Summit (20 page)

"That is most unfortunate," Irina said. "We hope the Peace Festival will encourage mutual understanding and respect, and eliminate such negative attitudes."

"Best of luck," Fulton murmured.

The highway gradually became less desolate, and soon they were in the heavy traffic heading for the lodestar of the socialist world. Fulton couldn't help feeling an extra twinge of fear as he gazed at the Cyrillic signs, the hammer-and-sickle flags, the enormous red posters showing the peace-loving workers with their firm jaws and big muscles riding glorious socialist tractors. When he had come here before, it was just another stop along the road; Moscow looked much like Prague looked much like Vienna, to someone who lived only for the two hours he spent in front of an audience. But now it was different. Now he looked out the window of the limousine and thought:
Here is the enemy.

Valentina Borisova was somewhere in this grim city. He could perhaps go out and find her right away, before the recital. But that wouldn't do, he knew. Better to follow Hill's instructions.

When the limousine finally pulled up at his destination, the National Hotel looked much as he remembered it—except that the sidewalk in front of it was mobbed with fans. A few militiamen were having little success in holding them back. "They've been waiting all day," Hershohn remarked.

"Time to get used to it again, I suppose," Fulton murmured. He looked at the faces of the fans: perhaps Valentina Borisova was
here.
He didn't see her. He closed his eyes for a moment, then put on his public smile and got out of the limousine.

The crowd cheered and pushed forward, thrusting pieces of paper and record jackets at him to autograph. Fulton waved and made his way through. It took him a couple of minutes to get inside, and then he was safe; the average Russian wasn't allowed into the hotel.

Irina apologized for the un-Soviet behavior of the fans, but Fulton ignored her. He had almost enjoyed it.

"Just like the old days, huh?" Hershohn said.

"As if I never went away." Fulton wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

He was quickly deposited in a suite filled with flowers and fresh fruit and overstuffed Victorian furniture. Irina departed, after making it clear that he would not be going anywhere without her as a companion. He slumped in a wing chair while Hershohn ate an apple.

"Do you want the rundown now?" Hershohn asked between bites. "There's a video and sound check at the hall tomorrow. You're invited out to dinner tonight with—"

Fulton waved him silent. "Later."

Hershohn stared at him. "Are you all right, Daniel?"

"Yes, I'm all right, Charles. Yes, I'm going to give the recital. No, I'm not going to get weird on you—at least, no weirder than usual. Now go away and let me rest."

Hershohn smiled and threw the apple into a wastebasket. "I can take a hint. I'm in Room 304 if you need anything. Try to relax, Daniel."

Not likely. Fulton shut his eyes. "I'm asleep already," he said. He left them shut until he heard the door slam. Then he got up and stared out the window at the spectacular view of the Kremlin and Red Square. He had a feeling that he wasn't going to relax until he had left this city behind.

* * *

Fulton declined all pre-recital invitations. He wished he could go onstage right away, instead of waiting around for a day to get rid of jet lag; the waiting was not going to put him in any better shape to play the piano. It was too late now to rethink his strategy, however, and so he stayed in his suite amidst the fruit and the flowers, getting more and more nervous.

The only time he ventured out was to check the piano. The technicians and stagehands burst into applause as he strode out onto the stage of the Great Hall. He gave a quick bow, seated himself at the piano, and ran off a few scales. The piano was a European Steinway, and it was all right. Unlike most pianists, he wasn't obsessed with the quality of the instrument. Even a perfect piano could produce only an approximation of the music in his mind; it didn't seem to bother him a great deal if the approximation was a little less than the best.

He played for a few minutes, then summoned a technician, and together they worked on the sustaining pedal, which was a little stiff. When the problem was fixed, he signaled to Hershohn. "I'm at everyone's service," he said.

The more nervous he was, the more polite he forced himself to become. It was another disguise.

Hershohn was by his side immediately, giving orders to the recording people and the video people, trying to make sure they didn't waste any of Fulton's time or politeness. It took about an hour. Afterward Fulton played a little Chopin and signed autographs, and everyone thought he was a joy.

"Are you all right?" Hershohn asked as they prepared to wade through a sea of fans back to the limousine.

"Fine, thanks."

Hershohn shook his head. "Please, Daniel. Tell me the truth. There's a lot riding on this—for you and for me."

Fulton turned away. "I don't know, Charles," he murmured. "I don't know. I don't know."

"Look. It's okay if you back out. I want you to understand that. Life will go on. But you've got to do it now."

"Let's go back to the hotel, Charles," Fulton said. "I have to try and get some rest."

* * *

It was the afternoon of the recital. Valentina swirled, and the red silk glowed in the sunlight.

"I think you look gorgeous," Doctor Chukova said.

"I got the pattern from a West German fashion magazine. The material cost a month's salary, and then I had to find a seamstress I trusted." Valentina sighed. "And it's probably all a waste."

Doctor Chukova's heart ached for her patient. Valentina was too young to have suffered so much, to be so cynical. On a day like today she should have been like Kitty before the ball in
Anna Karenina;
instead she was like a Kitty who had a certain foreknowledge of what the ball held in store for her.

