"I'm hunching there'll be no backtrack," I said. "Essential yourself. "
"Essentialled," Jake said, slapping hands coatways, relishing his
arsenal's embrace. He'd retained our attacker's Omsk as something
more than a keepsake. "Suitcase me."
"Nonessential led," I said, slipping on my own coat, heavy with
minicam's weight. "Appear all as if we've stepped out for a breath.
Lead to astray. "
"Three linen whites I packed," he said, his face drawn.
"Wear what's worn. Come on."
The potential stupefied. If someone worked such ability into
skill, he could, in time, properly trained, think tanks to a stop,
dream planes out of the sky, wish that rockets would stray from
their targets. Were an improper cue be then employed, the spin
might purposely forever scratch the ball. What beasts resulted
from domesticating wild talents? By Skuratov's word Krasnaya
reactionaries wished to apply Alekhine's discoveries, whatever they
were, to military purpose sole. We American optimists were
awared that such blessings as scientists brought were most effec-
tivized when deployed by the private sector, so that our world's
delicate alignment might not be unduly tipped by governmental
mischief. Only in recent quarters had the profit/loss forecast stuck
when thrown; only during recent years did our economies boom
again to levels where recovery for those still living seemed at last
possible to consider straight-faced.
The hotel's elevator was broken; we crept down six darkened
flights. From the lobby ceiling downstairs hung chandeliers, each
bearing a dozen monitors showing unceasing vids of goods available
in-hotel, at every shop from McDonald's to Smert'Muzham-the
latter a women's store whose name, translated, meant Death to
Husbands. The monitors never dimmed or blew.
"Traveling where for how long?" asked the hostess: as concierge,
she lent help; as dezhumaya, a licensed tattler, she eliminated
hope. She fisheyed our entrycards, looking to see if we'd remag-
netized them to untoward purpose. Upon approving us, she
unsafed our passports and visas, handing them over, again lending
our presence more weight than dust.
"To town. To shop," I said. Her smile stretched earways at the
ring of that ultimate word, revealing a kilo of metal embedded in
her mouth.
"Shopper's Line provides continuous helpful guidance," she
said, patting her monitor, reading its announcements. "Excellent
deals on jeans and samovaramats at GUM today during Noontime
Madness Hour. Vibrant springwear on display at Zinoviev Fashion
Mart off Mayakovsky Square. Sultry yes, shameless no-"
"We're taxied or no?" Jake asked, pushing forward, palming the
desktop as if prepping to leap.
"Da. Returning when?" she asked, her smile but a memory.
"Uncertain," I said. "Business meets after."
For record's sake she entered my response into memory in case of
belated inquiry. "Enjoy Moscow hospitality," she snorted, staring
through us as if we were glass. The hotel guards, awared by
Krasnaya of our Guests of State status, steered us past the metal
detectors. We hit the street, inhaling pure, painful air. A pasteboard Big Boy directed Intourist groups away from the main
entrance to the side, next to the disposal area. Ignoring the cold
were sixty-odd vendors, ready and spreadwared, set for tourist
reveille.
"There," I said, spotting our cab, a lipstick red Volga Supreme
Wagoneer carrying as driver a stub ruffed headround with wiry hair
and beard. Dashing rearward, he opened the tailgate.
"Interested?" he asked, attempting English. In his taxi's flatbed
lay a bulky oak bureau swaddled in animal pelts, resembling a
coffin built for six. As he slid hands across his furs, I noted several
fingertips lacking. "Finest ermine and mink from my Kamchatka
native home."
"Terrier and mastiff," said Jake, copping his own feel. "Roll us,
hack. Blow. "
"Best prices for British friends if you reconsider," he said, jerking
about as if guided by strings, heaving himself wheelways while we
boarded. his cab's interior called to mind an unlicensed souvenir
stand at an unsuccessful resort. Glued to the dash were plastic
icons, pipeholders and holographic badges. A green skeleton dangled from the rearview Rubber hands affixed to the front seat's
underside impressioned that deportniks desperate for breath were
hauling themselves up through the oilpan.
"Ya Amerikanets," said Jake, unfortunately using one of his few
accurate phrases.
