meaning of “endorphins.”
“I’m not running from anything. I just love that feeling of getting up really early and running—knowing I’m out there on the move while everyone else is still asleep in their beds. It kind of makes me feel like I have an edge on the day. It helps me think.”
“What do you think about?”
“You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”
“I’m just gathering information, like any good spy.”
The taxi crept more slowly as it descended a hill, past a graveyard perched on a hillside, then past little shops and restaurants.
“We’re close to Georgetown now,” said Matthew.
They climbed out of the air-conditioned cab and walked down R Street past rows of stately Victorian houses with arched entryways, towers, bay windows, and perfectly pruned gardens. The atmosphere was oppressively hot and there was a reserved stillness all around that made Gilda feel as if she were trespassing on private property—as if she had walked into a formal tea party without being invited. The houses and tall trees surrounding them reminded Gilda of elegant, judgmental ladies who knew things: they had seen and many heard secrets. Oh, the stories we would tell if only we could talk, they seemed to whisper.
“So what’s the deal with this guy?” Gilda asked.
“Like I told you, he used to be a Soviet spy back in the Cold War days. His name is Boris Volkov, and he was based in the Russian Embassy here in D.C. during the eighties. He switched sides and defected to the U.S. after he realized that the Soviet Union was collapsing. He’s actually helped us out with a bunch of exhibits and even donated some important artifacts to the museum. He likes to keep a pretty low profile, though; we don’t see that much of him.”
“Interesting. Very interesting,” said Gilda. She felt a distinct tickle in her left ear.
“You’ve got that ‘pretending to be a sleuth’ look.”
“And you’ve got that ‘pretending to be a historian look’.”
Matthew stopped in front of a stately yellow house. “I think this is the place.”
“So anyway,” said Gilda, “our friend Boris suddenly has some spy artifacts to show us.”
“That’s right. He said he has something his wife recently found when she was cleaning the attic.”
They walked up the path and approached an entranceway decorated with panels of stained glass surrounding a door. Matthew rang the doorbell, and a moment later, Gilda found herself gazing into the wide, eager smile of a stocky, balding man with a round, almost babyish face.
“Matthew! Good to see you!” Boris patted Matthew on the shoulder with a large hand that somehow reminded Gilda of a bear paw as he shook Matthew’s hand firmly.
Then Boris turned his attention to Gilda. “And who might this lovely young lady be?”
“This is Gilda Joyce—one of our new interns. She’s from Michigan.”
Boris gripped Gilda’s hand, and she felt a surprising strength and roughness in his touch that belied his pudgy exterior. “Such a pleasure to meet you. Come in, come in!” Gilda noticed that Boris’s gaze darted over her shoulder for a split second, as if he were in the habit of checking to see who might be walking down the street. As if he’s afraid of being followed, Gilda thought. His open friendliness was tempered by a subtly guarded alertness. I bet once you’re a spy, it’s hard to ever stop thinking and acting like a spy, Gilda thought.
Boris led them into an eclectic sitting room that suggested many years of entertaining guests who ate hors d’oeuvres and drank wine long into the night. Gilda and Matthew sank into a comfortable couch and Gilda looked around, surveying the contrasting patterns, and shades of gold and deep red that surrounded her. Her eye fell on the orange-red flow of a painting that hung over the fireplace—an image of a couple seated next to each other at a dimly lit café. A candle flickered on a table set with wineglasses, and the man leaned
“I’m not running from anything. I just love that feeling of getting up really early and running—knowing I’m out there on the move while everyone else is still asleep in their beds. It kind of makes me feel like I have an edge on the day. It helps me think.”
“What do you think about?”
“You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”
“I’m just gathering information, like any good spy.”
The taxi crept more slowly as it descended a hill, past a graveyard perched on a hillside, then past little shops and restaurants.
“We’re close to Georgetown now,” said Matthew.
They climbed out of the air-conditioned cab and walked down R Street past rows of stately Victorian houses with arched entryways, towers, bay windows, and perfectly pruned gardens. The atmosphere was oppressively hot and there was a reserved stillness all around that made Gilda feel as if she were trespassing on private property—as if she had walked into a formal tea party without being invited. The houses and tall trees surrounding them reminded Gilda of elegant, judgmental ladies who knew things: they had seen and many heard secrets. Oh, the stories we would tell if only we could talk, they seemed to whisper.
“So what’s the deal with this guy?” Gilda asked.
“Like I told you, he used to be a Soviet spy back in the Cold War days. His name is Boris Volkov, and he was based in the Russian Embassy here in D.C. during the eighties. He switched sides and defected to the U.S. after he realized that the Soviet Union was collapsing. He’s actually helped us out with a bunch of exhibits and even donated some important artifacts to the museum. He likes to keep a pretty low profile, though; we don’t see that much of him.”
“Interesting. Very interesting,” said Gilda. She felt a distinct tickle in her left ear.
“You’ve got that ‘pretending to be a sleuth’ look.”
“And you’ve got that ‘pretending to be a historian look’.”
Matthew stopped in front of a stately yellow house. “I think this is the place.”
“So anyway,” said Gilda, “our friend Boris suddenly has some spy artifacts to show us.”
“That’s right. He said he has something his wife recently found when she was cleaning the attic.”
They walked up the path and approached an entranceway decorated with panels of stained glass surrounding a door. Matthew rang the doorbell, and a moment later, Gilda found herself gazing into the wide, eager smile of a stocky, balding man with a round, almost babyish face.
“Matthew! Good to see you!” Boris patted Matthew on the shoulder with a large hand that somehow reminded Gilda of a bear paw as he shook Matthew’s hand firmly.
Then Boris turned his attention to Gilda. “And who might this lovely young lady be?”
“This is Gilda Joyce—one of our new interns. She’s from Michigan.”
Boris gripped Gilda’s hand, and she felt a surprising strength and roughness in his touch that belied his pudgy exterior. “Such a pleasure to meet you. Come in, come in!” Gilda noticed that Boris’s gaze darted over her shoulder for a split second, as if he were in the habit of checking to see who might be walking down the street. As if he’s afraid of being followed, Gilda thought. His open friendliness was tempered by a subtly guarded alertness. I bet once you’re a spy, it’s hard to ever stop thinking and acting like a spy, Gilda thought.
Boris led them into an eclectic sitting room that suggested many years of entertaining guests who ate hors d’oeuvres and drank wine long into the night. Gilda and Matthew sank into a comfortable couch and Gilda looked around, surveying the contrasting patterns, and shades of gold and deep red that surrounded her. Her eye fell on the orange-red flow of a painting that hung over the fireplace—an image of a couple seated next to each other at a dimly lit café. A candle flickered on a table set with wineglasses, and the man leaned
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