Red Russia

by Tanya Thompson

  While opening the eighth bottle, Louis Vuitton happens to note, “The mudozvon is about to fall from his chair.”

  Mudozvon: a man making music with his balls.

  One of the tattooed men hands Peter a hunk of bread with the suggestion, “Hold this in your front teeth. When you kiss the floor, you will not break your smile.”

  To which Peter exclaims, “Pumpernickel rye? I’ll pump her quarters dry!”

  I roll my eyes. What an anecgloat.

  As they continue in this uninterpreted conversation, the Bull wants me to explain, “Why are you with him?”

  “To translate.”

  His nostrils flare with annoyance before he clarifies, “How much money does he have?”

  The Polar Bear’s white muzzle swings in my direction and also waits for an answer.

  To blatantly ask about your finances is such a Russian norm, I should not be insulted. If Peter manages to remain conscious, he won’t see dusk without someone asking him the same question. Only they won’t be calling him a gold digger.

  Peter has never had to dig. He’s the Prince of Coins; gold is his birthright. And the Bratva, tattooed from their crowns to their toes, are so perfectly versed in symbolism they can see it.

  And they can apparently see me for what I am as well. There is to this revelation no small amount of shame. It burns red into my cheeks.

  The Bull is roused. He says, “This is a man’s night. You do not belong here. Come, I will show you something.”

  While I turn my head to refuse, the Polar Bear asks, “You see other women?” The ears shake back and forth in denial. He looks to Peter, affixing a vodka label to his forearm like a tattoo, and assures, “Do not worry. He is safe. Go with Demyan.”

  * * *

  I doubt Peter has noticed I’ve left the parlor to follow the Bull named Demyan into the kitchen, and this negligence has all of a sudden become a worry because the Bull is saying, “I will show you what it is to be a man.”

  This is chiefly disturbing because Demyan is dropping his pants to the floor.

  Looking quickly to the ceiling, I ask, “What in Christ’s name?”

  And he tries to call my attention back with, “I have two.”

  “I am sure you do.”

  “Look.”

  “I never doubted it, so there is no need to prove it.”

  “They are larger than most people expect.”

  “Unquestionably.”

  “If you do not deserve them, the brotherhood will scrub them off with steel wool.”

  …millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror…

  “Are you going to look?”

  “Do you really need me to?”

  “Have you seen them before?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Do you know what they mean?”

  “I swear to god, no.”

  “I got them when I was twenty.”

  “That is rather late.”

  “No, that is very young.” His tone is now irritated. “Do you know anything about tatuirovki?”

  Tatuirovki? Tattoos? I look down from the ceiling and—thank the heavens—he’s displaying two stars on his knees. And they are very large. Inked in black, the points extend beyond his kneecaps so the northern tips nearly pierce the hulls of darkened sailboats, and the southern rays stretch down his shins to flared cobras.

  He asks again, “Do you know what they mean?”

  It may seem we’re back in territory from which I could safely guess, but the eight-pointed star is found in nearly every culture on Earth, and to each it means something different. Still, the collective unconscious has agreed it’s a symbol of great power, and as I mention aloud, “I doubt you would be standing in your cotton briefs if it was not something to brag about.”

  “They are proof I will bow to no authority.”

  No bull would.

  “Konstantin does not have stars on his knees.”

  Yes, well, cats abscond before they’re asked. And speaking of which, “Where is Konstantin?”

  Demyan directs my attention back to the ceiling. From the floor above comes the repetitive thump, creak, and groan of old furniture under duress. He explains the unnecessary, “He has a woman.”

  Somewhat at a loss in this conversation, I half smirk to say, “So, he has a woman but no stars.”

  “He has stars on his shoulders. Not his knees.”

  “The shoulders are where we carry the burdens of the world. Are his stars the burden of authority?”

  Standing in his underwear, Demyan catches a laugh, almost smiles, and studies my face to see if the innuendo was intentional.

  I wince with self-censure, thinking, Sibyl, you are a suicidal fool to have made that joke.

