Chernobyl

Chapter 11

Dean Garfield is thirty-four years old and he really is a highly successful television producer in America. The reason for that, perhaps, is that his father's money from the jewelry-findings business had paid for four years and a subsequent master's degree from the University of Southern California at just the right time, in the early 1970s. Just then a lot of bright young college boys were getting ready to be the film and TV geniuses of the later 1970s, and they remembered their classmates when they got big. A consequence of that, perhaps, is his wife. Candace Garfield — her professional name is Candace Merlyn — was the star of Garfield's first sitcom. Unfortunately the show failed to get past the eight-week cutoff, and Candace had been looking for another series ever since. She is very happy about Garfield's present success with his all-black series, which has just been picked up for a third year, except that there are no ongoing parts in it for tall, beautiful blondes. She is confident, however, that she could play a tall, beautiful, blonde Soviet nuclear engineer — or Soviet almost anything — in a new series, and she has been developing this idea for Garfield since breakfast.

Actually, it started out as Dean Garfield's own idea. It came to him as he was peering out the window, slightly hung over and too restless to sleep, at the misty Ukrainian sunrise over the city of Kiev. When he saw that his wife's eyes were open and watching him from the bed, he grinned. "I guess I'm all charged up. How many Americans get to see the inside of a real Russian home — Ukrainian, anyway," he amended. "You know what? There ought to be a story here. All this local color! Let's go out and take a look at the city."

"We already saw the city," Candace yawned. "I haven't got the strength for one more museum of teeny-tiny paintings on human hairs."

"I don't mean the tourist stuff! I mean the way the people live. Ride in the subway. Walk around a tenement district. See a, I don't know, a whatever they have to eat in that's like a McDonald's."

"That Intourist guide is really not going to like that," his wife said absentmindedly, because actually she had begun to take an interest when he used the word story.

"So screw the Intourist guide," Garfield said happily. "We'll just tell the hall lady, hey, no speak Russian. Then we take off. What can they do?"

His wife was looking doubtful but persuadable. "Dean? Are we talking about a new television series?"

"I don't know what I'm talking about — yet. All I'm saying is what could it hurt to hang around and take a look?" And so they had, even though the hall lady had done a lot of head-shaking, even though it had begun to rain.

During the morning they had found their way into a grocery store and a dairy store, even a department store— Candace Garfield aghast at the people waiting in one line simply to see what was available to buy, then a second line to pay the cashier, then a third line at last to get whatever it was.

They never did find anything like a McDonald's, but they decided to treat themselves to the best meal they could find in Kiev. By the time they were ready for lunch, Dean Garfield was just about convinced that not only was there a possible show but his wife might well be the star of it. "Maybe you shouldn't be an engineer," he said thoughtfully as they waited for a table at the Dynamo restaurant. "How about if you were an Intourist guide? You get into all sorts of funny situations with the tourists. You know? Every week there's a new batch of tourists— American, Japanese, everything — so we have guest stars doing vignettes—"

"Like Love Boat?" She was frowning as the headwaiter led them up the stairs to a table on the balcony, but it was a frown of concentration, not anger. Garfield well knew the difference. He sat down with a groan of satisfaction.

"It's nice to get off my feet," he observed, glancing around. They had been walking around Kiev for four hours, and Candace had been talking the whole time. The hangover was gone, and he was getting really hungry. When the waitress arrived with the menu, he didn't even look at it; ten days of travel in the USSR had taught him that of the hundred dishes printed in any given menu, only the dozen or so with prices attached were ever available, and not necessarily all of those. "Do you speak English?" he asked. When she shook her head, he got up and looked around at the other tables. When he saw something that looked edible he pointed to it, then to himself and held up two fingers.

"Not steak, I hope?" Candace said absently; she had her glasses on and was already writing things in her notebook.

"I think it's kind of a veal stew," said Garfield. "Smelled good, anyway. And I ordered a bottle of that white wine over there."

