“To our health!” Nina proclaimed.
Timofeyev splashed some wine into Florence’s glass as they took their seats at the table, and urged her with a wink to have a drink. She wet her lips on the edge of the glass and for the first time felt such a genuine sensation of enjoying the company she was in; it was like a flash of her childhood memory of being allowed to stay up late with the grown-ups and discovering that despite all the exoticism of forbidden late-night fun, the adults she knew were doing nothing more remarkable than talking and eating and laughing! How much easier it was to be around these jaunty, ironic intellectuals—the exceptional people who had privilege heaped on them—than the simple, salt-of-the-earth, great Russian narod, against whom she had to jostle and shove every day as though through some hostile, obstructive medium.
“It’s a question of emphasis,” Max went on, refusing to drop his topic. “Look at our new production of Resurrection. The story is even more brilliant than Tolstoy realized when writing it. The playwright saw beyond all the religious moralizing and now it’s no longer a story about a love affair between a servant girl and a wealthy cad, but a splendid social canvas! A picture of the oppression and ignorance of the peasantry! The corruption of the aristocracy and the hypocrisy of the church!”
Florence surprised herself by speaking. “But how many changes can be made to a story,” she began, and hesitated—everyone at the table was looking at her—“before Tolstoy becomes, well, propaganda?”
“Our guest has a point,” said Nina, looking at Max, who now addressed the question without actually addressing Florence.
“Yes, our foreign visitors are often remarking on the ‘propaganda’ in our theater, but they are entirely blind to the propaganda in their own. Take the chorus girls in Paris or New York, your Follies. Young women and, I might add, not such young ones, advertising their legs and breasts for two hours, without so much as an intermission. What do you call that if not sexual propaganda? We boycott such displays here and have a healthier theater for it.”
“You might change your mind about that if you ever caught one of those chorus productions yourself, Max,” Timofeyev said.
Grinning off this slight, Max resumed: “I find it charming that foreigners show such concern about the influence on the arts by propaganda when in fact Moscow’s theaters continue to produce more classics than any other capital’s, and do a finer job of it. A Chekhov production that was recently applauded in London would have met only polite toleration by Moscow’s public.”
“How do you know this?” said Florence.
“The play was reviewed in our theater press here, as well as in the foreign press.”
Emboldened by wine, she pursued the impulse to challenge him. “But you didn’t see it yourself. You’re repeating what you read.”
This remark induced in Max a laugh full of scorn and unease. His reply took the form of a mumble that Florence could not entirely make out, but which suggested the absurdity of what she was proposing.
Then it was her turn to feel uneasy. She’d wanted to impress the others with her wit but instead had succeeded in silencing the whole table. It was Timofeyev who broke the awkwardness. “Flora, you of all people, working in our Foreign Currency Department, ought to know that every citizen who goes abroad is a direct burden to the country. He requires foreign currency, which can otherwise be used for importing items of social value. Naturally, our government can’t allow every citizen to travel abroad unless the money spent on him brings an equal return….”
“Grigory Grigorievich, I didn’t mean to suggest…”
“The government would gladly let every theater lover travel to watch a show in London, but, besides the expense, each Soviet citizen in a capitalist country is, as you know, liable to be made a cause for a diplomatic incident….”
“Stop lecturing the poor girl, Grigorievich,” said Nina, rising up from her chair. “She meant nothing by it. This whole conversation is getting too complicated for our simple female brains. Come, Florochka, help me in the kitchen.”
Florence excused herself. But the relief of Nina’s invitation was followed by the surprise of being led not into the kitchen, partially shielded by a view of Olga Ivanovna’s ample behind, but farther down the hall, into the bedroom. At Nina’s touch a ceiling lamp illuminated a satin lair of creamy coverlets and tasseled lampshades. In the center of the room, a mirrored vanity supported an elaborate collection of perfume flasks and jars of cream such as Florence had not seen in any store.
“Don’t feel too awful about Max,” Nina said, removing a small brass key from her vanity. “He is a genius, of course—a genius for glomming on to whatever’s current. He needs to be taken down a notch once in a while.”
“I didn’t mean to say anything disagreeable….”
“No need to apologize, dear, but let me give you some teeny advice.” Nina stood working the key into a door in her sizable oak wardrobe. “I only say this because your Russian, though it’s very good considering…Well, I don’t want you to miss the nuances of etiquette, either.”
The steamy warmth of the bedroom couldn’t account for how hot Florence suddenly felt. A vision of unrenewed invitations to the Timofeyevs’ spirited home struck her as a consequence of her big mouth.
“Frankly, I don’t care to talk politics in this apartment,” Nina said, finally getting the wardrobe door opened. “After all, who are we to think we can fathom everything that goes on up top? Right? We have the Party to settle these questions for us, so that we can get on with more lively matters.” She bent toward the mirror inside her wardrobe door and fixed her lipstick, as though to demonstrate what livelier matters there were for her to attend to. There came a tap on the door.
“Come in,” sang Nina, not taking her eyes off her reflection.
The bedroom door opened, and Valda tiptoed in. “I had to get away from that peacockery.”
“Of course you did.”
Florence now saw that Valda was holding a small suitcase. “Should I come back with this?” she spoke tentatively.
“No, I want Flora to take a look, too. Let’s see the goodies.”
Valda unlocked the suitcase and began to spread out on the bed blouses and dresses, gloves and hats. Pressing one of the pieces to her wireframe of a body, Nina twirled around to face Florence. “Is this what they’re wearing in New York?”
“I really can’t say.”
Nina frowned. This was not the answer she was seeking. Her face suggested that Florence ought at least to learn to play the sophisticated foreigner, even if she in fact was not one.
“It’s from Finland,” said Valda, to vouch for the dress’s quality and style. “And, look, it has a zipper, like the Elsa Schiaparelli dresses.”