"Americans!" the driver said, beaming, stunned by fortune. "See
what I have wholesale for you experienced hard bargainers." From
the glove compartment he slid velveteen-covered trays layered with
paste jewelry. Jake, drawing his powerdrill, set the bit against our
driver's cranium, fingers itching to trigger. "Toystore me," he said,
so softly I barely heard. The hack heard; lipshut and floored. We
bug-ran before reaching the first stoplight, discovering multiple
infestation as expected. Wiping mist from my window I eyed a
black Marx DeVille pacing us.
"Travel buddies," I said to Jake as I waved their way. They waved
in return. Another carload drew up, keeping several carlengths
rearward. "They trail all but the chaperoned," I explained; Jake
gave them a moment's attention. "They'll drop once our stability's
proved."
"Will it be?"
On rightward, a third black Marx came along. All, undoubted,
tuned in to hear our confessions. Desuspicioning, I noted local
glories; Jake yawned. The sun, a pink ball skulking along the
horizon, threw faint heat and little light. St. Basil's multihued
domes, brushed clean of snow, radiated morning's lavender hues.
Edging Red Square and the Kremlin's inquisitional walls and
steeples we saw the touristline awaiting their moment in Lenin's
box, his tomb dyed in dried blood's color in this season's light. At
distance, Moscow attracted; close in the city forever bore the look
of a sixth-generation dupe: details fuzzed, colors weren't true,
images bled at the borders. In the middle distance, wedding-cake
skyscrapers from the Big Boy's day screwed heaven while awaiting some long-delayed celebration. We reached the store. I slapped our
furrier a fiver.
"They even ad the green?" Jake asked, examining a ten-ruble
while I took my change. Debilling him, I perused the ornate
designs wreathing Akhmatova's debeaked profile.
"Coins, too," I said. "Stamps, stocks and bonds." The tenruble's message was Hoarders Bleed Our Nation. Small-print credit
thanked the unequaled Zolotskova shopping mall. Our cab spedaway, seeking fresh capital. Jake snapped back his money.
"We're going shopping or rioting?" he asked, looking storeways.
Hordes massed behind heavy metal barriers topped with high sharp
spikes. Adults lifted babies above the crush as the mob awaited their
cue to rage and plunder. Elderlies swatted unpeopled pavement
with birch brooms, sweeping sparrows from the grates. We tossed
time glancing nearby newsstand's wares. Stacked alongside Pravda
and Izvestia were Russian mags, bright with untrue color, pulp
laden with chemical scent. There too reposed American mags no
less reliable than Russian journals and so Krasnaya censored nothing but their ads, keeping expectations no higher than ordained to
rise. The store's siren roared as if to beckon firestorm; we filtered
through the crowd, trailed by our newest fans.
"Where's the meet and greet?" asked Jake.
"Interactive Strategies department," I said. "Level two."
Russia loved the children it didn't have to kill. Detsky Mir sold
as Russian the toys of every nation; the ones homegrown evidenced
by their tendency to break beneath the weight of dust settling upon
them. The ancient interior, transplanted with fresh organs as fashion demanded, resembled the post office's central auctionhouse.
Upholstered mothers, toddlers bundled into immobility, men of
disconcerted mien and ill-tempered babushki shuffled like lost
ghosts through the aisles. One wizened hag, eyeing Jake's bare head
and slick hair, shouted: "Shapkoo propil!" Before he made his grab
I grasped his arm, guiding it to his side as I would a cannon.
"Her attitude shows plain," he said, his face purpling. "Translate
her slur."
"Ignore, Jake," I said. "She said you must have wasted so much
money you can't afford a hat."
"Nosetroubler." As he spoke, he fumbled a coin between thumb
and finger; bent it double, flattening it as his color drained. "These
stragglers close in. Should I react?" Those trailing showed through
the crowd so plain they might have been spotlit. From the ceiling
above cameras focused, keeping angels' eyes on us.
"Ignore," I repeated. All escalators to level one were broken and
so we climbed. Summiting, Jake looked, and let free, unexpected
laughter burst loose.
"No wonder you're so eyed by all locals," he remarked. A
carmine scroll draped overhead announced HAPPY GOLLIWOGS
ARE HERE. Displayers held a regiment of dolls shaped in the form of
squat black women, staring with leering eyes, grinning with lips
like Brazil nuts. "Heavy sellers, you'd guess?" Jake asked.
"They talk," I said, reading a less prominent descriptive. Lifting
one of the clammy little things I activated the cassette housed
within. "Eat your veget-" it began, in Russian; the tape jammed.
