This is the George Feifer who wrote Justice in Moscow back in 1964, returning for a fictional crack at the same theme. Here he pits a Holly-go-as-lightly-as-possible ingenue -- greener than the collective farm she escaped but somehow aware of London ragbag chic and the Audrey Hepburn archetype -- against neo-Stalinist Moscow. Oktyabrina hits the capital without bureaucratic clearance or propiska, to live by her wits and make good some of those grand cosmopolitan fantasies: she'll be a ballerina with magnificent lovers, or later a bluestocking with the same, or still later a socialist heroine. . . . Her story, or stories, are told with utmost compassion by a divorced, aging American reporter named Joe, who has become her on-and-off platonic protector and provider of Western cosmetics. Only he can understand and appreciate (and eventually really love) her, or do full anti-Soviet justice to the grim end of her ""hooliganism."" Poignant, but white-knuckled with anovelistic purpose.