The Marvelous Misadventures of Ingrid Winter (The Ingrid Winter Misadventure Series)

by J. S. Drangsholt

  “Are you talking about gay rights?”

  He waved me off.

  “Everything happening here in the Soviet Union is part of the same ideological battle that has gone on for ages.”

  “Uh, I think it’s called Russia now?”

  He scoffed again.

  “Really, Ingrid, you can be so naive! Do you really think the Russian Bear ever planned to put up with the structural fragmentation that took place in the nineties? Open your eyes! There’s every indication that the Bear is waking up, and at the end of the story, there will be a new, and possibly even stronger, Soviet Union. Mark my words. They don’t have anything to gain from holding political prisoners at the moment, so we ought to be pretty safe in any case.”

  Ingvill nodded frenetically.

  “After all, we’re here to promote academic cooperation with the state university,” she reminded us. “Internationalization and bilateral ties. That’s the only thing we need to think about.”

  I studied her. She’d obviously dolled herself up for the trip, settling on a tropical-fruit-salad-meets-Captain-Hook theme. She had something that looked like peacock feathers dangling from her ears and wore her hair up with a heap of bobby pins that were jutting out all over the place. The rest of her outfit consisted of black pirate boots, blue tights, a purple cape-like sweater, and a yellow Gore-Tex jacket.

  For his part, Peter had gone with an English lord-of-the-manor theme with brown corduroys, tartan dress shirt, green V-neck sweater, and the kind of traditional oilskin coat you might see a duke trout fishing in. In his hand he held a wool herringbone deerstalker cap.

  I had selected exclusively black clothes, for obvious reasons. Ebba had walked in the evening before as I was laying out my clothes on the bed.

  “Is that what you’re going to wear?”

  “Yup. Does it look OK?”

  “Mm. You always wear black when you have to do something you’re nervous about.”

  I thought back to when she was in preschool.

  “She empathizes with other people’s feelings so much,” her teacher had explained. “She’s always trying to comfort the other children. Sometimes we’re almost concerned that it’s a little too much.”

  I felt the tears coming, and I tried to concentrate on the luggage that was now rotating by on the carousel in front of us. I also caught myself wondering if she could see us now, would the chair be satisfied with her delegation?

  Luckily our group perked up even more when we met our representative from Saint Petersburg State University. Ivan Abarnikovitch had long, thin hair that was pulled into a ponytail and wore acid-washed jeans and a kind of snowboarding jacket with a leather collar that said “Surf’s Up” in big letters across the chest.

  Peter, who clearly wanted to distinguish himself as an urbane sophisticate, walked right up to Ivan and kissed him on both cheeks with a passion that seemed to confuse even the Russian. Ingvill and I each received our kiss on the hand, without knowing for sure if this was the norm in Russia or if it was a response to the intensity of Peter’s greeting. Ingvill blushed anyway and then snorted awkwardly. That kiss on the hand might be the only bodily contact she’d had so far this year.

  Which was probably also why she insisted on leading the way, next to her new Russian friend, while Peter and I brought up the rear.

  “Who actually is this Ivan guy?” I asked.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Peter replied. “The chair said he was the one who contacted us, not vice versa. Norway’s been trying for years, you know, to set up some form of collaboration with the state university without success. So we were surprised when they suddenly showed some interest.”

  “Is he a historian?”

  “No, a philosophy professor. Analytical philosophy, I think.”

  “Wittgenstein?”

  “No idea.”

  In the car we found out that Ivan preferred to work with Heidegger.

  “I’ve done quite a bit of work on Heidegger as well,” I explained. “In my dissertation, for example. Loads of Heidegger. ‘The turn’ or, well, die Kehre as I’m sure you know it, Logos, Being—the whole shebang. I’m studying Tehom from a literary criticism perspective, and it’s interesting how Heidegger’s concept of Dasein helps to illuminate that.”

