They nodded.
Burov made a hasty parting and led Lisa and Hollis on. He said, “As you can see, most of the houses here are American. Also, in another underground area, we have several training environments — American kitchen, several business and professional offices, rooms filled with American gadgets and such. I’ll show you that another day. But mostly we concentrate on the nuances of language and culture: facial expressions, clothing, interpersonal relationships, and that sort of thing. The day-to-day things such as supermarkets and gas stations can easily be assimilated in the States.”
Hollis remarked, “Like how to smoke a cigarette.”
Burov walked in silence awhile, then replied, “Little mistakes can be fatal.” He went on. “One of our biggest problems turns out to be facial expressions. How unique faces are, and how odd that different cultures do different things with their faces for different reasons.”
Lisa commented, “Muscovites always have an expression of quiet desperation, except when they’re drunk, and then they look melancholy. They never smile except at their children.”
“Is that so?” Burov said, “You know, I never noticed that. But that’s the point. You did. And the other major difficulty is the English language. The number of words alone is overwhelming. You have close to half a million words. We have less than a hundred thousand. English is a rich language, to be sure. I’d envy you your language but for the spelling and the grammar.”
Burov continued his talk as they walked along the wooden paths through the woods. He said, “I just remembered a story about one of our graduates who recently arrived in America and had a bad experience in a supermarket with a can crusher. It seems he put a full can of cola into the machine, though I have no idea why.” He smiled at the thought, then added, “I suppose it’s like satellite-map reading. You can see everything, but it’s not like being on the ground. You have to put your feet into a country and smell its air and listen to its rhythm to really know it.”
Lisa asked, “And what if you come to know it and love it?”
“That,” Burov replied, “can be a problem. But we’ve worked that out. Again, it’s illusion. Our graduates are loyal, but we create the feeling within them that they are always being watched over in America. They know too that their families here are being well taken care of. You understand?”
Hollis remarked, “You, Colonel, certainly know the nuances of our language.”
“Thank you.”
They crossed the main road again and took a path that ran behind the VFW hall, into the woods, and down a gentle slope. Burov said, “We are trying something new. Graduates who have spent at least six years in America are returning as instructors. This program must continue and expand; we can’t rely on foreign instructors forever.” Burov added, “Peter the Great finally realized that. He imported too many foreigners at first. That is the history of my country: trying to graft Western learning and culture onto this rough land. But eventually we have to take what we need from the West and perpetuate that learning here. This school will not die because the foreign teachers die, as happened to Peter. No, we will teach teachers to teach, and they will teach others. One day this school will put out two thousand Americans a year. By the end of the century, you will have a fifth column in your country whose size and influence will be sufficient for the Soviet Union to consider itself a minority shareholder in America, albeit a silent one. One day we might be chairmen of the board.”
Neither Hollis nor Lisa responded.
Burov showed them toward a small clapboard cottage built in a Cape Cod style, with green shutters and a cedar shingle roof. “This was Major Dodson’s quarters. You may use it for the week you need to make up your minds. Come in.” Burov opened the door and invited them to take off their coats, then turned on several portable electric heaters. At Burov’s urging, Hollis lit the kindling in the fireplace.
Hollis looked around the room. It was rustic but comfortable. He examined the books on the shelves beside the fireplace and saw that Dodson’s taste ran to inspirational literature and British whodunits.
Burov said to Lisa, “Through that door is a small kitchen. You’ll find glasses and something to drink.”
“Really?”
Burov hesitated, then said, “Would you be kind enough to make drinks?”
Lisa gave him a nasty look, then went into the kitchen.
Burov said to Hollis in a low voice, “That woman is very… independent.” He added, “American women. How do you put up with them?”
“They’re interesting,” Hollis said.
“They’re spoiled bitches.” Burov sat in an armchair near the fire. “The winter is here. Have you adjusted well to Russian winters?”
“Quite well. I have the Joel Barlow award.”
Burov nodded. “I heard that tape, you know.”
Hollis didn’t reply.
“One couldn’t make out everything, but I have to tell you I was enraged. It was insulting, vile, and hateful.”
“It was in rather bad taste,” Hollis agreed. “Perhaps you shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations.”
“Your friend in there likes Russia.”
“But not the people who run Russia now.”
“Now and forever.”
“I think not, Colonel Burov.”
“Be realistic, Colonel Hollis.”
“I try to be.”
Burov shrugged. He said, “A word of advice: try to keep her mouth shut. We’re very lenient here, because that’s the only way we can suck your brains year after year. But a few instructors have gone too far.”
“And you shot them.”
Burov replied, “Only as a last resort. Have a seat. You don’t look your old self. Sit.”
Hollis sat on a love seat facing the fire.
Lisa came back with three glasses on a small metal tray and passed a glass to Hollis. “Brandy.” She took a glass for herself and put the tray on an end table. Burov took his glass and raised it. “To your new home.” He drank alone. “So, do you find this preferable to torture, starvation, and death?”
Lisa replied, “Not yet.”
Burov stared at her awhile, then said, “Sex. You both wondered about that. You saw some women. Some were students, and there are those six American female instructors whom you haven’t met yet. Also there are many other women here who have been provided for the American instructors. Russian women. It would be unrealistic to expect these men to function well for all these years without women. Dodson, however, was one of those who did not seem to avail himself of female companionship. Some say he was completely celibate, and I heard he was being faithful to a wife. Can you believe that?”
Burov sipped his brandy. “Well, in the beginning most of these men were very promiscuous. But now most of them have settled down into monogamous relationships. The women are all from the Gulag, mostly politicals, but a few criminal types as well. Economic crimes mostly. Thus, the women are mainly of the educated classes, so the Americans form rather good bonds with them. And most of the women are anti-Soviet, which is how they got into the Gulag in the first place. Many of them had life sentences, and those that didn’t, do now.”
Lisa inquired, “Are these couples married in a legal way?”
“No, not under Soviet law. I know that some quasi-religious marriages have been formed. Also, as I said, we still have the wild ones, the ones who go to the spa on Friday. Everything is coed on that night. Life here is what you make it. Like in the West.” Burov added, “I think in an ironic way you will be less homesick here than you were in the embassy.”