Corruption

by Adam Vine

  His office was a cramped penthouse full of dust and wandering papers, dim with morning gloom despite the panoramic windows painting the walls with City’s pale skyline.

  “How is your first day going?” Filip said.

  “Can’t complain,” I said.

  “And how are you liking Country so far?”

  “Love it.”

  “Are you still very tired from travelling?”

  “I had long layovers,” I explained. “So I slept a lot at the airport. Only since this morning have I started to feel human again.”

  “And have you settled into your flat?” Filip said.

  “Still getting settled. Mostly, I’ve just been getting drunk.”

  Filip nodded. “The Old Town has many fun parties.”

  “I actually haven’t been there yet, except during the daytime. But I’ll check it out. I didn’t realize City would be so full of Brits. Even at the supermarket, I heard so many people with British accents, I felt like I was in London.”

  Filip chuckled. “It’s quite common in the summer and fall. Guys from the U.K. come here for stag parties. They like it here because it’s cheap and they like our girls.”

  “The girls are very pretty here,” I said.

  “Maybe while you are here you will find a Countryish wife,” my boss said.

  It was my turn to chuckle. “Anything’s possible.”

  Filip shrugged. “As for English stag parties. Fortunately, they seem to prefer Country in the warm weather, so around this time of year they usually stop visiting,” Filip said.

  “Great. I’ll have the whole place to myself.”

  Sabina, the dark-haired secretary who had booked all my flights and found my apartment, came into the office carrying a platter of coffees.

  Filip leaned forward, clasping his hands and rounding his back. “So, let’s talk about your project, Arkadius. It is considered a very important work here, perhaps our most important. We read it in school. But there is no good version in English yet, so it is not widely read in your part of the world. There is one, but it is very old, and was translated from Russian, not the original language. I think it was published in 1903.”

  “Jeez,” I said. “The version I read was translated by Google.”

  “It was probably better. Have you finished it?” Filip said.

  I shook my head. “No. I mostly read it on my flight over. I’m about halfway through.”

  “Have you read enough to glean what it’s about?”

  “It was written in the thirteenth century, by an unknown author, and is about a knight named Arkadius, who has the reputation of being honest and good. Arkadius has a dream where an angel visits him and commands him to kill the king, who is an oppressive tyrant, in order to save his people. Arkadius raises an army, goes to war with the king, and Arkadius wins, killing the king and taking the crown for himself.

  “But once he’s in power, Arkadius realizes that the king’s brutal rule was the only thing holding the kingdom together. He’s forced to become a tyrant himself to keep his homeland from falling apart. He has a long, bloody rule, and becomes even more brutal and evil than his predecessor was.

  “Finally, when King Arkadius is old and his power is fading, a good young knight – I forget his name - shows up at Arkadius’s castle at the head of a vast army, claiming Arkadius must die for the kingdom to be saved.”

  “His name is Josef,” Filip said. “It sounds like you read much further than halfway.”

  “The rest I got off Wikipedia.”

  “Do you remember how it ends?” Filip said.

  I nodded. “Josef kills Arkadius, takes the crown, and the cycle continues. The moral of the story is that even a good man can be corrupted if the circumstances don’t allow him to use his power for good.”

  Filip smiled. “I see you did your homework. That’s a better rundown than I could give. However, I disagree about the moral of the story. It probably doesn’t come across very well in a short synopsis, but Arkadius is about a man who loses sight of what it means to be good. It’s about how power changes people. Anyway, it’s not important right now. By the time this project is finished, you will be a true Arkadius scholar. You’ll also have some side projects to work on, which are not similar, but may give you a lot of great insight into some of Country’s other famous writers who haven’t been discovered by the West.”

  “That’s what you said over Skype,” I said.

  “So, we should start with those. It’s better if you have a small project first, before tackling the big one. Our government really wants this translation to be great, and invested some money in bringing you over here.”

  “The government?” I said. I didn’t know that.

  “Don’t worry. They work for the university system. They don’t think you’re a spy or anything.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  Filip smirked. “I know these smaller projects are not glamorous work, they might even be a bit boring. But they’re very important to the company.”

  I put my best professional face on. “So, will these poems have artwork? You said the new edition of Arkadius was going to be fully illustrated.”

  Filip gave me a boyish grin. “Our best artist will be working with you on all projects. His name is Karol. We call him Lolek. Really, really talented guy. The first time I saw his art I was like, Wow, man, this guy is good.”

  “I can’t wait to meet him. Anyway, I don’t think I’ve taken the time to properly thank you yet for giving me this opportunity, Filip. There aren’t that many jobs out there for unemployed poets.”

  My boss’s grin stayed, but the twinkle in his eye faded. “Daniel, let me be clear. You are the first foreign employee we’ve had. I think it will not make any problems. But I am sure that in the long-term, the language barrier will prove difficult.”

  “Why? Everyone here seems to speak good English. They’re a little bit reserved…”

  “Cold,” Filip cut in. “Yes. It’s a problem here.”

  “I’ll just chalk it up to shyness. Plus, I want to learn to speak Countryish, anyway,” I said.

