Greg Fisher concocted several stories to tell the police, but as plausible as they might sound to him, it didn’t after the fact that the police—either here or in Connecticut—believed nothing you told them.
The clouds had returned, he noticed, and the night was deep and black with no sign of human habitation on this vast and fabled Russian plain. He had the feeling he was moving through a void, and as the time passed, the sensory deprivation began to work on his mind. He tried to convince himself that what had just happened to him had not happened. But by the time he reached Akulovo, he was left with nothing but the truth. “Jesus Christ… what am I supposed to do?”
Unwilling to think about it any longer, he popped a tape in the deck and tried to immerse himself in the sound of an old Janis Joplin album. She sang “Bobby McGee” in that deep, husky voice that turned him on. He wondered what she had looked like.
When Fisher’s mind returned to the road again, he saw a strange, haunting shimmer of light sitting on the black horizon. For some seconds he stared at it, confused and anxious. Suddenly he looked at his clock and odometer, then back at the glow. “Moscow!”
The Trans Am rolled eastward, and Greg Fisher kept his eyes on the distant lights. Ahead the road dipped beneath a highway bridge, and he knew this was the Outer Ring Road, the unofficial city limits. The road widened to four lanes as it passed beneath the Ring Road. He saw a farm truck coming toward him, its poultry cages empty. Then a bus heading out of the city went by, and he could see by its bright interior lights that it was filled with darkly clad peasants, mostly old women with head scarves.
Still he saw no signs of urban life along the highway, no suburbs, no streetlights, no signs, only fields of cut grain as though each square meter of earth had to produce something until the moment it was excavated for construction.
Roads began branching off to the left and right, and in the far distance he could see rows of stark prefab apartment houses, some lighted, some under construction. The previous night in his hotel room in Smolensk, he had spent an hour studying his Moscow map for this approach into the city.
To his right in the far distance the land rose, and he knew these were the Lenin Hills. Atop the rise was a massive skyscraper with an ornate spire—Moscow State University, where he had intended to check out the coeds. But his plans had turned indefinite.
Straight ahead up the highway he could see the Triumphal Arch commemorating the Battle of Borodino, and beyond the arch were solid blocks of buildings, like a medieval city, Fisher thought, rural to urban just like that. No Glenwoods subdivisions here.
The highway passed to the right of the Triumphal Arch, and the Minsk–Moscow highway became Kutuzov Prospect, named after the general of Borodino. Suddenly there were streetlights and vehicles.
He did not see a sign that said, “Welcome to Moscow,” but that was where he was. With the luck of the damned he had made it, had driven through the countryside after dark in a flashy American car without being stopped. He felt somewhat calmer now that he was mingling into the traffic of Moscow. “So much for the vaunted efficiency of the police state.” He noticed that other drivers were pulling close to him to look at his car. “Go away,” he muttered.
He drove slowly through Victory Square. To his left was a huge statue of Kutuzov on horseback, and behind that a circular building housing another Borodino museum. “Moscow branch,” he muttered. Fisher felt an unpleasant association with his side trip to Borodino Field. “Goddamned museums… statues… victories… wars…” The Prospect was flanked by solid walls of grey masonry buildings. Fisher pulled up to his first stoplight. People in the crosswalk were looking at his car and license plate, then at him. “Jesus, you people never see a car with Connecticut plates before?”
Fisher savored the sights and sounds. “Moscow! I’m in Moscow!” He grinned. All the towns and villages from Brest on had been mere hors d’oeuvres. This was the pièce de résistance. The Capital, the Center, as the Russians called it. He stared at the buildings and the people, trying to absorb every detail, making himself understand that he was actually in the streets of Moscow. “Moskva.”
The light changed, and Fisher moved forward. The road forked, but he knew to take the left fork. Ahead he saw the spire of the Ukraina Hotel, another Stalinist wedding cake that looked much like the Moscow university building. He passed beside the massive hotel and found himself on the Kalinin Bridge that spanned the Moskva River. On the far bank, off to the left, he could see a modern high-rise building of dark red brick, and he was fairly certain that was the American embassy compound. “Thank you, God.”
