he began calling out measurements-neck, shoulders, chest, waist, inseam, sleeve. "You wear your skirt too low on your hips," he commented to Svetochka as he moved around her taking measurements. To Oskar the jew said, "What will you do for shoes?"
"Only give me the sizes, I will provide them."
Later, outside the building, the Potter took Oskar aside. "What was all that about?" he demanded.
"So; you will be leaving the country in five days' time under valid American passports, Oskar explained. "It is a crucial part of the operation that you pass in every detail for Americans, yes?" And he went on to explain when, and how, they would get out of Russia.
"It is that simple?" the Potter asked in amazement.
"You would he happier crossing the border in the Arctic Circle on snowshoes, with dogs harking in the distance, yes?" Oskar emitted the only laugh the Potter was ever to hear from him. "So: it is my opinion that you have read too many cheap spy novels."
The next afternoon Svetochka withdrew two hundred rubles from her bank account and spent every last kopeck of it at the ornately decorated Gastronomi No. I on Gorky Street, popularly known as Yeliseyevsky's after the owner of the delicatessen before the revolution. Rubbing elbows with the Gastronomi's regular clients, the wives and daughters of Central Committee members, leaving large tips on every counter that she came to, Svetochka managed to get out of the store with a supply of blinis, a package of salted crackers, a container of thick cream, a tin of Beluga caviar, several fresh Norwegian herrings and two bottles of Polish Bison vodka.
"What have you done?" the Potter groaned when he saw her purchases set out on the small table in their bedroom.
"We won't need rubles in Paris," Svetochka announced innocently, "so Svetochka decided to spend as much as she could here before we leave."
"You idiot! The last thing we want to do is attract attention to ourselves." He collapsed into a wooden chair and stared at the display of luxury that any other time would have set his mouth to watering.
Crestfallen, Svetochka spread some caviar on a salted cracker, poured some vodka (which she had put outside a window to chill) into a glass and offered them to the Potter.
"I am not hungry," he grumbled.
Svetochka planted herself in a chair facing him. "What if we stimulate your appetite?" she asked suggestively, and she slowly, deliberately crossed, and then recrossed, her legs.
They made love with the light on, something they hadn't done in months.
Working the Potter's dwarfish body as if she were preparing a field for planting, faking an orgasm (and when she finally had one, exaggerating its intensity), Svetochka caused him to forget, if only for a moment, Piotr Borisovich and Oskar and the pier of old age to which he felt moored. Later, munching on biscuits coated with caviar, washing them down with chilled vodka, Svetochka blew lightly into his ear and whispered, "That is only a sample of what Svetochka will do to her Feliks when we get to Paris."
Two days before they were scheduled to leave Russia, the Potter decided the time had come to pay a last visit to Piotr Borisovich's father. Not only did he want to see the old man before he left; there was also the practical matter of recovering the package he had carefully stashed away in a secret compartment under the floorboards of his house.
The day of the visit the Potter spent several hours doing some elementary street work to make sure he wasn't being followed. It had been quite a while since he had practiced tradecraft, but the gestures he had learned as a young man, and had perfected during his four years as rezident in New York, came back fairly easily. He used reflecting surfaces-doors of polished cars, buses-as mirrors to observe what was going on around him in the street without appearing to. He made it a point to be the last one to board a trolley, and the last to leap off before it started again. He lingered in front
"Only give me the sizes, I will provide them."
Later, outside the building, the Potter took Oskar aside. "What was all that about?" he demanded.
"So; you will be leaving the country in five days' time under valid American passports, Oskar explained. "It is a crucial part of the operation that you pass in every detail for Americans, yes?" And he went on to explain when, and how, they would get out of Russia.
"It is that simple?" the Potter asked in amazement.
"You would he happier crossing the border in the Arctic Circle on snowshoes, with dogs harking in the distance, yes?" Oskar emitted the only laugh the Potter was ever to hear from him. "So: it is my opinion that you have read too many cheap spy novels."
The next afternoon Svetochka withdrew two hundred rubles from her bank account and spent every last kopeck of it at the ornately decorated Gastronomi No. I on Gorky Street, popularly known as Yeliseyevsky's after the owner of the delicatessen before the revolution. Rubbing elbows with the Gastronomi's regular clients, the wives and daughters of Central Committee members, leaving large tips on every counter that she came to, Svetochka managed to get out of the store with a supply of blinis, a package of salted crackers, a container of thick cream, a tin of Beluga caviar, several fresh Norwegian herrings and two bottles of Polish Bison vodka.
"What have you done?" the Potter groaned when he saw her purchases set out on the small table in their bedroom.
"We won't need rubles in Paris," Svetochka announced innocently, "so Svetochka decided to spend as much as she could here before we leave."
"You idiot! The last thing we want to do is attract attention to ourselves." He collapsed into a wooden chair and stared at the display of luxury that any other time would have set his mouth to watering.
Crestfallen, Svetochka spread some caviar on a salted cracker, poured some vodka (which she had put outside a window to chill) into a glass and offered them to the Potter.
"I am not hungry," he grumbled.
Svetochka planted herself in a chair facing him. "What if we stimulate your appetite?" she asked suggestively, and she slowly, deliberately crossed, and then recrossed, her legs.
They made love with the light on, something they hadn't done in months.
Working the Potter's dwarfish body as if she were preparing a field for planting, faking an orgasm (and when she finally had one, exaggerating its intensity), Svetochka caused him to forget, if only for a moment, Piotr Borisovich and Oskar and the pier of old age to which he felt moored. Later, munching on biscuits coated with caviar, washing them down with chilled vodka, Svetochka blew lightly into his ear and whispered, "That is only a sample of what Svetochka will do to her Feliks when we get to Paris."
Two days before they were scheduled to leave Russia, the Potter decided the time had come to pay a last visit to Piotr Borisovich's father. Not only did he want to see the old man before he left; there was also the practical matter of recovering the package he had carefully stashed away in a secret compartment under the floorboards of his house.
The day of the visit the Potter spent several hours doing some elementary street work to make sure he wasn't being followed. It had been quite a while since he had practiced tradecraft, but the gestures he had learned as a young man, and had perfected during his four years as rezident in New York, came back fairly easily. He used reflecting surfaces-doors of polished cars, buses-as mirrors to observe what was going on around him in the street without appearing to. He made it a point to be the last one to board a trolley, and the last to leap off before it started again. He lingered in front
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