by Val M Karren
“What did they want?” she wouldn’t stop.
They wanted Roman, my landlord.
“Roman has never lived here. His aunt died and left this apartment to him,” Raiya revealed.
On this news, I sat up and looked at Raiya, “Say that again, please?”
“It's true. Roman, he’s a dirty snake. He never lived here. His old aunt, who he never took care of died last year in February and the apartment has been closed up since then. He never registered the apartment in his name nor ever lived here. He just rents it out illegally,” she embellished.
“Well, there you have the argument for tax evasion…,” I dropped my head back on the pillow.
“Did you read their police identifications?” Raiya insisted.
“Yes, I looked at them but didn’t get time to take notes,” I moaned in annoyance. “For all I know they could have been fake.”
“Did they read ‘Militia’ or ‘F.S.B.?” she continued to push for details.
“F.S.B., why?" I answered.
“Well, because F.S.B. is not the local police that would investigate a man for hitting his wife or a fight at the bar or a stolen car or arrest hooligans at the train station. The F.S.B. are the officers that only go after spies from other countries and make sure spies aren’t in our own country. I can’t imagine that they would pursue someone not paying local property taxes on a little room. It doesn't sound right. You should report this to the local militia office. It’s very irregular,” she cautioned me.
“And what good would that do when I am a foreigner? Maybe they came to make sure that I am not a spy. Did you think about that, Raiya? I was getting very weary of her talking and decided to go for an evening walk to clear my head and get away from her. I got up to put on my coat and hat.
“You are going to go out? What if they are watching you still?” she was more paranoid than I was.
“Then they will watch me take a walk! I’m not going to call anybody or pass secrets. I’m just going for a walk,” I said defiantly.
“If I was you I would stay indoors until tomorrow and do your normal things. They won’t just go away. I can bet you somebody is outside now watching the doors, smoking a cigarette under a tree or sitting in a car with the lights off,” she was serious.
I put my hat and coat back on the rack and sat at the table opposite her and listened.
“When the Chechens started the fighting last year, the FSB was watching all the different Muslim men in the city. My brother was harassed almost every day. They searched him every day, questioned him about where he was going every day. Followed him and searched his house when he was at work. They had a guy watching him all the time so they knew when they could go into house and when he was home. It was horrible. So, he went to Kazan and left his wife and kids here in Nizhniy for a few months until the harassment stopped. They didn’t trust the Tatars because of what the Chechens did. Tatars are good Soviets too, we are just Muslims by heritage, but nobody seemed to care. Natasha even has a medal from the Red Army for her service in the great patriotic war against the Nazis, but you saw how that officer treated babushka. It’s not fair what they do to us after our men died next to theirs in the war.” Raiya had a deeper story than I had ever suspected.
“What did babushka do doing the war to earn a medal?” I asked in sincere curiosity, having calmed down again.
“She worked in the uniform and boot factory for the entire war. Her fiancé volunteered after the first invasion by the fascists and she volunteered in the uniform and boot factory because she couldn’t go with him of course. Only the men could serve in the ranks. She was an overseer of a huge work group in the factory until it was all over. For that they gave her a medal. They say her factory made the best boots of the entire country and soldiers would fight to get her boots!” Raiya was beaming with a bit of pride.
“What happened to baba’s fiancée? Did they marry? They didn’t, did they. She doesn’t have children,” I concluded.
“He died in Smolensk and is buried there,” was the sad news from the front.
“Natasha will be getting another medal next week in the anniversary celebrations of fifty years of victory. She is also one of the last survivors of the ladies that worked in the factory with her, so she and another friend will be recognized by the mayor in a ceremony.”
I sat and pondered on this for a few moments, thinking about babushka trying to push the police out of the apartment thinking she was protecting me from hooligans.
“I would like to be there for that. Do you think anybody would mind if I attended?" I asked.
“Of course you will be there. It’s a big public ceremony on Minin Square on May the ninth,” the pride in her voice was audible.
“I won’t miss it,” I confirmed.
With that, I bid Raiya good night and she went back to her shared bedroom and locked the door behind her. I didn’t sleep well that night. Every shadow passing by my veiled window was an assailant and every noise in the stairwell a break-in.
20. Exposed
I dragged myself out of bed at nine o’clock knowing immediately that I had missed my morning lectures. The sunshine was trying desperately to get through my curtains and my eyelids which were all still closed up tight due to the weekend excitement. I shuffled down the hall towards the bath with the hope that some cold water over my head would help me to wake up enough to be able to make something of the day after not having slept much. As I was moving down the hallway, Raiya bid me good morning as she was heading for the open market up the street for groceries.
