Red Russia

by Tanya Thompson

  Peter is still marching fast steps for the exit, and the only reason the driver hasn’t caught him is because he’s shouting such crude obscenities people are stopping in his path to gawk, whereupon they are immediately trampled.

  First to fall is a small Asian with a pastry, and next down is young woman filming with her phone. The driver jumps over a child in a stroller and then shoves an orthodox priest into a trolley of luggage. A babushka in winter wool takes offense at the ruckus and swings a plastic bag made heavy and round with a cabbage at the driver’s head, but he dodges and ducks, so momentum spins her around and throws her to the floor as well.

  Behind Peter screams erupt and further insults are thrown, but as none of it is in English, Peter is oblivious to it all.

  Standing near the central information desk are four officers, and this gives me a moment’s hope, but the police look at the driver, then out the glass front of the terminal, and whatever they see out there makes them tut and cluck and then, as not to bear witness to what’s about to unfold, they move off into the depths of the airport and disappear.

  The only thing I can imagine to be worse than one angry Bratva is a whole mess of angry Bratva, so I quickly wade through the pandemonium to follow. I make the priest decent again by brushing down his cassock and say, “Izvinitye,” Sorry, then kick the cabbage back to the babushka and say, “Izvinitye,” again. I avoid the Asian going mental over his pastry, and by the time I make it to the newly injured backpacker with the broken finger, Peter has made it outside.

  Moments later, the driver and I clear the sliding doors together. I’m about to start apologizing in earnest, but ahead, on the wide expanse of pedestrian pavement, is an ostentatious convoy of cars, and my attention is momentarily diverted—no, my attention is actually smacked backward and dazed—by the unabashed vulgarity of the Russian nouveau riche.

  The metallic gold Land Rover would stand out as magnificently garish if it weren’t for the faux marble Maserati, the stretch six-door Jaguar, and the pinstriped Bentley lowrider, but making the cars look practically ordinary is the collection of men smoking cigarettes beside the four-foot tires of a Mercedes Unimog draped in camouflage net.

  I do realize Peter is about to lose his life, and now is really not the time to judge, but I can’t help wondering who let these men out of the house dressed as they are, and also, just who did what to their hair? I’m fairly certain one has dipped his head in a bucket of high-gloss polyurethane and then styled and dried it to achieve the rippling waves of a plastic Ken doll, and another has somehow managed to achieve the look of upholstery tassels across his forehead. There’s a convincing version of Sid Vicious—shirtless, rib bones bulging across his skinny ivory-white chest—and next to him is an Elvis, a James Dean, and a fat Johnny Rotten. There’s a blond with cornrows and a Mongolian with a mohawk, but what stops me stupid is the taxidermied head of a polar bear another is using for a hat.

  The bald one would look almost normal if not for the velvet smoking jacket and Armani slippers, and while there’s nothing wrong with a crew cut, the owner of that style is decked out top to bottom in clashing Louis Vuitton symbols so he looks like a set of mismatched luggage.

  Not one of these outlandish individuals is in the dossier provided by M&H intelligence, but it is to these men the driver is shouting, “I am going to kill this khueplet,” which, given the limitations of Pushkin and Tolstoy, I can only manage to roughly translate as dick weaver.

  Upon hearing this threat, I reflexively grab the driver’s shoulder and then immediately regret it, but before he can fully twist my wrist and flip me to the ground, the fine gentleman in the smoking jacket barks, “Ostyn!” Chill! as in Chill the hell out, and the polar bear growls, “Krissha poyekhala?” Have you lost your mind?

  From the back of the stretch Jaguar, a familiar face emerges. Maksim Volikov, Deputy Chief of Konstantin Imperiya, is immediately recognizable from the intelligence report. Dressed in a modest gray suit, he has a bureaucratic appearance that might lead a spectator to believe he is the accountant for this circus, but Peter knows Volikov is the most powerful silovik in the firm.

  Still completely clueless to the chaos of his first blunder, Peter throws a hand up in recognition and beams widely while calling, “Maksim, my man. It’s either later than I think, or Chernobyl is lighting up the sky.”

