***
“You know, my love, you really ought to read more of the books I present to you. You never know when they might prove useful.”
“Don’t change the subject,” General Getmanov growled at his wife as he went into to their bedroom closet, came out with a suitcase, threw it on the unmade bed, and started packing.
“You really think I would do such a thing? After all the years I spent going to bed and getting up on your schedule. Do you really think I could ever get used to some other man’s annoying habits?”
“Lyudya, that is not the point,” he said. “I would prefer it if, just as soon as my flight is in the air, you go to the embassy and file for Russian divorce. You may cite any reason you like, including my sleeping habits.”
“Not those. I would have to get into your snoring and I’d prefer not to disgrace you that way.”
“Then cite years of chronic infidelity with waitresses at those wretched pancake parlors. What do they call them?”
“IHOP, my beloved. And they’re not wretched, although I personally prefer the male baristas at Starbucks. Every time I order an Americano grande, I swoon. Sounds like some sort of gigolo, no?”
“Lyudya…damn you. If things work out in Moscow, you can withdraw your petition. It may not be necessary. It may be worthless if this all goes to hell. But it may also provide you with some protection. Quickly divorcing an enemy of the State could save you.”
“But I’m not married to an enemy of the State.”
“Not everyone might see it that way. I may never return.”
“From where?”
“From Moscow.”
“Oh, so you’re going to Moscow? Thank you for finally getting around to telling me. I was afraid you were about to run off with one of your IHOP courtesans.”
“IHOP does not hire courtesans.”
“Very well, then. Howard Johnson’s.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I. And just what makes you think you’re going to Moscow alone?”
“Because it will be easier to try to save a friend if you’re not there to get yourself arrested, too.”
“I’m sorry, husband, but we are going back to Moscow to try to save a friend.”
He glared at Lyudmila. “What you mean ‘we,’ White Girl?” he inquired in perfect idiomatic English.
“Just that,” she said, peremptorily closing the lid of his suitcase. “I assume you don’t mean, White Russian Girl. In any event, I am pleased that you have read more of my books than you admit.”
“I admit nothing,” he said.
“Have you been doing more researches than reading?”
“I admit nothing,” he repeated with dignity.
“Nevertheless, we are going back to Moscow. Now please go into that ridiculously huge closet and get me down a suitcase. Women always take longer to pack than men.”
Getmanov complied, once again marveling at a closet that was larger than some rooms he’d lived in. Then he marveled again at what he and his wife were about to do. Not so long ago, returning to Russia would have been a particularly unpleasant way of committing suicide. Indeed, he probably would have had only three choices available to him. Defect to the Americans, if he could do so in time. Offer them a lifetime’s worth of knowledge and expertise in exchange for living out his remaining years somewhere, doing something or perhaps doing nothing. Or he could let his own people put him on an Aeroflot flight back to Moscow under armed guard. Or he could kill himself, an expiation that might save his wife from a similar or worse fate.
“Very well,” Getmanov grumbled, reopening his suitcase. “Come along. However, I would prefer you not running your neck into this trouble. It’s bad enough I didn’t tell her in Vienna what she deserved to hear from me, that it would be best if she returned home. Now I’ve endangered others by my failure. You could still be blameless. But not if you get involved. ”
“Beloved husband, have I mentioned to you that I’ve been corresponding with our Olivia quite regularly?”
Getmanov’s jaw dropped a little. Then a lot. He looked down at his half-filled suitcase and said in the most beloved husbandly tone he could manage, “I didn’t know about that.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell you. Old American proverb. Every girl needs some secrets.”
“Old Russian proverb. Sufficient unto the day is its own evil. You know, when they search her home, they’ll find the letters. Perhaps she destroyed them but we must assume not for now. Anything in them I should know about?”
“No. Well, yes. I’ve been giving her instruction on how to please Russian men. They are, how you say, considerably more demanding than their American counterparts.”
“And how would you know that?”
“I read books. No, there is nothing in those letters that could complicate things.”
“Except that they may still exist.” Getmanov went to his wife and took her hands. “Darling, this is about our Olivia. It is also about where our country is going, what it might become, what it might return to. Do you really think you need to have a role in that?”
“Am I not a citizen, too?”
“But you have no position, no power, no…”
“I have you. Alright, I slept my way to the top, well, most of the way to the top. But that’s where I am now and I intend to use it in any way I can to make this come out right.”
He sighed. “Fuck you, White Girl.”
“You don’t mean, fuck you, White Russian Woman, do you?”
“No, I mean, fuck you, Russian Woman.”
“Please?”
“When we get back to Moscow. They say it’s better there.”
“It is.”