by Val M Karren
As I turned from the window there was a quiet knock on my door and two children poking their curious heads in to look. They had never seen this room in the apartment as the room had been closed and locked for years.
“Come in, come in,” I waved them into the room with my free hand. They stood at the open door and gazed around the room.
“Babushka says you talk funny,” was the introduction from the young girl.
“Well, what do you think?” Both of the kids giggled. “I think that is yes,” and I put on a clown’s false frown and hung my head.
“Neecheevooah!” the girl shouted laughing, saying in one word “it's okay, it's not important.”
The smile jumped back on to my face. More giggles.
“I come from a far away place across the ocean, where we speak a different language. Different from Russian and different from Tatar.”
We introduced ourselves. Murat the boy and Nelya the girl both introduced themselves in Russian and then in Tatar and I introduced myself in Russian and then in English. How they giggled. How exotic! As it goes with little children, a little grown-up talk goes a long way and they retreated to the kitchen where they drew pictures with crayons for the rest of the afternoon. I went back to brooding over my notes from the night before. The doorbell rang again. It was Yulia.
“Come in, please!” I greeted her warmly. We sat down at my table facing each other on the corner. I didn’t touch her at all.
“How are you? It’s been a long time,” she said awkwardly.
“Yes, about five weeks,” I remarked with remorse, “Are you still angry with me?”
“Well, the reason I was angry at you was justified, but I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. I’m sorry. I know you didn't mean to cause me grief. You just didn’t know any better being new here. I should have thought more about it. The food, the setting, the service. It’s not typical. I should have warned you when we arrived…but I guess I wanted to be treated like a lady for a night. It was a very nice dinner and you paid so much for it and I was so ungrateful.” was her apology.
“What have you been doing for five weeks then?” I asked trying to change the subject that I was still ashamed of.
“Lots of writing for our newspaper column. I am trying to write something more about Bolshakov, of course, and try to slip something into our newspaper about the issues he wrote about, but of course I am being censored by the editor. He says he doesn’t want any more dead journalists, especially himself. But I keep trying and arguing with him anyhow.”
“What about all that talk about staying away from these dangerous matters that you lectured me about? It seems rather unfair that you’d not talk to me for five weeks and then still try to get an article about the same topics into the newspaper,” I pointed out her the hypocrisy.
“I know, that’s why I am here tonight. I realized that too,” she said ashamed of herself.
There was a long awkward silence. Yulia broke the silence.
“What have you been up to since we saw each other last?” she asked me.
“I’ve been buried in the research library hiding from the weather as well as Mr. P. as you warned me I needed to,” I told her honestly.
“Who is Mr. P.?” Yulia asked.
“You remember the bald man that came into the restaurant after the police officers went into the back room? That is Mr. P. He’s the boss.” I was surprised that Yulia didn’t know who he was.
“How did you learn his name?” she asked curiously.
“I was dancing at his club last night,” I said without thinking of the implications.
“Dancing? Dancing with who?” she asked with her ears pointing straight up with a stunned face.
“Hans, I went dancing with Hans,” I replied innocently.
“You danced the whole night with Hans? I don’t think so. Who did you dance with?” she demanded to know.
“Woah! Calm yourself. We hadn’t seen each other for five weeks. Why do you think I can’t dance with anybody I choose?” I said defensively.
“Did you dance with one girl the whole night, or just skip around the dance floor dancing with any pretty face?” her jealousy was rising and I was desperate to cool it off.
“I was there on assignment from the Dean! I didn’t go to go dancing, and you know I didn’t go there to drink,” I said trying to give the evening perspective.
“Why would the Dean send you dancing to a club for an academic assignment, and you had better be very careful with you answer, Peter, very careful,” she warned me with a upheld finger.
“I was there to see Mr. P. in his element,” I admitted, “and it was quite a show.”
“Why would your professor tell you to do that?” she demanded to know the answer to such a ridiculous idea.
I couldn’t quite swallow right. “He wants me to write my article about Mr. P. and his activities,” I said carefully.
“What?!? How….what are you…are you mad? Are you completely out of your head?” she exploded.
I sat quietly and did not react further. She stood up and paced the room,
“Are you trying to get yourself killed? You don’t write about the local neighborhood mafia man, certainly not somebody who already knows your face! Are you so foolish?” she ranted.
“And you're trying to have articles printed to carry on the work of Bolshakov? What’s the difference, Yulia? Tell me, what is the difference? We both see injustice, abuse and we both want to do something about it. Can’t you see you’re just as crazy as me?” I blurted out.
“Yes, but I can take care of myself. I can’t protect you though if you keep doing stupid things like this!” she screamed at me and then burst into tears.
“Can’t we do this together then?” I proposed.
12. The Shark Cage
By Monday morning I had to put my snow boots on again as well as my wool overcoat and shapka to I make my way to the history faculty for a fateful meeting with the Dean in his office. I wondered that morning if Russia had a similar tradition to the American Ground Hog’s Day, a day on which winter and spring would battle for pole position before the spring equinox. If it had, I concluded that in Russia there would always be six more weeks of winter. The weather was miserably wet and humid with slush everywhere.
