"Walther and I will be ready," Yakov said. "We will be ready."
FOUR
The food at the Lermontov Hotel was all right for quantity. Anton saw to that when Sarah and Porfiry Petrovich entered the dining room. He flitted from the Rostnikovs to the American couple who had checked in three days before to the Sabolshevs from Minsk to the twig of a man who spoke with an accent that Rostnikov recognized as Romanian.
"Anton works hard for his tips, Porfiry Petrovich," Sarah said. "We should remember that when we go."
She was holding her plate in front of her. On the plate was a mound of something dark, a treacherous hill of kasha, mystery vegetables, and small, dark, jagged pieces that may have been meat. The entire creation was topped with a tiny cap of barely cooked dough. At the base of this mountain was a thin white sauce in which floated two very thin slices of tomato. Rostnikov's plate was identical, as were the plates of all forty-six people in the room.
"This way," Rostnikov said, nodding toward a table near the window where the new American couple sat, forks in hand, glasses of pee 'va, tepid beer, near their plates of food.
The man looked up as Sarah and Rostnikov approached.
"Have a seat," the man, who had two chins and very white hair, said.
Rostnikov and Sarah put down their plates and sat.
"You speak English?" the man asked.
"Yes," said Rostnikov.
"What the hell is this stuff?" he said, pointing at the mound in front of him with his fork.
"Lester," his wife, a thin woman with dyed blond hair, whispered.
"I'm curious, is all," Lester said.
"I think it is cheburekl, an Armenian meat pie fried in fat," said Rostnikov.
"Appetizing," said the man, with a frown.
"Lester," said the wife, trying not to move her lips, as if her act of inept ventriloquism would hide her words from the Rostnikovs. "You don't need to offend-"
"Am I offending you?" Lester said, looking at Sarah and Porfiry Petrovich.
"We did not cook the food," Rostnikov answered.
"See," said Lester. "They don't like it, either."
The subdued chatter in the room was broken by the sound of a concertina.
"Oh, hell, no," groaned Lester. "She's back."
"Lester," his wife warned, looking apologetically at Sarah, who was much more discomfited by the American woman's embarrassment than by Lester's complaints.
"Is that native Crimean music?" Lester asked, leaning over toward Rostnikov to be sure he was heard over the noise of the concertina playing a particularly bad version of a folk song Rostnikov recognized but could not name.
"I don't know," said Rostnikov.
Sarah was picking at her food. Rostnikov had almost downed the entire mound.
"Look at her," Lester said in disgust, pointing his chins at the concertina lady.
Rostnikov dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and turned to look at the slightly overweight woman in a generic native costume. Her face was round, overly made up, her mouth
fixed in a huge smile, in contrast with her eyes, which looked pained.
"She's not bad," said Lester's wife, looking for support from Sarah and Rostnikov.
"She is trying," said Rostnikov.
"It's damn painful," said Lester. "This is the nightly entertainment they promised us? Every night that poor creature comes in playing the same songs and ending with the national anthem of the day. If she tries 'The Star-Spangled Banner' tonight, I'm walking the hell out. The woman is depressing. Every night I've been here I've gone to bed depressed."
"Tomorrow we go to the Nikitsky Botanical Garden," said the wife, trying to change the subject.
Sarah nodded politely, though she was having great difficulty picking up enough of the English to truly understand.
"Our son lives in St. Louis, two blocks from one of the biggest botanical gardens in the United States," said the man. "We go to St. Louis every year, and we haven't had the slightest interest in seeing the botanical gardens once in eleven years. Now I go five thousand miles to see the same trees and flowers I could have seen at home."
The concertina lady stopped. While she engaged in her nightly ritual of trying to get some of the disgruntled diners to dance, Lester leaned over the table and held out his hand.
"Lester McQuinton," he said.
"Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov," Rostnikov said, taking the huge hand.
Rostnikov was not surprised by the strength of the man's grip. In spite of the fat, Lester McQuinton's arms were solid, his chest large. It was clear, however, that Lester McQuinton was surprised by the grip of the compact man across from him.
"My wife's Andrea. We call her Andy," said Lester, nodding at his wife but keeping his eyes on Rostnikov, for whom he had developed a sudden respect.
"My wife is Sarah," said Rostnikov. "She speaks very little English."
"Sorry about that, but hell, I don't speak any Russian. Never had any call to.
This is the only time we've been out of the States."
"We have never left the Soviet Union," said Rostnikov.
"I'm a police officer," said Lester McQuinton. "New York Police Department."
"I, too, am a police officer," said Rostnikov. "Moscow."
"I could tell. You've got the look. I see it in the mirror every morning. You people having a convention here or something?" asked Lester as the concertina started again.
"I'm sorry?" said Rostnikov.
' 'Ran into one of you guys on the hotel bus yesterday in the morning," said Lester. "Lonely-looking guy. Introduced myself and Andy. He was surprised I knew he was a cop but, like I said, I can spot one whether he's named Ivan or Al. You know what I mean?"
"We were coming back from the Marble Palace, where Stalin, Roosevelt, and Churchill met after the war," Andy added, addressing Sarah directly. "Beautiful collection of modern art.'' "I'm not keen on modern art," McQuinton said, considering another try at his food and deciding against it.
"I, too, am not filled with affection for modern art," said Rostnikov, "but my wife admires it."
"Maybe we could do something together tomorrow, go into town? I understand there's an art museum," Andy McQuinton said, looking at Sarah.
Rostnikov started to translate for Sarah, but she stopped him and said she understood. Sarah smiled at Andy, who smiled back.
"My wife says she would be happy to do something with you. Do you remember his name, the policeman on the bus?'' Rostnikov asked. "Was it Vasilievich, Georgi Vasilievich? "
He was not sure how much of the conversation Sarah understood, but she looked up from her food when she heard her husband say,
"Vasilievich, Georgi Vasilievich?" ' 'Don't remember the name,'' said Lester.' 'You, Andy?'' "No," she said, working on her tomatoes.
"I don't think it was Vaslich or anything like that," said Lester. "I'm not coming here for dinner tomorrow night. There must be someplace better to eat. I don't care if it is part of the damn tour package."
"A man of almost seventy," Rostnikov tried. "Thin, knuckles with arthritis, and-"
Lester was shaking his head no. Rostnikov stopped.
"No offense, but I think you people may have nothing better to do than watch each other. Over by the pillar behind you," said Lester. "The bald guy sitting alone. The cop from the bus."
Rostnikov decided at that moment that Lester McQuinton was probably a very good policeman. The American's eyes had not betrayed his knowledge of the bald man, had not looked in his direction. Porfiry Petrovich was well aware that behind him in a far corner, sitting alone, was a pear of a man with very little hair remaining on his head. The man had a large nose, a vodka nose. His eyes, Rostnikov had observed, were quite large. And even though the man was doing a very good job of not looking directly at him, Rostnikov had observed his reflection fleetingly, though carefully, in both the dusty glass that covered a fading seascape on the lobby wall and in the large, uneven mirror just inside the door of the dining room as he had entered with Sarah.