She is the type that doesn't refuse. It is thrilling to her to be given things. She will take your cigarettes, money, paper clips, postage stamps, whatever you want to give her. There is a certain woman that glows at the smallest gift.

Trotsky's name was Bronstein.

Half a bungalow on an unpaved street. He slept next to his Junie, fanning her with a magazine in the middle of the night.

When George came back he did a curious thing. He moved his chair around and sat facing Lee, with his back to the room. He had a hanky folded to a point in his breast pocket. His tie was brown.

"Now, what I am talking about is having you show me these notes of yours, whatever condition they are in, because it is Minsk and I am interested."

"It is also the system. The whole sense of historic ideas being corrupted by the system."

"Good, wonderful, you must let me see."

"It isn't all typed yet," Lee said.

"Typed. I will have it typed. Please, this is the least of your worries."

"It's called The Kollective.' I did serious research. I read journals and analyzed the whole economy."

"Is there anything else? Because I would like to see anything at all from that period. Observations of the most innocent type. What people wear. Show me everything."

"Why?"

"Okay I will tell you why. It is really very simple. In recent years I have been approached a number of times about my travels abroad. It is strictly routine. In other words you went to such-and-such, Mr. de Mohrenschildt, and we'd like to know what did you see, who did you meet, what is the layout of the factory you toured and so on. It is routine intelligence that thousands of travelers every year say okay this is what I saw. It is called the Domestic Contacts Division and there is a man who asked me to talk to you strictly low-key, friendly, of the CIA, and this is what I am doing. He is a good fellow, reasonable fellow, so on. I am always traveling, I am always coming back, and when I come back there is Mr. Collings on my doorstep and we have a chat, low-key, with drinks. I have written things on my trips which I give him willingly and I have given things to the State Department because this is my philosophy, Lee, that I must take on the coloration, let us say, of the place where I am living and earning my income at the particular time. A country is like a business to me. I move from one to another as opportunity dictates. I will learn Croatian in Yugoslavia. I will learn the French patois as the Haitians speak it. This is how I survive as someone who has come through a revolution and a world war and so on. I am always willing to cooperate. I take on the coloration. It is my message to them that I am not the enemy. A necessary gesture. I am not in the market to be persecuted. In other words here is my itinerary, here are my notes, here are my impressions. Let's have a drink and be friends."

"It isn't all typed."

"Please, I have my consulting firm, you know, with paper, pencils and a girl who types. I will give you a copy, of course, plus the original notes."

"You will also give a copy to Mr. Collings."

"This is understood. They collect and analyze. It can be helpful to someone in your position if you cooperate. Let's face it, you are in a cramped position. If I am a Mr. Collings and I see cooperation from an individual who can use and appreciate a better-paying job, then I am inclined to make a call. This happens all the time."

Lee bounced the child on his knee to quiet her down.

"Also, George, I would like to publish 'The Kollective.' "

"I would advise you no. I would say no, this is not right for you at this time. Let us look at the work. Then we discuss publication. You will be compensated one way or another, I guarantee this. These people have a thousand ways. They reach across the world. It's amazing. How do you think you re-entered this country? When a person defects, his name is put on the FBI's watch list. There is a lookout card that is prepared in such cases. But they returned your passport. They let Marina in. They gave you a loan and let you in."

"They were keeping an eye all that time."

"They're still keeping an eye. You're an interesting individual. I'm sure they would very much like to learn about your contacts in the Soviet Union. We'll have a nice talk, you and I, in private somewhere, without the baby listening in."

George laughed. They both laughed.

First Freitag and his partner, now this man Collings. They were swarming all over him like ants on a melon rind.

He looked at Marina. She was standing slightly curled, listening carefully to someone. Even in the heat and smoke she looked wind-scrubbed and fresh. Never love me for my weaknesses, he wanted to say. Never take the blame for me. Never think it is your fault when I am the one. I am always the one.

He slapped her on the side of the head and she took half a swing at him. He sat down and opened a magazine. She could tell he was turning the pages without really looking. She wanted something to throw. She grabbed a sheet of paper and crumpled it up and threw it at him. It bounced off his arm but he didn't react. She went to the table and ate some of her dinner, looking at him. She stared hard. She wanted to make him uncomfortable, make it hard for him to read. She felt stupid, throwing a piece of paper.

"No cigarettes," he said. "I do not want you smoking. That is period, forever."

"If I want to smoke once in a while."

"No good for baby. Very, very bad. You could not fill my bathtub? It is too much to come home, for me to expect a warm bath is ready, after a day of noise and sweat."

"I don't smoke too much. It is reasonable, what I smoke."

"Lazy, lazy girl."

"I make dinner. I scrub on my knees."

"I scrub on my knees," he said.

He flung the magazine sidearm, whipped it hard against the wall. The baby started in to cry. He got up and walked over to Marina.

"I scrub on my knees," he said.

He hit her in the face. She sat in the chair, with leftover food in her plate.

"I scrub on my knees."

She covered up. He hit her again. Then he went back to his chair and picked up a book. She took the plate of leftovers to the sink and left it there without scraping the food into the little pail. She, left it there for him to clean. He would do it too. There was always something lying around after a fight that he would carefully clean.

"You tell those Russians how we live our lives, about our sex, our private lives."

"This is how friends communicate," she said.

"Everything is public for you."

"I trust friends, that they understand how things are. Who else do I talk to? I need these friends."

"You don't need to tell our private life. I don't want them coming here. Keep them out."

"I must keep your mother out. I must keep my friends out."

"My own brother told the FBI."

"It's no secret where we live. What did he tell? People know where we live. We can't hide where we live."

He read the book. She turned on the tap and watched water swirl into the drain. The baby was crying.

"You like your wine," he said, not really talking to her.

"Teach me English."

"You wait for them to refill your wine."

"1 never loved you. I took pity on a foreigner."

"Meanwhile cigarettes."

"I tell my friends how you hit me. He doesn't hit so hard. It's just that I have soft skin. That's why they see the marks."

She was standing at the sink with her back to the room. She heard him get up and come toward her. She picked up a sponge and began cleaning the edges of the sink. He hit her in the side of the face. He stood there a moment, deciding whether one was enough. Then he went and sat down and she wet the sponge and worked a stain out of the countertop.

They were unloading across the street. She heard truck engines, men's voices. She had another bite of leftovers and cleaned the windowsill behind the sink.