  Cultural mistakes #2 and #3: Don’t smile at a Russian and don’t joke about Chernobyl.

  Not making light of a national disaster is self-explanatory, but the issue around smiling is rather more complicated. During the Cold War, Americans were painted as particularly insincere and devious, and this was evidenced by our ever-present gratuitous smile. Capitalism and greed was to blame for much of it. The least culpable were fast-food employees coerced into disingenuous exchanges, but fully accountable was the smooth-talking American salesman and the ultimate leering conman, Uncle Sam.

  TL;DR: In Russia, unwarranted smiles mark a person as either a hustler or an imbecile.

  And as Peter and I are the only ones in hearing distance to speak English, all the Russians know is some fool is grinning about a nuclear meltdown.

  He looks to be an idiot.

  Disapproval has made Volikov’s features cold, but he walks forward to shake Peter’s hand and say, “Dobroye utro. Meenya zavoot Maksim Volikov. Vy govorite po-ruski?”

  The American smile on Peter’s face broadens in alarm and then, exactly as I taught him, but with entirely too much enthusiasm and an unexpected Jewish accent, he exclaims, “Ya ne govoryu po-RUSKI! No my smozhem govorit cherez MOYI ZHENU!” I do not speak RUSSIAN! But we will be able to talk through MY WIFE!

  And in Russian, the driver demands of me, “You married this pizda s ušami?”

  Struggling to interpret pizda s ušami, I answer in Russian “Not yet,” which makes a few people chuckle because it seems like I’m agreeing to the part where Peter is a cunt with ears.

  The driver asks, “But you plan to marry the cunt with ears?”

  Denying Peter is any such thing, I snap, “Nyet.”

  But this just allows the driver to ask with provocative hope, “Nyet?”

  So I correct, “Da,” and while most of them laugh, I correct again, “Nyet.”

  Finally, Volikov tells him, “Zakroy rot.” Shut your mouth.

  With an expression that could win over a judge in a beauty pageant, Peter looks back to me and asks through his teeth, “What’s happening?”

  I explain, “We’re having a slight cultural misunderstanding. It might get better if you stopped smiling.”

  Peter abruptly appears somber. He looks the group over and then, relaxing his shoulders, he audibly exhales.

  And I am endlessly thankful. The shift in Peter’s demeanor means he is fully focused and about to fix this shit, because this is what Peter does best: he fixes shit.

  He says, “Mr. Volikov, it’s über cool to finally interface with you. Let me introduce my fiancée, Sibyl.”

  And I walk forward to translate, changing über cool to very good and interface to meet.

  Reaching for Volikov’s hand again, Peter grasps it with sincerity to explain, “We weren’t expecting such a rad reception. I can’t tell you how amped I am to find you—the big enchilada—here.”

  I change rad to warm, amped to honored, and I don’t mention the enchilada.

  Peter says, “I gotta tell you, ever since I heard about that blue-ocean buy you juiced up on Steellyov, I’ve wanted to step into your AOE. You are one knowledge-dense roxxor.”

  Uh... blue-ocean quack what?

  I don’t know what to do with any part of that, so I settle on overt window licking. While I speak of the finesse shown in the Steellyov deal, Volikov’s face softens and his brows lift to acknowledge that yes, indeed, he is a rather accomplished negotiator.

  The man is so obviously weakened by this fawning tribute, Peter continues, “What I wouldn’t give to have been capital in your team. That must have been the gank of the centur
y.”

  Volikov nods to agree that, yes, it had been a particularly ruthless takeover.

  Peter’s every word may not be ideal, but his schmoozey performance is internationally appealing. Volikov is relaxed. The assembled Bratva are relaxing. Everything is fixed, and our future is moving along splendidly.

  Peter says, “No dissing your gosu skills, but we’re here to impress. We’ve set our growth hackers to peak bandwidth. You and I, we’re gonna dominate.”

  And then, while I’m turning gosu into very impressive and wondering what to do with the rest, Peter’s apple-pie smile returns and he concludes by clapping Volikov on the shoulder and calling him “My comrade.”

  Cultural mistake #4: Don’t—for fuck’s sake—call a Russian your comrade.

  I translate, “My companion.”