But what could Valentina expect? That Daniel Fulton would glance at her cleavage in the reception line and smile at her; nothing more. Wasn't it enough? Wasn't it enough to be going to the recital and the reception at all? The difference between Valentina and herself was that Valentina still had her dreams, even if she knew they were hopeless; Doctor Chukova had lost both her dreams and her hope. "If there's anyone more beautiful than you at this reception, I'll be astonished," she said.

Valentina looked at herself in the mirror. She seemed torn between agreement with Doctor Chukova and total despair at her ugliness. "I don't know, Olga," she murmured.

"Anyway, you should try to relax. Take a nap. I'll stay here in case you're worried about not waking up in time."

"Oh, I won't be able to sleep. But all right, I suppose I should try." Valentina stood in front of the mirror for another moment. "He will be wonderful tonight," she whispered. "I know it."

"Come on. Take your dress off and go to your room."

Valentina smiled. "Yes, Doctor."

Doctor Chukova helped her unzip the dress and return it carefully to the closet. Then Valentina went into her bedroom, climbed underneath the covers, and obediently closed her eyes. Chukova looked at her with puzzled affection. Sometimes she was impossible, and sometimes she was an angel. And always she was beautiful.

Doctor Chukova left the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the window of Valentina's high-rise apartment. Somewhere below a couple was arguing, their anger carrying, though their words did not. It was a new building, and the apartment was spacious, but of course the soundproofing was terrible.

She sat down and stared out the window. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't decide at first whom to cry for. She was middle-aged and plain and in desperate trouble, but so what? Valentina was young and beautiful, to be sure, but she was doomed. Doctor Chukova knew that because she had helped to doom her. If any tears were to be shed, she realized, they would have to be shed for her patient.

And so she cried for Valentina as the afternoon came to an end, and the time for Daniel Fulton's recital approached.

Chapter 18

The crowd came early to the Great Hall of the Moscow Conservatory. The people with tickets were dressed in tuxedos and furs; they were diplomats from India and physicists from France and politicians from South Yemen and a movie star or two from the United States—and a few very special Soviet citizens. The ordinary Soviet citizens had to wait behind the lines of militiamen and gawk at the foreigners and hope that by some miracle an extra ticket would find its way into their hands. There were only eighteen hundred seats in the hall, however, and the chances of a nobody getting into this recital were nonexistent.

The somebodies who had tickets walked through the elegant lobby and sat in their plush apricot-colored seats in the high-ceilinged, rectangular auditorium, under portraits of famous composers. Some people chatted idly, pleased to look forward to a little entertainment after a dreary day of speeches about peace. Some waited with curiosity and anticipation, aware that they were present at an important event.

And a few waited as if their lives depended on what happened tonight.

* * *

Hershohn was worried. It was his job to worry, but this had gone far beyond the call of duty. It was bad enough trying to make sure that Daniel Fulton would go onstage for the most important recital of his life; but Hershohn also had this spy business to torment him—the extra turn of the screw that was almost enough to make him give it all up and become an accountant.

And the worst thing was, he had to pretend everything was all right.

"You're going to be fine, Daniel," Hershohn said backstage. "Just relax and play the piano."

Fulton did not look as if he could do either. Yesterday's politeness had been replaced by a silence that verged on catatonia. The man could scarcely function.

"Perhaps some tea?" a solicitous, matronly woman asked, gesturing to the samovar she was guarding.

Hershohn shook his head. Tea wasn't the answer. Telling Fulton he didn't have to play was the answer. But Hershohn wasn't going to do it. It had been all right to say that yesterday, but now it was too late. Now Fulton had to go through with it; if he backed out with the audience in their seats, he wouldn't get any bookings, no matter how famous he was. He would simply be too great a risk.

"Everything's fine, Daniel. They love you. You just have to play a few pieces. You've known them for years. You could play them in your sleep."

Fulton was standing motionless near the doorway to the stage. You could hear the excited murmur of the crowd, enough to make the most hardened performer nervous. A clock by the door said 8:10.

"It's time to go out there, Daniel. It'll be all right. You've done it hundreds of times before."

Fulton looked at him with mute pleading:
Don't make me go.
Hershohn steeled himself. It had been Fulton's idea, and now he would have to live with it.

"You're going out there now, Daniel."

Hershohn signaled to the stagehand by the door, who opened it, spilling bright light in on them. Fulton blinked against the light and didn't move.

"Now, Daniel," Hershohn whispered, and he cautiously pushed Fulton in the back. Fulton resisted for a moment, then took a step forward, and then another. And then he was standing on the parquet floor of the stage, and the applause began. The stagehand closed the door, and Hershohn closed his eyes. Accountants never had nights like this.

* * *

He smiled and waved. He was dying. They loved him. They were waiting to hate him. He sat down at the piano. What was the first chord? He waited for silence. He wanted the silence to last forever. He wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to go, nothing to do but play.

He leaned forward and played.

* * *

Valentina was sitting in the side balcony to the right of the stage. She couldn't see Fulton's hands as he played, but she could see his face: the strong chin, the soulful eyes, the shock of brown hair. Three years. It was hard to believe the face was real—that the sounds she was hearing were real as well, that the dream had finally come true and Daniel Fulton had returned to her life. It was too much; her mind couldn't focus on anything. If she had wanted this less, she would have enjoyed it more.