Who's on First by William F. Buckley

Author:William F. Buckley
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504018517
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

20

Blackford was astonished at the informality of Viktor Kapitsa and Tamara when he was introduced to them by Vadim. The couple had breakfasted as usual in the sitting room by their bedroom, read the papers and, gluttonously, assorted journals to which, in Russia, they had no access. It was ten-thirty and the weather had suddenly cleared, the sun turned bright, and the air, ventilating the main living room on the ground floor with a cross draft, was fresh and sweet, and a little of the languor of summer crept in, with the scent from the rose garden. On the little lake the swans were parading; there was a rowboat up on the grass, and stillness.

Tamara’s face brightened. “Well, our taxi driver!” Vadim gave Blackford’s name as “Julian Booth.”

“I am delighted to meet you formally, Mr. Booth, notwithstanding that your detour to our hotel has proved longer than you gave us any idea it would be.”

Blackford smiled, shook her hand, and then the hand of the tall, thoughtful, gentle Viktor.

“I’m sorry about that, Madame Kapitsa—”

“Tamara.”

“Thank you. I’m Julian. But I’m especially glad you and Dr. Kapitsa are getting a little relaxation.”

Tamara looked at Vadim. “It has been a great pleasure to come to know the man who saved my husband’s life, and who has remained through all these years his best friend.” She spoke matter-of-factly, but there was a flighty femininity in her tones Blackford had difficulty in reconciling with her reputation as an established astrophysicist. She wore a summer dress of vivid pink with a white silk sash and deep V-neck. Vadim had sought expert advice on a modest but chic wardrobe for the unexpected guests, freshly arrived from drabness. She had her own small pearl necklace her husband had purchased on the black market with money earned by tutoring the son of a high Soviet bureaucrat who sought admission into the Lenin Institute of Technology. She wore it always, except when at work. That, and a little gold band on her wedding finger, were all the jewelry she owned. Viktor wore light flannel gray slacks and moccasins, a blue shirt, and a very light sweater. He looked strangely at ease. Clearly he was overjoyed that Tamara shared his fondness for Vadim, who now was acting the role of the constantly solicitous host. The telephone rang and the maid summoned “Monsieur Booth.” Blackford climbed the stairs, and was back in two minutes.

“Hot dog! The Chekhov is headed toward Tunisia. There now, Dr. Kapitsa—”

“Viktor.”

“There now, Viktor, that suggests the esteem in which you are held by your patrons in the Kremlin.”

“I prefer to think of them as my owners.”

Tamara winced. Viktor was openly violating his pledge never to express himself politically. But the news clearly elated her, and she spoke in rapid Russian to Viktor, while Vadim nodded his head in agreement, and then Vadim turned to Blackford. “I agree. I agree. It is now practically not conceivable that they doubt the Algerian cover story. Not conceivable.” And then, in a

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