center on a privileged few whose every gesture became a model for imitation by the crowd of admirers swirling all around them.
The table was set with Limoges china and Waterford crystal and two-hundred-year-old silverware acquired at a London auction. When everyone was seated, Craven announced with a flourish that dinner had been prepared by Angelo DelFranco, the chef at what was then the most talked-about and, it went without saying, the most expensive restaurant in the city. Patting his side pockets as if he had misplaced something, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small piece of paper folded neatly in half.
“Here it is,”he said as he put on his glasses. “The menu.”He said it like a lawyer reading the last will and testament of a wealthy man to a roomful of expectant heirs. Each item was greeted with a gasp of delight followed by a burst of embarrassed laughter.
I had been seated next to Marissa Kane. Halfway through Craven's recitation, she whispered, “Why are you smiling?”
“I was just thinking about what I had for lunch and wondering whether this would be as good,”I whispered back.
When Craven finished reading, he placed the paper on the table, removed his glasses, and then motioned toward the maid who had been waiting next to the door to the kitchen. She was a young and rather pretty white woman. The maid turned and pushed open the door, letting in behind her the warm aroma of a dozen different scents. Around the table, the upturned faces of Craven's guests were each a study in concentration as they tried to be the first to identify what each one meant.
“And just what did you have for lunch you liked so much?”
Her elbows on the table and her fingers intertwined, Marissa lifted her chin. A whimsical expression floated over her lips as she waited for my reply. For a moment I could not say anything. The longer I looked at her eyes, the larger they seemed to be, until, finally, the only thing I could see at all was a small picture of myself staring back at me.
“A hamburger and a chocolate shake,”I said, drawing back.
Her eyes flared and a smile ran quickly across her wide mouth.
“And is that what you prefer, Mr. Antonelli—instead of what we're having here this evening?”
It was a simple, straightforward question, but she made it sound like a dare, an invitation to something unconventional. I tried to turn it back on her.
“And I'll bet you would, too.”
There was a slight twist of her head, a brief quiver at the corner of her mouth.
“You'll have to ask,”she said.
I did not think about it; it was all instinct.
“Would you like to get out of here?”I began, reaching for the napkin on my lap.
“Mr. Antonelli.”
I turned and looked down the other side of the table. Andrei Bogdonovitch nodded politely.
“I'm very much interested in this case of yours. Perhaps you could tell us something about it.”
Sitting next to him, Naomi Sanders threw up her hands. “Now I remember!”she exclaimed, quite pleased with herself. “You're Andrei Bogdonovitch,”she announced as if she had somehow discovered that very public fact on her own. He looked at her, amused and slightly embarrassed.
“You're the one who defected,”she cried, glancing all around the table. “I saw you interviewed on television. You were with the KGB, weren't you?”
Noiselessly, the maid and another, younger woman began to serve the first course.
Bogdonovitch tried to dismiss what had been said with a wave of his hand.
“I'm afraid you make me out to be far more important than I ever really was,”he protested with a smile meant to disarm any further suspicion. “I did not even really defect: I simply did not go home again. When, as you say, the wall came down and the Soviet Union dissolved, I just decided to make my stay here a permanent one.”
Naomi Sanders was not in the habit of being put off. “But you were given asylum here. Isn't that what happened? You gave information to the
The table was set with Limoges china and Waterford crystal and two-hundred-year-old silverware acquired at a London auction. When everyone was seated, Craven announced with a flourish that dinner had been prepared by Angelo DelFranco, the chef at what was then the most talked-about and, it went without saying, the most expensive restaurant in the city. Patting his side pockets as if he had misplaced something, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small piece of paper folded neatly in half.
“Here it is,”he said as he put on his glasses. “The menu.”He said it like a lawyer reading the last will and testament of a wealthy man to a roomful of expectant heirs. Each item was greeted with a gasp of delight followed by a burst of embarrassed laughter.
I had been seated next to Marissa Kane. Halfway through Craven's recitation, she whispered, “Why are you smiling?”
“I was just thinking about what I had for lunch and wondering whether this would be as good,”I whispered back.
When Craven finished reading, he placed the paper on the table, removed his glasses, and then motioned toward the maid who had been waiting next to the door to the kitchen. She was a young and rather pretty white woman. The maid turned and pushed open the door, letting in behind her the warm aroma of a dozen different scents. Around the table, the upturned faces of Craven's guests were each a study in concentration as they tried to be the first to identify what each one meant.
“And just what did you have for lunch you liked so much?”
Her elbows on the table and her fingers intertwined, Marissa lifted her chin. A whimsical expression floated over her lips as she waited for my reply. For a moment I could not say anything. The longer I looked at her eyes, the larger they seemed to be, until, finally, the only thing I could see at all was a small picture of myself staring back at me.
“A hamburger and a chocolate shake,”I said, drawing back.
Her eyes flared and a smile ran quickly across her wide mouth.
“And is that what you prefer, Mr. Antonelli—instead of what we're having here this evening?”
It was a simple, straightforward question, but she made it sound like a dare, an invitation to something unconventional. I tried to turn it back on her.
“And I'll bet you would, too.”
There was a slight twist of her head, a brief quiver at the corner of her mouth.
“You'll have to ask,”she said.
I did not think about it; it was all instinct.
“Would you like to get out of here?”I began, reaching for the napkin on my lap.
“Mr. Antonelli.”
I turned and looked down the other side of the table. Andrei Bogdonovitch nodded politely.
“I'm very much interested in this case of yours. Perhaps you could tell us something about it.”
Sitting next to him, Naomi Sanders threw up her hands. “Now I remember!”she exclaimed, quite pleased with herself. “You're Andrei Bogdonovitch,”she announced as if she had somehow discovered that very public fact on her own. He looked at her, amused and slightly embarrassed.
“You're the one who defected,”she cried, glancing all around the table. “I saw you interviewed on television. You were with the KGB, weren't you?”
Noiselessly, the maid and another, younger woman began to serve the first course.
Bogdonovitch tried to dismiss what had been said with a wave of his hand.
“I'm afraid you make me out to be far more important than I ever really was,”he protested with a smile meant to disarm any further suspicion. “I did not even really defect: I simply did not go home again. When, as you say, the wall came down and the Soviet Union dissolved, I just decided to make my stay here a permanent one.”
Naomi Sanders was not in the habit of being put off. “But you were given asylum here. Isn't that what happened? You gave information to the
Similar Books