  His amusement instantly fades, and he nods with understanding. Bending down to gather his pants, he makes himself decent while saying, “You thought me too much of an animal to read Tolstoy. He was the master of double meaning. But you should not speak like that again.”

  Regret, I need to start expressing serious regret. I’ve only just opened my mouth to begin when he looks up and cuts me off. “No, it was funny. To me. It would not be so funny if I were to explain it to them.” He points to the parlor.

  “I apologize for both the insinuation and underestimating you. I will do neither again.”

  “You have already done the second again, but you do not know it yet.”

  “Then, please, correct me.”

  “No.” He levels calculating eyes on me. “I would rather it play out.”

  “Splendid. I look forward to acting the fool once more.”

  “Your little anecdote was correct, though. Konstantin’s stars show he was once a thief in law, but he does not respect the laws of the thieves or the State. He is only Bratva. A thief in law would never do business with a silovik. Not to benefit the government, anyway.” Catching a humorless laugh in his throat, he admits, “His stars are the burden of authority.”

  “From how Isaak described it, I was under the impression Konstantin was not willingly doing business with Volikov.”

  “With Volikov and the sawmill, no. But his rise to Pakhan was government funded.”

  He does seems quite determined for me to know something, and better sense would have me backing out of the room to join the thieves in a drunken boar hunt, but as Dostoyevsky says, It takes something more than intelligence to act intelligently.

  “I imagine a government-controlled Pakhan would be quite useful, but did they have a particular purpose in mind?”

  “The old nomenklatura needed a liaison to the underworld. Did Morris and Hugo’s Competitive Intelligence Department,” he chokes on the words with amusement, “discover how Konstantin met them?”

  “If they did, Peter did not share it.”

  “He was running a protection racket on the exclusive hotels in Moscow. Gambling, prostitution, you understand? And the whores had connections. Sometime in the early nineties, the mayor of Moscow got into some trouble with a particularly young one and Konstantin fixed it. Five months later, he was funding the mayor’s reelection.”

  I smile with understanding.

  “You can see how the hotels and the mayor would place him in Yeltsin’s circle, and from there it was just a drink and a cigarette to the other top officials.”

  I nod.

  “The Ministry of Internal Affairs gave him export contracts. In return, he kept the various Bratva families from taking too much. Too much life, too much money, too much territory. Things were very bloody then.”

  “I recently read this. It was described as a decade of war between the criminal underworld, the New Russians, and the State.”

  “New Russians,” Demyan repeats with disdain. “A New Russian's son cries to his daddy, ‘Everyone in my school rides the bus. I look like a little bitch in this Ferrari.’ The father says, ‘Do not worry, son. I will buy you a bus and you will ride like everyone else.’"

  Still laughing, I point out, “There is a
pin-striped Bentley in the front yard.”

  “I know. The distinction between Bratva and New Russian is no longer discernible. Some of us thieves find this a problem.”

  “And you would like to do something about it.”

  “I would.”

  “And you have a particular plan in mind.”

  “I do.”

  “And it involves Peter.”

  He smiles to suggest, “His translator will do.”

  “No. She will not.”

  The curt refusal has him shedding clothes again. Before I can finish asking “What in Christ’s name is it this time?” the black T-shirt is over his head and flipped around his fist like he plans to punch glass.

  He’s unamused.

  I’m slack-jawed staring.

  He’s got a nice chest.

  I have enough time to take in the grinning devil and the rose wrapped in barbed wire before he turns his back on me. Now the bull beneath the horns is revealed. Head held high, the legs are steeply angled to control a sliding charge. Inked in the dust beneath the hooves is Turgenev: Возьмите для себя, что вы можете и не исключено другими. Take for yourself what you can and do not be ruled by others.

  I quote Turgenev back to him, “It is fun talking to you, rather like walking on the edge of a cliff.”

  Turning around, he completes it, “At first one is nervous, but then, from somewhere, courage takes over.”

