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the shortage would be divided among the peasants. Now we are fairer-we divide the shortage among everyone. That's Communism-"
    "Well," she replied with a sigh, "Svetochka preferred it when you had your ration privileges at the food center. The people who work there are much more polite." A faraway look crept into her eyes; she might have been talking about heaven. "They even have someone who opens the door for you when your arms are loaded. They recommended things. The lettuce is especially fresh, they say." Tears spilled from her eyes. "Lettuce in winter God knows where it came from. The okra is from Central Asia, they say. The oranges from Cuba. Try-"
    "Enough." The Potter cut her off" with an impatient wave of his hand.
    "You have one answer for everything, Feliks. Enough! I've had enough of your enough! When we first met you had a ration at the food center and a dacha and a chauffeured automobile when you phoned up for one. You came home from that warehouse of yours with something for Svetochka almost every day. I wore lipstick colors nobody in Moscow ever saw before."
    "Enough," muttered the Potter. He felt as if he were being tuned too high.
    "You said you would take your Svetochka to Paris one day," she taunted him. "You said we would take the elevator to the top of an enormous steel tower and look out over the world and laugh our heads off."
    The Potter tilted his head onto the back of his chair and closed his eyes tiredly. "What if I told you I would still take you to Paris?" he asked quietly.
    She flung herself at his feet, hugged his knees. "Oh, Feliks, if only you could! Svetochka doesn't want to grow old without making love in Paris. We'd make love before dinner, the way we used to. Do you remember what an appetite you had afterward?"
    "I still have an appetite," the Potter commented bitterly. He opened his legs and felt her nestle between them. "I lost my job and my ration and my dacha and my chauffeured automobile, but I never lost my appetite."
    The second meeting took place in the second taxi. Oskar was driving.
    "So: I passed your offer on to my potential clients," he announced, concentrating on the road, his voice drifting back over his shoulder.
    "Here is their response."
    He handed a note back to his passenger as he accelerated past a long line of people waiting in a corner taxi queue. A young woman in a tattered fur coat and fur hat leapt after him, desperately waving a ten-ruble note, in the back seat, the Potter unfolded the piece of paper.
    There were two columns, one marked A, the other B. Nine names were listed under Column A-the entire New York rezidentura. One name, that of an African diplomat who had spent his formative years at Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow, was listed under Column B-the istochnik at the United Nations.
    "In America, Chinese restaurants have a Column A and B on their mentis,"
    the Potter noted absently. "They certainly went to a lot of trouble to say no."
    "I interpret it as a sign of personal respect for you, yes?" Oskar remarked.
    They were passing the zoo, and the Potter thought he could make out the bleating of some frustrated animal coming from one of the buildings; then it occurred to him that the sound might have originated in his own imagination. He leaned forward so that his mouth was close to Oskar's ear. "I have given the matter a great deal of" thought," he told him.
    "So: I suspected you would."
    Oskar was beginning to get on the Potter's nerves. "You are very sure of yourself,' he noted.
    Oskar shrugged. "You were the novator. If you really want to get out of Russia, you will come up with something to pay your way, yes?"
    Behind the taxi, a siren wailed. Oskar pulled the car over sharply to the right. A Zil limousine with lace curtains on its rear windows raced down the middle lane toward the Kremlin. Up ahead, a policeman held up cross traffic until the Zil had passed.
    "That's probably- Oskar named an alternate member of the Politburo, an expert on