The taxi dropped Benjamin off in front of the Russian Cultural Center on Phelps Place. He climbed the steps, then stood at the back of a line of several people, all of them in elegant evening dress. He felt like something of a clown in Anton's son's tuxedo: the sleeves were too long, the jacket too big, and the pants had been hurriedly hemmed by Anton with pins and tape; Benjamin expected the hem to drop down over his too-large shiny black dress shoes at any moment.
After the guard checked his name on the invitation list, he walked into the building and its lavishly decorated foyer.
There was a large round table with a huge bouquet of red roses in the foyer's center, and red-and-gold banners were draped around its ceiling. On his right in a large dining room, each table had its own centerpiece of red roses and white baby's breath; to his left was an equally large reception hall, dotted everywhere with more bouquets of roses. Dozens of elegantly dressed people stood in groups while around them circulated waiters dressed in red-and-white uniforms and carrying golden trays of champagne.
My, thought Benjamin, the times of Soviet drabness certainly are over.
The reception hall had a polished parquet floor and stark white walls adorned with rectangular panels and fronted by grooved pillars. Panels and pillars alike were edged with gold gilt filigree. The overall effect was impressively imperial. At one end of the room hung an enormous red banner, with writing in huge gold letters: Большой amp; Aмерика-1776-Bolshoi amp; America
At the other end of the room was an equally large banner, but this one was white, with green edging to form a continual border of ivy, in the center of which was embroidered, in blue letters: Let Our Two Nations Never Again Polarize
Benjamin noted that this second banner was in English only.
Light from several large brass chandeliers reflected in a mirror that ran along almost the entire length of one wall; opposite the mirror was a large, white-veined marble fireplace, complete with crackling fire. With all the people in the room, Benjamin felt a trifle overheated and began looking for something to drink.
He walked to a nearby group, where he saw a waiter with a tray of champagne, and took a glass from the tray. Then he realized the group was something of an informal reception line and, before he could move, the first person in the line was extending his hand for Benjamin to shake.
"Ambassador Vasily I. Schastny," the man said. He was tall, with a broad Slavic face and expertly clipped hair. "How do you do."
"Benjamin Wainwright," he said, shaking the man's hand. He noticed his grip was quite solid, and a little threatening. He felt the need to add something to his identification. "Scholar of American history," he said.
"Ah," Vasily replied. He looked a trifle surprised, but said with a bright smile, "An academician." He turned to the woman next to him. "And this is Irina Sedova, director of our little cultural outpost."
The woman turned to greet Benjamin, extending her hand. She, in turn, introduced him to a woman wearing a dramatically low-cut black evening gown and too much eye makeup. "Prima ballerina Leonora Zenova." Madame Zenova held her hand out to be kissed, and Benjamin immediately if a little awkwardly bent slightly and bussed her fingers with his lips.
"Charmed," was the only thing he could think of to say.
And so it went, on down the line. Benjamin couldn't really keep track of the names, though he noticed there were as many Americans as Russians. The last couple was quite old, the man sporting a very well-trimmed mustache and pointed goatee, and the woman wearing a small silver tiara. They were introduced as "Prince Obolensky and Princess Gagarin." Benjamin wasn't sure whether or not to bow, but he decided that would be a bit too nineteenth century.
When he exited the receiving line, Benjamin felt a bit dizzy from names and titles. And he still needed to locate Ms. Orlova.
Looking about, he saw no one that seemed the sort he could simply walk up to and ask for directions. He finally decided to try a waiter. From the waiter he got another glass of champagne and a suggestion he try one of the security men standing at intervals along the wall. He found one of them-apparently a clone of the man at the door, complete with earpiece but absent clipboard. When he asked after Natalya Orlova, he got an inquisitive look. For a moment he wasn't sure the man understood English.
"A friend of Natalya's?" he asked.
Benjamin didn't know what to say. "No, not exactly. I just… she invited me, and I wanted to thank her."
The man smiled. "Look for a beautiful blonde in a red dress," he said, and smiled. "You cannot miss her."