The history lecture that morning seemed to last forever with wet snowing falling outside, streaking the classroom windows. I huffed at the weather. The battles of old Muscovy were not relevant to the contemporary issues I was pondering. I stopped listening after fifteen minutes. I was very agitated and restless.
Sitting down behind his desk, Dean Karamzin cleared away a number of papers and folders, stacking them in a hurried fashion on to an already leaning stack of other folders and papers. He put his arms in front of him on the desk and asked.
“So, Mr. Turner did you enjoy the party on Saturday evening?”
“Yes, It was very educational. I learned a lot about a number of different people. It’s amazing what people will tell you when they have a few drinks in them,” I postulated.
“Did you get a chance to see Mr. P.?” he asked excitedly.
“Yes. In fact, we shook hands and were introduced by Marina Karlovna; you’ll know her from our lectures. Cute, short girl, always smiling,” I mentioned.
“Oh yes, Marina. So, you met him. Did you speak at all?” he was wanting the play by play account.
“Well, he speculated that I am a CIA or FBI agent and then he invited me to lunch one day so I could tell him why I came to Russia,” I reported.
“That’s perfect. That means he doesn’t suspect you at all,” the Dean exclaimed with glee.
“Suspect me of what?" I was puzzled.
“That you are watching him, trying to learn about him and what he does,” the Dean clarified.
“It’s not that he was hiding very well. The drugs, the booze, the girls, the cars, the other hooligans he was hosting on Saturday makes it very obvious what he is doing,” I proclaimed.
&
nbsp; “Oh yes, and what is that and what proof do you have of it? Is it obvious how he does it? Did he tell you how he has earned his money?" the Dean remarked and grilled me sarcastically.
“Well, when you look at it like that no, but…,” I stammered.
“And this is why Russia, Yeltsin, and Nemtsov, are unable to put these guys in jail. Nobody is willing to prove it in court. Everybody knows it, but nobody is willing to talk about it, and they continue to build their wealth through illegal and violent means and then they become powerful enough, with just enough of a reputation, that nobody dares to open their mouths or lift a hand to stop them,” Karamzin stated.
“Dean, listen, I am not a public prosecutor, nor am I am detective. I can’t put these guys in jail. I’m a student,” I pleaded.
“Yes, a highly visible student who is very dedicated to his work in history and economics and is very good with the Russian language. Your reputation is very well known at the school. Everybody knows you and knows you to be a dedicated academic. That is why Mr. P. would never suspect you. Academics are harmless. They write meaningless articles that nobody reads, and if they do read them the articles are neutral, so they don’t rock the boat and nobody cares as long as something academic was published. We have a chance to change that now with you. You can write an entry that means something. If you need to, you can always leave and go back to USA. If I write it and make the wrong people angry then I could get into big trouble with the university and with others with less patience. You can just fly away.” Karamzin was dreaming of the chance to advance the visibility and usefulness of his department and field with ground breaking work written by a disposable student.
Just then the telephone on his desk starting belching its sickly buzz, instead of a ring. The Dean ripped the handset from the console and yelled, “We are very busy. Don’t call back,” and slammed it down again.
“I’m not researching criminal law, I’m researching how to improve the privatization process of state companies so that Russia doesn’t lose any more of its wealth to a few robber-barrons,” I protested.
“Mr. Turner, tell me about your observations on Saturday and then I will tell you what I know that you don’t know,” the Dean said slightly annoyed with me.
“Fine then, I will start with a question that has been in my mind since Saturday: Why would Mr. P. open up his night club for free and provide the drinks, drugs, and girls for free? What motivation does he have? With these actions, he is not earning money. In fact, it is costing him big money. Mr P., even though he is a baffoon, in my opinion, with NO education, he has street smarts, the street smarts of a capitalist, a marketeer, a PR manager. He knows how to make people like him and how to win their tolerance of what he is doing. True, I have no proof that he runs the kiosk protection rackets in town. True, I have no proof that he is pimping all the girls at his club offering free services on Saturday. True I have no proof that he is trafficking the drugs being snorted and smoked at the club. So, if he throws great parties for the university students he can slowly pull them into his world. He shows them that he is a nice guy who likes the city, and can contribute to the city. Maybe some of the people start working in his import business of TVs and home electronics from Korea. Seems legit enough. In fact, it probably is. He gives free tickets to journalists to see great concerts at The Monastery and then they don’t write bad things about him or they will lose the fun perks that they can’t afford on a provincial journalist’s salary. A fellow has to have some fun, maybe he even gets a free girl that night too. Mr. P. is using his money and people’s own vices to ingratiate himself to the city’s citizens. No bad press, nobody writing bad things about him. Who doesn’t love him, right? I can imagine on any other given night we’ll find the chief of Nizhniy police there as well with two very pretty young girls on each knee with his hand up one skirt and another under the other’s blouse thinking he’s the most attractive fat, hairy, bald guy in all of Russia. So, Saturday night, and other nights like it are a big pubic relations expense. What’s the end game though? I saw other thugs in prettier cars with prettier girls than Mr. P’s there from Moscow. Drivers dressed like supermodels carrying guns under their suits, I believe, and everybody drinking imported beers and Russian vodka. It was quite brash and obvious. But OK, everybody is paying off a police chief or two. Is Mr. P. trying to get to swim with the big sharks by showing off at these types of events? At what point will the big sharks let a provincial shark into the feeding frenzy? Is Mr. P. just picking from the floating carcasses that come down the river from Moscow or is he able to get his jaws full of something real, something that is still flailing and bleeding? What can he bring to the table to share? What are his dues for admission to the big sharks’ club? I don’t know. This is far as my thinking takes me.”
