The War in 2020

by Ralph Peters

  "Can I get you a drink? What are you drinking?"

  "That is very nice. But it is not necessary. I will have a Pepsi-Cola, with whiskey, please."

  Ryder ordered. And another beer.

  His language account went bankrupt again. The woman puffed at her cigarette, then tilted her head back in a display of her long white throat and thick, tumbling hair. She wore a schoolgirl's heart pendant that showed bright as blood against her skin. She blew out the smoke, and the action seemed oddly exotic to Ryder, something out of a very old film. No attractive woman in the States would be caught dead with a cigarette in her mouth anymore.

  "You're a very lovely woman, Valya," he said, unable to think of anything else and afraid that this was far too much.

  She smiled. "What a nice thing that is to say to me. Thank you very much."

  "Do you live in Moscow?"

  "Oh, yes. I am a Moscow girl. I was born in Moscow."

  "It's a very interesting city," Ryder said.

  The woman wrinkled her face slightly. "I think it is not so interesting. It cannot be so interesting for you. I think America is very interesting."

  "Have you ever been to America?"

  She shook her head, making it into a gesture of theatrical sorrow. "It is not easy, you know. Also, America is very expensive. But I think you laugh at us in Moscow. We are very poor. Not like life in America."

  "I hope someday you can visit the United States."

  The woman's eyes brightened. "Oh, yes. I would like that. To see America. There is everything in America." The woman seemed to have a talent for saying things that left him blank in response. And he ached to go on talking with her.

  Their drinks arrived, and Ryder sent more dollars into the bartender's hand.

  The woman tasted the drink, then shook her head sharply, bitten by the taste.

  "He puts in very much whiskey. I must not drink so much. Tonight I forgot to have dinner."

  "Would you rather have something else to drink? Ryder asked hurriedly.

  "No. Oh, no," the woman answered quickly, alarmed at the suggestion. "This has made me happy. Thank you." He had the urge to ask her to join him in the dining room. He had not eaten, either. And the service hours had been extended for the well-paying Americans. He was no longer so concerned that she might be KGB. Somehow, he could not imagine that this woman of all women was some sort of undercover agent.

  And yet, he thought.

  He put off asking her. Not because he feared being compromised so much as because he was afraid she would say no, that his offer would force them to separate all the sooner.

  "Do you know many Americans? he asked.

  "No," she said, then added hurriedly, "I do not come often to hotels such as this. Tonight, you see, I have only come to keep company with my girlfriend. She has invited me "

  Ryder sensed that her girlfriend's character was not the stuff of which good recommendations were made. But. He refused to think badly of the woman sitting beside him. She had asked him for nothing. And he knew that few of the women in the bar were actually hookers. The Americans were a feature attraction in a glum season. And who knew what this woman had gone through in her life? All at once it struck him that he and all of his peers were far too quick to judge.

  His silence bothered the woman, who offered an additional line to keep things going. "I think Americans are very friendly."

  Ryder nodded. Then he smiled. Yes. Indeed. Every American in the room would be glad to be friendly toward this woman.

  In a moment of near panic, followed by deep relief, he saw the beery lieutenant colonel return to his table. Ryder was sure the man would head right for the bar when he noticed that he had been deserted, coming to take the woman back. But the big man just tottered for a moment, then sat down hard, reaching for his waiting glass.

  "Americans are pretty friendly people," he agreed, as if he had given it a great deal of thought. "Most of the time."

  "But you are sitting alone. That is not very friendly."

  "I'm not alone," Ryder smiled. "You're here."

  A shadow of annoyance passed over her face, and Ryder realized with the insight of a longterm language student that his response had spoiled the sequence of verbs and nouns she had planned ahead in her mind.

  "You should not sit alone," she said adamantly.

  "I had a long day. Hard work."

  "And what is your work, Jeff?"

  "I work with computers."

  She thought for a moment. "That is very interesting. But I could not do it. The mathematics are very difficult for me."

