The Good Life Elsewhere

by Vladimir Lorchenkov

  After the wedding, Stella decided she’d never ever get married, cropped her hair and prepared herself for the monastery that was the regional library – which people visited even less frequently than an actual monastery. There she sat for years, buried in her dusty books, avoiding the wisdom of others and crying her heart out to the bats who had settled above the columns of the library’s façade. The building was an old one, the former residence, perhaps, of local nobility.

  “You don’t get afraid here in the evenings?” The chairman of the collective farm stared at the young librarian.

  And without waiting for an answer, he lay Stella on the table and quickly undressed her. Then he undressed himself, and climbed onto her hefty—in the end, they had grown thicker than Serafim’s eyelashes—bosom. He mounted her sweaty legs, and her soft stomach, and her greasy underarms, and her slippery insides, and her hot flesh, and her skin, cool from sweat. Then he got up, wiped himself off without a word, and left. From then on the chairman came to Stella in the library every evening, and gradually she even learned to imagine that it was Serafim climbing atop her, and not another man. True, she still could not picture the face of her beloved. It had been ten years since she’d seen him, since she left the village for the regional center, for the library. Which is why, when the visitor came to see her, which in itself was a rarity, she didn’t recognize him. It was only when the man quivered his eyelashes and said, “Do you have an Italian language textbook?” that she understood.

  No matter how hard Stella tried to let Serafim know she was out of her mind for him, he remained deaf to her, and he left, leafing through the book he’d just borrowed from the library. The cover was missing, but all the other pages were there. Stella walked out to the doorway of the library but Serafim was already gone. She thought, how strangely designed is the heart of a man, who chases from dream to dream. Toward evening she gathered her things and left the regional center behind, closing the library and leaving the chairman forever to his yearnings for the flesh. After knocking on the door of her mother’s house in Larga, Stella began to live on her native soil and await the return of Serafim from his trip to Italy. That he’d return, she did not doubt. Serafim wouldn’t last an hour in Italy, Stella knew, because nobody would understand him, nor would he understand anything, either.

  For Stella had slipped him a textbook – in Norwegian.

  36

  ROME NEWS AGENCY — 06.12.2005

  ITALIAN BORDER PATROL STAVES OFF INFILTRATION INTO THE COUNTRY BY AN ISLAMIC TERRORIST GROUP. On the Italian coast, a vessel was spotted and shot down by border police with a grenade launcher. On the vessel were what are presumed to be Islamic militants, intending to commit a terrorist act in Rome and its surroundings.

  “This wasn’t simply a coincidence,” stated the press service for the Italian Carabinieri, “but the logical outcome of a long-planned operation, carried out by our best specialists. It has lasted approximately four years. We cannot reveal details for obvious reasons.”

  As Italy’s law enforcement agencies have sparingly communicated, it is known that the terrorists tried to penetrate Italy with an amateur-built miniature submarine. The band of criminals consisted of thirty to fifty people, and all were destroyed when they refused to surrender their weapons and board the patrol boat of the Italian Coast Guard with their arms raised. The Carabinieri knew in advance that some of the fighters were native-born Europeans. Specifically, after the border guards deciphered one of the shouts, it became clear that the Islamists were speaking to each other in Norwegian. Prime Minister Berlusconi, commenting on the incident, pointed out the professionalism of Italy’s elite units and reaffirmed Rome’s intention of fulfilling her shared obligations regarding their American partner in Iraq.

  “This international terrorist gang can’t frighten us!” declared Berlusconi. “We are strong when we are united!”

  In addition …

  NEWS OF GREECE — 09.14.2005

  BOAT WITH 75 MALNOURISHED MOLDOVAN IMMIGRANTS DISCOVERED IN MEDITERRANEAN SEA. Thirty more died of malnutrition and dehydration. The boat was discovered by a cargo vessel not far from the coast of Sicily. The injured victims were taken to Syracuse.

  In the meantime, it has been established that the boat carrying the Moldovan immigrants had set out from Slovenia. The immigrants had each paid the smugglers four thousand dollars.

