City Of Spies. Nina Berry

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      But then good girls didn’t do things. They liked being hobbled in tight skirts and heels so they could have things done for them, and to them. But heaven forbid they climb scaffolding or crash through a barricade manned by armed members of East Germany’s most feared soldiers.

      Or damned well walk normally.

      Not that she, Pagan, would ever do such things. Bless you, no. She was nothing but a silly teenage girl, and the most you could expect out of her was to make faces at a camera.

      Before her adventure in Berlin she’d thought that way about herself, too, if she thought about herself at all. But then she’d ended up on the wrong side of the Berlin Wall the night it went up, with people she cared about in danger. Desperation had forced her to realize that people’s condescending expectations could be used against them. She’d pretended to be exactly what the leaders of East Germany thought she was so she could escape and get Thomas and his family to safety.

      Give most people exactly what they expected and they never bothered to look deeper.

      She’d thought she could pretend to be the sort of girl who wore a suit she could barely move in, for the sake of this sad little movie. But it was challenging these days to act like a shallow little dimwit.

      On screen, sure. But in real life? Now that she knew a bit better who she was, the facade was becoming difficult to maintain.

      Madge and Rada wrestled her out of the mummifying black suit and replaced it with the foofiest big-skirted ball gown Pagan had ever worn.

      “I knew it,” she said, flicking the ruched trimming that wound around her torso. She was a fish caught in a very fancy net. “I know Daisy’s a small-town girl, but...”

      “The director wanted frills,” Madge said flatly. “So he gets frills.”

      “And I get chills,” Pagan said, swaying the hooped skirt to and fro. “Fit’s great, but I’m going to knock over every piece of furniture I walk past.”

      “Can you waltz in it?” Madge asked, her lips moving around the cigarette lodged in her mouth.

      “If Scarlett O’Hara can do it, so can I.” Pagan did a tentative one-two-three around the sewing machine. The skirt swung like a large white gauzy bell. “I could signal ships at sea with this thing.”

      “Pearls,” ordered Madge.

      Rada draped a multistrand pearl necklace with a large rhinestone clasp around Pagan’s bare shoulders.

      “It’s like Breakfast at Tiffany’s set in the Civil War,” Pagan said.

      Madge snorted. “Exactly what Victor requested. I told him it was derivative, that we should set the style, not follow it. He said, ‘It’s not that kind of movie.’ Of course it isn’t if you think of it that way! Ach.” She made a helpless gesture with both hands, exhaling smoke through her nose. “I’m going home tomorrow, and you’ll get to deal with him. Rada will be here for the shoot.”

      “The suit will tear,” Rada said gloomily. “The netting will rip. It is inevitable.”

      “Is he that bad?” Pagan lowered her voice, even though they were the only ones in the large cluttered room. “Victor?”

      “You haven’t met him?” Madge lifted her painted eyebrows and paused to remove the burned nub of her cigarette from her mouth. “You won’t like him.”

      “Tony likes him,” Rada said, and raised a melancholy eyebrow that said it all.

      Pagan’s heart sank. Why couldn’t things ever be easy? The thought of a man who was anything like Tony Perry in charge of an important movie in her career made her want to dive straight into a martini glass. But then a nice, sunny day sometimes did the same thing.

      “There should be a word for men who prefer the company of other men—not to sleep with, mind,” Madge said, stubbing out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray by the sewing machine. “But who cannot abide to speak to women unless it is to condescend or seduce.”

      “I believe the word for men like that is jerk, Madge,” Pagan said.

      Madge snorted and lit another smoke. “Sorry to be so blunt, honey. But you should be prepared.”

      “I’m always ready for men like that,” said Pagan. “My whole dang life has prepared me.”

       CHAPTER SIX

      Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires

      January 10, 1962

      AMAGUE

      From amago, meaning threat. An embellishment done on one’s own before taking a step.

      “I hate this movie,” Pagan said.

      She and Mercedes had changed into cotton frocks and were walking down the grand avenue to end all grand avenues in Buenos Aires. Pagan had returned from the wardrobe fittings in a baleful mood, and at Mercedes’s request, Carlos had dropped them off in front of the Casa Rosada, or “Pink House,” where the presidents of Argentina lived and worked. The casa was indeed as pink as the desert hills outside Los Angeles, squatting like a sun-baked birthday cake at the eastern end of the plaza. This was where Eva Perón and many others had spoken to assembled crowds from the balcony. Now, beside the yellowing grass and weary jets of the water fountains, tourists wandered, and women in sensible shoes supervised tours of shuffling schoolchildren.

      Mercedes kept consulting her guidebook, telling Pagan the history of each statue and plaque in an eager voice that was cute for the first fifteen minutes. After that Pagan tuned her out and tried to enjoy the sunshine until Mercedes finally asked how the wardrobe tests had gone. The whole story about her first rehearsal with Tony and what she learned about Victor the director at the fitting today came pouring out.

      “I almost feel guilty about kicking that snake Tony that first day,” Pagan said. “I was so angry, but at least he’s behaved since then. What is it?”

      Mercedes had stopped by the ubiquitous statue of some guy on a horse in front of the Casa Rosada and was staring up at the huge baby-pink arch over the entrance. “There’s a museum inside,” she said, and smiled at Pagan.

      Oh, God, Mercedes and her eternal thirst for knowledge. It made Pagan feel positively stupid sometimes. She should go to more museums probably, to fill up all the empty places in her brain. But right now she was too restless and discontented to stand in front of display cases listening to M drone on about political movements and population growth.

      “Maybe some other time, if that’s okay.” Pagan took a few steps away from Casa Rosada, trying to pull Mercedes away from it. “I’m starving. Where’s that café you wanted to go to?”

      “Down the street that way.” Mercedes pointed toward a tall white, elongated, pyramid-type monument with a small Statue of Liberty on top. “We could eat soon, but I might not get a chance to come back here...”

      “You can come back while I’m on set. Time to eat.” Pagan turned decisively СКАЧАТЬ