  "Math's only part of it," Ryder said. But he wanted to steer the conversation well away from his work. If she was KGB, she was not going to get anything out of him.

  "Listen, Valya," he said boldly. "I haven't eaten yet. Would you join me for dinner? You said you haven't eaten."

  He had taken his cowardice by surprise, pushing the words out. But the last breath of speech brought with it a collapse into fear. She would leave him now.

  "That would be very nice," she said quickly. Her response came so fast that he almost missed it in his anxiety.

  He still could not believe that she had come to him, that she was still sitting beside him. "I think I would like that very much," she continued. "To dine together.'

  "Great," Ryder said, aware, somewhere down under his exuberance, that he was suddenly willing to risk far more with this woman than he had ever intended.

  * * *

  Valya struggled not to eat too quickly. She wanted to appear well-mannered, elegant. But it was difficult to offer sensible responses to the American's words. The food was simply too good, too bountiful. Even Naritsky, with all of his black market connections, had not been able to obtain meat of such quality. Valya had never tasted anything like it, and each bite — carefully, agonizedly restrained — left her in a fermenting mix of gratitude and anger. The quality of this meal, served to foreigners in her own city, was humiliating to one who had never been allowed to experience this world. She trimmed the beef into ladylike bits, wanting all the while to pick it up with her hands and devour it like a bad child. She believed that she had never known how hungry she really was until the waiter placed this meal before her.

  "The food is very good," she told the American. Thank you very much."

  The American nodded. "Glad you like it. God, I wish I could serve you up a real American steak. Something right out of the Kansas City stockyards. You'd be knocked out."

  His words seemed to imply that American beet would be much better than this. But such a thing was unimaginable to Valya. She had never tasted meat of this quality, had not even supposed that it might exist. Now this American seemed to think it was not very good at all. He picked at his food. It made her angry.

  Perhaps he was just a braggart. Like so many of them. Not just Americans. Men in general. And yet. This one truly did not seem that way. So quiet. Anxious to please.

  Imprisoned by the boors to whom Tanya had introduced her, Valya had spent a long time watching him in the mirror before he noticed her. He was very handsome, in an immature American sort of way, and at first she thought he was sitting alone out of arrogance. But his gestures were too unsure, and when their eyes finally met, his face showed nothing of the wolflike traces she would have expected to encounter in so handsome a man, had he been a Russian.

  Perhaps he was truly a good man, decent and generous.

  Then why should he speak badly about the best meal she had ever had?

  "This is very good," she insisted, her voice polite but definite.

  He seemed to sense that he had made a wrong move.

  "Yeah, this certainly isn't bad. They're doing their best. Would you like some more potatoes? I can't eat them all."

  "No," Valya lied. "This is very much food. Thank you." She wanted to close her eyes and listen to the splendid melody the dinner sent singing through her body. She took another forkful of the vegetables in their thick sauce, careful not to spill a
nything on her dress. She felt as though she would give anything she had, as though she would even steal, for just one more meal like this.

  She had watched him sitting at the bar, and she had made up her mind. The swine with whom Tanya had thrown in her lot were so obviously after only one thing that she knew there was no future with them. They offered no real possibilities. But the handsome, boyish one at the bar. Perhaps he had something to offer. He was young enough to be unattached, to have more future to him than past. She decided he was worth an effort. If nothing else, she wouldn't end the evening being pawed by a middle-aged drunk.

  "How about some more wine?" he asked her, with the bottle already raised in his hand.

  "Oh, yes. Please. You see it is very good, the Russian wine. It derives from the Crimea."

  She saw a slight frown of disagreement cross his face, evidence of further dissatisfaction. What on earth was wrong with this man? What did he want? What did he expect?

  She decided that he was simply trying to impress her. Perhaps not in such a bad way. He was still so much a boy. And he wanted her to think he was a man.