  In the stillness that follows, I slowly reconsider him. I consider not only him but myself, the creed on his back, and the fiancé shouting inanities from the next room. I think about the disgrace of poverty, the fear of homelessness, and the compromises I’ve made to wipe both from my future. I wonder if Demyan is the Devil revealed in the Tarot. I feel Death enter the room. Change is imminent. It was all in the cards. It’s but a simple surrender to fate to agree.

  I’ve been ruled by the promise of gold, the walls of security, the Prince of Coins incarnate, but the Devil is ruled by pride. We’re all ruled by something.

  You give up one only to be subjugated by another.

  But it does seem preferable to bow to the one that causes the least shame.

  Still, there’s the dishonor of betrayal to consider.

  Take for yourself what you can and do not be ruled by others. It’s cold and dangerous near the cliffs. Faced with a plunge to freedom or a retreat to safety, courage bows to survival and I say, “Spokoynoy nochi.” Goodnight.

  The Magus

  Fear that I may need to intercede on Peter’s behalf and save his life this night means I’m sleeping light. I’ve taken only one zopiclone, two methaqualone, and four promethazine. For an addict like me, this wouldn’t be enough to dull footsteps in the hall, so there was no chance it could mask an explosion. My eyes snap open. Through the sheer curtains of the second-floor bedroom, gray light casts shadows over the walls. It’s dusk. Maybe midnight.

  The sonic boom that shifted the house is still rocking the weights in the windows.

  Sitting up in bed, I wonder if they’re hunting with tannerite (kind of like dynamite). I’ve seen Louisiana hunters turn six wild pigs into a cloud of pink dust with tannerite, and if you think I’m kidding, just go do a quick YouTube search and see for yourself. And if you still have a taste for high velocity pork splatter after that, you might as well go ahead and look up Russians hunting with RPGs, because that’s what we’ve got going here tonight.

  Standing at the window, I look over the back of the house. Just past the cars parked in the high grass of the lawn, a narrow clearing cuts through the acres of trees. On a property overgrown with weeds, this alley of death appears to be tended, though whether it’s been trampled or bush-hogged is hard to tell.

  At the open edge of the corridor, one Bratva holds an RPG tube, two hold spotlights, nine more hold rifles, and Peter holds a revolver, but what makes this Russian Redneck is all thirteen of them hold a drink. The spotlights illuminate the terrified boars trapped in cages at the halfway mark between maniacs and freedom. Squealing through the woods to the next village, the last one to be released has managed to escape with its life.

  I watch Elvis load the empty RPG tube with another rocket and feel sick for the terrified swine.

  But I’m just as worried for Peter who barely controls a revolver with a ten-inch barrel. I watch in horror as he absently raises one leg to scratch his ankle with the hammer. He stumbles, catches himself with the barrel against the ground, and then, using the length of the pistol as a cane, he somewhat rights himself again. Grass now hangs from the pistol’s sights, which Peter tries to clean by swiping against his leg.

  Before he blows his kneecaps off, the Polar Bear snarls, “Kakógo chërta,” What the hell, and grabs the gun away.

  I wonder if I can live with the memory of watching Peter kill himself. Most of me thinks I should probably just take more pills and sleep through it, hear about it in the morning after the body has been removed and the grass washed clean of blood. That might be preferable to a lifetime of flashbacks and nightmares.

  Next, I wonder what it would be like to live with the memory of Peter killing a dozen men. As Elvis drops the RPG tube on Peter’s shoulder, I feel fairly certain at least a few of them will die.

  Twelve Russians, forty dwindling cases of vodka, and an RPG: What could possibly go wrong?

  I think things might be put right when I hear Volikov enter the house. He shouts into the hall, “Stop this noise and get me a drink.”

  At the same time, Felix rounds the corner of the house and crosses the yard. Despite the tremor that shakes his right hand, he looks quite refreshed. He calls out, “Vodka and firearm.”

  But not that refreshed.

  And the Polar Bear seems to notice. He tucks Peter’s confiscated revolver into the back of his pants and waves away the Fat Man’s offer of an SKS.