  Filip sighed. “Countryish is very difficult for English speakers to learn. If you stay here for a few years, I guess it is certainly possible. But I want to treat these first projects as a sort of trial, to see if you really like it here, and, if you’re a good fit.”

  Seeing the look on my face, he put out a hand to reassure me. “We already know we want you here, Daniel. Your credentials are great. You have a true passion for your work. I just want to make sure this is a good fit for you.”

  He seems sincere enough. He’s never struck me as anything else.

  “I’m sure it will be,” I said. “I do want one clarification though. When the work on Arkadius is finished, will I be credited as the poem’s translator?”

  “Don’t worry. Your name will be on the cover. I’m sure we can even give you some nice bonuses, since I’m pretty sure it will be a best-seller,” Filip said.

  As I was getting up to leave, my boss said, “One more thing, Daniel. Do you have plans yet for Christmas?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “I know it’s early. But if you want, I’d like to invite you to Christmas with my family. Christmas is a big holiday here, and I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said.

  “We will be eating and drinking for two days, opening some presents, and singing carols. All in Countryish, unfortunately.”

  “I won’t mind,” I said.

  “It won’t be at my place, but my parents’. Well, they live across the street from me. And my brother, he lives next door.”

  “I’ll be there. What are we eating?”

  Filip’s eyes tracked up and away as he imagined the foregone deliciousness. “Dumplings, fish, pork steaks, cabbage stew, cakes, ice cream, and more. Ice cream is my son’s favorite. I have a three year-old son. He’s already beating me at video games.”

  We both laugh
ed.

  “And of course, there will be plenty of vodka,” Filip said.

  “Count me in.”

  I went back to my desk to stare at the blank excel sheet blinking on my old LCD monitor. I looked up local kendo schools online, and found one on the outskirts of City that looked to have reasonable prices, but it was an hour and a half walk from my flat, and I didn’t know yet how to use the trams. I disappointedly accepted the fact that, for the time being, my training would remain on hold. What’s the big deal? I thought. I’ve already missed two years. What’s one more?

  By the end of the day, my co-workers were still as cold to me as the bare concrete walls of our biuro, as they called office buildings in Country. I caught a few staring at me and snickering behind shielding hands, but I tried to ignore it. Dad always said I needed to have thicker skin.

  THE CITY

  I WENT OUT after dinner around nine PM, wearing my old black suit, the nicest outfit I’d brought with me to Country. The seams of the pants were running and they didn’t quite stay up even with my shirt tucked in. I’d owned the jacket since high school. I wore it with a striped red tie and tan leather shoes, freshly polished. I combed my hair, which was almost past my ears, and put two condoms and a fresh pack of gum in my pocket.

  It had been two years since the accident. Two years of living in a hole, unable to socialize and enjoy life. I’d been wrong in the cab. I was ready for a change, and I would never have a better opportunity.

  A twenty-minute walk led me to the edge of the Old Town, where the medieval towers of brick and green bronze began to rise above the twilight. The gray avenues with their bare autumn trees became narrow, crooked mazes paved with cobblestones, the churches with their eternally burning candles standing sentinel at every corner.

  Soon the bright lights of the Main Square permeated under the dying red and lavender sky, and I found myself guided to that beating center of gravity like a moth to its death-flame. I could taste the smoke of grilled sausage and dumplings from the Solstice Market in my nose, and the vodka I was about to consume in the thirsty, nervous clicking of my tongue.

  There were dozens, maybe even hundreds of bars, clubs, and strip joints hidden away in the secret folds of that thousand year-old time capsule. There were jazz clubs in subterranean brick cellars that had once been used to store grain. There were rooftop beer gardens with creeping ivy walls and rusty iron tables that looked like they’d been there rain or shine since World War II. There were full-nude strip clubs with secret doors where any rich foreigner with enough cash and good negotiation skills could bargain for something more.

  I made the boring choice, and started at a café bar obviously catering to foreigners, creatively named Drinks Bar, with a dancing neon martini sign over the door. I gave a nod to the three guys sitting at one of the outside patio tables, which they didn’t return, then descended a winding brick staircase down two floors to the dimly-lit underground bar.

  The bar was mostly empty. It was built into a cavernous old brick cellar with vaulted ceilings, renovated with track lighting and a barely-visible modern speaker system. The disco balls throwing their slow rainstorms of light over the empty dance floor made the place feel quaintly outdated. A handful of quiet drunks occupied one of the tables next to the bar, while a bald fat man stood talking loudly in Countryish with the cute bartender, a petite girl with dyed-red hair, facial piercings and tattooed sleeves.

  Their conversation halted as I approached the bar to order. The bartender looked at me expectantly.

  “Is English okay?” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Sure.”

  “I’ll have a shot of vodka,” I said.

  “Which kind?”

  I noticed the bald man was giving me a wolf stare out of the corner of his eyes. I smiled at him and turned my attention back to the bartender. “I’d like to try a good Countryish vodka. What do you recommend?”

  The bartender pulled a clear glass bottle down from the middle shelf, bearing what looked like a sleeping princess on the label. She poured me a shot in a miniature, chilled glass. “This is Ice Princess. Very good Countryish vodka.”