Fisher came off the bridge into a confusing interchange. He was looking for a turnoff that would double him back toward the embassy near the river when a green and white police car pulled up beside him. The policeman in the passenger seat motioned him to pull over. Fisher decided he didn’t see him. The policeman shouted, “Stoi!”
Fisher considered making a run for the embassy. Fastest car in the Soviet Union. But a chase through central Moscow was probably not a good idea. He was past the interchange now and was on the busy Kalinin Prospect.
“Stoi!”
“Up your stoi, bozo.” Fisher took a deep breath, cut the wheel, and pulled over to the curb. His knees were so weak and shaky he had trouble applying the brakes.
The police car pulled up behind him, and both men, dressed in green overcoats and fur hats, approached. They carried white billy clubs. One came to his window, and Fisher lowered it.
“Amerikanets?”
“Right. Da.”
“Viza. Pasport.”
Gregory Fisher controlled his shaking hands as he produced his visa and passport.
The policeman studied the documents, looking alternately between Fisher and the papers again and again until Fisher thought the man was a half-wit. The other man was walking around the car, touching it. He seemed intrigued by the rear spoiler.
No one said anything for a long time. Suddenly a man in civilian clothing appeared. He stared at Fisher through the windshield, then came to the driver’s side. He spoke in heavily accented but correct English. “The car documents, please. Your international driver’s license, your insurance papers, your motoring itinerary.”
“Right. Da.” Fisher handed the man a large envelope.
The civilian studied the paperwork for some time, then snapped his fingers, and one of the policemen quickly handed him Fisher’s passport and visa. The civilian said to Fisher, “Turn off your ignition, give me your keys, and step out of the car.”
Fisher did as he was told. As he stood in front of the man he noticed that he was tall and very slender for a Russian. In fact, he was fair and Nordic-looking.
The man studied Fisher’s face, then his passport and visa pictures just as the uniformed man had done. Finally he said, “You come from Smolensk?”
“Connecticut.”
“You just arrived in Moscow from Smolensk?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You were driving in the country at night.”
“No.”
“But you said you just arrived in Moscow. It has been dark for two hours.”
“I didn’t say I just—”
“You were seen coming past the Arch.”
“Oh… is that the city limit?”
“What is your business in this quarter of the city?”
“Tourism.”
“Yes? Have you gone to your hotel yet?”
“No. I thought I’d just drive around—”
“Please don’t lie. That makes it worse. You were driving in the country at night.”
“Yes.” Fisher looked closely at the man. He was about forty, wore a leather coat and a black fur hat, probably sable. He seemed neither friendly nor hostile, just inquisitive. Fisher knew the type. “Well, I got a late start from Smolensk.”
“Did you?” The man looked at Fisher’s travel itinerary. “Yet it says here you left the Intourist office at thirteen-fifty—one-fifty P.M.”
>
“I got lost.”
“Where?”
“At Bor—at Mozhaisk.”
The man stared at Fisher, and Fisher stared back. Fuck you, Boris.
“I don’t understand.”
“Lost. You know.”
“What did you see in Mozhaisk?”
“The cathedral.”
“Where did you get lost?” The man added in a sarcastic tone, “Inside the cathedral?”
Fisher’s fear gave way to annoyance. “Lost means you don’t know where.”
The man suddenly smiled. “Yes. Lost means that.” The man seemed to be thinking. “So. That is what you say?”
Fisher stayed silent. He might not have the right to remain so, he thought, but he had enough brains not to incriminate himself any further.
The man regarded Greg Fisher for an uncomfortably long time, then motioned Fisher to follow him. They went to the rear of the car, and the man unlocked Fisher’s trunk and opened it. The trunk light revealed Fisher’s cache of spare parts, lubricants, and cleaning supplies. The man picked up a can of Rain Dance car wax, examined it, then put it back.