  Ivan didn’t respond, but said something to Ingvill, who was sitting in the front seat because she claimed the back made her carsick. I couldn’t hear what he said, but it was obviously something amusing, because they both giggled about it for a long time.

  I looked out the window. We were just passing a gigantic statue of Lenin. Vladimir looked like he was running at full speed. Probably rushing off to communize something.

  “What kind of building was that behind the Lenin statue?” I asked.

  No answer.

  I repeated the question.

  “Please don’t bother me while I’m driving,” Ivan chided. “There’s a lot of traffic. I need to focus.”

  He kept chatting with Ingvill. I turned to look out the window again.

  “Is that Nevsky Prospect?” Peter asked, aiming his question generally at the front seat.

  “No,” said Ivan.

  “Oh, I see,” said Peter. “It’s quite cold out, isn’t it? On the plane they said it was only fifteen degrees! Good thing I brought my coat.”

  “This isn’t cold.”

  “It feels a little chilly,” Peter insisted.

  “Not cold.”

  “Fine.”

  After a while we drove over a river.

  “Is this the Neva?” Peter asked. “I’ve been so looking forward to seeing the Neva. Tossing and turning like a sick man in his troubled bed. Isn’t that how the Pushkin poem goes?”

  “No,” Ivan said. “Not poem. Not Neva.”

  At that, Peter finally gave up. The two of us in the backseat sat looking out our windows. The two in front kept chatting and giggling.

  They actually giggled so much that thirty minutes later when we had to say good-bye to our thin-haired Russian guide, Ingvill looked as if it were the end of the world. She did light up again, however, when she realized that he would be coming back in a few hours to take us to dinner.

  For my part I was just immensely relieved that it hadn’t occurred to the university that they could ask us to share rooms, so as the others entered the elevator I hurriedly said good-bye and headed off to look for the stairs.

  My room was on the fourth floor and was large and turquoise and had a double bed, a chaise longue, a desk, and some big mirrors that looked like the ones you would find in an interrogation room. I lay down on the bed with my head turned toward the windows and watched heavy snowflakes drift down toward the gray canal, the gray cars, and the gray pavement. Even though it was well below freezing the snow didn’t seem to be sticking. It swirled into random drifts, piling up near the walls of buildings, railings, or other obstacles but didn’t settle on the ground the way normal snow does. This was busy snow. Or some distinctively Russian variety. Matrix snow.

  I should shower.

  I should call home.

  I should work.

  Instead I lay there idly following the journey of the snowflakes with my eyes.

  20

  A few hours later we stood in the lobby again waiting for Ivan. Ingvill had poked a few more bobby pins into her hair, applied bright-pink lipstick, and put on a felted wool dress with a big heart on the chest. Peter had gotten out his tweed suit in addition to wearing something that resembled a cowboy hat on his head.

  “Was that in your suitcase?” I asked, impressed.

  “Indeed it was,” he said. “In its own box. It’s an urban bowler. Pretty stylish, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Very nice.”

  A second later, Ivan walked up with three paper bags in hand, but stopped short at the sight of Peter.

  “Cowboy hat no good,” he said.

  “It’s an urban bowler.”

  “Like a cowboy.”

&nb
sp; “No, like an urban—”

  “Like a cowboy!”

  “This is a neutral menswear hat,” Peter objected and looked to me. “Don’t you agree? Not something you would wear out on the prairie, so to speak.”

  He chuckled at the image.

  “Well, it does look a little like a cowboy hat,” I reluctantly conceded.

  “It’s not a cowboy hat,” Peter hissed.

  “Peter,” Ingvill said, “if Ivan doesn’t want you to wear the cowboy hat, I think we should respect that. If we want to establish a mutually respectful relationship, we need to be sensitive to cultural differences. OK?”

  “Fine,” muttered Peter with a quiet hmph.

  “Here,” said Ivan and handed each of us a bag.

  “What is it?”

  “Present.”