  Volikov’s whole demeanor hardens, and he informs me flatly, “He said comrade.”

  I sound skeptical, “I believe it was companion.” But my contradiction works only to further annoy him.

  Around us the men are assuring each other, “The khueplet said comrade.” Questioning, “What the fuck does he mean?” And the driver takes the opportunity to reaffirm, “I told you he was a pizda s ušami.”

  I lie with greater earnest. “I am certain he said companion.” And then, with heavy meaning to Peter: “You definitely said companion because you would never say comrade.”

  “Never.” Peter frowns while shaking his head to deny the possibility. Clutching Volikov’s hand once more, he leans in to emphasize, “My companion. My homie. Que pasa, mi amigo?” And the smile that convinces everyone he’s stupid returns.

  I’d rather eat my lips than contribute any further to our demise.

  And Volikov, in a bid not to reveal his thoughts, also rolls his lips between his teeth, but the squint in his eye betrays the look of calculated acceptance. He’s agreed to be amused. He tightens his hold on Peter’s hand, cocks his head, and surprises me by replying, “Byla ne byla, priyatel.” There was, there wasn’t, pal. Or, as the spirit of it has it, Whatever, dude.

  And even though Peter has no idea what Volikov said, they laugh together.

  But they laugh alone.

  The polar bear grumbles, the driver spits on the sidewalk, and the gentleman in the smoking jacket shouts orders that sees Louis Vuitton and Elvis throwing our luggage into the back of the Unimog. Before James Dean gets any closer with the idea of separating me from my travel bag of pharmaceuticals, I catch up with Volikov and Peter who have clamped onto each other’s shoulders and, like old friends reunited, are making for the Jaguar.

  They seem to have no further use for me.

  One is saying jocularly, “We will drive out to Velsk to meet Konstantin. You will like the scenery.”

  While the other is extending the invitation, “Come with us to the Ritz. We’ll have the porter throw our luggage in the room while we get breakfast.”

  One asks, “Da?”

  So the other quips, “Da da da dum!”

  And because it’s all so darn amusing, neither cares if it makes any sense.

  The Chariot

  Maybe you’ve seen the video of two naked men on bicycles jousting with flaming spears, or the five men laughing uncontrollably as a brown bear begins an attack that will kill three of them. There’s also the one where a man chases and kills a wild boar with a porcelain sink, and another where a military jet buzzes the highway at twenty feet.

  A fair question to ask is “Drunk or Russian?”

  The correct answer is “Da.” Yes.

  Russian men haven’t gained their stereotype falsely either. Mix boredom and alcohol with a deadly sense of humor and you get Russian Roulette. Russians are known for playing a lethal game of chance with just about everything that can kill a person (i.e., flaming spears, wild animals, and Mach2 power).

  And they outdrink the rest of the world by three to one.

  The classic caricature of a Russian knocking back shot after shot of vodka is not a misrepresentation.

  Volikov is a gray-suited business man—educated, sophisticated, and so successful he has nothing to prove—but he’s a silovik who is not going to be bested by the Bratva. At the moment, he’s one against three. The driver, the front seat passenger, and the Armani-slippered Felix, who sits at Volikov’s side, are Zomanov’s men.

  Peter and I aren’t really expected to compete, but we’re here nonetheless.

  In the back of the Jaguar, the double bench seats allow Peter and Volikov to keep up a steady stream of face-to-face banter that neither particularly desires to understand.

  Peter jokes, “Federal sentencing laws are what determine corporate values,” while Volikov blithely talks over him, “Of course communism was an easy victory, but when capitalism overthrew democracy…”

  And neither looks to me or pauses for translation.

  I could spend the time watching the farms zip past, but the dark tinted windows do little to enhance the scenery, so instead, I try to decipher a tea leaf-styled fortune from the burnt holes in Felix’s smoking jacket. The fingers of his left hand rest in his lap and are tattooed with an ace of clubs, a sword, a solid band, and a skull. Tobacco ash has seared a concentrated pattern nearest the club, which suggests the trouble in his future will not be of his own making.

