Russian dancing

I had no idea who could have taken the towel, but Nadezhda's poise commanded attention. Moreover, she exuded a knowing sensuality that, as Guy de Maupassant would have said, "troubled" me. She straightened her dress again, pressing it down around her firm curves. "So," she said again, "have any idea who might have taken it?"

It suddenly seemed to me that locating towel thieves was a serious matter.

"I don't know. But I can ask around."

She took another drag on her cigarette. At this point I became aware of a third presence in the office. At the back of the room, leaning on one elbow on a sofa, was a young woman my age or a bit older. I examined her from the feet up. Her sandal-shod arched feet ended in scarlet toenails; her calves were silky bronze. Over a blue skirt and blouse she wore a maid's white smock, beneath which two heavy orbs distended her bra. Her neck was slender, her cheeks broad and Slavic -- rubicund with a bit too much sun -- and her eyes a wan blue. She yawned, brushing aside a shock of brown hair, and, taking a drag on her cigarette, regarded me with what appeared to be languorous amusement, as if she understood the ridiculousness of the scene but knew it would all work out in the end.

The angry maid resumed her bellowing. "Nadezhda Ivanovna, I've got to get my towel back, now!"

Nadezhda raised her eyebrows. "I think this young man will do all he can to find it. Why don't we give him till the next shift?"

The maid relented. Stealing a look at the young woman on the couch, troubled, I returned to my room.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The next morning I lay in bed as if drugged by the heat. A shuffling in the room indicated that, once again, Soviet maids had invaded without knocking. I opened my eyes, focusing on scarlet toenails and bronzed calves.

"Sleep! Sleep!" said the languorous maid from the previous day. "I just want to do my cleaning on time."

I lay on the bed, feigning a return to sleep, but with my eyes slit open. As she swept, her breasts swung, her hair batted the side of her face, her toes curled in her sandals. I rose in my bed and faked a yawn. "Actually, I think I'll get up. I ..."

She smiled. "My name is Svetlana. Come to the dezhurnaya's office. I have my break in a few minutes." She walked out and shut the door behind her.

I flung myself from the bed and into the shower. Within 20 minutes I was at the dezhurnaya's door. Nadezhda invited me in. Svetlana was reclining on the couch again.

Nadezhda asked, "May I help you?"

Svetlana smiled and looked away. I didn't know what to say.

"I ... I just wanted to see if you found the towel."

She moved her eyebrows. "You're very concerned with state property, aren't you? Americans are so law-abiding."

"Oh, well, I ... I didn't want the maid to have to pay."

Svetlana giggled from the couch.

Nadezhda stole a look at Svetlana, then suppressed a smile and said, "Look, young man, how would you like to come over to my apartment -- for an informal meeting." More giggles from Svetlana. "In a more informal setting, that is."

Svetlana ran her fingers through her hair. I mumbled a grateful and affirmative response.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The next afternoon, in a high-rise somewhere out among the last stops on the metro line, I stood knocking on Nadezhda's door. With me I had brought L'eggs stockings, Bic pens, postcards of the U.S. -- what I had heard Russians liked to receive as gifts from Westerners.

Nadezhda opened the door. She looked to see if anyone had followed me, pulled me inside and shut the door softly.

She wore a white dress that showed her curves. Her hair hung free, falling around her shoulders; her nose, I noticed, was aquiline, more prominent than that of most Slavs, and pointed. Her demeanor exuded poise and elegance. I felt myself suddenly in the presence of a woman of sophistication.

On her walls were paintings and gilded icons and shelves displaying silver tea services, boxes inlaid with gems, gold cigarette cases and crystal champagne glasses.

"I ... I brought you stockings ... and pens." I proffered my gifts.

She took them and set them aside.

Svetlana appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a tight blue and white sailor's blouse and a knee-length blue skirt. "Privyet! You've come for lunch, too?" she asked, addressing me with the informal "ty" that bespoke a breaking of the ice. In this situation, it promised some sort of intimacy.

Then Nadezhda, also using "ty," asked me to have a seat for lunch at a table beneath the icons. After serving us borscht and cutlets, she told me flat out that she dealt in contraband art, and that her husband was in prison for the same.

I nodded as if I had understood all along, but I couldn't resist asking, "Aren't you afraid to be telling me all this?"

"I can trust you, I know it. I just wanted you to know what's on my walls. Those aren't counterfeits."

Svetlana smoked and said nothing. Nadezhda then produced a tall bottle of vodka, and to switch the subject I mentioned Mikhail Gorbachev's anti-alcohol campaign -- it was tough to find anything to drink, except in hard-currency shops. She smiled again: She was clearly above such matters, and I felt silly for saying anything.

We resumed our meal. She handled her silverware with decorum -- I couldn't escape the thought that she was descended from noble stock, and that I was in the presence of a countess, if a felonious one.

After the meal, while Nadezhda was clearing the table, Svetlana and I began chatting, and I asked her out on a date. She smiled in a noncommittal way, then said, "Meet me at the Molodyozhnoye metro station tomorrow evening at 7."

Thoroughly troubled, I returned to the hotel to await our date.

Next Page: She raised her head to mine and we kissed

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