissures between clumps of lank yellow grass, like the surface of some inhospitable moon. Set among the perfectly tended gardens of their neighbours it was an abomination. Yates had proposed hiring a gardener but his wife had refused, unsettled by the idea of a stranger moving in and out of the house, making noise, talking to the neighbours. Yates had suggested asking the gardener not to speak, never to come inside and to make as little noise as possible, anything so that their house wasn’t such a vision of shameful neglect. His wife had refused.
Ready to leave, he went through the exit routine, checking the windows, making sure they were shut. He stopped by the phone, making sure it was unplugged. With these checks complete, he descended the stairs. At great expense they’d been carpeted with the thickest and finest material, of exotic foreign origin, to muffle any noise. Yates left the house, pinning a note on the door: PLEASE DO NOT RING THE BELL PLEASE DO NOT KNOCK ON THE DOOR
Originally he’d concluded with the explanation that no one was at home. But that line had been cut since his