With that advice, Benjamin began circulating. Everywhere he looked, he saw women in elegant evening dresses and men in tuxedos, some of the men with colorful sashes draped across their chests, and one or two of those with some sort of medals. But nowhere did he see a "beautiful blonde in a red dress." He decided to try the dining room.
He walked across the foyer to the dining room, glanced around at people standing about between the tables. He saw that an area at the front of the room had been cleared as a sort of stage. Natalya had told him the reception was for the Bolshoi Ballet, and that after the dinner there would be a brief performance by members of the company. And he'd noticed in the reception hall there had been large photographs of various Bolshoi productions: Swan Lake, of course, and others, as no great fan of ballet, he couldn't name. He'd recognized a couple of the ballerinas from the photographs among the guests: very thin, very beautiful women who were the centers of little circles of attention, surrounded by men smiling and nodding and offering to get them more champagne.
At the end of the dining room, serving as a backdrop to the stage area, was an enormous mural painted on polished wood. He walked to the end of the room so he could see the mural more closely.
It was painted in the style of a medieval icon, with much gold trim and flattened perspectives and many bright colors, and divided into panels separated from one another by decorative arches. Within each panel was a representation of what appeared to be cities, their names painted in gold Cyrillic letters. A panel at the center contained the largest city, Moc? B a. At least Benjamin could recognize that one: Moscow.
"Beautiful, isn't it," said a voice next to him.
He turned. Standing on his left was a woman in a strapless, floor-length, red satin evening gown and wearing a glittering gold necklace that emphasized her pale skin. She had very bright blond hair, done up in a French twist. Benjamin saw that her eyes were a curious blue-green mixture; eyes that seemed to shine with a light of their own. Her high cheekbones and small nose made Benjamin think she was Scandinavian, but he'd detected the trace of a Russian accent in her comment. She was, indeed, very beautiful.
"Ms. Orlova?" he said.
"Mr. Wainwright?" she said by way of an answer.
She was smiling at Benjamin, but with a slightly disappointed look. It took him a moment to realize her hand was extended. He shifted his champagne glass to his other hand, took her hand in his, which she shook only briefly.
"How…," he began. His throat felt tight. "How did you know it was me?"
Natalya laughed. "For one thing, you were not talking to anyone. People mostly come to such affairs to talk to someone more important than they are. And for another thing, you do not seem quite," she surveyed his ill-fitting tuxedo, "comfortable here."
"You were expecting someone," he shrugged, "taller?"
She smiled. "Someone older," she said.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't even own a tuxedo. I had to borrow this one." He smiled. "And as far as I'm concerned, I'm talking to the most important person here right now."
Natalya tilted her head, her smile faded a little. "Mr. Wainwright," she said. "I thought you were a serious academician, not a fawning diplomat."
Her displeasure made Benjamin very uncomfortable. He turned and looked at the mural. "It is, indeed," he said. "Beautiful, that is."
Natalya turned and looked at the mural. "It represents what is called the Golden Ring. The most important cities around Moscow." She pointed to several of the panels as she translated the names of the cities. "There's Novgorod, Suzdal, Vladimir, Pskov…" She stopped and turned back to him. "But then, you are not really here for the Russian culture, are you."
Her comment reminded Benjamin of why he was there. He patted the breast of his jacket.
"I brought a CD, Ms. Orlova, of the program I mentioned. Dr. Jeremy Fletcher's program. Perhaps there's somewhere I could show you-" He started to take out the CD.
Natalya reached out and stopped his hand, touching it lightly. "Not now," she said. "I am 'on duty,' at least until the dinner is finished. Afterward there will be a performance, by the ballet. Perhaps that would be the best time to talk further. Until then, I found a place at table number twelve for you. With some diplomats, so be prepared for some very… charming conversation. But enjoy the dinner. We will talk later."
Benjamin nodded, and she smiled and then, seeing someone across the room, said, "Pakah" and walked away.
For a moment Benjamin didn't move, simply staring at Natalya's pale bare back framed by the folds of her red evening gown. Then he realized he was gawking, took a long drink of his champagne, and went looking for his table.