“Either,” Ludmila said gruffly. How did Inessa know Ludmila would be going to New York City? Was it a guess? Or had she been eavesdropping?
“Or maybe silk pajamas. Igor would go wild. Igor’s my fiancé, you know. He might even set a wedding date under their influence. Or I could get a Maidenform brassiere,” Inessa chattered on, not seeming to expect responses.
They’d reached the street which was deserted at this late hour except for a porter on duty who was obviously KGB. Ludmila turned toward the Metro, which would take them to the Moscow State University dormitory where they’d been provided with temporary rooms. Inessa turned in the opposite direction.
“Aren’t you going back?” Ludmila asked.
“Not yet,” Inessa said with a coy giggle, and began to walk backward. “A friend is having a little birthday party. I want to drop in.”
Where did the girl get the energy? The young. Ludmila could barely keep her eyes open.
“Would you like to come?” Inessa asked. “Some very nice looking boys—men have been invited.”
“What about your fiancé?” Ludmila searched her memory for his name. “Igor?”
“He can’t come,” Inessa pouted. “He has to work late. He’s always working. He never wants to have any fun.”
Ludmila remembered he was some kind of scientist, a physicist, involved with missiles. If you could believe what Inessa said.
“Come with me. Live a little,” Inessa said.
“No, I can’t. Thank you. Another time perhaps.” Ludmila intended to fall into bed and sleep like the dead.
But later, when Ludmila tossed on her lumpy dormitory cot, she wondered if New York City was more curse than opportunity. If anything went badly, if the Party were unhappy with any aspect of the fashion exhibit or show, she would be a convenient scapegoat for Vladlena Gribkova.
Or was that Ludmila’s paranoia surfacing again? It never left her for long. All her life she’d been haunted by her parents’ fate. Her mother had been a tour guide and her father a translator of newspapers. One January night during Stalin’s time, when Ludmila was just a girl, both had been arrested by the secret police. Eventually she learned they’d been convicted of espionage and sent to a gulag, where they died. They’d both been innocent. Their only crime had been contact with foreigners and a knowledge of English. Such activities and skills might not currently be construed as treason, but that could change. Ludmila remained cautious and kept her own knowledge of English to herself.
The remaining seats of the Aeroflot flight were filled by their escort of hatchet-faced KGB men and one lone woman with the hard expression of a prison matron, who must also be an agent.
They landed in New York at Idlewild Airport and were directed to U.S. Customs. Gribkova pulled Ludmila aside. “Help me.”
But an army of American officials, all disconcertingly friendly and apologetic, whisked them through Customs. Not a single piece of luggage, trunk, box, or garment bag was opened. Not a single person was searched. A professional and diplomatic courtesy, it was understood. A gesture of goodwill toward the staff of an exhibition intended to foster warmer relations between the two superpowers. Besides, the Americans didn’t care if they brought in illegal goods. A suitcase full of caviar, vodka, or furs? All relatively harmless. No, contraband would be the issue on the return journey, and Soviet Customs would not be so accommodating.
Outside, they were blinded by white sunshine. It was blistering, American hot. The only smell was exhaust; the only sight a desert of glittering automobiles, pavement, and ripples of rising heat. Ludmila was glad to be ushered into one of a waiting fleet of shiny black limousines, the interior dim, cool, and enormous. Several KGB men squeezed into the rows of seats with them.
On the drive into the city, the models gaped and exclaimed at the skyline. Ludmila wanted to do the same, but she didn’t dare when she saw Vladlena Gribkova’s impervious disdain. Instead she risked sideways glances out the windows. An assembly line of cars, all of them sounding their horns, inched through the granite crevices of Manhattan. Not only was it louder than she expected, it was also grimier and much darker, even on a sunny June afternoon. The flight had been long, and they were tired, but they were not taken to the hotel.
Instead they were driven to the New York Coliseum, where the exhibition was to take place. They pulled up to a white block of a building that looked like a futuristic flying saucer or a frosted cake. Protesters gathered in front holding signs, “Russkies Go Home.”
Inside, they were met by a group of Americans, five or six men in gray suits and two women. They greeted the Russian delegation warmly as if they’d been the best of friends for many years. Polite introductions were exchanged, the Americans making a valiant effort to pronounce Russian names.
Ludmila was disconcerted by them and their smiles. Their teeth so white. Their shoulders and jaws so square. They seemed as unreal as mannequins.
The exhibition hall was an echoing cavern so large it could have contained whole airplanes. Air conditioning made it artificially cold and clammy, and Ludmila shivered. They were cocooned by an escort of KGB and Americans. An area had been reserved for fashion in the Culture section. There, workmen were constructing platforms, a stage, a runway, and dressing rooms. When Gribkova saw what they had done, she announced, “It’s all wrong. Completely wrong. Who gave you these instructions?” She glared at them. “Wrong. Who told you to do it this way?” she repeated in careful, heavily accented English.
Most of the American workers assembling the exhibition were Negroes. They were the first Negroes Ludmila had ever seen. None of the men were actually black. Each man’s skin was a slightly different color, rich, satiny shades that recalled chocolate, earth, coffee. They in turn stared at Vladlena Gribkova, trying to comprehend the Russian woman.
Two American women pushed their way to the front. Miss Bennett and Miss Johnstone, they’d called themselves. They wore summer suits, stylishly cut, one lilac with black trim, the other navy, both with half sleeves, and Ludmila could scarcely wrench her gaze from them. Both had pulled their hair into smooth buns at the base of their skulls. It turned out they were translators, and Gribkova began to lecture them about the problems with the layout.
Meanwhile, the models clustered in a corner, smoking, Inessa at the center. Ludmila joined them to escape the legion of forbidding gray-suited men. “Why so many KGB? Do they think we’re conducting espionage?” she murmured.
“They must show Soviet superiority by outnumbering the CIA agents,” Inessa whispered, with uncharacteristic sarcasm. At Ludmila’s gasp of surprise, she giggled and added, “But they can’t compete with the Americans on looks. Especially the one on the left. Dreamy.”
Ludmila saw nothing remarkable about the man. Without much enthusiasm, she agreed, “Yes, very handsome.”
After a moment, Inessa continued, “And those are only the KGB that are not undercover.” She inclined her head slightly toward Vladlena Gribkova.
Of course there were informers, there were always informers, everywhere, but Ludmila hadn’t suspected Gribkova. Informers were rarely subtle. They usually tried to entrap people, but Gribkova spoke only about fashion. How would Inessa know? “I don’t believe you,” she said aloud.