  Valya warned herself again to slow down, to stop eating like a stray dog. As a penalty for her bad behavior she forced herself to put down her knife and fork for a moment, to talk to the American.

  "Jeff. You are such a nice man. I think you are married, yes?"

  She watched his face closely. It did not change in a bad way. There was no sudden embarrassment. No stupid furtiveness. Just a barely visible stiffening, a look of pain in the eyes.

  "No," he said slowly. "No, I’m not married. I was. But not now."

  "Oh. I am sorry. Your wife is dead?

  He smiled slightly, and the pain was gone. "No. Nothing that dramatic. We just weren’t right for each other. We're divorced."

  The woman was probably some faithless American slut, Valya decided. A bitch who had so much she could discard husbands without a care. In America, every woman had her own private automobile.

  "You have children?"

  "No," he said. "No, I guess we were lucky that way. Then he changed his tone, leaning in toward her. "But what about you? I can’t believe you’re not married."

  Valya finished chewing and looked at him with her most serious face.

  "My husband was killed," she lied. "On the first day of the war."

  He retreated into his chair. Sitting up very properly.

  "Valya, I’m sorry…"

  "I do not wish to talk about it," she said. "Tonight is the first night when I am not at home. My friend thought that I must come out."

  "All right," he said. "I just…"

  "It is not important. Tell me about your wife, Valya said, although she did not want to hear about the woman at all. "I think she must be a very bad woman. Then she slipped another piece of beef into her mouth, convinced that he would talk for a while.

  "Jennifer?" the American said. "No, Jennifers not a bad woman. She just sees the world differently than I do." He smiled. "There's a joke in America that everyone is authorized one trial marriage. I guess that was mine."

  Valya swallowed hurriedly. "Then you will marry again, Jeff?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. If the right woman comes along. I don't think about it."

  "Perhaps you still love this woman?"

  The American thought for a moment. "No. I'm pretty much over her, I think. I mean, I'll always remember the good times we had. And I think I kept on loving her a long time after she stopped loving me. But it's all over now."

  "I think you must find a very good woman."

  The American smiled. He had a wonderful boy's smile. "Or hope that she finds me." He poured more wine, leaving her glass a bit too full.

  Without the least warning, Valya felt her stomach cramp. The pain was brutal and very sharp. She stopped chewing, and her eyes opened wide. Then the pain receded, leaving her shocked and numb in the torso, with sweat jeweling on her forehead. Her right hand clutched the tablecloth.

  She forced herself to continue chewing.

  "Are you all right?" the American asked.

  Valya nodded. "I am fine. There is no problem." She reached for the overfilled wine glass. "I think it is hot in here."

  Just as she lifted the glass, a second blade of pain ripped through her belly. She moaned slightly, absolutely helpless. The first shock had opened her eyes. Now she had to close them. She swallowed, miserable. Cursing to herself as bitterly and horribly as she had ever done.

  "Valya?"

  She felt cold sweat on her forehead and temples. Then another bigger, sharper pain cut through her, and she realized that everything was coming apart.

  "Please. You will excuse me." She had to hurry, she could not worry about correct stress and pronunciation now. She got up, unsteady, ready to weep, hoping only that she would not embarrass herself too badly. She reached for her purse with a blind hand, but felt only the confusion of the tablecloth and the hard line of her chair.

  There was no time. She marched herself quickly across the room, with the desperate, stiff dignity that teeters on the edge of shame, heading for the nearest waiter, to whom she could speak in her own language.

  The waiter coldly gave her directions, not interested in being polite to her now that she had separated from her foreigner.

  She walked swiftly, growing dizzy and faint, trying to find the way. She sensed that she did not have the spare seconds a wrong turn might cost.

  Shadowy hall, buckled carpet. Blistered paint on an old, huge door. She charged inside, past the thick, middle-aged woman who sat guarding a pile of towels and a little plate of coins. As she flashed by, Valya saw quick changes pass over the woman's face. First disapproval, then the forced, begrudged smile that hoped for a tip, then anger.

