Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

16. Geneva, Take Two

November 19, 1985

Palace of Nations

Geneva, Switzerland

The 1980s was a great time to be an American. Markets were up, pop culture was dominating the globe, and confidence in the nation was at an all-time high. However, it was the complete opposite for Russia.

Switzerland eyed me anxiously as he pulled me aside. His mannerisms were usually calm and delicate, so something was clearly wrong. He leaned in close and whispered.

"Russia is due to arrive within the hour. I came to warn you as soon as I heard."

I sighed in relief. As was the norm at American-Soviet summits, diplomats and Swiss arbitrators milled about the room socializing before the summit convened. Unlike years past, the mood was strangely light and relaxed.

"I claim responsibility for that," I told Switzerland hesitantly.

Confusion swept over him.

"President Reagan, um...he had me urge Russia to come."

Hand flying to his chest, he reeled back as if I'd kicked a puppy. "Oh, Amerika..."

I thought back to my conversation with the President one short month ago. "Gorbachev takes counsel from him, just as I take counsel from you. Say to Russia whatever it is he wants to hear. We need to pull the proverbial wool over their eyes if we're going to outcompete them."

I gave his arm a reassuring pat. "Don't worry. You can leave us to stew in a room somewhere."

And he did just that.

~

"I am truly honored that you came," I said with faux sweetness.

Russia's neutral facial expression didn't change when I said this. He simply nodded in acknowledgment. His stoic aura perforation every inch of the room.

"Um..." I resisted the urge to check my watch again. Not even ten minutes had passed. "They made great tea," I said, gesturing with my fancy teacup.

His own cup sat untouched on the coffee table between our couches. Clearing his throat, he crossed one long leg over the other and folded his hands with effortless confidence. I squared my shoulders and raised my chin. We held eye contact for a moment.

"You say you want to talk," he said curtly. "Da. Talk, USA."

I swallowed thickly. Leaning forward, I set down my drink and folded my hands on my knee. "Russia, I know you understand the advantage of our nations being close."

He nodded wordlessly.

"We are not close ideologically, clearly," I went on. "But we can be close in other ways."

When I waited for him to respond, he gestured for me to continue.

"We have the two largest GDPs in the world, by far. Economically, we only stand to gain from improving our trade deals. Militarily, cooling things down would be mutually beneficial."

He frowned at that, and I began to feel annoyed that I was wasting my breath.

"Culturally, I know that Soviet citizens are...'curious' about American culture, American products. That curiosity goes both ways," I lied smoothly, maintaining eye contact. "And, on a personal level, I would like to get to know you better."

His brown eyes revealed the smallest tinge of interest.

Ah, there it is.

"Actually," I went on, adding a little rasp to my voice. "I would love to get to know you better."

He uncrossed his legs and leaned his elbows on his knees. "What do you want to know?" he asked.

My mental list of pre-rehearsed questions absolutely did the trick. I asked about Russians' views of Americans and shared Americans' views of Russians, albeit slightly altered. We discussed current geopolitical events, compared cultural differences, and even touched on our thoughts on different Nations. The conversation went incredibly well, all thanks to my embellished comments and softened opinions.

We even agreed to meet again the next day. After we stood, Russia gestured for me to walk ahead of him with a respectful nod.

"USA," he said with unusual softness.

I nodded graciously. "Thank you very much."

Once my back was turned, I smirked to myself. Got him.