Coils oozed from the doll's mouth as if it vomited forth its intestines. I repiled it quick. The escalator to level two worked for a
minute, then broke; our pursuers huffed casually behind us.
"Aisle E. Over here."
The Interactive Strategies department's goods could have kept
the Red Army supplied for centuries had they worked so well as
their models; as was, they gave the young ones opportunity to
practice until their draft day. Toy guns of every caliber, from
peashooters to those that might splatter elephants' heads, glistened
beneath glass. All required easily obtained Krasnaya permits for toy
gun purchase; then, were the possessor to suffer mistaken identity
situation, the police might be secure in knowing that such had
occurred through victim's choice.
"Alert yourself," said Jake; likely suspects browsed every side,
crowded every aisle. The worst places were those where the children might offer so much danger as the adults. I spotted Skuratov
striding towards us, his twohue shoes bright against the colorless
floor.
"Gentlemen," he said, wrapping round me like an anaconda.
Jake distanced, loath to know the human touch. "Forgive my
lateness. "
"No need to forgive," I said, loudspeaking to allay cats' curiosity.
"We were perusing these marvelous toys."
Skuratov smiled; palmed a miniature half-track from a nearby
rack, rolled it across his coatsleeve. The wheels fell off.
"Shouldn't we head?" I asked. Jake, on point, circled round on
his heels as if to measure the room's footage. A well-bundled father
dragged a swaddled lump towards the cashier desk nearest; the
child pleaded for goods denied. Skuratov pressed fingers to lips.
"There is no hurry," lie said, meaning there was, and by his
inaction demonstrating that the sooner could not be bettered.
Several newcomers appeared some distance down, sauntering with
flamboyant disinterest, each garbed in basic black, which, by
rumor heard, was Dream Team's choice. Our prospects seemed
evermore evanescent.
"Eyes alight," Jake murmured. The father haggled details with
the cashier; as each computer transaction was required in retail to
be doublechecked by abacus, a certain confusion always resulted
during the delay. Our voyeurs shelved toys recently fumbled,
slowly starting in, holding respectable distance still. "They're
readying. "
"Certain product is quite impressive," Skuratov said, gesturing
towards a wallcased rack as if to sell me. "Miss," he said to a clerk
scuttling near, holding up his Krasnaya ID so as to be seen, "pass
over Turgenev item there for my examination." Unlocking the
case, she handed it across; a half-scale dupe of the Turgenev B95
rocket launcher. "Made for us in Yugoslavia from lightweight
polymer. Fires genuine explosive shell. No more harmful than cap
pistol, certainly-"
"My change," said the father. "Give to me." The overhead
whirr's tone descended a half note in the scale; I looked upward.
"I have no coins," said the cashier. "Why do you harass me so?"
All ceiling cameras rotated, focusing our way. Our troupe moved
in for the finale.
"Thirty kopecks," the father shouted. Other customers-there
were many-grew testy. The man's toddler, recovering from his
mourn, bored by his father's pleas, looked at us. Skuratov, the
plastic armament nestled in his arms, smiled at the child.
"No coins," the cashier screamed in reply. "Take delicious candy
bar I offer you as suitable change equivalent." Jake unclicked
something within his coat's cover. My stomach dropped as I felt the
nausea of the about-to-be caught. "Be happy, citizen."
"Small boy," Skuratov said, grinning, bending down, handing
the boy the toy. "Aim that way away from people like brave army
man. Press trigger underneath for big fun."
"Da," the gleeful tot rumbled, needing no further prod. Laying
paws on tight, he fired with sharpshooter touch. The fauxTurgenev's sun yellow projectile shot across the floor, with deafening boom shattering a carefully stacked pyramid of plastic grenades
molded from sky blue resin. Tumbling floorways they flashed and
banged and threw smokeclouds of evil scent. The father struck the
boy; the cashier struck the father for having struck.
"Shall we move briskly to down elevator?" Skuratov said, linking
arms with us, leading us from the smoggy melee. "I am conveniently parked outside in free zone. Let us attend important
meeting. "
Untrailed by any, we heaved our way through the crowd. The
cries of mothers, the shouted threats of the store's in-house police
and the yaps of a thousand children drowned the icerink music
playing over the store's hundred hidden speakers.