were off-limits. She was giving serious consideration to the idea of sneaking Elena and Zoya out of the hotel at night and taking them on an unofficial tour. But it would be difficult to slip past the security, and perhaps her instincts as a teacher were asserting themselves too strongly. There would be risk. She pushed the thought aside for now, concentrating on the upcoming meeting.
Although she lived in Moscow and held a prestigious job, she was concerned that she’d seem provincial. Granted a generous allowance, she’d bought a new outfit. She was wearing it for the first time today, a steel-colored suit. She feltuncomfortable in it, as if she were wearing someone else’s clothes. In Moscow the exclusive stores had been temporarily opened to her and the other teachers on the trip, a strictly one-off event in order to ensure they were presentable. Even so, she had no sense of international fashions, and while the staff working in the store had lectured her on what executives in New York would wear, she suspected they didn’t know what they were talking about. The diplomats she was about to meet spent their lives immersed in a society of the most important people in the world. She imagined walking into the room, being assessed in an instant as a woman of limited means who rarely traveled outside of Moscow. They would smile, polite, condescending—certain that she was someone who’d been plucked from obscurity, mediocrity, and pushed onto an international stage. And this would be gleaned from a quick glance at her plain shoes and the cut of her jackets. In ordinary circumstances she wouldn’t have cared what a stranger made of her appearance. She was not vain. On the contrary, she preferred not to be noticed. But in a situation like this she needed to command respect. If they didn’t trust her, they’d be tempted to interfere in her plans.
In the elevator, Raisa stole a final glance at herself. The guide caught sight of her nervous self-appraisal. The young man, educated, with hair slicked to the side, wearing a no doubt expensive suit and polished shoes, afforded her a patronizing smile as if to confirm that her anxieties were exactly correct: Her shoes were plain, her clothes poor, and her appearance not up to the standards of those working in this building. Worse was the implication that he was being generous to her, understanding the limits of her situation and making necessary allowances. Raisa remained silent, feeling out of her depth. She composed herself, doing her best to dismiss the incident, before stepping into the offices of the Soviet representative to the United Nations.
Two men, in immaculate suits, stood up. She knew one of them already, Vladimir Trofimov, a handsome man in his forties. He worked for the Ministry of Education, where the plans for the trip had been formalized. She’d met him in Moscow. While she’d expected him to be a political creature, largely indifferent to the children, he’d proved to be gregarious and friendly. He’d spent time with the students, engaging them in conversation. Trofimov introduced Raisa to the other man:
—
Raisa Demidova.
He switched into an imitation American accent:
—
This is Evan Vass.
She hadn’t expected any Americans in the meeting. The man was tall, in his late fifties. Vass stared at her with such intensity that she was momentarily taken aback. His eyes didn’t casually wander over her clothes, or note her simple shoes. She reached out to shake his hand. He took hold of it loosely, as if it were something awful. He didn’t shake it: He merely held it. She found herself wanting to pull away. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was making her feel uncomfortable. Though she’d been practicing, Raisa’s English was limited:
—
It is my pleasure to meet you.
Trofimov laughed. Vass did not. He answered in perfect Russian, releasing her hand:
—
My name is Evgeniy Vasilev. They call me Evan Vass as a joke. It is a joke, I suppose? I
Although she lived in Moscow and held a prestigious job, she was concerned that she’d seem provincial. Granted a generous allowance, she’d bought a new outfit. She was wearing it for the first time today, a steel-colored suit. She feltuncomfortable in it, as if she were wearing someone else’s clothes. In Moscow the exclusive stores had been temporarily opened to her and the other teachers on the trip, a strictly one-off event in order to ensure they were presentable. Even so, she had no sense of international fashions, and while the staff working in the store had lectured her on what executives in New York would wear, she suspected they didn’t know what they were talking about. The diplomats she was about to meet spent their lives immersed in a society of the most important people in the world. She imagined walking into the room, being assessed in an instant as a woman of limited means who rarely traveled outside of Moscow. They would smile, polite, condescending—certain that she was someone who’d been plucked from obscurity, mediocrity, and pushed onto an international stage. And this would be gleaned from a quick glance at her plain shoes and the cut of her jackets. In ordinary circumstances she wouldn’t have cared what a stranger made of her appearance. She was not vain. On the contrary, she preferred not to be noticed. But in a situation like this she needed to command respect. If they didn’t trust her, they’d be tempted to interfere in her plans.
In the elevator, Raisa stole a final glance at herself. The guide caught sight of her nervous self-appraisal. The young man, educated, with hair slicked to the side, wearing a no doubt expensive suit and polished shoes, afforded her a patronizing smile as if to confirm that her anxieties were exactly correct: Her shoes were plain, her clothes poor, and her appearance not up to the standards of those working in this building. Worse was the implication that he was being generous to her, understanding the limits of her situation and making necessary allowances. Raisa remained silent, feeling out of her depth. She composed herself, doing her best to dismiss the incident, before stepping into the offices of the Soviet representative to the United Nations.
Two men, in immaculate suits, stood up. She knew one of them already, Vladimir Trofimov, a handsome man in his forties. He worked for the Ministry of Education, where the plans for the trip had been formalized. She’d met him in Moscow. While she’d expected him to be a political creature, largely indifferent to the children, he’d proved to be gregarious and friendly. He’d spent time with the students, engaging them in conversation. Trofimov introduced Raisa to the other man:
—
Raisa Demidova.
He switched into an imitation American accent:
—
This is Evan Vass.
She hadn’t expected any Americans in the meeting. The man was tall, in his late fifties. Vass stared at her with such intensity that she was momentarily taken aback. His eyes didn’t casually wander over her clothes, or note her simple shoes. She reached out to shake his hand. He took hold of it loosely, as if it were something awful. He didn’t shake it: He merely held it. She found herself wanting to pull away. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was making her feel uncomfortable. Though she’d been practicing, Raisa’s English was limited:
—
It is my pleasure to meet you.
Trofimov laughed. Vass did not. He answered in perfect Russian, releasing her hand:
—
My name is Evgeniy Vasilev. They call me Evan Vass as a joke. It is a joke, I suppose? I
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