  RUSSIAN INTERNATIONAL NEWS AGENCY — 06.12.2005

  OSLO DENIES INFORMATION about Islamist training camps on Norwegian territory and expresses hope that an investigation of the incident off the Italian coast will be honest and unbiased. As the Minister of Interior Affairs commented …

  BASA PRESS AGENCY — 06.12.2005

  Newsflash! An airplane carrying the head of the Moldovan government has suffered a crash over the Italian Alps. Preliminary information shows no survivors. Details are still being confirmed. BASA-Press Agency is working non-stop to keep its subscribers up to date and informed on the conditions of the crash. Stay with us!”

  INFOTAG AGENCY. 06.13.2005

  Since the first broadcast of the program “Who Will Succeed President Voronin?” up to the current time—25 hours and 43 minutes in total, according to Infotag—our Internet news clip has been viewed by 150,000 visitors. Don’t believe our competitors who claim to have more visitors than we do! Stay with us!

  37

  AS IT TURNED OUT, OF COURSE, VASILY AND SERAFIM HAD no money at all. Nor did they have valuables, with the exception of a gold cross that Serafim used to calm his unbelieving heart. The customs guard tore the cross from the poor man’s neck “for safekeeping” and locked the friends in a small prison at the border.

  “Friends, this is my private, personal prison, so to speak,” Mikhai Diorditse, the border guard, explained to them. “It’s not a money-making racket, as my ill-wishers like to claim. It’s solely in the spirit of private initiative, part of the general trend toward alignment with the European Union. That’s all it is... Sorry, where was I?”

  “You were saying, this is your private, personal prison, so to speak,” Vasily carefully reminded him.

  “That’s it! You got it!” remembered Mikhai. “Thus, you can be proud that you’ll be the first Moldovans locked up in my private prison.”

  “And does that give us any special privileges?” inquired the practical Serafim.

  “Sure,” laughed Mikhai. “You can groan when they beat you, whimper when they put you to work, and eat what they feed you!”

  Naturally, they weren’t really the first prisoners here at all. That was just the guard’s pretty turn of phrase. In the two-storey prison building with fat bars on the windows, an alarm system, and barbed wire along the perimeter, there were already close to a hundred people. Nearly half of these were gypsies from an encampment that had roamed the road from Soroki to Odessa to Nikolaevo and back, for more than 500 years. Even the Soviets had allowed it. But Diorditse the border guard, who was building up his cash reserves for the prison, stopped the gypsies during their usual crossing and, cursing a blue streak, put them in a close-by location.

  “If you can pay Moldova back for crossing its national borders without documents and tariffs, I’ll let you go,” the border agent had said, clanking his keys. “Gyppos!”

  The gypsies, of course, weren’t about to work off their debt, since that would have contradicted their centuries-long way of life. In principle, life in prison on the government’s dole was working out well for them, if only for one “but.” While there were no expenses, perse, the inmates weren’t fed.

  “How will we survive, kind sir?” the head of the gypsy encampment asked Mikhai. “What use are we to you if we’re dead? Gypsy stiffs don’t pay ransom.”

  “Neither do live ones,” said the border agent. “Figure it out for yourselves.”

  Figure it out they did. The gypsies dug a pond in the prison courtyard, which attracted flocks of pelicans on their migratory flights. The inmates caught the birds, salted and smoked them, and ha
d what to eat for a year.

  38

  THE PRINCIPLE BEHIND CAPTAIN MIKHAI DIORDITSE’S private prison was simple. He’d gotten permission to open it with one condition: a ten percent cut of the ransom and the booty from the travelers would be marked straightaway for his boss, Major Dzhik Petrescu. Petrescu, in turn, was required to pass along a fifteen percent cut from what his subordinates, three captains of the border patrol, sent him. In four years Captain Diorditse made a name for himself and came into his own; his weight was now well over two hundred pounds, up from his previous one hundred and fifty. The question of whether his prison was a method for the illegal detention of citizens of Moldova and other countries didn’t weigh on the captain’s conscience. After all, a private prison was an undertaking in the spirit of entrepreneurial initiative, an attitude widely hailed in Moldova.