  After every shot of vodka, Felix rolls and lights another cigarette. He’s got a tremor that looks like Parkinson’s, so it takes the same amount of time for him to roll the cigarette as it does for him to light it and then shake the embers across his lap. He adds to the trouble but gains little from it.

  After more than a dozen cigarettes, the car is a haze of white smoke and each passenger has inhaled nearly as much nicotine as Felix, but that’s hardly the only shared intoxicant. Between each failed attempt to feed his addiction, Felix splashes vodka across the empty glasses until they’re full again and then makes a new and innocuous toast. “To our parents” being the most recent.

  The introductory “To our meeting” was when Peter and I first entered the car.

  Russian tradition dictates that every man (not woman) present drink until the bottles are empty and the last person satiated, and the only acceptable refusal is to pass entirely out. So it is that two hours and twelve shots of vodka later, it’s 7:00 a.m. and Peter is dutifully trashed.

  During a momentary lull in what passes for conversation, Peter pulls his attention away from Volikov to look out the window. Silver birch trees grow like weeds along the highway’s shoulder, and through their spindly branches green fields can be seen. For the first time, it occurs to Peter that we may not be checking into the Ritz Carlton Hotel.

  “Slibyl, phlere’re we going?”

  “Velsk,” I explain. “It will be just another seven hours.”

  “Fluck me.”

  “You’re doing good.”

  “The fluuck I am.”

  There’s a break in the timely distribution of drinks as Felix stops to smother a particularly hot cinder on his thigh, so Volikov takes the bottle to pour four more shots. I stopped at three; the driver was stopped at nine. There are three empty bottles in the floor-well and one close to empty in Volikov’s hand. A full bottle rests beside Felix, but he’s also covered in as much, so I’m afraid at any moment he’ll go up in flames. Acting as a coffee table is one unopened case, and there’s an estimated twenty more in the back of the Land Rover.

  Peter has every right to be worried, and that’s without him knowing about the plan to double the stock in Velsk. It seems we’re driving out to Konstantin’s country dacha in Bereznik, and no one trusts the vodka there not to either blind a man or kill him.

  Felix explains, “The village good stuff is half vodka, half lighter fluid.”

  There doesn’t seem much point in concerning Peter with that detail either.

  The sooner he passes out, the sooner the three remaining Russians can get serious and dick whip each other into submission. Because, really, that’s what this manly display is about.

/>   Peter doesn’t believe it, but he genuinely is doing well. For an American. Before sinking into oblivion, he manages to throw back eight more shots, which is twenty in total, or three shots over a fifth.

  It’s 9:30 a.m.

  * * *

  At noon, there are eight empty bottles in the floor-well and the first Russian is down. When he wakes, he’ll argue it wasn’t his fault because he clonked his head on the window when the driver swerved to miss an oncoming truck while passing three cars and two tractor trailers.

  This leaves Volikov and Felix, and it seems to me they’ve been here before. Experience has given them a leery respect for each other, so the pace slows from the recent four shots an hour to two.

  Not keen on the company of the other, they turn their unsteady attention to me.

  “Morris,” Volikov says the name. A full minute passes before he draws a deep enough breath to complete his thought. “What does he really think he is going to get from this?”

  I do as I’ve been instructed and deny any knowledge. “I’m afraid I cannot say. M and H executives do not share their plans outside the boardroom, so I honestly do not know.”

  “Feh.” Volikov is dismissive. “American men tell everything to their wives.”

  Also their girlfriends, mistresses, and bartenders, but as I’ve been told to lie about that, I stick with pedantic details, “Perhaps, but I am not yet Peter’s wife.”

  The same wild swerve that knocked the passenger unconscious also splayed my future husband across the back seat. I hold his head in my lap. Every few minutes I realize I am yet again running my fingers through his hair, and I force myself to stop. It looks like I’m mommy-coddling him, and that’s not a good look.

  Volikov inspects his hands and says absently, “I suppose after they fill the big Swedish contract, Morris and Hugo will cash out and withdraw.”

  I almost shake my head to deny it.

  “I would prefer to work with merchant traders in Russia, but Morris has made promises too big to ignore.” He leans forward to ask with conspiratorial secrecy, “Do you think Hugo knows?”