But he was surprised when that same afternoon a messenger delivered a burlap bag containing twenty-five pounds of Burundian coffee beans and a note from the ambassador, in which the ambassador expressed his profound gratitude for Roscoe’s discretion when they had met the previous evening. Roscoe correctly interpreted that to mean the ambassador was grateful his picture had appeared in the society section only.
The ambassador’s note had gone on to say that if there was any way, any way at all, that he could be of service to Roscoe, all Roscoe had to do was ask.
Under these circumstances, Roscoe decided, the ambassador would be happy to conceal him for a few days, a week, however long it took until the situation was resolved. And he doubted very much that the President would look for him in the Burundian embassy.
Roscoe’s good feelings lasted until he came out of Immigration into the Arriving Passengers area of the airport.
“Welcome to our nation’s capital, Roscoe,” David W. Yung greeted him. “Let me help you with your bag.”
“You look a little green around the gills, Roscoe, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Edgar Delchamps said. “Would you like to stop at the Old Ebbitt Grill for a Bloody Mary, or would you prefer to go directly to the White House?”
[SIX]
“Words cannot express my chagrin and remorse, Miss Bogdanovich,” the general manager of the Grand Cozumel said.
“There’s some sort of problem?”
“Indeed there is,” he said. “I’m afraid there is no room at this inn.”
“Why not?”
“The owner’s cousin is to be married here. The entire establishment will be required to accommodate the guests.”
“But you told me I would always be welcome here.”
“And you always will be, except, of course, when the owner’s cousin is to be married, which unfortunately changes things.”
“But what am I to do? I was so looking forward to a huge bowl of your marvelous borscht whilst looking down from a penthouse at the white sands of the beach.”
“Let me tell you what we’re going to do. I can only hope it meets your approval.”
“It better.”
“Not far down the beach is a splendid establishment — not as splendid as this, of course, but splendid — the Royal Aztec Table Tennis and Golf Resort and Casino. The manager is a personal friend of mine. When I saw your reservation, I explained this unfortunate happenstance to him, and he has arranged an exquisite penthouse suite for you overlooking the white sands of the beach.”
“A penthouse suite seems nice, but what about the borscht?”
“As we speak, Miss Bogdanovich, two of our chefs are in the kitchen of the Royal Aztec preparing borscht — as only they can — for you.”
“That’s all very nice, but what about security? I don’t want any of my fans, and certainly no paparazzi, butting into my personal life while I’m resting to recover from an unfortunate incident in Las Vegas that I’d rather not talk about.”
“Not a problem, Miss Bogdanovich. We have trained the security staff of the Royal Aztec. You may rest assured on that score. And did I mention that the Grand Cozumel is going to pick up your bill at the Royal Aztec to make up a little for any inconvenience we may have caused?”
“How kind of you!”
[SEVEN]
When she had looked around Penthouse A, which occupied half of the twenty-second floor of the Royal Aztec, and found it satisfactory, Agrafina Bogdanovich thanked the Royal Aztec’s general manager and sent him on his way.
Then she unpacked, took a shower, and put on what she thought of as her itsy-bitsy tiny polka-dot bikini and her sunglasses and went onto the balcony of the suite. She saw that a steam table had been set up, and resting above the bubbling waters thereof was a silver bowl. She lifted the lid, sniffed appreciatively of the borscht it contained, replaced the lid, and started to pull a chair up to the table.
She was in the act of opening a bottle of Dos Equis cerveza when she sensed eyes on her. She looked and saw a head looking at her over the colored-glass partition that separated the balcony of Penthouse A from that of Penthouse B.
“That’s borscht I smell, isn’t it?” the man inquired.
“It’s none of your goddamned business what it is, you goddamned perverted Peeping Tom,” Agrafina said, and threw the bottle of Dos Equis at him.
She missed, the bottle striking the glass partition instead. It shattered. The Peeping Tom fled his balcony.
Ten minutes later, her door chime went off. The general manager stood there. So did three bellmen. One of them held two dozen long-stemmed roses. A second held a silver dish with a pound of caviar in it, resting on a bed of ice. The third held an ice-filled bucket and a two-liter bottle of Stolichnaya vodka.
“Miss Bogdanovich, I come bearing these small gifts from your neighbor…”
“Señor Peeping Tom, you mean? I was led to believe I would be left alone to recover from the unfortunate incident in Las Vegas—”
“What unfortunate incident was that, my dear Miss Bogdanovich?”
“I’d rather not talk about it. And I barely had time to settle myself when this Mexican Peeping Tom intrudes on my privacy—”
“Actually, he’s Russian, not Mexican, Miss Bogdanovich.”
“Okay. Russian Peeping Tom. What do you mean, he’s Russian?”
“He’s from Greater Sverdlovsk—”
“That’s just Sverdlovsk, not Greater Sverdlovsk,” Peeping Tom said from behind the bellman with the long-stemmed roses. “And I’m actually from Kiev, not Greater Sverdlovsk.”
“And did you have a mother in Kiev?”
“Of course I had a mother in Kiev. May she rest in peace.”
“And she didn’t teach you not to leer at strange women in itsy-bitsy tiny polka-dot bikinis while they are trying to recover from certain unpleasant things that happened to them in Las Vegas?”
“It was my nose that got me in trouble,” Peeping Tom said.
“You weren’t leering at me with your nose!”
“Your borscht smelled just like the borscht my sainted mother, may she rest in peace, used to make for me in Kiev. I got carried away.”
“It’s pretty good borscht, I’ll admit that. What did you say your name was?”
“Grigori Slobozhanin,” he said, and then: “To hell with it! My real name is Sergei Murov.”
“You’re in the theater?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Well, I’m in the theater myself, so to speak. I know about stage names. My name as it appears in the credits is Red Ravisher. Agrafina Bogdanovich is my real, off-camera name.”
“A beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” Murov said. “It sounds Russian.”
“I am of Russian heritage.”
“So here we are, two Russians far from the motherland—”
“Actually, I’m from Cleveland, Ohio.”
“How about ‘two Russians in a strange land’?”
“It’s a strange land, all right, but I just told you, Grigori, that I’m an American.”
“The sound of my name coming from your lips is like heavenly music.”