“Well, of course.”
Sinking back in his seat, he drops his chin to his chest and sighs alcoholic vapors. “They say they are selling us short to gain control of the market, but we know it is a resource dump.”
I can’t let him think that, so I say, “Not at all. They have structured for twenty years.”
“Unlikely. It is not like they have found more buyers.”
But they have.
Volikov reads my expression and responds, “None as dependable as the Swedes.”
My eyes narrow to question him and I practically laugh.
Volikov studies me before waving it away. “Never mind the deal with my fellow Russians—”
And I nod my head to agree.
“—it is the other one I do not trust.”
“The Fins?”
“Noooo… the other one.”
Well, that only leaves, “The Germans.”
“The Germans! Yes, they are the ones. What is the name of that company again?”
“I forget.”
“It starts with…? What was it? Mmmm? No. Brraa? No, that is not it. Ssssccrrree? GghhhrraaaaAA? Aaaaai—?”
Before his eyebrows fuse with his hairline, I mutter, “Aijan.”
“Aijan! Yes, thank you. I have a terrible time remembering the name.”
I start to wonder if Volikov is playing me for—
“Paper!” he exclaims.
And I’m startled out of my mind.
“Toilet paper, printer paper, newspaper, do you know Russia imports most of its paper needs?”
“I was recently told this.”
“We sell our resources raw and then import them again as finished product. We lose billions a year.”
“It is unfortunate.”
“Morris thinks so too. He says he can change it.”
“Oh?”
“He has a grand design to update the Soviet infrastructure.” Volikov’s expression goes from amused to skeptical. “But I have never heard of a merchant trader investing for long-term advantage.”
I try to clarify. “M and H are less merchant traders than facilitators. They adapt to the situation.”
“But they will never refurbish the sawmill.” Volikov sounds depressed.
I repeat what he already knows. “There is no other option. Federal export tax on round wood ensures no timber leaves Russia unmilled. It has to be cut to be profitable.”
“Yes, this is correct.” He appears momentarily cheered, but then pessimism hits him hard, and he says gloomily, “But they will never reopen the paper mill.”
I want him to be happy again, so I argue, “Why would they not? The pulpwood is free, the paper will pay for itself, and there is absolutely no competition.”
“This is true. The paper mill will profit largely, but access to the timber is limited by the lack of roads. Morris and Hugo will never pay to extend the roads.”
No, they won’t, and they should never have made the promise. But worse than the lie is their smug amusement the deception was believed. Ashamed for us all, I look away.
“No,” Volikov repeats with more certainty, “they will never pay for the roads.”
The view outside hasn’t changed in hours, and by the way I’m staring into the young taiga forest, it may seem I have an unending fascination for trees, but I hardly notice as I’m instead mentally berating myself for being such an easy target.
It’s not entirely my fault: I’m a Gemini. I’m chatty, I’m amenable, and I can’t shut the hell up.
And Volikov is a Scorpio. They have a reputation for being devious manipulators and straight-faced liars. Combine that with their almost innate ability to perceive a person’s thoughts from the smallest physical movements and you get the most feared and maligned sign in the zodiac.
As if it wasn’t bad enough in the heavens alone, Volikov was also an officer in the FSB.
There are scores of people who have never recovered, or been recovered, from an FSB interrogation.
They’re a hard organization to describe because nothing like the FSB exists in the USA. To get even remotely close, you’d have to ask the CIA to birth a seven-headed hydra with the faces of the FBI, DEA, NSA, Immigration, Border Patrol, Coast Guard, and the Navy Seals with a hangover and a grudge.
Once known as the KGB, the FSK became the FSB and—damn all notion of oversight—they answer only to the president.
Even if Volikov wasn’t a Scorpio with double 6 and 9 on his astral chart, he’d still be dangerous. And I don’t really like being in the car with him.
I don’t care to be the focus of his attention. He’s a snake with double V fangs on either side of his name.
Before he draws from me every secret I know, I turn to Felix as a possible escape. On the back of his hand is a prominent tattoo, so I seize the opportunity to ask, “What does the scarab symbolize?”
“A pickpocket.” Then looking down to his trembling hand, Felix acknowledges, “But not anymore.”
Volikov asks, “How do Hugo and Morris expect to succeed if they do not extend the roads?”
I’d rather slap on a gypsy turban and give a full psychic reading than talk about timber with Volikov again, so I ignore him and say to Felix, “In Egyptian mythology, the scarab symbolizes not only creation but rebirth. You might consider it a second life.”
“What about a third?”
“It can be as many as the sun sets and rises.”
Volikov is sardonic. “Perhaps he will be immortal.”
Felix looks hopeful, so I explain, “Humans only achieve immortality through legend, and legends tend to die poorly.”
Volikov seems to choke, and when I look, he’s staring at me like I’m more than just foreign.
He finally pulls above his disgust to say, “The birth of a legend is the death of a hero. Every man wishes to die a hero. A hero’s death is glorious!”
Despite that much of English literature exists solely to support this idea, I have never heard it so plainly spoken or so fervently believed.