“You have lots of fact finding to do, young man. You have more questions than facts. An academic paper is written on facts, documented facts,” The look on Dean K’s face was one of ‘checkmate’! He leaned back in his chair and began to tell me his story.
“Mr. P. or Igor Ivanovich was his name when I knew him as a school mate of mine. You understand that P. is not his birth name. He changed his name after he was released from prison. I’m sure that you have heard the rumors. He likes everybody to know he is a killer, even though it was an accident. A few weeks ago, Igor Ivanovich and I bumped into each other in Moscow at a new hotel in the center. It was pure coincidence. He invited me for a drink and so we had a few hundred grams of vodka at the bar. Nothing horrible. Igor goes on tell me that he wants to be a candidate in the next provincial elections for governor. Further he wants to form a political party with a platform of law and order. He was perhaps a bit drunk, but then again, he always is, and went on tell me how the criminals were taking over Russia and steeling from the good people of the mother land. These may have been the first honest words I ever heard him speak in his life, but there they were. He went on to say that he wanted to become a benevolent dictator in order to stop the crime and return the money to the people and live in peace and happiness the rest of his days. That was his plan: to be the new Stalin with the heart of Robin Hood,” was the Dean’s revelation.
“Do you believe him?” I asked.
“What’s the difference? He’s such a small player that he wouldn’t be able to survive on a provincial platform, let alone the national stage. He may be a big fish in a small pond here in Nizhniy, but he is not hard enough to take on the system. He doesn’t have enough money to buy off so many people. He would have to discover an oil well under his Monastery to make the next step up… but none the less, he is making his move now and wants to enter politics,” was the Dean’s follow-up.
“You just said he doesn’t have a chance so how could he make that a reality?” I pouted.
“True, but that doesn’t mean he can’t put together a party and get something started with some help,” Karamzin speculated.
“Who could help him?" I asked half knowing the answer already.
“He wants to pay me to consult on how to set up and start a party here in Nizhniy Novgorod.” The Dean beamed with honor.
I sat still in my chair, incredulous at what the Dean had just admitted to. I blinked at him, hesitated and screwed up my face and shook my head back and forth. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood you. Did you say you, Dean Karamzin, would be helping him to establish a party of his own?"
“Yes. Who else is going to?” he conjectured.
“Why? Why would you help such a figure make a step into government office?” I asked in repulsion.
“He won’t make it of course, but this way I can make sure he doesn’t get competent help to make him into something he is not…and he is paying a big fee for my services,” the Dean chuckled victoriously.
“Aren’t you already consulting on a political party, The Left Front Party?” I reminded him.
“Yes of course, but that is finished now and they have their platform. Now we’ll put together a manifesto for “The Right Fr
ont Party.” We must create balance! There must always be an opposition party to check the other. Right?” he was searching for my approval.
“In theory yes, but it’s better if an opposition party has a moral compass,” I grumbled.
“In theory yes, but all politicians are dirty liars anyway,” Karamzin concluded.
“Touchez!” I conceded.
“Listen, Peter, I will set up an interview for you with Mr. P., Igor Ivanovich. You have already met, you said, so it will be a natural step. I will tell him that you are an eager student of economics and politics. Talk about the privatization if you want because he took over a restaurant recently that was state owned, but also talk about his trading company that imports goods. You’ll be surprised at all the legitimate sources of income that he has, that’s why he is a slippery eel. Talk about his political aspirations. You can tell him that I told you about forming a party. If you pretend to think he’s clever, he will try to prove it to you. Play to his ego. Challenge him a bit and he will tell you everything! You are a smart young man. Don’t talk about the organized crime aspect of his business. That will only cause you and me both trouble. I will let you know when you can meet him,” the Dean proposed.
“Dean, wait, wait! I have to think about this. This is really risky. I don’t know if I could keep my knees from going weak while I’m there talking to him while trying to trick him. What if he sees through me? What if he gets a sense of what we are really trying to do?” I pleaded.
“He’s in idiot,” Karamzin said dismissing my anxiety.
“An idiot with a gun and thugs to throw me in the river!” I reminded him.
“He wouldn’t do it to a foreigner. He couldn’t escape a real investigation with the US Embassy behind it,” was the Dean’s convenient conclusion.