He lit a cigarette and gazed down at the floor below. There seemed to be at least two wedding parties, one bride in traditional white, though without a veil or a train, the other in a pale green business suit. A four-piece orchestra was playing what Garfield recognized as "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," and two couples were on the tiny dance floor. "Even if we don't get a show out of it, I'm glad we decided to stay," he told his wife.

Candace looked up from her notes. "You do get some really neat ideas sometimes, hon," she acknowledged. "You know? I was a little worried that some KGB guy might grab us for running around without an escort or something."

Garfield accepted the complimentary tone with a modest shrug. "I was pretty sure they wouldn't bother us," he said, although, in fact, for the first hour or two he had felt an uneasy itch every time any Russian looked twice at them. "You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to see my relatives again, only how are we going to get in touch with them?"

Candace had already returned to her scribbling. "Call them up," she said absently.

"Call up who where? Simyon doesn't live in Kiev, and I don't know Aunt Aftasia's address." The old lady had phoned them at the hotel and then sent a car for them the day before, and it had not occurred to Garfield to ask for addresses or phone numbers.

"There has to be a telephone book," said Candace.

"In Russian? Besides, the old gal doesn't have a phone."

"So we wait until Monday and call up the power plant. Listen, I'm an Intourist guide, like you said. Maybe sometimes I'm a stew on Aeroflot. Each week we get a different bunch of tourists, and we go to different locations. Moscow, Leningrad, Kiev, I don't know, maybe Tashkent, Yalta — there's a million places in Russia. Like Love Boat, you know? We get in a lot of scenery, right?"

"How're we going to do all of those locations?"

She put the ball point pen down to look at him over the top of her glasses. "You don't think the Russians will cooperate with filming?"

"I'm thinking about production costs," he said, "not to mention trying to get along with Russian film labs and technicians."

"I'm thinking about a title role for me," said Candace decisively. "How about calling it Comrade Tanya? You can figure out the location stuff. Send a crew to go all over for background shots — hell, Dean, there's probably plenty of stock footage around. Cathedrals, rivers, airports. Then what do you need? A bus. A hotel lobby and some rooms. A beach — any beach will do, just put a lot of people on it in Russian bathing suits."

"It could happen," Garfield conceded; and then, when he saw the beginnings of that other kind of frown, "I mean, we'll certainly give it a shot. I'll get a writer in as soon as we get back. And here's our wine!"

The stew turned out to be pork rather than veal, and the white wine was warm, but it was still a good lunch. What made it a particularly good lunch was that Candace was bubbling over with her new idea, and Dean Garfield had begun to feel confident that even if no part of it ever got before a camera, the development would make their whole Soviet tour beautifully and unchallengeably tax deductible.

He used up their last roll of film shooting the bridal parties, the wood-beamed ceilings, the waiters in their dinner jackets, the funny little orchestra with three of the four players female. Even the terrible thick sweet coffee did not blight his mood. He leaned back and lit a cigarette, regarding his beautiful wife. Nearly everyone in the restaurant had stared at this tall, slim American woman in the pale blue suit. It was Garfield's opinion that the women were looking at the suit and the men were busy imagining what was under it. It wasn't a new thought for him; that was his general opinion every time they went out together, and he was certain it was right. He did the same kind of looking himself. He was doing it now as he contemplated his wife across the table, though in his case he was not imagining but remembering. Though not, unfortunately, from recent experience; it was not only on The Love Boat that couples went traveling to try to save their marriages.

He stubbed out his cigarette decisively. Since Candace had filled the ashtray with the carefully amputated fat from her pork stew, he had to use a saucer. "I think," he said, "we could use a little nap about now, don't you? So let's go back to the hotel."

His wife gave him a good-humored look. "So let's at least finish the wine while we're here. Then maybe I'll show you my scar, like the old lady."

"Yeah, tell me about it. She actually showed you a bullet wound? I'd like to see that."

Candace laughed. "Not a chance. It's right near her crotch. She had to take her underwear off to show me — and, honest, hon, you wouldn't believe the kind of bloomers she had on."

"She said she got it in the Revolution?"

