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thoughtfully–“maybe twelve
leva
, maybe eighteen.”
    “Wonderful,” exclaimed Mrs. Pollifax, quite carried away by the thought of paying only six or nine dollars for a sheepskin vest until she remembered it was an imaginary vest they discussed.
    “We let you know. Maybe tomorrow, okay?” For the first time he gave her a glance that she could read as meaningful, and she nodded.
    “Thank you,” she said, and left.
    Mrs. Pollifax walked slowly back to her hotel, pausing to look into a number of stores to prove that her interest was not limited to tailoring shops, should anyone be following her. When she reached the hotel and her room on the sixth floor, she discovered that she felt a great deal lighter: a grave responsibility had been lifted from her, she had found the shop and notified the Underground of her arrival. The rest would be up to the mannamed Tsanko now, and in the meantime she could relax and begin to enjoy Sofia.
    After unpacking the top inch of her suitcase, she took a quick shower and then dressed. She felt quite stimulated by the brief exchange of words at number nine Vasil Levski. The man had reminded her of Mr. Omelianuk, the owner of the little delicatessen around the corner from her apartment in New Brunswick, and she reflected how alike people were, no matter where they lived. The problems changed, but people were the same. She wondered how she would be contacted, and when. Apparently not this evening; the man had implied tomorrow. That was disappointing, especially when she glanced at her watch and saw that it was only six o’clock. It seemed much too early for dinner, and in any case she wasn’t hungry.
    I’m feeling too efficient to be hungry, she thought, and it suddenly occurred to her that she might complete all of tomorrow’s work today by calling upon Mr. Carleton Bemish. Perhaps she could persuade him to join her for dinner. Failing that, she could at least engage him for a sightseeing tour of Sofia tomorrow in her rented car.
    Splendid idea, she decided, and putting on her hat she descended in the elevator to the small side lobby and walked outside to begin her search for Mr. Bemish’s street and apartment house. One left turn, she remembered, and then four blocks to the Rila, which meant—turning it backward—that she walked four blocks away from the plaza and turned to the right. And there it was, giving her cause to congratulate herself on accomplishing so much during her first hours in Bulgaria.
    But what a bleak-looking place the building was on closer scrutiny. It looked new, and very clean, but it had been constructed in the stark, concrete-modern style of the twenties that aimed at simplicity but succeeded only in looking utilitarian. Mrs. Pollifax entered a lobby that resembled a laundry room, with a drain placed squarelyin the center of the floor; there were two couches, of tubular steel and hard plastic, at right angles along the wall. A directory of occupants gave Bemish’s name, apartment 301, in both Bulgarian and English. A windowless staircase, also cement, led up to an unseen landing from which drifted the smell of cabbage. There was no elevator.
    Mrs. Pollifax began to climb, and as she climbed the smell of cabbage grew stronger and the ill-placed ceiling lights grew more garish. At the door of apartment 301 she knocked and waited. The building was quiet, but from inside 301 came the sound of someone singing. It was a man’s voice, overcharged, belligerent and rendered in a spirit that Mrs. Pollifax guessed did not come from any internal source of well-being. Mr. Bemish’s cocktail hour had begun some hours ago.
    The door opened and a cheerful, rotund man beamed at her.
    “Mr. Bemish?” she said. “Mr. Carleton Bemish?”
    He winked. “In the flesh.”
    And indeed her first impression was of flesh, rather a lot of it, and all of it arranged in circles: a plump round stomach, round face, round chins, small round eyes embedded in circles of flesh, and a