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1970s. They were curious and surprisingly self-assured—especially the scientists and research doctors, who like their Western colleagues considered themselves members of the international republic of the intellect and disdained petty rules. After two hours of this charming conversation, Anna felt that she really ought to get back to the subject at hand. She tried to think of an artful transition, but couldn’t.

“Tell me about Armenia,” she said. “What is it like?”

Aram smiled. “It is simply a place, with the ordinary pleasures and problems of any other place. Plays, restaurants, theaters, parks. To me, that is its triumph. Armenia is ordinary and alive, rather than special and dead.”

“But what makes it different from Moscow or Kiev? Or Paris?”

“It is more corrupt.”

“But corruption is everywhere in the Soviet Union these days, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but that is workmanlike Slavic corruption. In Armenia it is an art form. It is the soul of the economy.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Anna. “Can you give me an example?” She hoped she wasn’t sounding too eager, too hungry for information. But the Armenian doctor seemed happy enough to talk.

“Take the cognac factory in Yerevan,” he said. “It is one of our greatest economic enterprises, located in a great stone building atop a big hill as you enter the city. Some people assume it must be the parliament building! Now you might think that the goal of this enterprise would simply be to produce fine cognac, since ours is renowned throughout the Soviet Union. But that is not quite right.”

“What is it really there for?”

“To create surplus production, which can be sold illegally for private benefit. Let’s say the monthly production quota is five thousand bottles of cognac. The factory will claim to make six thousand bottles, to overfulfill the quota and receive its bonuses. But in fact, the factory has really made seven thousand bottles.”

“What happens to the extra thousand bottles?”

“Precisely the question! What happens to the extra thousand bottles? Let us assume that I am one of the managers. I send a hundred and ten bottles to my Armenian friend in Leningrad. He signs for receiving a hundred bottles, the amount he actually ordered. He sends me money for the extra ten bottles and sells them. Or maybe he and I develop a swap system. I send him cognac; he sends me leather. And maybe I swap some of the leather with another Armenian friend in Tashkent, who has some cotton. The thousand extra bottles are all disposed of in a similar way. You understand?”

Anna nodded. She thought of all those vanishing bottles, and of the difficulty of managing an entire economy that ran on two sets of books.

“The system is rotten at every point,” said Antoyan. “The only thing that is alive is the rot.”

“That’s fascinating,” said Anna, “and very helpful to my foundation.” The Armenian seemed almost recklessly frank in his description of how the system worked. She wondered to herself whether she should make her move, push him to venture across the invisible line, toward cooperation. But Dr. Antoyan was smiling again.

“You know what Armenian Radio says on this subject?” he said.

“No, what?”

“Armenian Radio is asked: Is it possible to build Communism in Armenia? Armenian Radio answers: Yes, but we would prefer that you build it in Georgia.”

Anna laughed, but in truth her mind was somewhere else. She felt like a salesman, trying to get that first toe in the door. Being friendly and polite wasn’t enough; in the end, you had to push your way in.

“Listen, Dr. Antoyan,” she said. “My foundation is very interested in this subject.”

“What subject?”

“Corruption in the Soviet Union.”

“I see.”

“And we would love to know more about it. Maybe you could write a brief paper for us about the economic situation, summarizing what you have told me. Just a few pages. We would offer you a small research stipend, of course, if you could accept it.”

Aram smiled, as if he knew exactly what Anna’s foundation was all about. Anna plunged ahead.

“How does that sound?” she asked.

Still there was no answer from Aram. He just sat there looking composed, a smile still traced on his lips.

“What do you think?” pressed Anna again, this time almost in a whisper.

But the Armenian doctor kept his silence. After a few more agonizing seconds, he looked at his watch, remarked on the lateness of the hour, and said he must be heading back to the dormitory at Cité Universitaire. As he stood up to go, Anna felt sick to her stomach. She was convinced that she had bungled her first, and probably last, chance at recruiting the young Armenian. This feeling was in no way lessened when Dr. Antoyan, in parting, gave her a gentle and affectionate kiss on the cheek.

Aram Antoyan’s response came back a day later. It was a single typed page placed in a sealed envelope that he dropped off at the office of Danielle Marton. Anna was surprised when Danielle called to say that Dr. Antoyan had left a message for her; she had feared she would never hear from him again. But when Anna read the message itself, she was even more surprised. It read, in its entirety, as follows:

Some Observations on the Soviet Union

1. Armenian Radio is asked: What is so strange about Rooms 1714 and 2114 at the Rossiya Hotel in Moscow? Armenian Radio answers that they are adjoining rooms.

2. Armenian Radio is asked whether a commissar should close the door of his office when making love to his secretary. Armenian Radio advises no, as people will think they may be drinking.

3. Armenian Radio is asked: What happens to Italians who stay too long in the U.S.S.R.? Armenian Radio answers that when they go home, all the bras seem small.

4. Armenian Radio is asked: Should a woman marry a man who has been sent to prison for murdering his first wife? Armenian Radio answers that this is not a problem, as he is single.

5. Armenian Radio is asked if it is all right to