book back to the USSR, and with it, to incite an international uproar over why it was banned.
Father David was soft-spoken but commanded attention, steady and confident as Chet Huntley on the nightly news. He also looked more like a priest than Father Pierre did, with his Boy Scout haircut, delicate pink mouth, and long fingers that one could picture holding up the Host.
Father David pointed to the model, showing us the separate routes we’d take in and out of the fair each day. If we suspected we were being tailed, we were to duck into the Atomium—the fair’s centerpiece, which stood a hundred meters tall and depicted the unit cell of an iron crystal magnified 165 billion times. We were to take the lift to the top of the aluminum structure, where there was a restaurant boasting a panoramic view of Brussels and a waiter ready to assist.
After giving us the overhead view, Father David moved the model to the floor and unrolled blueprints of the City of God. He pointed to the spot where Rodin’s The Thinker stood. “Father Pierre will be stationed here, circulating within the crowd to evaluate any Soviets who might make for potential targets,” he said. “Once they are identified, he will signal Ivanna by scratching his chin with his left hand.” He traced a path from The Thinker to the Chapel of Silence, his long fingernail scraping across the paper. “Ivanna will then usher them to the Chapel of Silence, where she’ll screen them for propaganda interest. If a target is receptive”—his finger moved around the Chapel’s altar to a small, unnamed square room—“she will escort them here, into the library, where I’ll be waiting with Sister Alyona.” He looked at me, then continued. “After a final assessment, the handoff will occur.” He pulled his hand back from the blueprints. “Oh, and one more thing: from here on out, we will only refer to Zhivago as the Good Book.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Any questions?” When no one answered, he took us through the plan again from start to finish. Then he took us through it again.
With the plan cemented in our minds, we sat and talked, drinking red wine from teacups and smoking. Only then did I ask it: “The Good Book—is it here?” Ivanna looked at Father David and Father David nodded. “They were taken directly to the fair earlier today, but we have one here.” She walked to the foyer closet and pulled out a small wooden crate covered by an old mat. She removed the mat and picked up a book. “Here,” she said, handing it to me.
I was expecting it to feel illicit. I was expecting to itch with dissidence. But I felt nothing. The banned novel looked and felt like any other novel. I opened it and read aloud in Russian: “They loved each other, not driven by necessity, by the ‘blaze of passion’ often falsely ascribed to love. They loved each other because everything around them willed it, the trees and the clouds and the sky over their heads and the earth under their feet.” I shut the book. I didn’t want to think of her. I couldn’t.
“Have you read it?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Ivanna said. Father David and Father Pierre shook their heads.
Opening the novel again and turning to the title page, I noticed an error. “His name.”
“What about it?” Father David asked.
“It should not be written as Boris Leonidovich Pasternak. Russians wouldn’t include his patronymic. They’d only write Boris Pasternak.”
Father Pierre puffed on his Cuban cigar. “Too late now,” he said, and held his hands in prayer.
* * *
The following morning, I carefully dressed in my padded brassiere and underpants, then slipped on the shapeless black habit and veil with a stiff white band that framed my forehead. I was forbidden to wear makeup of any sort; the woman from Hollywood said I’d have to make do with a dab of Vaseline rubbed onto my lips and the tops of my cheekbones for shine. But I didn’t even do that. Looking in the mirror, I liked how my face looked: raw, pale, maybe a little older. Stepping back to take in the full look, I felt sexless—and powerful.
At precisely 0630, I left the flat for my first day at the fair. If we did our jobs correctly, we’d have given out the last of the three hundred sixty-five copies of Doctor Zhivago by the end