Suddenly I wanted some fresh air. “Excuse me, Mr. Olivier”—peeling his hand off my hip again—“I need more champagne.”
“Drink me, you darling little killer. I’m like a vintage wine—you have to swill me down before I turn sour!”
I managed to fight my way free, through the crowd on the terrace outside and toward the long, sloped lawn leading away from Breakaway House. “I see we’re both looking for some quiet,” Kostia said, melting out of the shadows in his silent way.
“At least Yuri’s not breathing down my neck for once.” My partner and I wandered down the long stretch of grass, which did indeed lead to a swimming pool far below. “Who’d have guessed he was so starstruck?”
“Apparently he used to shadow a Moscow bigwig with a liking for private showings of forbidden Western films,” Kostia said.
We’d had our own private cinema showing tonight: The Great Dictator, Charlie Chaplin’s most famous film, showed in his small personal theater. I’d seen some strange things in my life, but not much was stranger than watching a man strut and posture across a flickering screen, then turning and seeing the same man sitting on my right, all friendly smiles, watching for my reaction. I’d never seen a Chaplin film before; he seemed like an odd pop-eyed little man, not how I envisioned a film star.
“What did you think of The Great Dictator?” Kostia asked, reading my thoughts.
“I don’t know if I can laugh at Hitler.” I shortened my stride to match Kostia’s slight limp, since he’d come outside without his cane. “Maybe we should—laughter makes men small. But I’ve seen too many Hitlerites coming at me with rifles and tanks to find them funny.”
“You’re philosophical,” my partner observed.
“Only at noisy parties.” I didn’t feel alone in a sniper’s nest at midnight, but I frequently felt alone in crowds—which was why I was here outside, and Kostia, too. That’s where you find two snipers at a party: away from the crowd, in the dark, alone. And happy to be there.
“I hate almost all parties,” Kostia confessed. I was still in uniform, but he was in black tie again. He’d left the jacket somewhere inside and his sleeves were pushed up, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“You didn’t seem to hate this one so much when you had two film stars draped over you earlier,” I couldn’t help saying. Myrna Loy and Mary Pickford, learning that my interpreter was a sniper himself, had asked to see the hands of an expert marksman, had gushed over his calluses, had cooed like doves when he cracked walnuts effortlessly between his cast-iron fingers. “Myrna Loy was nearly sitting on your lap.”
“Charlie Chaplin kissed your hand,” Kostia pointed out. “And went down on one knee.”
“That was embarrassing.” The actor had proclaimed he was ready to kiss every finger on my hand for those 309 Fritzes I had put into the ground—and then he did it, lingeringly, damply, as cameras flashed and I resisted the urge to wipe my fingers on my uniform.
Another champagne cork popped in the distance. It made my partner and me tense briefly; we traded smiles and Kostia handed me down the half wall above the swimming pool at the bottom of the long lawn. The house at the top of the slope was barely visible from here; I saw bouncing shadows of half-drunk actors—I could have sworn I saw Yuri’s square silhouette dancing on top of the piano—and heard the distant strains of “Song of the Volga Boatmen,” undoubtedly being played in Soviet honor. The night was warm; autumn had already come to the Midwest, but it had yet to touch down in the City of Angels. The swimming pool shimmered only faintly in the dark; it was a new moon, almost no light at all. That didn’t matter. Kostia and I, we could see in the dark like it was noon.
We sat down at the edge. I kicked off my heels so I could lower my feet into the cool water, and Kostia rolled up his trousers to do the same. “Your visit in New York,” I began, thinking maybe he could tell me about his family now—no one in earshot here, much less anyone who could speak Russian—but he shook his head.