  “I’m happy for anything that brings us closer to Europe,” President Voronin, who recently died tragically when his plane crashed into the mountains, used to say.

  And so Diorditse did what he could. Weren’t there private prisons in Europe? Customs posts? In the final reckoning, thought Mikhai, what’s the most important principle to the European way of thinking? To raise capital and accumulate assets! And when there are assets, then they get put to good use, because money gets put into circulation. So Diorditse raised capital, and circulated it.

  From time to time Mikhai, a captain in the customs office, would reflect sadly that the moribund Moldovan parliament didn’t offer much stimulus for the creation of small private armies. Maybe not armies, perse, but well-armed militias, consisting of fifty or so people. Mikhai was relaxing after his shift and daydreaming in good humor. This militia would serve both him and Moldova. They could collect tariffs. They’d be of great use to him, Mikhai Diorditse, and who is it that makes up the country if not people like him, Mikhai Diorditse? Of course, there was Major Dzhik Petrescu, and Colonel Afanasy Vier, and others, too …

  Occasionally Mikhai contemplated speaking with his higher-ups and seeking permission to print his own money. Well, why not? It would be convenient. You print your own money and then … Dreaming about this, the captain became excited, got out of bed and walked barefoot out into the prison yard. The gypsies had long been lying in wait, snares in hand, ready for the flock of pelicans who alighted on the water of the manmade pond every spring like clockwork.

  “Hey Footlose,” the captain cheerily shouted to one of the gypsies, who was sitting off to the side. “What are you so down about? As soon as you pay, you can walk away.”

  “How many times do I have to repeat myself?” the gray-haired, bearded gypsy shouted, waving his fist in the air. “I’m not a gypsy. And I’m not Footloose! I’m an actor from the city of Balti, my last name is Volontir, Mikhai’s what they call me. I look like a gypsy because that’s how they made me up on the bus that was taking our troop to Odessa for a performance. For the life of me I can’t understand why you took me off that bus and why you’re arbitrarily holding me here. It’s been four years!”

  The border guard scratched his shoulder. “You’re a real fruit loop, Footloose.” He sounded surprised.

  Then he turned around and sat down by the water. Five minutes later, a frog swam up to the surface. The border guard carefully extracted an antediluvian but serviceable pistol from his chest holster. He took aim and fired. The frog scrambled off. Footloose clutched at his heart and began to curse Diorditse. Volontir, the actor, had never gotten used to the captain’s favorite pastime. The border guard Mikhai had a great big belly laugh, after which he turned around to the prisoner and shot him in the leg.

  “Footloose, you’re trying my patience,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Thank you very much, don’t spoil my fun anymore with your dirty insults, which a well brought up person wouldn’t dare speak out loud!”

  “How many times do I have to tell you,” the gypsy began to howl, grabbing his leg, “My name—”

  The border guard shot the prisoner’s other leg.

  “—is Footloose,” finished Volontir. “I am a gypsy, and my name is Footloose.”

  “One more time.”

  “Foot—,” howled Volontir, “—loose!”

  Diorditse smiled and tucked his pistol back into the holster. Then he remembered why he’d come outside. To the people, as they say.

  “Hey, you,” Diorditse called to the new prisoner, Vasily Lungu, who’d been locked up for crossing the border without a passport but, even more serious, without money. “You’re a craftsman. A real man of the people, as they say. Get over here.”

  Vasily unhurriedly walked on over. Serafim, who’d been digging planting rows in the land, straightened up and rubbed his back.

  “You best keep working. This ain’t Soviet Land anymore, where an idiot like you did nothing all day but guzzle vodka. Labor, as it’s written in the Gospels. And you, Mister Craftsman, tell me one thing.”

  “I’m all ears, Captain, Sir,” Vasilly answered gloomily. He was thirsting for freedom, and after three months in prison he was emaciated. His Italian dream had been completely abandoned.

  “Now tell me,” the border guard winked slyly, “would I be able to print my own money here? Don’t get any wrong ideas about me. Mind your own business. I’m more interested in the technical aspects, so to say.”