Being alone in the apartment that morning, after bathing, I decided to forego dressing in the bathroom, wrapped a towel around myself and headed down to my room to get dressed. On entering my own room, which was closest to the outside door, I noticed that Raiya had left behind her rolling shopping cart in the apartment, with her keys in the bottom of it. I decided that I would get dressed quickly and see if I could catch her at the market and do some shopping for supplies myself. As I entered my room I could see the shadow of a woman standing in front of my window as if waiting for me to come to the window—perhaps trying to get my attention. As the curtains were still closed I could see a shadow where a torso of a woman blocked the sun’s morning rays. Thinking it was Raiya trying to get my attention to open the door so she could get her keys and bag, I stepped quickly to the window and opened the curtains to let her know that I would open the door for her.
I was shocked to find that the woman standing outside my window was not Raiya. There I stood, with only a pane of glass and a towel between my naked self and a woman who I did not at first recognize, who was standing squarely in front of my window, staring straight in. After I got over the moment of shock that it was not my house mate standing so obtrusively close to my window and unabashedly peering at me just out of the bath, I realized it was the obtuse lady with the dog who I usually saw at seven o’clock outside my window every morning, when I was eating breakfast, before leaving for lectures. The first thought that went through my head was . . . how funny that she is walking her dog again at nine-thirty, just as I am getting ready to leave . . . what are the chances?
No sooner had I asked myself the question, alarms went off in my head. Every morning and evening as long as I could remember since living in that apartment I saw this woman and her dog outside of my room enjoying the grass, trees and the easy view into my room. She wasn’t walking her dog, even though she had a dog with her. She was watching me!
I never once suspected or even noticed the woman watching me because she had been there since the first day I had been there. I figured simply that, with me as the new comer, I was observing her routine that she undoubtedly kept for months, if not years before I arrived. But this morning she was not on schedule, but was doing the same thing at the same time that I was doing my same thing—just two hours later. It was brilliant of the authorities to assign such a person to monitor me. I had never suspected the ugly woman with the stupid expression on her face until I caugh
t her in the act of spying on me. It had only taken a few seconds for my brain to connect all the dots and put the entire story together. I wanted to let her know that I now knew what she was and what she was she doing. I looked her square in the face, standing there in just my towel and opened the first pane of the double paned windows and shouted as loud as I could.
“Come on in? Should I heat up some tea for us? I can tell you what I told your bosses last night.”
She disappeared quickly from in front of my window without calling her dog this time, leaving him to roam between the trees. I got myself quickly dressed and headed up to the market.
It was no great surprise to me when I stepped off the bus on Gorkiy Square on Tuesday morning to see who now I referred to as my ‘British Knight’ in spanking white trainers, smoking on the street corner, pretending he was waiting for a mini-bus. As I was on my way to classes I didn’t pay him any attention and continued up towards the Gagarin Street campus. Perhaps he will join us for a lecture on Dostoyevsky? It would probably do him some good. He did not enter the building but I saw him duck into a student cafe across the street from the main building. He could spend his whole day smoking and waiting for all I cared.
Before the class was to begin Valentina Petrovna stepped out of her office and asked me to step in for a few minutes.
“It will be fine to be a few minutes late for the lecture, Mr. Turner. It’s rather urgent,” she was speaking English, so I knew it wasn’t a social visit. “How are your studies progressing, Peter? You had some very encouraging mid-term evaluations from your professors, but as we go into the May holidays we need to make sure you are on course to finish at the end of June at the right level. Do you feel that you are still moving forward?”
“Yes ma’am” I replied politely not wanting to shove a stick in the hornets' nest that was buzzing all around me the last few days. “I feel I am progressing with my translation courses both written and verbally, but I still feel weak in Russian composition. Reading is going very well and I believe my conversational skills, both comprehension and speaking, have improved greatly these four months and my vocabulary and use of idioms and expressions I believe are much improved.”
“Very good. I am pleased to hear this. You do seem very comfortable and sharp when I speak Russian with you. The university is pleased to see your progress,” she said with no sincerity.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I sat still looking straight ahead adding nothing more.
“Professor Dashvokva also feels that you are making great progress in all areas but is concerned that you are picking up too much street language, perhaps from your housemates. I understood that they are Tatars?” her question perked my ears. I had never told anybody about my housemates.
“Ma’am I believe the street language has been picked up from socializing with other students on Friday afternoons. They have taught me to curse quite well. This is all they do when they hang about smoking and drinking on the weekends,” I parried her implications.
“Yes, that is very true. I sometimes too get red in the face when I hear their conversations,” Valentina admitted.
“I believe I learn more civilized and proper language from my housemates than I would in the dormitories and I believe my conversations are more widely varied speaking and listening to people of different ages and taking care of my own household needs. You know I even have to pay the gas and water bill myself at the district offices. It’s quite the experience looking at it as a whole.” I had gone on the offensive in the conversation.
“Yes, perhaps you are correct,” Valentina had to concede.
“How then are your history studies progressing? I understood that the Dean had asked you to prepare an article for his annual journal. Have you made progress on a topic to research?” she was now getting the heart of the matter.
“Yes, ma’am. I have and I am making good progress and finding materials to support my academic format,” I was being very vague on purpose.
“Are you getting the needed support from the faculty there as needed?” she advanced again.