  Valya rushed toward the first stall. Anxious to get down on her knees, yet not quite sure what to do first. In the background, behind an invisible membrane that separated her from the rest of the world, Valya could hear the attendant cursing her. The woman had followed her, and a part of Valya sensed her hovering over her as she shouted insults. But it was all too distant for real concern. There was only the immediacy of sickness, terrible sickness. The burning in her stomach and the strain in her throat existed outside of time.

  Then everything grew slow and rancid. The attendant had given up on her and returned to her perch, muttering. Valya sat down on the cracked tile, unable to care now what happened to her precious dress. With all available energy, she reached up to release a gush of fresh water to cleanse her world. Then she sat back down hard.

  The physical sickness decayed, leaving her with a different sort of discomfort. Thinking over her folly. She had eaten like an animal. The food had been too rich, too much. It was heartbreakingly good food, and, even now, in the acidic wake of her sickness, she could only hope that there would be more such food in her life.

  She breathed deeply. Several times. Finally, she stood up. Her legs felt unsteady at first. But it was evident that the sickness was not serious. Sheer gluttony. Like a child gobbling down sweets.

  She lifted her skirt to fix her hose. And the legs that had seemed so long and lovely to her in the mirrors of her life now seemed to have grown too thin. Her wrists showed too much bone. In a world, in the very city, where there was such hidden bounty. Valya caught a glimpse of her body, of her life, wasting.

  She approached the attendant, who was sitting sullenly at her post.

  "Please," she said, all the while trying to iron her dress with the flat of her hand. "Please give me a towel. I left my purse outside. I was sick."

  The woman, mighty in her authority, looked Valya up and down with disapproval.

  "The towels," she said, "are fifty kopecks."

  "I know," Valya begged. "I understand. But please. I have to clean myself. I can't go back out there. I have to wash."

  The attendant laid a hairy wrist across her stack of towels and looked up at Valya with a lifetime's accumulated hatred.

  "Fifty kopecks," she sa
id.

  Surrendering, Valya stripped off her watch. The marvelous Japanese watch that Naritsky had given her on his return from one of his business trips. For being good, he had said. Naritsky the pig.

  She tossed the watch at the woman's swollen waist. It caught, then slipped as the woman grabbed for it, settling in the well of skirt between her legs.

  Valya took her towel.

  She washed hurriedly. She tried to rinse out her mouth, to fix her hair as best she could. In the mirror, she appeared very pale. But not so very bad, she told herself. She simply felt acid and empty. With the sickness hardly ten minutes behind her, she could already feel her hunger returning. She told herself she would sit down calmly, smile, and pretend nothing had happened. Even if the American had been put off, she would at least finish her meal. She would have that, if nothing else.

  She breathed deeply one last time. By the door, the attendant was struggling to close the watchband over her thick wrist. Valya launched herself back toward the dining room.

  To her immense relief, the American was still sitting at the table, and he brightened unmistakably when he caught sight of her. She straightened her back and slowed her step, feeling a surge of confidence that everything just might be all right after all.

  Then she noticed that the food was gone. The table had been cleared, and all that remained was the wine. And the half-empty packet of cigarettes she had ravaged in her nervousness.

  The lovely, heartbreakingly lovely food was gone. Valya continued her march toward the table, struggling to smile, to assure her American that everything was all right. He stood up clumsily and hastened to draw back her chair for her, and she sat down like a mechanical doll. She stared in disbelief at the white desert of the tabletop. The beautiful food was gone. Her belly felt emptier than it had ever felt in her life.

  She began to cry. Helplessly. She did not even have the strength left to be angry with herself. She simply sat and wept quietly into her hands, overcome by her weakness and certain that her life would never be fine again.

  "Valya," the American said in his flat, flinty voice, "what's the matter? Can I do anything for you?"