I think perhaps all men must feel this way because Felix seems positively zealous in his corroboration. “A hero’s death is glorious!” He can’t sling the vodka at the glasses fast enough to make the first exclamation stand for a toast, so he shouts it again, “A hero’s death is glorious!”
And I’m too alarmed not to drink as well. But it’s a mistake.
Volikov doesn’t drink. He’s far too angry to drink. He’s so furious he’s developed a twitch that also looks like Parkinson’s, and he’s just one neural misfire away from backhanding someone.
The likely recipient will be Felix, who is laughing. Bent at the waist, he’s positively hysterical, and it quickly becomes clear that he holds no such view but is instead mocking Volikov—derisively, hilariously, spit-in-your-face, mocking the silovik.
It’s 1:00 p.m.
* * *
Today’s literature was yesterday’s popular trash and Russian history doesn’t do a lot to support the State hero among the underclass. The hero of Volikov’s imagination barely exists in nineteenth- or twentieth-century Russian literature. The women are heroic, but the men are largely villains, cowards, or so intellectually tortured they end the tale in an asylum.
Russian Romanticism, Sentimentalism, and Realism were almost harder on the male hero than satire.
Parody was the first weapon of the poor, but the Bolsheviks largely did away with that as well.
But true contempt for authority wasn’t really born until Stalin’s gulags.
And while Felix is just a couple of decades too young to have known the worst, he is still a direct product of the hate fostered in those camps.
To die a national hero is likely the worst fate Felix can imagine. Serving the State would make him a living receptacle into which greater men pleasure themselves to climax, which in prison parlance is a goat, and as Felix tells Volikov, “Yob tvoyu kosyols.” Fuck your goats.
Peter begins to stir upright and mumbles in response,
“Yobs to you too, cozy yocals.”
Lest he unwittingly says something intelligible in either language, I push his head back into my lap.
Volikov responds to Felix, “You fucked enough goats for us both.”
Which kind of sounds like, “Who does not know, huh, boy?” so I close Peter’s mouth.
Felix replies, “Ya yebal tvoju mat.”
And Peter repeats, “I fucked your mother.”
Like some kind of wild animal that might be calmed by throwing a sack over its head, I cover Peter’s with my hastily removed cardigan.
Felix is quick to assume. “The huesos speaks Russian.”
And I’m way too quick to deny. “No, the cocksucker doesn’t.”
Volikov calls Felix “Mudák.” Asshole.
And Peter bolts upright. “Muzak? I hate Muzak. Whoa…” He sucks at the black fabric that covers his face. “Thiz iz the darkest elevator… Sibyl, I can’t see shit. What floor iz thiz?”
I pull the sweater from his head and, “Oh,” he sees, “floor über Russki.”
“Yeah,” I agree, “it’s über Russki in here.”
Besides the two angry Russians, there’s a fog of alcohol in the air that’s turned the cigarette smoke into a psychoactive inhalant. Peter could pitch this to Marlboro as an intoxicating aerosol.
He says to Volikov, “I think we can safely remove the hose from the exhaust now.”
But Volikov is ten shots drunker than when Peter last saw him, and during the interval, he lost his sense of humor. He’s not amused, but he’s decided to keep Peter close. He says, “I would be interested to hear how many kilometers of roads Morris and Hugo have budgeted for.” And this time he wants it translated. He looks to me and then throws his chin toward Peter as if to say, Tell him.
I don’t really want to, but I do.
Disconcertingly quick to reach sobriety, Peter’s smile is warm for Volikov, but his question is chilled for me. “Baby, what have you two been talking about?”
“A bit of this and that.”
“A bit of which and what exactly?”
“Oh, you know: tattoos, heroes, goats, trees.”
“Trees?”
I point out the window. “It’s been hours of trees.”
“That is what I’m afraid of.”
“I know, right? Bears. The woods are full of them.”
“I’m not afraid of bears, Sibyl.”
“You should be. Have you seen the size of them?”
“What did you—”
“They’re not black bears like at home, but brown. Big difference.”
“—tell them about—”
“They don’t bluff like black bears.”
“—the trees?”
“Did you know the brown bear has only recently been accepted in Russia as a national symbol?”
“You literally make my brain hurt.”
I reach into the bag at my feet to offer, “Aspirin?”
* * *
The way to tell if a corporate citizen like Peter is particularly serious is if they start using words in a manner Merriam-Webster would approve. In fury, retribution, and admonishment, executives want no misunderstanding, and they can become explicitly, and unexpectedly, articulate.
If it weren’t for anger, I’d have little idea Peter was capable of conversing in commonly recognizable phrases.
For the very fear he’s about to become too plainly spoken, I want to fill his mouth with something less dangerous. I separate an authentic aspirin from the Bayer bottle and then look to Felix for another toast to help Peter swallow what I hand him.
Volikov stares at the exchange, so I offer up the bottle. “Aspirin?”
“Feh.” He’s again dismissive.
I falsely argue its benefits, “You will not get a headache if you take one now.”
To Felix, I fabricate further, “And recovery time is halved.”
Looking at Peter, I sound genuinely apologetic, “It is almost an unfair advantage.”
Volikov snorts, “I will try your aspirin.”
