She looked at him with concern. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I don’t feel it anymore.”
She put her cup on the coffee table. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
She thought a moment. “Well… they can’t do that to us.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t we go… back to bed?”
“I’m not sure I can do you much good.”
“You’ll be fine, Sam.”
“Well… all right.” He stood, and they went back into the bedroom. Hollis looked at the icon, now hanging over the double bed. He said, “Is that an appropriate place for a religious painting?”
“Oh, yes. The Russians put them anywhere. Like Catholics put crucifixes over their beds.”
“If you say so.” He looked at the bed, and they both stood beside it awkwardly as if it were their first time. Lisa slipped off her robe, then standing beside the electric heater, pulled her nightgown over her head and laid it in front of the heater. She stood naked, the bright orange glow of the electric bars reflecting off her white skin.
Hollis got out of his warm-up suit, and they embraced. He kissed her on the lips, then the breasts, then knelt and ran his tongue over her belly, down to her pubic hair, and touched his tongue to her labia.
“Oooooh… my word….” She knelt in front of him and they fondled each other beside the electric warmth. She said, “This guy’s as big as a billy club. You’re all right.”
“What a relief.”
She looked at him sternly. “You conned me out of my clothes.”
“Not me.”
They rose together and lay in the heavily quilted bed. Hollis got on top of her, and she guided him in, then wrapped her legs around his back. She whispered, “Sam… it was silly of me… this is what I needed… your love.”
“This is all we’ve got here, Lisa.”
“Sam, I want to live. We need more time together… it’s too soon to have it end.”
“Yes, it would be too soon. I love you, Lisa. Remember that.”
They moved slowly, unhurriedly, like people who know they have many hours to themselves but not many more days, like servicemen on leave from a war, as Hollis recalled, when time was measured in minutes, and each minute was full of self-awareness and small pleasures never before experienced or appreciated.
Lisa’s hands ran smoothly and slowly along his neck and shoulders down to the small of his back, then up his spine. Hollis cupped his hands under her buttocks and brought her up as he forced his groin down deeper into her. He came and his spasm brought her to climax.
They lay still, listening to the absolute quiet of the room, their breathing, and the blood pounding in their ears.
Lisa held him tight. “Our victory.”
They jogged along the main road. Other joggers, mostly men, passed them in either direction. Everyone waved. Lisa said, “Friendly group. Just like Sea Cliff on a Saturday morning. But where are the women?”
“Russian women don’t jog, I guess.”
“Right. I never saw one in Moscow.”
They turned right on the main road and walked a few hundred meters. Lisa asked, “Where are we going?”
“To call on Burov at home.”
“You can go without me.” She turned, but he took her arm. Lisa said, “I will not call on that man’s home.”
“He’s asked us to stop by.”
“I don’t care. Don’t you understand? Try to put yourself in my place, as a woman. Do you want me to be graphic? He stood there in that cell while the matron gave me a very thorough search.”
Hollis nodded. “I understand. I’ll tell him you’re not feeling well.”
“Why do you want to go there?”
“I have a job to do. I have to see whatever I can see.”
“But for what reason?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I don’t want to be unprepared for whatever is going to happen.”
Lisa stayed silent a moment, then turned and walked toward Burov’s house.
The main road ended at a wide turnaround on the far side of which was a guardhouse, a tall razor-wire fence, and a wire gate. Two KGB Border Guards watched them approach. One of them unslung his rifle and cradled it under his arm. “Stoi!”
Hollis and Lisa stopped and one of the guards walked toward them. “Go away!” he said in English. “Go!”
Hollis said in Russian, “We have an appointment with Colonel Burov. I am Colonel Hollis.”
The guard looked them up and down, then said in Russian, “Are you the new Americans?”
“That’s right. Though my Russian is somewhat better than yours.”
The guard glared at him, then turned and went back to the guardhouse, where he made a telephone call. He motioned to Hollis and Lisa, and they passed through the gates onto a blacktopped path, just wide enough for a vehicle. Adjacent to the guardhouse was a kennel where six German shepherds roamed inside a wire mesh enclosure. The dogs immediately began barking and pawing at the mesh.
Hollis and Lisa continued up the path. Burov’s dacha was set among towering pines that had been thinned out to let some light pass through to the house and grounds. Tree stumps dotted the carpet of brown pine needles and cones.
The dacha itself was a two-story clapboard structure with somewhat contemporary lines and oversize windows. Parked in a gravel patch beside the house and enclosed in a newly built carport was the Pontiac Trans Am. Hollis walked up to the front door and knocked.
The door opened, and a KGB Border Guard motioned them inside. They entered into a large anteroom that held the guard’s desk, chair, and a coatrack.
The guard showed them through to a large pleasant living room with knotty-pine walls.
Burov stood in the center of the room wearing his uniform trousers, boots, and shirt but no tunic. “Good morning.”
Hollis ignored him and looked around. The furniture, he saw, was all Russian but not the junk that the masses had to live with. Everything in the room looked as if it had been lifted from the lobby of the Ukraina Hotel — stolid, made-to-last lacquered furniture of the 1930s; what might be called art deco in the West, but what the Russians officially called Socialist Realism and the people called Stalinist. Adorning the walls were oversize canvasses of uncommonly handsome peasants, happy factory workers, and Red Army men prepared to do battle. The only thing missing from this 1930s time capsule, Hollis thought, was smiling Uncle Joe himself or at least a photograph of him.
Burov followed Hollis’ gaze. “As you say in America, they don’t make it like this anymore. In recent years we’ve sacrificed quality for quantity. There are many who long to return to the time when shoddy goods and bad buildings were punished by firing squad.”
“There are probably less extreme methods of quality control,” Hollis said dryly. “Are you a Stalinist then, Burov?”
“We don’t use that word,” Burov replied. “But certainly, I admired the man if not all of his methods. Please, sit.” Burov motioned to the far side of the room where there was an ancient Russian porcelain stove with a wood fire in it, the only antique piece in the room. Hollis and Lisa sat in armchairs whose frames were black lacquered wood inlaid with stainless steel.
Burov motioned to the Border Guard, who left.
Lisa said, “If I had to guess your taste, Colonel Burov, I would have said this was it.”
He smiled doubtfully.
She focused on a large canvas of peasants harvesting wheat, well-built men and women with grinning ruddy faces and flowing red bandannas. She commented, “I didn’t see anything like that in the countryside, and I suspect the artist never did either.”