battery of microphones. She was speaking graciously in English - how much she had always wanted to visit Moscow, how thrilling to be here, how much she looked forward to discussions with female leaders of other nations about the progress of woman’s rights. The whole thing was uncanny, Vera thought, the way that other woman had been imitating Vera’s speech inflections, Vera’s facial expressions, Vera’s gestures.
Vera watched hypnotized as the American President’s wife and the Russian Premier’s wife were being led to the black Chaika limousine, flanked by two yellow police cars and four helmeted, grey-uniformed guards mounted on motorcycles.
As Rillie Bradford disappeared into the limousine, Vera turned to speak to Petrov. She was surprised to find him staring at her.
Petrov nodded toward the television screen. ‘Does she scare you?’ Petrov asked quietly.
There was no hesitation in Vera Vavilova’s retort. ‘No, absolutely not,’ she replied firmly. ‘Who is that imposter? I am the First Lady.’
Petrov snorted a laugh. ‘Good. Better. Much better. Just don’t forget.’
‘I won’t forget,’ said Vera. And she could see that Petrov knew that she meant it.
Inside the extremely modern Palace of Congresses, located near the Trinity Gate entrance to the walled Kremlin, in the mammoth main auditorium, the leading woman in the Soviet Union, Madame Ludmila Kirechenko, stood at the podium on the stage delivering the closing address to the 2000 female delegates and their parties from ninety nations.
It was the third and last day of the International Women’s Meeting, and Billie Bradford, for one, was glad of it.
She sat wearily in the centre of the second row, trying to appear attentive with the earphones on her head and a voice translating Mrs Kirechenko’s concluding speech from Russian into English. On one side of her sat ambassador Otis Youngdahl and protocol officer Fred Willis. On the other side sat Alex Razin, Nora Judson, and Guy Parker. Directly in front of her and behind her sat Secret Service agents Van Acker and McGinty. Earlier in the final afternoon session, she had listened to the introductory Soviet speakers without the headphones. As the speakers’ voices had boomed out over the 7000 loudspeakers concealed throughout the auditorium, she had preferred to have the nice interpreter and guide, Alex Razin, translate for her. But when the head delegates of France, Germany, Spain had taken to the podium, and Razin could not help, she had resorted to the headphones.
She tried to concentrate on Mrs Kirechenko’s summation the findings and recommendations on woman’s role in the world and its future but Billie’s mind wandered.
One of her legs was going to sleep, and she moved and massaged it. She was bone weary. She, herself, had been the second to last speaker on the podium, reading a report on the progress of woman’s rights in the United States in the past ten years, and near the end of it her voice had been reduced to a hoarse rasp. Nevertheless, the words had been right, and leaving the stage she had received enthusiastic applause.
Generally, the international meeting had been what she had expected. Mainly, pointless. Mainly, a Communist showcase. The central topic, the variety of subjects to be covered, had sounded impressive. But rarely, during the three days, had they been tackled head on. The majority of female delegates had handled their tasks like so many Chamber of Commerce puppets. The meeting, and all of the Soviet sideshows, had been tiresome, even boring. Moreover, like so many American visitors to the Soviet Union, she had felt cut off from the outside world, alienated from all that was familiar, constantly lonely and, separated from Andrew, vulnerable. She had never missed Andrew this much. The second she was back in her hotel, she would telephone him.
Mrs Kirechenko’s monotone, followed by Razin’s rapid-fire interpretation, droned on in her ears, and Billie
Vera watched hypnotized as the American President’s wife and the Russian Premier’s wife were being led to the black Chaika limousine, flanked by two yellow police cars and four helmeted, grey-uniformed guards mounted on motorcycles.
As Rillie Bradford disappeared into the limousine, Vera turned to speak to Petrov. She was surprised to find him staring at her.
Petrov nodded toward the television screen. ‘Does she scare you?’ Petrov asked quietly.
There was no hesitation in Vera Vavilova’s retort. ‘No, absolutely not,’ she replied firmly. ‘Who is that imposter? I am the First Lady.’
Petrov snorted a laugh. ‘Good. Better. Much better. Just don’t forget.’
‘I won’t forget,’ said Vera. And she could see that Petrov knew that she meant it.
Inside the extremely modern Palace of Congresses, located near the Trinity Gate entrance to the walled Kremlin, in the mammoth main auditorium, the leading woman in the Soviet Union, Madame Ludmila Kirechenko, stood at the podium on the stage delivering the closing address to the 2000 female delegates and their parties from ninety nations.
It was the third and last day of the International Women’s Meeting, and Billie Bradford, for one, was glad of it.
She sat wearily in the centre of the second row, trying to appear attentive with the earphones on her head and a voice translating Mrs Kirechenko’s concluding speech from Russian into English. On one side of her sat ambassador Otis Youngdahl and protocol officer Fred Willis. On the other side sat Alex Razin, Nora Judson, and Guy Parker. Directly in front of her and behind her sat Secret Service agents Van Acker and McGinty. Earlier in the final afternoon session, she had listened to the introductory Soviet speakers without the headphones. As the speakers’ voices had boomed out over the 7000 loudspeakers concealed throughout the auditorium, she had preferred to have the nice interpreter and guide, Alex Razin, translate for her. But when the head delegates of France, Germany, Spain had taken to the podium, and Razin could not help, she had resorted to the headphones.
She tried to concentrate on Mrs Kirechenko’s summation the findings and recommendations on woman’s role in the world and its future but Billie’s mind wandered.
One of her legs was going to sleep, and she moved and massaged it. She was bone weary. She, herself, had been the second to last speaker on the podium, reading a report on the progress of woman’s rights in the United States in the past ten years, and near the end of it her voice had been reduced to a hoarse rasp. Nevertheless, the words had been right, and leaving the stage she had received enthusiastic applause.
Generally, the international meeting had been what she had expected. Mainly, pointless. Mainly, a Communist showcase. The central topic, the variety of subjects to be covered, had sounded impressive. But rarely, during the three days, had they been tackled head on. The majority of female delegates had handled their tasks like so many Chamber of Commerce puppets. The meeting, and all of the Soviet sideshows, had been tiresome, even boring. Moreover, like so many American visitors to the Soviet Union, she had felt cut off from the outside world, alienated from all that was familiar, constantly lonely and, separated from Andrew, vulnerable. She had never missed Andrew this much. The second she was back in her hotel, she would telephone him.
Mrs Kirechenko’s monotone, followed by Razin’s rapid-fire interpretation, droned on in her ears, and Billie
Similar Books
