excerpt
There was nothing in Jennifer’s bag that would attract their attention. An inspector conferred first with the passenger, then with two uniformed attendants who remained a few steps behind the desks, but whose eyes roamed everywhere. Jennifer tried to avoid staring at the watchers. Every time she did she could feel the sound of swallowing in her throat, her heart pounding. Instead, she turned to smile at Volodya. He smiled back pleasantly but didn’t say anything. She watched Chopyk go through the process with the official giving a perfunctory glance at his luggage, then David following right behind. She and Volodya were almost the last ones in their line. It was difficult to discern exactly what these inspectors were searching for. Drugs? Guns? Manuscripts for publication in the west? If they were looking for anti-Soviet propaganda, you’d think they would conduct that search when the group arrived, not when they were departing. Yet she noticed one guard riffling through what looked to be Maria’s classroom notes, pausing to read a few words out loud.
“The Hermitage, or old Winter Palace, contains over 40,000 treasures….”
She glanced over at Hank in the other queue, with Marty behind him as usual, who was just now closing his suitcase and was about to head outside to the airport tarmac. Before he went through the far door, he glanced back at her, reassured her with his eyes. Go on, Hank, she thought. Don’t call attention to us. He passed through whistling.
Now it was Lona’s turn to lift her bag on to the desk, which she did cheerfully, along with a string bag that carried the wrapped shape of a balalaika. Lona reached into her cavernous handbag to produce a passport but seemed to be fumbling a lot. Her suitcase still bore a sticker from the New York bus terminal, Jennifer noticed irrelevantly. When the gigantic suitcase was opened, the inspector sighed briefly, then thrust his hand among the clothing at random, his eyes averted from Lona’s most charming smile. He withdrew a small flat object wrapped in gift paper and opened it carefully as if expecting to find a bomb. No longer smiling, Lona’s face appeared impassive. Jennifer had a good view of the item: a miniature painting, a portrait of a family set in an elegant gilt frame. The guard examined Lona’s passport once more, looked her in the eyes, then handed the passport to one of the attendants who glided forward effortlessly. They conferred together in mumbles, while Lona continued to stand frozen. Jennifer dared not look at her.
Libros Libertad 