1. Masha The first time I met MariaKonstantinovna, she was wearing a black leather skirt. It was Italian, brandnew, and it was mine. Masha, as I would come to know her,was a dejournaya in Moscow. Womenlike her sat on every floor in every hotel in the Soviet Union. They performeda range of duties - they served tea from a samovar that simmered behind theirstation. They ordered your phone call to America and came to wake you if itever went through. They even washed lingerie and tee-shirts, leaving the latterfolded like fine envelopes, whiter than they ever deserved to be.
They alsohanded out your room key with varying degrees of suspicion, charm, or ennui,and if you wanted to leave it for safekeeping, collected it when you left thefloor. But allegedly, the real purpose of these hall monitors was to observeyour comings and goings on behalf of the security apparatus of the Kremlin. It was my second trip to Cold WarMoscow. One year earlier, I had arrived inMoscow with a new degree in Russian Studies and stayed in an old hotel in thecenter of town. On nights when I drank too much Georgian champagne, I crossedthe street and walked alone past the cupolas and red brick walls of Red Square.Now I was back as a tour guide of sorts, a liaison, for groups of doctors who were on continuing education junkets. I was atranslator, a babysitter, holder of boarding passes and whipping post if needbe when tempers grew hot traveling around the Soviet Empire--which they oftendid. It was part of my job description to be cheerful, but when my busload ofjetlagged doctors and I arrived at our hulking mass of a hotel, I despaired.
Our official Inturist guide told us it had been built in 1979 to house athletesand guests for the Olympics the following year. That much was obvious; it was amodel Soviet vanity project, from the monstrous scale to the banners out frontwhich erupted with optimism: "Onward!" they proclaimed. Across the street was agiant park devoted to the fruits of socialism, as well as a massive SpaceObelisk. Inside, it was as sprawling and noisy as a city, and the air was densewith cigarette smoke and the grease from several restaurants. Prior to my trip, a fellow tour guidehad informed me that there were fiber-optic cables installed in every room, andthat the entire twenty-fifth floor was devoted to surveillance. He claimed tohave stumbled upon a wall of reel-to-reel tape recorders there. PresidentReagan had just given his Evil Empire speech, and the country was being run byan ex-KGB chief, Yuri Andropov. Paranoia was everywhere - in bars and on parkbenches, where locals lurked to change our dollars on the black market.
Theyassumed, as well, that we were listening to them . As my job paid little and I woulddepend on tips, I was eager to prove myself. But the first morning I woke upwith a foggy head and aching limbs. So with apologies for being sick on day oneof my new job, I loaded my fourteen gastroenterologists and their spouses ontothe coach with their Russian guide and then repaired upstairs, hungry for mybed. I peeled my clothes off and crawled in naked. The sheets were coarsecotton and delightfully crunchy, and the duvet still held a welcoming hint ofmy own body warmth. I woke up to the sight of two mengoing through my suitcase at the foot of the bed. One man''s arm was buried in azipper compartment; the other man was turned toward the window, holding myraincoat up to the light.
"What are you doing?" I asked. Russianliterature was full of fever dreams, and I believed I was having one. Theclarity was dazzling - two guys in blue shirts, the older one with a palesmoker''s complexion and hair all neat like a little boy on school picture day.The younger one had gray eyes that betrayed a flicker of menace, as if I werethe one intruding. Startled, the older man dropped theraincoat into the suitcase. I was shivering and drew the comfortertightly around my bare body, sleeping bag-style. "Excuse me," he declared. "We thoughtyou were out.
" They scrambled out the door and soon Ifell backwards into sleep. The next day, while my group touredLenin''s tomb, I sat on the bus sweating, too ill to move. I had not spoken of myvisitation the previous day. Many of my charges already supposed they werebeing watched; some were amused and some downright scared. They whispered toeach other about the presumed KGB sightings and enjoyed the Cold War folklore.But they were all doctors and their American guide was sick, so they insistedon taking me back to the hotel. I dragged myself through the lobby,into the elevator, down the hallway that was thick with the rotten-fruit smellof disinfectant. My feet carried me, quicker now, to my room, to thatdelicious, warm bed.
The dejournaya station was empty. I had wordlessly passed her that morning, not stopping toleave my key. She had glanced up from her book and smiled, which was unusualfor a key lady. I had noticed her wide-set green eyes. And there she was, inside my room,wearing my skirt. She was curvier than I, and the waistband stretched tightlyaround her middle. The leather pulled across her hips sexily, as if the utterlyrandom act of wearing a stranger''s clothes gave her an air of danger and power.Barefoot, she held a pair of black high heels that I had packed along with theskirt.
I''d known I would never wear them on my tour of Moscow and Central Asia,but they were new and expensive, and I didn''t want to leave them in the closetof my shared New York apartment. Her own satin blouse was unbuttoned; thefrayed remains of trim drifted around the cups of her bra, which, at least asize too small, pinched her ribcage and crushed her breasts. " Bozhemoi ," she said. Oh my God. "It''s okay, really." What else could Isay to this poor, mortified creature? "I just need to sleep." "Just a moment," she said. One at atime, with two hands, she bent to place my shoes on the floor, toes pointedstraight ahead like loaves on a baking sheet.
"Just a moment," she repeated,unzipping with shaky fingers. I turned my head so as not to see herSoviet-issue underwear, hoping at least she wore some. She noddeddeferentially, her face creased with shame. In what seemed like one move, she steppedinto her wool skirt and slipped on her shoes. She shuffled her breasts around,rearranging them as if to make room in her bra, and fastened her blouse. I waved her out the door, saying,"Don''t worry, don''t worry. Please!" I scanned the room, flipped through mysuitcase. Only my make-up case looked disturbed, with pencils, brushes andcompacts strewn about the dresser.
Strangely, despite my exhaustion and thefever that seared my brain, I knew I wasn''t angry. Rather, I pitied herembarrassment at being caught. Whoever this woman was, she was now exposed andcompromised, and I wanted her to know that I, at least, didn''t care. I fell fully clothed onto bed. When I woke up, she was sitting at herstation and rose to greet me when I came down the hall. She seemed taller andmore beautiful having regained her composure and must have been twenty-five ortwenty-six, a few years older than I. "Do you want tea?" She asked. "Yes, please," I answered.
"What''syour name?" "Maria Konstantinovna," she replied,using her patronymic rather than her last name. "Masha." "I''m Marcia too," I said. In Russian,they sounded the same. "Is there anything to eat?" She walked me back to my room, where Istripped down and slid into bed. Soon, Masha returned with rolls, cheese, andblack tea. I drifted in and out of sleep. At times, I could hear the door swishopen and closed or feel her swab my face with a damp cloth.
Once I sat up tosip some tea and felt her hands bolster my shoulders, brace me as I loweredmyself back to the mattress, and finally tuck the covers under my chin. "I''m not working tomorrow," she said.I looked at her, puzzled. "I think you will be well enough to leave forTashkent." "Thanks to you, I think I will be," Isaid. I had not mentioned my itinerary toher, but she knew. The next day would be our last in Moscow, as we were flyingto Uzbekistan the following morning. The shades were drawn.
There was stilldaylight behind them, but I had no idea what time it was. Loud voices eruptedin the corridor, and Masha stood to return to her station. "I''ll be back in a few weeks. May Ibring you something from America?" I asked. She pressed the starched napkin thatrested underneath the tea glass, and held her finger there while her eyescaught mine. A corner of a folded square of paper stuck out, just visible, fromunderneath the napkin. Later, I plucked the note out and tucked it into mywallet. With.