  “Money?” asked Vasily. Hard as a copper penny, he said, “Of course. You can make real money, Captain, Sir.”

  “From precious metals?” the border guard asked soberly. “Can we make do without?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know,” said the border guard dreamily. “Can we print money without spending any on it?”

  Serafim, who’d been eavesdropping on the conversation, walked up and added his two cents. He was staking everything on this next moment.

  “Now, you see,” he said quickly, hoping that the border guard wouldn’t have time to get angry and bring his Mauser into the conversation. (He’d confiscated the gun from real contrabandists.) “The task which you put before Vasily is not entirely a technical question. And in our partnership, everything that’s not technical is taken care of by me. I can tell you that the operation you’ve thought up is completely realizable. You can absolutely, without a hitch, introduce currency of private provenance into circulation in the region, and you won’t have to spend almost anything to do it.”

  “Huh?” Mikhai Diorditse’s jaw dropped. He was a graduate of the Academy of Economics.

  “You can print a crapload of cash without spending a fartin’ dime on it!!” Serafim explained.

  “That’s more like it.” Diorditse scratched his nose with the barrel of his Mauser. “Now go on. But make sure my nose stays clean.”

  “Places along the border are dangerous,” said Serafim. “Full of all kinds of bandits, tricksters, outlaws. And all of them have a hankering for the wallet of the traveler. Especially when he’s a worker who’s returning home from Italy or Russia with some cash. Right?”

  “Right,” said Diorditse, who still didn’t understand a thing. “And?”

  “And we have his best interests in mind!” Serafim grandly raised a finger to the air. “Rather, you do. Print your own money, and then explain that it’s worthless and good for nothing. And upon their entry, you’ll confiscate all their euros and dollars and rubles, and replace them with your own currency.”

  “But won’t the currency be worthless and good for nothing?” the captain pointed out.

  “Right,” Serafim said hastily. “Which means, nobody’s fingers will itch for it. And the workers will bring their earnings home, safely and untouched. And all thanks to whom? Thanks to you, a genius of financial thinking, the father of the Moldovan working people, Captain of the Border Guards Diorditse.”

  “But when they get home, won’t they need to exchange our currency for real, normal money?” the captain pointed out.

  “Well, why?” Serafim shrugged his shoulders. “Either way they’ll drink it all away. Better to set up
a small store in every village where people can buy the basics, but using only your currency. And you’ll set the prices where you want them.”

  “And where do I want them?”

  “For example, a can of juice would cost ten euros,” suggested Serafim.

  “Why so expensive?” The captain, like all Moldovans, loved to bargain.

  “Let them go try to find a cheaper price, when they’ve got no money!” concluded Serafim triumphantly.

  The captain looked at the prisoner sadly.

  “So it’s like this,” he said. “They won’t let me do this across the whole country, but they’ll allow it in the border region. As an experiment, let’s say. This craftsman here will print money, using some junk materials. And don’t ever lose sight of the fact that you’re here by my side forever and a day…”

  “Yes,” said Serafim in a whisper.

  “I would shoot you to get rid of the competition, but I won’t remember everything you just said,” admitted the border guard. “So you’ll be my bookkeeper.”

  Serafim nodded obediently and he and Vasily walked back arm in arm to the furrowed land. The sky suddenly darkened and snow-white pelicans rushed down upon the lake. The gypsies readied their snares. A frog poked its head out of the water.

  Captain Diorditse took aim.

  39

  “QUICKER!” SERAFIM WAS HURRYING. “FOR THE SAKE OF Italy, our holy dream, I’m asking you! I’m begging you! Quicker!”

  Serafim heard a cry at his back and in a huff of rage he pulled Vasily into the ravine. Their pursuers—Diorditse’s most skilled guards with their Dobermans—were getting closer. The friends had lost nearly all their strength after a year in jail, thanks to the impossible work and meager rations. Now they were escaping; they looked like tubercular cows. But for the friends, there was no way out except to run. They both understood that Captain Diorditse would never let them go. It was because of Serafim’s brains and Vasily’s hands that the border guard was earning such huge piles of cash. After getting leave to go work in the cornfields, the pair took off running.