Free Last Call for Blackford Oakes by William F.; Buckley

professor at Moscow University, author of a book on—urology, actually.”
    â€œCan we get the English-language rights to that one?”
    â€œDon’t sell this lady short. She is also as fluent in English as you are, and just as beautiful as you … used to be. Come to think of it, I guess I get my good looks from you, Dad!”
    Gus turned his head sharply at the sound of a door opening, but it was only the waiter. “And, of course, she’s active in the Scientists’ and Scholars’ Union.”
    â€œSo be nice to her?”
    â€œYeah. Be nice to her. We’ve got a few other natives who are quietly friendly to the U.S. There’s the Nikitins, husband and wife, Yevgeny and Antonina. They’re true cultural grit. He plays the piano, she, the violin, and they do joint musical appearances. Both of them teach, and they’re members of the Musicians’ Union. There’s a new edition of Grove’s coming out, and they’ll want to talk about putting that book—all twenty volumes—on the list of books to be authorized, even though it’s a Brit publication, not one of ours.”
    â€œGus, a delicate question I hadn’t given any thought to: Have you got a specific allowance from the USIA to pay for outings like this one?”
    â€œOh sure. And Ivanov is almost certain to give a reciprocal cocktail party. Nothing lavish. The Commies are extravagant only on the military; everything else is penny-pinch. But they are also pretty hospitable. And, somehow, the money materializes.”
    â€œHow are your guests in English?”
    â€œIvanov speaks it pretty well. So do Eduard and Sofia Konstantin—they lecture at the foreign-service school, and they’ve traveled abroad. The Nikitins speak it a bit. And as I said, Ursina is fluent. I don’t have to tell you, these things have a way of working out, common sympathies. This is glasnost time, hang it all out. You got some body language worked up to communicate the true meaning of The Federalist Papers ?”
    The doorbell rang.

CHAPTER 15
    Gus signaled to the waiter, hired help for the cocktail hour, motioning him to the door. Pyotr opened it for Deputy Minister Ivanov, whose raincoat Pyotr took, asking what refreshment he’d prefer. Pyotr nodded energetically when Ivanov mentioned champagne, his eyes surveying the rest of the room to order his social priorities.
    Gus introduced the minister to “Mr. Henry Doubleday, our guest of honor, here to do what he can to make our Gorky exhibit truly successful.” Blackford looked at the short, portly bureaucrat with the decorations peeking over his breast pocket. Acknowledging the guest, Blackford apologized for his ineptitude in Russian.
    Ivanov shrugged his shoulders. “I am glad to speak in English except that you must not … ah … make records of my mistakes. I am a writer, not”—he looked over at Gus with manifest condescension—“a translator.”
    Blackford smiled, of course. “And most important”—he would begin to ply his professional line—“we speak to one another in books. I am ever so pleased that the Culture Ministry is as enthusiastic as we at USIA over the fifteenth U.S.–Soviet cultural exhibit coming up in June. It is an honor to have your enthusiastic patronage.”
    Ivanov nodded and sipped at his champagne, and Pyotr opened the door to other guests. It was the Nikitins, the musicians. They asked for soda water—“Yevgeny and I have to perform later in the evening,” Antonina said with a smile, shaking Blackford’s hand, “so it is too early to celebrate. I hope that before you leave Moscow, we will have an opportunity to play for you?” Bits and pieces of that thought were delivered in pidgin English and Russian, with Gus’s assistance, and Blackford nodded his way through it and said, “I very much hope so.”
    Yevgeny wasted no