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?'
'I'm sure I wouldn't know,' she said. She leaned over him, took the brandy bottle from the nightstand and held it toward him.
'I'm fine,' Benjamin said. 'I had a lot of wine with dinner, and…'
Gudrun set the bottle and her own glass on the nightstand. She turned back to Benjamin, reached forward, and took his hand.
'You're really quite handsome, Ben. Are you used to hearing that from women?' She put her right arm around his neck and began caressing the back of his hair with her fingertips. When he just sat, staring at her, saying nothing, she leaned forward and kissed him.
The taste of the brandy was like an aphrodisiac. Benjamin felt his head reeling. Gudrun kept her mouth against his, her lips slightly parted. Benjamin was surprised at how tender the kiss seemed, how sincere. He was intensely aware of her perfume-something both sharp and musky-and the sound of her dress pressing against his shirt, her fingers on the back of his neck…
She moved her head back a few inches.
'Let's dispense with this jacket, shall we?' she said.
Almost instinctively, Benjamin started to shrug off his jacket, then realized he would have to set his drink down first. He leaned awkwardly over to the nightstand. As he did so, the glass bumped the side of the yellow sheet of folded paper he'd set there. It fell to the floor, where it lay almost beneath the bed, half open. Even as Gudrun was helping him out of his jacket, he couldn't help glancing down at it.
When after a moment she realized he wasn't helping her, she stopped.
'Cold feet?' she asked, arching an eyebrow.
Benjamin looked at her. His first thought was that she was indeed a very beautiful woman: her blond hair, dark eyebrows, bright red lipstick… like something out of a 1950s movie. And he was about to turn her out.
'No, no,' he said. He ran his hand through his hair, then stood up so that his shoe was covering the yellow paper. 'I think I've had too much to drink after all,' he said. 'That damned scotch of Samuel's.' And then he gave her a look he hoped was both guileless and slightly drunk.
If she was insulted, she hid it well. She stood as well, put her hand on his chest.
'Well, there's still time to… get to know each other. I think you'll be around for a while.' Before he could ask what she meant by that, she gave him a very kind peck on the cheek, said, 'Do you mind?' and took the brandy.