  I peeked into my bag, which contained a box of mints, a map of the city, and a bottle. Could it be vodka? The thought turned my stomach. The only time I’d ever drunk vodka was at a family reunion for Bjørnar’s family in Østfold. They didn’t serve any alcohol until well into the evening, and when it finally came, there was only cognac or vodka to choose between. The last thing I remembered was Bjørnar throwing up into a plastic bag containing a copy of Dante’s Inferno and a Sony Sports Walkman, while I threw up all over the bed in the guest room at his aunt’s house.

  “Peripheral neuropathy,” I whispered to a miffed Peter as we walked to the restaurant ten minutes later.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a fairly widespread problem in Russia, because of the high rate of vodka consumption. It damages the peripheral nervous system and people can lose sensation in their hands or feet.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “I don’t like Ivan.”

  “Me, either.”

  “But we probably should have brought him a gift,” I said. “Maybe we could pay for his meal at the restaurant?”

  “I don’t care,” said Peter. “My head is cold. My urban bowler was specially designed for cold weather.”

  And it was cold out, no doubt about it. The snowflakes continued to fall from the sky, and there was hardly anyone out and about. Just us. A group of people who didn’t actually know each other and didn’t want to get to know each other, either, but who had to be together because some PR adviser had come up with words like internationalization.

  Innovation.

  Synergy.

  Cold.

  Death.

  Luckily the restaurant was surprisingly warm and cozy. It was situated in multiple rooms that you entered via hallways and little doorways in what appeared to be a converted apartment or maybe even multiple apartments that had been combined. We sat down at a low coffee table, the kind you would have found in most homes in the seventies, which was surrounded by a big sofa with matching armchairs to further emphasize the hominess.

  “What a nice place,” I told Ivan.

  He nodded noncommittally.

  “Irina chose it.”

  That was when I realized the young woman who had been standing motionless next to the dumbwaiter was with us.

  “Hi,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Ingrid.”

  She laid her hand limply in mine.

  “Irina,” she said.

  “Are you a philosophy professor as well?”

  “No.”

  “What are you working on?”

  “Aesthetics.”

  “Oh, I see. What kind of aesthetics?”

  “Regular aesthetics.”

  “Literary studies?”

  “No.”

  “Art?”

  “No.”

  Menus were passed around, and Peter took the opportunity to order something to drink.

  “Let’s celebrate our arrival with a pint,” he said. “Perhaps someone could recommend a good Russian beer?”

  “There are no good Russian beers,” said Irina. “We have no tradition of that.”

  “But there must be some good Russian beer?”

  “No.”

  “All right.” He flipped a little aimlessly through the menu. “Then I’ll have a McEwan’s. What about you guys?”

  “I’ll take a McEwan’s as well,” I said.

  “What about you, Ivan Abarnikovitch?” asked Irina.

  I saw Ingvill give Irina a sharp look.

  “I’m not drinking,” Ivan said. “I have to drive.”

  “Can’t you take the subway home?” I asked. “I read that Saint Petersburg has a really extensive subway system.”

  “I can’t take the subway,” Ivan said, “because I have to drive you guys around early tomorrow morning. So I can’t take the metro, can’t drink.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I see.”

  Ivan gave me a look that indicated he strongly doubted that I understood anything at all, but didn’t say anything.

  We moved on to our menus.

  “A lot of things on here look good,” I said.

  Irina snickered.

  “There is no good Russian food,” she said. “We have no tradition of that.”

  “But maybe you could recommend something, anyway?” Peter said. “I, too, come from a country not known for its food culture, but it still has its bright spots here and there.” He was already on his third beer and looked reasonably satisfied.

  “No.”

  “What about you, Ivan Abarnikonovitch?” Ingvill asked.

  “Abarnikovitch,” Irina corrected.

  “I can recommend the mushroom soup,” said Ivan.

  “Are you going to order that?” Ingvill asked.

  “No.”

