Stateless by Alan Gold

you for your concern, but I know what I’m doing. All I need is for you to point out a diplomat to me. I’ll do the rest.’

    Two hours later, Judita was sitting at a table, one arm aroundthe shoulder of Henry Clifford, the American diplomat who was her mark, the other arm fending off his attempt to put his hand up her dress.
    After ten glasses of vodka, his spectacles were askew, his tie pulled down, his shirt no longer tucked into his trousers. Judita’s waiter looked at her in concern, and mouthed, ‘Shall I stop him?’ but she shook her head and gave him a wink.
    Henry was tall and strong but the drink had weakened his concentration and his words of affection and less than subtle innuendo – delivered in poorly constructed Russian blended with English – were slurred. Judita had coyly shared with him her story of being the young widow of a Russian academic killed by that ‘monster Stalin’ and the narrative seemed to be holding up.
    She allowed his hand to remain at the top of her stockings, but held it firmly so that it went no higher. She whispered in his ear above the din of the room, expanding on her story. ‘I spent time with my husband in New York and it was glorious. I just want to go back there; to the white picket fences and the roses in the gardens and the way the leaves turn red in the fall.’
    Henry swayed and slurred and attempted to grope Judita’s breast. She allowed it for a moment and then playfully swatted him away. She judged he needed to know the honey was on offer if he was to open up.
    â€˜Take me away with you,’ she said in a light-hearted, Hollywood-esque dramatic fashion and she kissed him on the cheek. It was her toe in the water to see how he would respond.
    Henry dropped into English, the alcohol dissolving what was left of his Russian. ‘Honey, you would love it in the States. Girl like you, you could go to Hollywood. I could make you a star.’
    â€˜Do you know people in Hollywood?’ Judita asked in apparent awe.
    â€˜Of course. I know all kinds of people,’ he said, moving hishand again up Judita’s leg.
    â€˜Then take me.’ She phrased the word for all its double entendre.
    â€˜I’ll put you in the diplomatic bag,’ he said and then started to giggle to himself. It was the funniest joke he’d ever told. And Judita laughed, judging the moment, counting his drinks, watching his eyes.
    â€˜I’d be very, very grateful . . .’ She let the last word hang in the air.
    â€˜You wanna show me your gratitude now, babe?’ he said.
    She thought she’d rather jump into the icy Moskva River than have him kiss her. But she remained focused. ‘Sure,’ she said, and started to fondle him. He opened his mouth like a fish dying on a riverbank, and moaned. She glanced over to the bar, and saw the waiter staring at her, shaking his head in warning. But she winked again at him.
    Judita whispered into Henry’s ear, ‘Can you get me to America next February? That’d be the most wonderful thing. Then I’ll really truly show you my gratitude.’
    From the depths of his drunken fog and his urgent need for sexual release, something stirred in his mind. ‘February? No. Not a good time. That’s when Roosevelt . . . oops . . . shouldn’t say too much.’
    â€˜My God,’ she said in wonder. ‘You know the American President. You’re that important?’
    He looked at her, trying to focus. She was so utterly beautiful, young and innocent. And her big eyes opened wide when he dropped the name of the President. He nodded, and put his finger to his lips. ‘Shush . . . mustn’t say. Very confishential . . . I mean con-fid-ential.’ He slowed the word down to get it right.
    â€˜What’s confidential?’ asked Judita, sensing she was close, though what information he might offer she