"Well, the teacher said it was the Civil War — is that the same thing? The old lady said all kinds of stuff, but that lady schoolteacher only translated about a quarter of it. That's a pain. Even if we did get a chance to see them again, how are you going to talk to them?"

"We'll worry about that on Monday," Garfield said expansively. "Finish your wine. I'm real anxious for a little lie-down."

It was turning out, he thought, to be a pretty good day. They even found a taxi letting people out in front of the restaurant, and the driver was even willing to take them to their hotel. Only when they got out of the elevator and presented their hotel card to the concierge, or keeper, or whatever the old woman who kept an eye on everything was called, it began to go sour. The first thing was that Candace gave a faint scream as she saw all their luggage piled behind the woman's desk. The second was when the woman told them, in heavily accented English, that they were, after all, scheduled to leave for Tbilisi that morning with the rest of their Intourist group; their room was needed for new guests, who were in fact already occupying it, and would they please remove the bags at once? "But I left a note at the desk!" Garfield cried. "I told them we'd changed our plans."

The woman looked shocked, "No, that is impossible. Your group has already left. You must immediately go to Reception and clear your bill, then a porter will remove your luggage."

Reception was no kinder. No, there were no rooms available in the Great Gate Hotel. No, there would be no rooms in any other hotel in Kiev, either; after all, it was coming time for the May Day celebration in just a few days, and every hotel was naturally full.

Garfield turned his back on his wife because he did not want to see the look on her face. "Well," he said, his tone self-assured and relaxed in just the way that had seen him bluff his way through many a meeting with network executives, "I'm sure there's someplace we can stay. Not necessarily a hotel. A private home? You know, a kind of bed-and-breakfast place?"

"It is against the law for foreign nationals to stay at the home of any Soviet citizen," she said primly.

"But then what are we going to do?" he cried; but the best the reception clerk would do was to concede:

"We will store your luggage for you until you pick it up." She nodded graciously, turned her back, and disappeared into another room.

Garfield opened his mouth to call after her, but his wife was plucking urgently at his sleeve. "Let's go outside," she said. Her tone prevented Garfield from arguing.

Out in the street he complained, "But we can't sleep in the street, hon."

She said tightly, "There was a man standing right behind you, and he was listening to every word."

"What are you talking about? You mean like somebody with the secret police? But we haven't done anything."

"Come on," she said, pulling him down the street. Passing citizens were looking at them curiously. Candace was silent until they had rounded a corner. Then she — turned on her husband: "You should have made sure about the room before we went out," she accused. "What are we going to do now?"

"Now, don't worry, honey," he said in his confident, network-meeting voice. "We've got plenty of traveler's checks. This is a big city; there's bound to be someplace."

"Why don't we get in touch with Intourist?"

He thought for a moment. "Nah," he said. "We'd just have to do the routine tourist things." Then he grinned. "This could be a real adventure, you know? And I bet we'll get some good stuff for Comrade Tanya." He could see her doubts wavering. "We'll just find a room — God knows it won't be the Beverly Wilshire, but we can stand it for a couple of days. Worse come to worst, there's Aunt Tasia's apartment; she's got an extra room, because the Smins were going to sleep in it last night."

She reminded him, "How are you going to find them? And anyway, an adventure's one thing, breaking some kind of Russian law is another. You heard what the woman said about renting rooms to foreigners."

Garfield thought for a moment. "We'll keep Aunt Tasia as a last resort," he conceded. "Well, what about Simyon? He's a big wheel. He can pull some strings for us."

"Dean," she said patiently, "he doesn't live in Kiev. Do you even know the name of the town where he lives? And — oh, God! Here comes that man again!"

Garfield spun around. It was true. The man coming toward them was, he recognized, the same one he had seen in the hotel lobby. He did not look like Dean Garfield's idea of a KGB operative. He was not much more than twenty years old. He looked quickly about and then said ingratiatingly, "Please, you excuse me? You want house room to sleep? I know nice place, right near bus to Metro, you have U.S.A. dollars to pay?"