Fisher noticed that the citizens of Moscow slowed imperceptibly but did not stop and did not stare—the only time in the last thousand miles that the Pontiac did not stop traffic. Greg Fisher suddenly comprehended the full meaning of the words “police state.”
He noticed that the two uniformed men were bent over into the rear seat of his car, examining his luggage and burlap bags of fruit and vegetables.
“What does this mean?”
Fisher turned back to the civilian. “What?” Fisher saw he was pointing to the nameplate on the car. “Pontiac,” Fisher said.
“Yes?”
“Name of the company”—shithead—“General Motors. I think it’s an Indian word or something. Right. Chief Pontiac.”
The man didn’t seem enlightened. He stared at Fisher’s nationality plate, a red, white, and blue shield with stars and stripes that Fisher had been required to purchase at Brest. The man snapped his finger against the American shield, almost, Fisher thought, as though he intended to be insulting. He then pointed to the front fender. “Trans Am?”
“Trans—across. Am—America.”
“Across America.”
“Right.”
“Across Russia.” The man smiled again, and Fisher noticed it wasn’t a pleasant smile. The man came around to the driver’s side and put his hand on the seat. “Leather?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Oh… about eighteen thousand dollars.”
“Seventy—eighty thousand rubles.”
Fisher noticed the man had given the black market rate of exchange instead of the official rate. Fisher replied, “No. Fifteen thousand.”
The man smirked, then asked, “Are you a capitalist?”
“Oh, no. I’m an ex-student. I took a course in Soviet economics once. Read Marx and a book called The Red Executive. Very enlightening.”
“Marx?”
“Karl. And Lenin. I’m very interested in the Soviet Union.”
“For what reason?”
“Oh, just to know about the Soviet people. World’s first socialist state. Fascinating. Did you ever see Reds? Warren Beatty—”
The man turned away and joined the two policemen who were now standing on the sidewalk. They spoke for about five minutes, then the tall civilian returned. “You have broken a law: driving in the country at night. It is very serious, for a foreigner.”
Fisher said nothing.
The man continued, “You should have stopped in a town along the highway if you were lost.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
“I suggest you go now directly to the Rossiya and stay there for the evening. You may be asked to give a full accounting of yourself tomorrow, or perhaps tonight.”
“Okay.” And here, in an ironic twist, Fisher realized, they didn’t cuff or frisk you after charging you with a serious offense; they simply had no previous experience with armed or dangerous citizens. Nor did they arrest you on the spot, because the whole country was a sort of detention camp anyway; they simply sent you to your room. The arrest was at their convenience. “Right. The Rossiya.”
The man handed Fisher his papers and his keys. “Welcome to Moscow, Mr. Fisher.”
“Real glad to be here.”
The man walked away, and Fisher watched him descend into a Metro station. The two policemen got into their car without a word. They remained parked, watching Fisher.
Greg Fisher shut his trunk and his right side door, then climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. He noticed a crowd forming now. “Sheep.” He replayed the incident in his mind and decided he’d done all right. “Schmucks.” He threw the car in gear and pulled out into traffic. The police car followed.
“Assholes.” He was trembling so badly now he wanted to pull over but continued up Kalinin Prospect. The police car stayed with him, so the embassy was out of the question for the time being.
Fisher barely noticed his surroundings as he drove. When he did, he realized he had crossed the Inner Ring Road and was heading straight for the Kremlin. He recalled from the map what he was supposed to do and turned hard right onto Marx Prospect, went down to the embankment road, and cut left. On his right was the Moskva, to his left the high crenellated south wall of the Kremlin, punctuated by tall watchtowers. The Moskva reflected the glow of the red stars of the Kremlin’s towers and churches, and Fisher stared, mesmerized by a sight of unexpected beauty. He felt that he had come to the end of his uneasy journey.
