“Okay, smart-ass. Let’s say we were going tit for tat. The coup changed everything. It was a Russian-orchestrated prelude to a kiss, the military invasion of this country, and the beginning of the end. You saw the Russian tanks with your own eyes, didn’t you?”

“And I saw the Stinger missiles Reagan sent over like they were party favors.”

I set my napkin beside my barely touched plate and push away from the table. When I stand, both Mom and Clay become still.

“I can’t listen to this,” I announce brusquely.

A waiter, a thick-browed man in his early twenties, pauses at our table to check in on us. Clay takes a sip of water and Mom purses her lips.

“Is there anything I can bring for you?” he asks in a deeply accented voice.

“A ceasefire would be great,” I grumble.

The waiter looks bemused.

“Sorry, sister, this is not on our menu,” he says. He turns his attention to a more tranquil table by the windows.

Mom is on her feet, her hand on my forearm.

“Ary, sweetheart,” she starts, but I shake my head.

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault. You’re right. Clay’s right. But I didn’t come here to do a postmortem on the Cold War. I came here to find my family.”

Mom bites her lip. She looks pained, as if she might have absorbed my headache through her hand on my arm.

Clay exhales sharply.

“I need a walk,” I say. They both rise to leave with me, remorse on their faces. “You guys should stay and finish eating . . . and talking.”

I stand outside the restaurant for a few moments, letting their argument dissipate into the night air. I start walking in the direction of the hotel, though I know it is late and the air is thick with car exhaust and the smoke of burning wood, plastic, tires, and coal. I think of the six million people in this city and the scarcity of oxygen.

After two blocks, I pause.

Someone a few meters behind me has been walking at my pace and in the same direction since I left the restaurant. I glance over my shoulder. I cannot make out his features from this distance, but I can see he is wearing dark slacks and has his hands stuffed in his pockets. I cross the street and walk to the end of the block, past a furniture store and a print shop. I pause to look at the signs in the print shop window. The man stops walking again.

I spot a taxi a few feet ahead and make my way to it. I tap on the glass, and the driver looks up, surprised. He rolls down his window, and I tell him I need to get to my hotel quickly. He nods and I slip into the backseat.