Although she lived in Moscow and held a prestigious job she was concerned that she’d seem provincial. Granted a generous allowance, she’d bought a new outfit. She was wearing it for the first time today, a steel-coloured suit. She felt uncomfortable in it, as if she were wearing someone else’s clothes. In Moscow the exclusive stores had been temporarily opened to her and the other teachers on the trip, a strictly one-off event in order to ensure they were presentable. Even so, she had no sense of international fashions and while the staff working in the store had lectured her on what executives in New York would wear, she suspected they didn’t know what they were tal="0" about. The diplomats she was about to meet spent their lives immersed in a society of the most important people in the world. She imagined walking into the room, being assessed in an instant as a woman of limited means who rarely travelled outside of Moscow. They would smile, polite, condescending – certain that she’d been plucked from obscurity, from mediocrity, and pushed onto an international stage. And this would be gleaned from a quick glance at her plain shoes and the cut of her jacket. In ordinary circumstances she wouldn’t have cared what a stranger made of her appearance. She was not vain. On the contrary, she preferred not to be noticed. But in a situation like this she needed to command respect. If they didn’t trust her, they’d be tempted to interfere in her plans.

In the elevator, Raisa stole a final glance at herself. The guide caught sight of her nervous self-appraisal. The young man, educated, with hair slicked to the side, wearing a no doubt expensive suit and polished shoes, afforded her a patronizing smile as if to confirm that her anxieties were exactly correct: her shoes were plain, her clothes poor and her appearance not to the standards typical of those working in this building. Worse was the implication that he was being generous to her, understanding the limits of her situation and making necessary allowances. Raisa remained silent, feeling out of her depth. She composed herself, doing her best to dismiss the incident, before stepping into the offices of the Soviet representative to the United Nations.

Two men, in immaculate suits, stood up. She knew one of them already, Vladimir Trofimov, a handsome man in his forties. He worked for the Ministry of Education, where the plans for the trip had been formalized. She’d met him in Moscow. While she’d expected him to be a political creature, largely indifferent to the children, he’d proved to be gregarious and friendly. He’d spent time with the students, engaging them in conversation. Trofimov introduced Raisa to the other man:

—Raisa Demidova.

He switched into an imitation American accent:

—This is Evan Vass.