it’s the same for Drew.”
“Let’s skip tonight’s Wagner and go back to my place. I’ll fix something for supper, or we can go out.”
“I’m hosting a supper afterwards, remember?” Fiona looked out the window and said, “Funny, isn’t it? My family forced Drew and me into a de facto alliance of sorts. If Drew does have AIDS, how will my family take that? Sorry, rhetorical question. That pack of jackals will bay at the moon.”
“Mother said that you have the heart of a saint and the family of a true martyr. Given the circumstances, might reconciliation with Drew be in order?”
“I wish my maternal instincts, such as they are, would surface. Anyway, Drew and I have business to sort out; maybe I could begin there.” She started to get out.
“When did you learn about Fred?”
“About a week ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
Fiona slid across the seat. “I have to be careful with you.” She put her hands to my face. “You’re like Tatiana: so delicate, so fragile.”
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“In front of whom?” Fiona’s smile was forlorn.
That evening’s performance, Parsifal, was Wagner’s most tedious opera. The knight Parsifal dealing with a witch in a magical garden was as far as I got before my thoughts turned to Drew.
After having walked out on Drew years ago with no real explanation, it was remarkable that we got along as well as we did. We had become cordial over the past several years, and I wanted to see him before I left for Moscow.
By the intermission, I had no idea what Parsifal was up to. In the large hall, Fiona and her friends dissected the evening’s performance; most were unhappy with the lead, who seemed distracted or bored—I couldn’t blame him. Once we were in our seats, the music came up, and I tried thinking about Moscow. It almost worked.
Fiona shook my arm as the seats were emptying. “Overwhelmed by the Wagner?”
“Caught me daydreaming.”
“About Russia?”
“And Mother too.”
“Guests are coming; we must hurry.”
That Saturday morning, I left a message on Drew’s answering machine, telling him about my assignment, and promised to write from Moscow. I tried his office and was told that he was in Dallas, tending to clients. Thinking about it, my message on the answering machine was perfunctory. Drew and Fred lived eight blocks from me, and I walked over.
Their Tuscan-inspired home on Marina Drive overlooked the Marina Green and the San Francisco Bay. From Drew’s front window, Alcatraz was to the east, the Golden Gate due west, and Marin County’s flaxen hills north across the Bay.
Fred had always been distant and was more so that afternoon. We talked at the front door until he invited me in for a drink. Fred opened the refrigerator and asked me to help myself. I found a bottle of beer and poured him a glass of orange juice. I continued with small talk while we stood in the kitchen. Fred wasn’t unpleasant; his expression was neutral, but he wasn’t making it easy. I rambled on about Russia. Looking out a window at one of San Francisco’s infrequent warm summer days, I suggested the patio behind the house. Fred agreed.
Fred was a blue-eyed blond, and about my height, just over six feet. The skin around Fred’s neck and jaw was sagging. He had weary eyes and pallid coloring.
During an uncomfortable lull, I asked about Drew’s gallery. Drew was an art dealer, and Fred managed the business. Fred perked up and told me about a recent showing. Fred turned glum, leaned back in the chair facing the sun, and closed his eyes. I got up to leave.
“Not a very good host these days, I’m afraid,” he said. “As you suspect, I’m preoccupied.”
“I’m sorry. I learned yesterday. And I barged in on you. Sorry about that too.”
Fred opened his eyes. “I know you’re concerned about Drew, but you’ll have to ask him.”
“I will.”
Fred nodded. “May I tell you something? Drew mustn’t know.”
Seeing the anger in Fred’s eyes, I said, “I’ll save you the trouble. You don’t like me, and I know why, but I don’t think…” I didn’t want to continue on that path, but there wasn’t another to take. “Well, I admit that walking out on Drew without an explanation was kind of graceless, but that was years ago when we were youngsters.”
“Kind of graceless?” Fred laughed. “Graceless, you say? Drew said you could be funny, but your comedic efforts aren’t working today, certainly not with me.”
“Look, I understand your feelings.”
“I don’t think you do,” Fred said. “Drew has a thing for tall blonds. I mean, look at us; you’re a larger-framed version of me. But, no, that’s not it.”
“I’ve got to get going.”
Fred stood to face me. “Well, this tête-à-tête was your idea, wasn’t it?”
“I’m not going to apologize to you for what went on between Drew and me years ago. Frankly, that’s none of your business.”
“Really? None of my business? But you see, it’s definitely my business because I love Drew. And you, you tease him.”
“No, I don’t, not at all.”
“At Drew’s receptions, you were so vivacious, so charming. Underneath that stuffy exterior, you’re most alluring, as far as Drew’s concerned. Drew tries hiding it. But he can’t, not from me.”
“Fred, you’ve got it all wrong. I’ve never teased Drew.”
“Go ahead, deny it, you shameless flirt.” Fred sat down. “Well, that’s off my chest.” He clasped his hands behind his head. “I’m going to catch a few more rays. Please show yourself out.”
I was at the garden gate when Fred called out, “Oh, one last thing: your forbearance, please.” I went back. “I made this interlude unpleasant,” he said. “Nevertheless, your coming around is more than some of my real friends can muster. My feelings about you notwithstanding, I’ll edit out the acrimony when I tell Drew that you dropped by. He’ll be pleased.” Fred faced the sun.
CHAPTER 4
JUNE 1986
MOSCOW
Before I arrived, all of the Russian staff, except for one secretary, had resigned, so I contacted Boris Izmailov at the Soviet Foreign Trade Bank. Boris headed the North American desk and introduced me to his people, all of whom spoke excellent English. Boris and his senior management hosted a lunch; I explained my staffing problems and asked for their assistance. We sealed their assurances with vodka toasts.
After
