“Bambina. Bambina cara. Let me explain to you. United States government cannot help you if you do this idiot thing and go to Moscow. You are too small—Soviet Union too big. Soviet Union will kill anybody—it will kill millions brazenly. Stalin killed millions in Ukraine, did you know this?”

“Millions? That’s impossible.”

“Not impossible. Starvation. He creates famine so people starve, so they have nothing left but Soviet state.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I listen.” He touches his ear. “Friends. Family. They have to whisper, they cannot shout this or some nosy neighbor denounce them, their own children denounce them. If you are not good little Communist, if you do not recite daily catechism—and catechism sometimes change with no warning, so you must pay attention—then comes knock on your door.” He knocks twice on the table with the hand holding the cigarette, which by now has burned almost to a stub. “Do you see? In this terrible war—this war between communism and liberal democracy—communism will win, because it does not care how many lives it devours.”

I make a hushing movement with my hand, because the waiter has just arrived with our lunch. Anyway, Orlovsky’s become overwrought with his daily catechisms and his starving millions. I already know what evil looks like; I’ve seen the photographs out of Dachau and Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen.

We eat our lunch, just like any couple. The restaurant is only half full and the other diners are mostly young people, tanned and happy and unscarred, too young to have fought in the war. Naturally, Orlovsky would choose a place like this. He loves young, beautiful people, especially women. His gaze flicks around the room without even noticing what he does—resting on that face, those legs, this bosom—subconscious, pleasurable assessments. The waiter clears away the plates and brings tiny cups of espresso. Over the rim, I notice a man sitting at a table in the corner, reading a newspaper. I can’t see his face, but he has a slim build and long, elegant fingers that grip the edges of the newspaper.

I return my attention to Orlovsky. “If you think it’s such a terrible idea, why are you helping me?”

“First, because I know I cannot stop you, and if you must go, you need all help I can find you.”

“Second?”

He smiles a wan, toothy grin. “Because I am Russian, bambina. I cannot resist lost cause.”