“Yes, ma’am. Both the Dean and other professors are very accessible for me,” I stalled.
“What is it you are researching, may I ask?” she wouldn’t stop kicking the hornets’ nest.
“I am researching and writing about the current privatization process of state enterprises. I have held interviews at the World Bank office, visited a privatization auction and Dean Karamzin is trying to set up an interview with Governor Nemtsov, but he seems to be a very busy man, and the Sannings are also a great resource as they give perspective to the foreign investment aspect of joint venture companies.” I was not lying, just avoiding telling the entire truth.
“It does sound very interesting. I will look forward to reviewing your paper before you publish it.” Was Valentina telling me that she was required to censor my research? “Will you be interviewing local businessmen for this research as well?” I sensed that the hornets had already been stirred.
“I am not well acquainted with private entrepreneurs in the city. If you know of any that would be appropriate I would love to meet and interview some,” I was on the edge of untruth.
“Peter, it has come to my attention that you have been researching some very sensitive topics and that you have been using the university’s database at the American library to support your thesis.” Valentina was now setting herself up directly against me and my efforts.
“Yes, ma’am. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to research using the university’s resources? I paid my tuition in cash, in dollars for that privilege. Arkadiy was my witness, remember?” I remained on the offensive.
Valentina paused to consider her next move in our cerebral game of chess and looked at me to see if I was threatening her in any way. We both knew what I was referring to. I looked her square in the face without blinking and with no expression on mine.
“It is the university’s request that you refrain from any further research into local activities and concentrate on the political and policy developments of your topic,” was Valentina’s measured retort.
“I have done nothing but look at political and policy developments, and the best examples of how to avoid the problems of the last few years with privatization are happening right here in Nizhniy Novgorod. How can I ignore the local developments when all of Russia is focused on what is happening here in Nizhniy?” After this Valentina had only one further move; pulling rank.
“Mr. Turner the university will not be at risk by reckless academics. I have allowed you considerable leeway to live out of the dormitories and to allow you to study history and politics with Dean Karamzin, which was not a part of your application to study with us at this school. You are a student of linguistics and literature, not politics. If you will not refrain from questioning respected businessmen in accusatory tones then your credentials will be revoked and you will be asked to leave immediately.” She had shown her hand and she wasn’t bluffing anymore.
“I’m sorry. What are you referring to? Who did I interview in accusatory tones?” I was thoroughly annoyed.
“Mr. P. is a respected businessman in Nizhniy Novgorod and is a friend, patron and sponsor of this university. You are not to pursue any of the points in your discussion with him in your research or your article for the school journal. Is that clear?” Valentina was getting a bit red in the face.
“I would be very interested to learn what part of our discussion was accusatory at all. I was very professional. I listened, took notes and he sang like a canary. I only had to ask him maybe three questions and I got his life story. Accusations? There were no accusations, Valentina,” I was adamant. “If there is anybody in Nizhniy Novgorod that is active with the whole privatization process it is Mr. P.! Of course, I should interview him. He is the city’s go to man for efforts to privatize many types of businesses,” I insisted.
“Mr. P. demands that on no account should any parts of his interview with you be published in your paper.
Is that clear Mr. Turner?” Valentina had put her foot down.
“Dean Karamzin is fully supportive of my research and is overseeing my thesis. He has given full academic freedom in this paper. His quote was ‘Stalin has been dead a very long time’.” I was now pulling as many stripes off the Dean’s sleeve as possible to keep from being censored, “If I am not allowed to continue under the Dean’s guidance without interference then I will not continue at this university next term, and my fifteen-hundred dollars in cash tuition money will not be at your disposal.” My threats were no longer veiled.
“Publishing your research with the name of Mr. P. or any of his associates will be dangerous to this university, your fellow foreign students and for yourself. Under no conditions can you use the information that you learned from your interview with him. Is that clear?" She was yelling now and slapping her hand on her desk. “You will turn in to me any and all notes that you took during that interview.”
I took my notebook out containing all the notes about Mr. P. and ripped out the pages and left them on her desk.
“Read them! You will see for yourself there was nothing at all accusatory in the questions of mine that implied anything but being interested in how he began his growing private enterprises as an entrepreneur. I cannot imagine what he understood to be compromising. There is nothing in those notes that should make anybody worry about anything. In fact, I thought his ability to grow a business in these times to be rather clever and was going to write it just like that. Anyhow, there you have all my notes about Mr. P. Burn them if you want to.”
I stormed out of Valentina’s office and left the building altogether in a rage. As I crossed the street to the bus stop heading back to Gorkiy Square I had forgotten about my tail until I saw him throw away his cigarette and stamp it out with his gleaming white shoes. “What an idiot!” I thought to myself. He came and stood near to me to wait for the same bus. I paid him still no attention and did not try to elude him at all. My movements through the city were hardly a state secret. I was headed to Minin Square to speak with the Dean as this had all been his idea to begin with.