The embankment road curved to the right, and the Kremlin wall ended at a massive watchtower. Behind him he could still see the headlights of the police car in his rearview mirror. Ahead, he saw an arched underpass beneath the ramp of a Moskva River bridge. Rising up beyond the ramp was the Rossiya Hotel. It was a massive, modern building with a glass and aluminum facade, and its width made its ten stories look squat. Fisher noticed that most of the windows were dark. He drove under the ramp and pulled around to the east side as his Intourist instructions said. In front of the east entrance was a small parking area bordered on three sides by a low stone wall. He came to a stop fifty feet from the front doors and looked around. There were no cars in the lot. The front of the Rossiya was stark. To the left of the entrance doors was another door that led to a Beriozka shop, found in nearly all Soviet hotels where Westerners with Western currency could buy Russian goods and occasionally Western toiletries and sundries. The Beriozka was closed.
Fisher noticed that the parking lot hung out over a steep incline that ran down to the Moskva River. The hotel was a monstrosity, surrounded by small, old buildings and a half dozen tiny churches in bad repair.
Fisher looked in his rearview mirror. On the entrance drive behind him he saw the police car parked. Fisher pulled up to the front doors of the hotel and shut off the engine.
He saw a green-uniformed doorman standing inside the glassed-in outer foyer of the hotel. The man studied the Trans Am but made no move to open the door. Fisher got out of the car with his shoulder satchel. He had discovered that in a Soviet hotel a doorman’s job was not to help people in, but to keep Soviet citizens out, especially, but not limited to, black marketeers, prostitutes, dissidents, and the curious who might want to see how people on the West side of the tracks lived. Fisher opened the door himself and approached the doorman. “Allo.”
“Allo.”
Fisher motioned toward his car. “Bagazh. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He handed the doorman his car keys. “Garazh. Okay?”
The doorman looked at him quizzically.
It occurred to Fisher that there was probably not a parking garage in the whole of Moscow. Fisher was tired, scared, and annoyed. “Sweet Jesus… .” He realized he didn’t have a ruble on him. He reached into his satchel and grabbed an item he’d been saving. “Here.” He held up an eight-inch copper reproduction of the Statu
e of Liberty, complete with pedestal.
The doorman’s eyes darted around, then he took it and examined it suspiciously. “Religiozni?”
“No, no. It’s the Statue of Liberty. Svoboda. For you. Podarok. Take care of the auto. Okay?”
The doorman shoved the statue into the pocket of his tunic. “Okay.”
Fisher pushed through the swinging glass door and entered the lobby, which seemed deserted and, like most public places, overheated. The Russians equated heat with luxury, Fisher suspected. He looked around. The lobby was mostly grey stone and aluminum. A mezzanine ran from end to end above the pillared lobby. There was no bar, no newsstand, no shops, no services in evidence. There was nothing in fact to suggest he was in a hotel except for a sort of ticket window in the left-hand wall that he assumed was the front desk. He walked to it, and a disinterested young woman looked up. He gave her his Intourist reservation, his passport and visa. She examined the passport a moment, then without a word disappeared through a door behind the desk.
Fisher said aloud to himself, “Welcome to the Rossiya, Mr. Fisher. How long will you be staying with us?… Oh, until the KGB comes for me… . Very good, sir.”
Fisher turned and looked down the long, narrow lobby. There were no bellhops or hotel staff in view except the doorman sitting in the glass-enclosed foyer. He could see his car, and parked right behind it was the police car.
The place not only looked deserted, but spooky. “This is not a hotel.”
Fisher now noticed a couple near a far pillar arguing in French, which echoed through the lobby. They were well dressed and both were good-looking. The woman seemed on the verge of tears. The man gave a very Gallic wave of dismissal and turned his back on her.
“Oh,” Fisher said, “give the woman a break. You should have my problems, buddy.” Fisher recalled Paris as he’d last seen it in June and wondered why he’d ever left. Napoleon probably wondered the same thing as Moscow burned around him and the snow was falling. He might have stood right here, Fisher thought, a hundred yards from the Kremlin wall, Red Square to his back and the Moskva to his front. And he would have felt that sense of doom that the Westerner feels when he enters this foreboding land, like I feel now.
The Charm School Page 4