  I picked up the glass. “Do you usually drink it straight?”

  “Sometimes with apple juice.”

  “I’ll pass on the apple juice,” I said. “Last question. How do you say cheers in Countryish?”

  The bartender smiled the dull smile of someone who has tiredly recited the same answer to a thousand other clueless foreigners, and said, “Na zdrovie.”

  “One more time?” I asked, leaning over the bar with my left ear.

  She spoke slower, with a patient smile, emphasizing the syllables. “Na. Zdro. Via.”

  I raised my glass to her, then to the bald guy next to me, and tried my best not to butcher my first phrase in Countryish. “Na zdrovie,” I said.

  The bald man raised his beer. “Na zdrovie,” he said. We clinked glasses, and I drank fire. The vodka in Country isn’t like vodka in the U.S. For one thing, it’s smooth. You don’t get the caustic feeling in your throat like you just swallowed rubbing alcohol. With Countryish vodka, the burn doesn’t come until it reaches your stomach, where it feels more like a pleasant ember.

  I was about to leave to go to a different bar when I heard a man shout in English from the back room. Another man responded in English, and the two of them laughed. They were just far away enough that I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but they sounded American.

  The back room was filled with people watching sports on a big screen TV. They were watching men’s volleyball. The crowd cheered as I poked my head around the corner. One of the teams had scored a point.

  The back room was small, with only four tables. Two tables were filled with Countryish guys, and one with Countryish girls. The English-speaking guys I’d heard from across the bar were seated at the back-corner table furthest from the TV, huddled over half-eaten bowls of soup with huge metal spoons and a dozen empty glasses of beer. They were both wasted.

  “So, did you bang her?” the Englishman was saying.

  “Which one?” the American said.

  “Fake blondie with the fat tets and the plump arse I saw you neckin’ with outside that disco. Looked like she could suck the smog right out o’ the air.”

  “Ah. At Samba Club. Yes. She can,” the American said.

  English laughed. “Christ. Tell me you used protection, Ink.”

  The American hung his head. “Well… the first time. But I only had one condom.”

  The Englishman dipped his chin, nearly face-planting into his soup. “You gotta stop raw-doggin’ these girls, mate. Don’t you get scared? If I get so much as a blowie from these birds, I spend the next month checkin’ my nuts for hitchhikin’ critters.”

  “No you don’t,” the American said.

  The Englishman shook his head and shrugged. “No. I don’t.”

  Both men laughed and toasted each other, splattering beer onto my old leather shoes.

  The American looked different than I’d imagined from hearing his voice echo across the bar. He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and an oversized head crowned with a black tumbleweed of hair falling down over his ears, slender but strong praying mantis limbs, and an ageless boyishness in the way he spoke. He had a long, hooked nose and cerulean blue eyes, a dimpled chin and neatly-trimmed beard. Dense, black body hair flowed from under the sleeves of his champagne blazer and over the neck of his shirt. I guessed he was in his early thirties.

  The Englishman, who I later learned was named Big Ben, was the American’s exact physical opposite. He was bald, short and barrel-shaped, and had a gigantic belly that shook when he laughed. His style was forgettable and he spoke too fast, with a heavy northern English accent. But his arms were huge, his comic book-sized muscles bulging under his rolled up sleeves, and his neck stood out with finger-thick veins.

  They were both talking in loud, slurred voices, seemingly indifferent to the fact the whole bar could
hear them over the roar of the game. I noticed one table of Countryish guys giving them dirty looks.

  I edged a little closer. The American was already in the middle of another story:

  “Her pussy was so wet, I had to use a piece of bread to sop up all the juices. I stuck my face in it and howled. And the strangest thing happened.” He paused, cupping his hands behind his ears as if listening for something, and said, “howl... howl…. howl…”

  English cracked up, nearly falling out of his chair.

  I leaned over and tapped their table with two fingers.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Sorry for eavesdropping on you, but are you guys American?”

  “English,” English said.

  American stared. His left eye drifted when he looked straight at me. Without a smile, he said, “Actually, this is just one of the many thousands of tongues I’ve mastered. I’m a traveler. A traveler… above time and space.”

  English choked hard on a laugh, spewing his beer.

  American illustrated with his hands. “My ship uses sequences of wormholes to jump from one part of the galaxy to the other. As I propel myself around the galactic center,”

  English interrupted him. “The Galactic Bulge.”

  “Right,” American said, “As I propel myself around the Galactic Bulge, time slows and I’m able to travel without moving. I can see the whole universe. It’s far out, man.”

  English buried his face in his hands.

  A little heckling should have rolled right off, but it didn’t. “Yeah, all right,” I said. “I get it. Let’s all make fun of the new guy. Sorry to bother you.”

  “Aw, c’mon,” English said. “Don’t be such an uptight cunt.”

  My hand fell from the tabletop and balled into a fist. “What did you say?”

  American put a hand on English’s chest to prevent him from standing up, told me, “Relax. What this obnoxious, bald, incredibly ineloquent Island Monkey means to say is: we’re just having a go at you, man.”