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ten-twenty. Her best bet to reach Aram, she decided, would be to go directly to his parents’ place and try to find out from them where he lived. But how? It would be folly to take a taxi from the hotel at this hour. Any hotel driver would undoubtedly also be a part-time police informer. She looked out the window of her room and saw the play of lights and fountains in Lenin Square. People were out strolling, which meant there might be a few taxis on the streets.

Move, Anna told herself. Don’t waste another minute. She put the address of Aram’s parents in her purse and headed for the square. There was a seedy-looking group of men by the door, and as Anna left the hotel, one of them came after her. He wasn’t even subtle about it. When he called out something that sounded like “I love you, baby,” Anna was relieved. He was just a hustler, trying to pick up a Western woman. Anna got more catcalls from the Armenian teenage boys who were sitting astride the fountains, smoking cigarettes. Fortunately, she also attracted the attention of a taxi driver. Anna handed him the address, which Aram had written out for her in Armenian characters. The driver nodded and began chattering away in Armenian as he drove up the hill. He left Anna off at an apartment complex near the radio tower, overlooking the city. She asked him to wait, in halting Russian, but when she gave him the money, he sped off.

It was just after eleven when Anna knocked on the door of the Antoyans’ second-floor apartment. A white-haired man shuffled to the door in his bathrobe. He had to be Aram’s father. The eyes gave him away. He looked at the American woman standing on his doorstep as if she were a creature from another planet.

“Vot Antoyan Aram?” she asked. Is Aram Antoyan here?

“Nyet,” said the father. He might have closed the door on her if his wife hadn’t padded up behind. She had a gentle, studious look that also reminded Anna of Aram. Neither of them spoke English, and Anna’s Russian wasn’t up to the task. But Aram’s mother spoke passable French, so they conversed in that language.

“I met your son in Paris,” said Anna. “We are friends.”

Mrs. Antoyan smiled, as if she knew exactly what that meant.

“I have come to Yerevan on a visit. I would like to see your son while I am here.”

“I am sure he will be very happy to see you,” said the Armenian woman. “He talks often of his time in Paris and the friends he met there.”

“Does he live here? He gave me this address in Paris.”

“Oh no. He is a grown-up man now,” she said with another motherly smile. “Too old to live with his mother and father.”

“I would like to see him soon,” said Anna.

“Very well. You can visit him tomorrow at the hospital. I will give you the address.”

“No. I have that address. Actually, I would like to see him tonight if that is possible.”

This request was a bit forward for Mrs. Antoyan. She blushed. Here it was, nearly midnight, and a complete stranger was trying to get in bed with her son. Evidently it was true what they said about American women.

“Perhaps it is too late tonight,” said the Armenian lady, trying to preserve a measure of decency.

All things considered, Anna was pleased that Mrs. Antoyan had her pegged as a woman of loose morals. She did her best to reinforce that impression.

“Please,” said Anna breathily. “I want to see him very much. Won’t you give me the address?”

At this point, old Mr. Antoyan broke in and mumbled something in Armenian—which Anna suspected translated roughly as “Give the bitch Aram’s address so I can get some sleep.”

“I can give you his address,” said the old woman. “But I don’t think he’s there now.”

“Why not? Where is he?”

“With friends. You should not ask about these things. You should try tomorrow.”

“I would like the address,” said Anna.

Aram’s mother rolled her eyes. She wrote out the address on two sides of the paper, in Russian and Armenian characters, and gave it to Anna.

“Thank you so very much,” said Anna. “I have missed him terribly, and I can’t wait to see him again. Perhaps we can all meet for dinner.”

“Perhaps so,” said Mrs. Antoyan. But she looked dubious. It was all right for her son to sleep with this loose American woman, but dinner was a different matter. In an Armenian household, dinner was a sacrament.

“Good night,” said Anna, waving goodbye. Old Mr. Antoyan scanned her legs and gave her a wink before closing the door.

Anna walked back to the main road. Finding a taxi at this hour in a suburban neighborhood would be next to impossible. But she suspected that in Yerevan, as in most Soviet and Eastern European cities, a private car might be willing to take her for a few rubles. She walked downhill, toward a large petrol station a few hundred yards away, gesturing with her outstretched hand for a car to slow down and pick her up. She waved off the first driver who stopped. He was a heavyset man, obviously intoxicated, who looked as if he wanted to screw her. The next car contained a young couple. They were passing Anna by, but she gestured frantically and they pulled over. She handed the address to the woman, with a desperate look on her face.

“Pazhalusta!” implored Anna. The woman whispered something to her husband, who thought a moment and then nodded. Aram’s flat was back toward the center of town, near the Opera House. The couple sat in silence in the front seat, evidently wondering what on earth a foreign woman could be doing, alone, in a Yerevan suburb at midnight. Anna worried, for a moment, that they might be taking her to a police station. But after fifteen minutes, they pulled up to a four-story building on a narrow side street.

“Vot