I don’t wait for Felix to assent; I just go ahead and give him a sleeping pill as well.
His toast is portentous. “To women.”
Determined to put Peter back in my lap, the shots increase from two an hour to the original six again, but only Peter makes it past three.
Felix tries to shake off the effect of the zopiclone, but the head snap meant to deliver mental clarity only manages to throw him against Volikov’s shoulder.
“Steady there, hoss.” Peter reaches out to lend a hand but withdraws when he hears Volikov’s lip blubbering snore. “Nah, he won’t mind.”
The driver looks in the rearview mirror and says with disgust, “Duraki.” Fools. He looks at the front seat passenger, who hasn’t so much moved in the last hours as slipped so deep into sleep his head has left a streak of hair gel down the window to the armrest, and says again, “Durák.”
Peter announces brightly, “I’m feeling pretty buffed for this level.”
And I smile to hear his return to linguistic obscurity.
The Fool
Velsk is ramshackle and rundown, and I suspect only a winter setting and a very foreign eye might see it as quaint. Six months ago it would have been covered in snow and obscured by dark, but now it’s midsummer so the sun is still high at 5:00 p.m. Nothing goes unobserved. Not the rot, or the weeds, or the drunks accompanied by stray horses in the street.
If the horses weren’t grazing from potholes, they might be induced by traffic to seek the security of the sidewalk, but innumerable birch saplings have ripped through the footpaths, so the road remains a safer location for both man and beast.
It’s hard to know exactly where the countryside gave way to this overgrown town, but it’s very evident that residents of neither care about landscaping.
A hundred years ago, the timber houses that crowd the street might have been tidy, but now they’ve faded into every dull color except pretty and the land grows wild with grass.
While there are hundreds of occupied homes, there is no discernible business district, and I can’t imagine where the men intend to procure twenty more cases of vodka.
Our phones show Russia’s tourism site promoting “2 things to do in Velsk!” Both are hotels. One is a gray Communist block and the other still appears to be a barn.
The town is wretchedly poor and terribly neglected, yet it’s infinitely preferable to any trailer park.
I have lived in worse, and Peter has evidently never seen anything close.
His most charitable estimation is to note, “Nothing a day of carpet bombing wouldn’t improve.”
He thumbs between the two tourist attractions and asks, “Which will it be? A night with Stalin or baby Jesus?”
But we’re not going to either hotel. The convoy of cars slows to a halt to turn into a tight gravel drive. Unlike the other houses that cramp the street, beyond the mailbox is an acre of long weeds and a two-story turquoise mansion, of sorts. Like most of the nineteenth-century dwellings we’ve passed, the same wide and intricate folk carvings decorate the windows, doors, and roof, but here the scale is massive. Made of clapboard, it’s heavily weathered and the wood is more stained a shade of seasick blue than painted.
It’s crooked and swayed and collapsing, and it looks distinctly like a firetrap, but I’d sell everything Peter owns to possess it.
I’m enthralled with it.
Peter, on the other hand, is differently moved. He whispers, “I am actually afraid.”
“Of what?”
He looks from me back to the hulking mass of decay and whimpers a laugh that implies he’s mystified by my lack of understanding.
Because weeds are brushing the sides of the car as we park, I’m not entirely certain, but I think he murmurs, “I have no idea where I am.”
But Peter’s horror can’t match that of the Bratva who open the doors on the Jaguar expecting to haul forth two unconscious Americans but find instead Felix a
nd Volikov inextricably passed out in each other’s arms.
The driver stalks away from the scene cursing, “Kucha durakov,” Bunch of fools, and the front seat passenger gets the door yanked from under his head so he’s left half dangling from the car.
Someone whistles under their breath, “Eto polniy pizdetz.” This is a full fuckup.
And Peter, because he is not—or possibly because he is—incredibly stupid, takes the opportunity to pour a parting shot of vodka. Lifting the glass to his mouth, he downs it quickly and mechanically, as though he were utterly bored with this too often repeated ritual. Then, gently and without hurry, he straightens the cuffs of his shirt and steps from the car an American god.
* * *
Peter has masterfully played the moment, and for the moment, it’s hard to know whether the Bratva or I have for him more admiration.
Whatever fear he had for the derelict mansion, he shows none of it now. In fact, he shows little of anything because he’s remembered not to smile.
He’s never been more attractive.
A woman at the mansion’s open door raises one brow in appreciation, and another on the steps wets her lips in interest. And while they are both strikingly beautiful, considering all the tattooed men in the yard wearing wife-beaters, I figure they’re both too detrimentally stupid to be a threat.
Of greater concern are all the tattooed men in the yard wearing wife-beaters.
A quick count of twelve tells me I don’t have enough sleeping pills to get Peter safely through the weekend.
There are going to be more cases of vodka than I have zopiclone. And I’m not about to give any of these criminals Ambien because even normal drunks on Ambien become entirely too unpredictably weird. And hell, already, there’s a man with a polar bear on his head.
He’s just one of the fifteen oddities. James Dean, Elvis, and the blond with cornrows now seem relatively ordinary when compared to the circus-styled strongman, fat man, and too many tattooed men to be considered freaks.
Red Russia Page 21
