A waitress brought Stas another beer. With her blue eyes and short skirt, she looked like a large, overworked girl. Arkady wondered what she made of her clientele of sunny Americans and contentious Slavs.

A large Georgian broadcaster with the curls and beak of an actor joined the table. His name was Rikki. He nodded abstractedly through an introduction to Arkady, then launched immediately into a tale of woe.

“My mother is visiting. She never forgave me for defecting. Gorbachev is a lovely man, she says; he would never gas demonstrators in Tbilisi. She has a little letter of remorse for me to sign so I can go home with her. She’s so gaga she’d take me right to jail. She’s having her lungs looked at while she’s here. They should look at her brains. You know who else is coming? My daughter. She’s eighteen. I’ve never seen her. She arrives today. My mother and my daughter. I love my daughter—that is, I think I love my daughter, because I’ve never met her. We talked on the phone last night.” Rikki lit one cigarette from another. “I have pictures of her, of course, but I asked her to describe herself so I would recognize her at the airport. Growing children change all the time. Apparently, I am going to the airport to pick up a girl who looks like Madonna. When I started to describe myself, she said, ‘Describe your car.’ ”

“This is when we miss the vodka,” Stas said.

Rikki fell into a trough of silence.

Arkady asked, “Tell me, when you broadcast to Georgia, do you often think of your mother and your daughter?”

Rikki said, “Of course. Who do you think invited them here? I’m just surprised they came. And I’m surprised who they’re turning out to be.”

“Having a loved one come sounds like a combination of reincarnation and hell,” Arkady said.

“Like that, yes.” Rikki lifted his eyes to the clock on the wall. “I have to go. Stas, cover for me, please. Write something, whatever you want. You’re a lovely man.” He heaved himself up and plodded tragically toward the door.