  Good polar bear.

  But then, through the window to my left, I get my first troubling impression of Konstantin. He shouts across the distance, “Give him the grenade launcher.” (Of course there’s a grenade launcher. Why wouldn’t there be? Standard equipment on a boar hunt.)

  At the sound of the authoritative voice, Peter swings around on the house, aiming the RPG at its lopsided boards.

  “Chërt voz'mí!” Devil take me! I’m pretty certain the heavy thump from next door is the sound of Konstantin throwing himself prostrate to the floor.

  Peter doesn’t see him. Instead, he sees me. As a roar of protest erupts in the yard, he stops with the rocket aimed at my face to smile and wave.

  There’s nothing to do but wave back, and then he’s wrenched away, his back to the house, the rocket to the boar.

  Also facing the boar is right-handed Felix trying to left-hand control a grenade launcher. His right hand jumps uncontrolled on the forward grip; his left flutters around the trigger.

  As the group prepares to down another bottle, Felix shouts the toast, “Poyekhali!” Let’s get started!

  I have no desire to see any of these people kill each other, and I have even less desire to witness the obliteration of trapped boar for a night’s drunken amusement. And I need not be aware of either when I’ve got a bag full of sedatives so powerful they can wipe out consciousness as easily as tannerite.

  * * *

  If I’d not topped up one zopiclone, two methaqualone, and four promethazine with four zopiclone, three methaqualone, and two Ambien, I would understand what it means that Peter is sitting on the edge of the bed, hand to his head, rubbing circles around his temples.

  I’d like to turn my back on him and return to sleep, but the house is loud with activity and the drugs can barely compete.

  Downstairs, someone is shouting, “Load the cases into the Rover,” and someone else is booming, “I will take the Kukurzer,” Kukurzer = corn cruiser = Toyota Land Cruiser, and then an argument about who is more capable of driving said corn cruiser nearly drowns out the cry of “Put Volikov in the suitcase and Isaak in
the coffin.”

  Suitcase: Mercedes-Benz 600.

  Coffin: Chevrolet Tahoe.

  From the yard, I hear car doors opening and trunks slamming shut.

  Peter looks down to me and says, “These guys are HAMs.” Hard-ass motherfuckers.

  Gently, I reach out to touch his busted and bloody lip.

  He says, “Everyone’s drunk, no one’s been to sleep, and now I think we’re racing.”

  There’s a knock at the door, and a voice says, “Leaving in ten. Konstantin is waiting.”

  “Actually,” I tell Peter, “we’re all driving out to a dacha in Bereznik this morning. You’re going to meet Konstantin in ten minutes.”

  “The fuck you say?”

  “Yes. Ten minutes: Konstantin.”

  “I’m drunk and hung over.”

  And I’m drugged and fucked up. But admitting that won’t help. And Peter needs help. Through the ripped fabric of his pant leg, I rub his mud-covered knee. “You’ll do fine. You’re a natural charmer. You can do this in your sleep.”

  “Right. Affirmative. Ooh Rah.” My small comfort and Peter’s blood alcohol level propels him off the bed. Pacing with managerial enthusiasm, he affirms, “When you hit the wall, climb over. Ooh Rah. I just need to pre-think our shield time with the boss. Ooh Rah. Ooh Rah. Ooh Rah. Thank you, baby, for the battle rhythm. Pain is an illusion. Ooh Rah. Fear is the mind killer. Ooh Rah. That which doesn’t kill me only serves—”

  “Okay, I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “—to make me stronger. Ooh Rah. Bend like a reed—”

  “You should probably change your clothes.”

  “—in the wind. Ooh Rah.”

  “That’s really annoying.”

  “There is no next time. Ooh Rah. It is now or never. Ooh Rah.”

  * * *

  In the adjoining bathroom, door slammed fast and hard on the motivational speech, I wonder what I’m doing with an avowed corporate citizen. Not a citizen of the world, not a citizen of a nation, Peter has chosen to be the citizen of a corporation.