  “What are you going to get?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  He lurched into a lengthy explanation in Russian to Irina and gestured for her to explain the gist to us.

  “Ivan Abarnikovitch says that he is following strict diet that requires that he not eat anything after six p.m. on weekdays.”

  “Doctor’s orders,” Peter said with a wink.

  “No.”

  “Does the diet require you to eat some particular kind of food?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Just that you not eat after six p.m.?”

  He seemed annoyed and waved his hands around even more and said a bunch of stuff in Russian to Irina.

  “Ivan Abarnikovitch says that he is done talking about his diet.”

  “Oh.”

  I bent over my menu again and ordered borscht and red-beet salad. Ingvill chose a dish called pelmeni, while Ivan sat sipping from his water glass.

  “What are you going to have, Peter?”

  “I’d really like to let our hostess decide.”

  “Irina?”

  “Right.”

  Irina looked confused.

  “You just order what you want.”

  “But surely there’s some specialty that you would recommend? Something I must try?”

  “It depends on what you like.”

  “But I want you to—”

  “He’ll have the borscht,” I told the waiter.

  After we ordered we lapsed into silence, and I took the opportunity to pull out my cell phone. I’d sent a message to Bjørnar earlier, but as far as I could tell, I hadn’t received a response yet. There didn’t seem to be any coverage here, either. The hotel claimed to have Wi-Fi, but I hadn’t been able to get it to work. I suppose it made sense that there was no contact between the outside world and this snow globe we found ourselves in, if you wanted to look at it that way.

  My sensation of being in a snow globe was so strong that it was actually a little hard to believe that Bjørnar and the kids even existed, as if I were a replicant and they were an implanted memory. Maybe this was what hell was. Finding out that you were actually something totally different. That there was no response to “to be or not to be.” That it was all just a sequence taken from someone else’s life. Or from a TV show.

  Because who knew where the replicants got their memories from these days.
r />   The evening ended with Ivan tasking Irina with taking us back to the hotel.

  “Couldn’t you brighten our journey with your presence, Ivan Abarnikonovitch?” pleaded Ingvill.

  “Abarnikovitch,” Irina corrected for the fourth or fifth time.

  “No,” Ivan said brusquely. “I have to—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Drive us around tomorrow.”

  I felt four eyes glaring back at me, but was too tired to care.

  “Well,” Peter said. “We look forward to being in your charge again tomorrow.”

  Once we were back in front of the hotel, Peter turned to Irina.

  “Farewell,” he said and kissed her hand. “We shall meet again.”

  “In thunder, lightning, or rain,” I muttered.

  Then our Russian comrade disappeared into the snow flurries without a word, while we walked just as quietly into the lobby.

  21

  That breakfast is the most important meal of the day was a fact apparently lost on Ingvill and Peter. They furthermore seemed to be solidly in the majority in this, because there weren’t very many guests who’d bothered to make the trip down to the dining room. Aside from me there was only one man in a shiny red shirt and a young couple compulsively holding hands over the table.

  When I saw the buffet, I understood why there were so few guests. It appeared to be a mixture of continental and Russian food, and the only thing it all had in common was that it seemed well past the expiration date. The European contributions consisted of something baguette-like, a few slices of cheese with a greenish sheen, a couple of cookies, and a small bowl of muesli. The Russian portion consisted of some kind of porridge and potato pancakes.

  I slowly chewed on the baguette, feeling it disintegrate and form an extra layer in my mouth, while the cheese immediately fell apart into small, hard crumbles that I washed down with a few gulps of fruit punch. The man in the red shirt, clearly on a different type of diet, had helped himself exclusively to sparkling wine. The couple persisted in their heavy petting activities.

  Neither Ingvill nor Peter had come down yet by the time Ivan showed up in the lobby, and we ended up having to get one of the front-desk workers to call them.

  “They overslept,” one of the amazons behind the counter informed us with an impeccable smile.