It was oddly reassuring that someone in Germany had asked a Soviet speculator about Red Square. It was confirmation that Red Square still existed.

Borya Gubenko picked up a ball from a pail, set it on his tee, cautioned Arkady about the backswing, concentrated, drew the club back so that it seemed to encircle his body, uncoiled and lashed the ball on a line. “Want to try it?” he asked.

“No, thanks. I’ll just watch,” Arkady said.

A dozen Japanese teed up on squares of plastic grass, drew back their clubs and drove golf balls that sailed as diminishing dots the interior length of the factory. The irregular pop of balls sounded like small-arms fire—appropriately since the factory used to turn out bullet casings. During the White Terror, Patriotic War and Warsaw Pact, workers had manufactured millions of brass and steel-core cartridges. To convert to a golf range, assembly lines had been scrapped and the floor painted a pastoral green. A couple of immovable metal presses were screened by cutout trees, a touch appreciated by the Japanese, who wore golf caps even indoors. Besides Borya, the only Russian players Arkady could see were a mother and daughter in matching short skirts taking a lesson.

On the far wall, balls thudded against a green canvas marked in ascending distances: 200, 250, 300 meters.

Borya said, “I confess, I overestimate a little bit. A happy customer is the secret of business.” He posed for Arkady. “What do you think? The first Russian amateur champion?”

“At least.”

Borya’s big frame was tamed by a plush pastel sweater, his unruly hair wetted into sleek golden wings around a watchful, angular face with eyes of crystal blue.

“Look at it this way.” Borya plucked another ball from the pail. “I spent ten years playing football for Central Army. You know the life: terrific money, apartment, car, as long as you can perform. You get injured, you start to slip, and suddenly you’re on the street. You go right from the top straight to the bottom. Everyone wants to buy you a beer, but that’s it. That’s the payoff for ten years and your busted knees. Old boxers, wrestlers, hockey players, same story. No wonder they go into the mafia. Or worse, start playing American-style football. Anyway, I was lucky.”

More than lucky. Borya seemed to have crystallized into a new, successful persona. In the new Moscow, no one was as transcendentally popular and prosperous as Borya Gubenko.

Behind the driving range, slot machines sang beside a bar decorated with Marlboro posters, Marlboro ashtrays and Marlboro lamps. Borya lined up his shot. If possible, he looked more robust than in his playing days. Also sleek, like a well-groomed lion. He swung and froze, studying a drive that faded as it rose.

“Tell me about this club,” Arkady said.

“It’s hard-currency, members only. The more exclusive you make it, the more foreigners want in. I’ll tell you the secret,” Borya said.