Read Someone Else's War: A Novel of Russia and America Page 97
***
“You know,” Rebecca Taylor told CC Cooper as they walked through Gorky Park, “I used to think wearing fur was decadent and rich and cruel and…”
“Maybe it is. But it’s been keeping mammals warm for millions of years.”
“I don’t think I could survive here without it.” They ducked out of the thickly falling snow into one of the small cafés where she bought him a glass of tea and some pelmeni fried in butter and served with a vinegar sauce, on the Post’s expense account.
“Much obliged. Any reaction?” he asked.
“Yes and no. Lots of Americans apparently upset about what I said about America. Plenty of insults. Some people going off on how I could support that traitor and she’s a Commie like the rest of them. Seems they don’t know the Soviet Union’s gone.”
“Always some son of a bitch doesn’t get the word. What are people saying about what you wrote about Russia and us having common concerns?”
“Nothing. But you have to read what this one woman wrote about how it’s glorious to be fat and I’m the real pig.”
“Oink.”
“I guess she proved my point.”
“Any public government reaction?”
“Howie’s been monitoring that. He says, no. Looks like DC doesn’t want to mess with this any more than the Russians do. Different motivations, same result.”
CC Cooper looked into his tea leaves. “So what do you think will happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Got a bag packed, just in case?”
“No. And you?”
“Course not.”
They sat a moment in silence. Then Rebecca asked delicately, “So, what are your plans? Assuming we don’t find the FSB making plans for us.”
“Me? Finish out the semester, then head home. I thought about riding the rails this summer. But I’d rather go home. Lot of things I want to do, still. Not that much time left to do them.”
“Oh, hell, CC. You’ll be looking for zakuski when you’re ninety.”
“Yeah, and maybe die at the hands of an outraged pastry chef for stealing his piroshky before they’re fully cooked. I think I’ve got a book in me. Maybe two. Maybe they’ll do some good. Your plans?”
“Another year here. Then back to DC for my next assignment.”
“No book contract?”
“I honestly don’t know. I suppose I could get one. I don’t know if I’d want to write about what I’ve seen right away. Give it a little time to process.”
“On the other hand, spike while the iron is hot.”
“Lousy pun there, Colonel.”
“I know. OK, I guess I’ve inflicted enough punishment on you already.”
“You’re getting worse.”
“Listen, hon, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve got an idea.”
She looked at him skeptically. “Speak.”
“You guys get sabbaticals to do books, don’t you?”
“Sometimes. Depends on the book and the person. You can usually get one if it’s unpaid. I can’t afford that.”
“Well, here’s what I’m thinking. You decide to write a book, I bet I can get you a visiting professorship at Carlisle. Teach a seminar or two, no heavy lifting, argue with the colonels for recreation, write the rest of the time. What do you think?”
“Sounds attractive.” Then her eyes narrowed. “But I have to warn you, CC Cooper.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I won’t be your zakuska back home.”
“No problem, Miss Rebecca. No problem a’tall. Once I get back, no more zakuski. It’ll be Krispy Kremes again, all the way. You got any idea how many varieties they put out nowadays? And they’re all good.”