The Poles, on the other hand, benefited from their faults. They had always been foolish nationalists, the stingy Lachs. Their stubbornness had always outweighed their stinginess and all else. In earlier times they intrigued all of Europe with their desire to profit from going their own way—which they perhaps learned from the Jews, whom they had harbored so long and loved so little—until the Nazis decimated them. Like their Jews, Poles were hard, petty pragmatists almost incapable of generosity—and yet deeply, deeply religious.
At the start of the twenty-first century, the Poles typically went their own way. They were the first from the former Soviet bloc to understand that they did not need the labor of rivers of Muslims from the Third World. During the first years of Polish membership in the EU, there were no heavy influxes. The Polish standard of living was lower than in old Europe, making Poland, the Czech Republic, Hungary, Lithuania, and Latvia less attractive to poor migrants.
However, the differences gradually diminished and migrants pressed forward into the former socialist countries. Still torn asunder by their newness, many of these countries dreaded the disapproval of their EU masters in Brussels, and dared not risk appearing insufficiently committed to the ideals of democracy.
But the Poles immediately opposed any Muslim immigration. At first, they acted through quiet bureaucratic sabotage. But soon that was not enough. So the President of Poland, Marek Stasinsky, announced that his country was pulling out of the EU and NATO—after working for so many years to get in! President Stasinsky was hailed as a national hero.
Since he was now freezing on the balcony, Slobodan went back into the apartment, into the kitchen. Oh, the Russian habit of drinking cup after cup of tea during sleepless nights, pondering the fate of humanity! But what could he do?
He would have been far happier to honor another Russian tradition and have a juniper brandy instead of tea. Yes, juniper brandy. Two glasses of it and his insomnia would disappear like historical geopolitics. And with it he would nibble some pink wedges of smoked bacon, cut translucently thin and interlaced with meat. Hey, stop that! He mustn’t even think about juniper brandy or smoked bacon, or his mission would be exposed.
The Poles paid dearly for their rebelliousness. The opposition proclaimed Stasinsky insane. How could he imagine sharing a border with Germany—with its army comprised of three-fourths Muslims—and not playing by the general European rules? But the people believed their president. The second Polish ploy was even crazier than the first. The famous pact of May 5, 2034 brought the former socialist camp to a frenzy. Not even old Europe could believe it when one beautiful morning, it found the Russian Army on the Germany-Poland border.
Russia had not invaded. Nor had Poland suddenly learned to love Russia. It simply undertook, yet again, realistic measures. Without the Russian military presence, the armed incursion of Euroislam into Poland would have been only a matter of time. For its part, Russia wanted to push the border of Euroislam as far from Russia as possible. Better to maintain a buffer state like Poland between itself and Euroislam than to stare at minarets across a dotted line. The move was in the interest of two countries who were bound into alliance by a thousand years of mutual annexation of each other’s territory. An old enemy is better than two new ones.
In 1990, the grandmothers and grandfathers of today’s Lachs wouldn’t have believed that one day, not only would the Russian Army be in Poland, but that this would be to the betterment and satisfaction of their grandchildren! Moreover, as the Russian soldiers admitted, it is blissful to serve in Poland today. It can be dangerous, of course—occasionally there are shots fired at the border. But there are also very few Sundays when they are not invited to partake in Sunday lunch with a local family.
Yes, it is a festal Sunday lunch because the Poles, like the Russians, observe Sunday, not Friday, as a religious day of rest. The Poles remained Catholic. When the ill-starred year of 2031 began, and the Roman Pope surrendered, exactly one month later, white smoke appeared above Holy Trinity Monastery in Krakow. A new Papal see was established in Poland. Its borders were now identical with the borders of the Catholic world. The Polish clergy began to ardently advocate for the old, pre-Vatican II Mass. Things did not go so far as reverting to the use of Latin. No one knew Latin anymore, or how to serve the Tridentine Mass. The oldest priests celebrated it as best they could, but in Polish.
That’s how matters stood. Poland was the alpha and omega of modern Catholicism. Who, at the end of the twentieth century, could have imagined that Catholicism would be the religion of only one country? History advances in unpredictable steps. In Poland, the simple colored bulbs of small chapels still shone by the side of the road, with statues that looked as if children had painted them.
After celebrating the Poles’ liberation from halal smoked-horsemeat sausage, Slobodan opened his refrigerator with a frown. He still could not force himself to eat the meat of livestock slaughtered according to their practice. He remembered all too well from his childhood that they slit the throat of a ram or a man with the same expression, and even the same words: “Bismillah allahu akbar!”
He cut the pie with revulsion. If it was peach pie, it would go well with the tea. Especially once warmed in the microwave. That was why he had been putting on weight, but what was one to do?
Yes, a lot had changed since NATO disintegrated. A weakened United States now had only itself to think about. The white south and the black-Muslim-Hispanic-UrbanWhite north engaged in a tug of war for power in the Senate and House of Representatives, maintaining a fragile balance to avoid civil war.
The southern U.S. Christians were very fortunate in that they were confronted, not just by the Muslims, but by four mutually inimical religions (if you count voodoo and atheism). None of them wanted a vicious, well-armed, redneck wave of revenge. Thus, America was too preoccupied to be the world’s power-broker anymore.
There were no global power-brokers, in fact. Everyone was involved in this confrontation of opposites. Most territories inhabited by Russians formed a protectorate; the army was there. It was useless to draw maps. Governments changed almost overnight—today Christian, tomorrow Muslim. This took place not only in every country and city, but in every village.
And what about proud, independent, little Chechnya, Russia’s main headache at the turn of the century? Nothing. The flow of Saudi money had been cut off. And there were no fools willing to fight for nothing. Dear God, let it never be forgotten or erased that in every place in the world, there can always arise “a fifth column”—like the microbe of a monstrous disease able to sleep a million years in salt crystals.
Before Slobodan’s eyes on sleepless nights, sometimes the virtual map of the world moved steadily, like wool in the hands of an old Serb peasant woman. Sometimes a fragment of it would suddenly change its format and grow larger, like Israel, which had grown unusually strong thanks to massive immigration in the 2010’s, beginning with Sharon’s historic invitation. Or Australia, which remained an idyllic oasis of old-fashioned Western life, but played no role in world politics. Or Japan, even more enclosed in its cultural isolation, like a pearl that had returned to its shell. Or India, which lived in a state of permanent war that it had not lost, thanks only to the numerousness of its population.
And who was he, Slobodan Vuković, whose thoughts were so engrossed by the geopolitical kaleidoscope? Perhaps he was a man who had replaced his tribal passions with abstractions. In particular, his mind had become a fine tool that accurately gauged the balance of power.
The arrow on the device was quivering dangerously. Something could be changed. That is what Paris at night whispered to Slobodan through the windows of his luxurious apartment. That is what the piece of already-cold pie muttered to him from the plate. That is what the rhythm of the blood pulsing in his temples told him:
The balance could be disrupted.
CHAPTER 4
Confession without a confessional
Estonia, 2006
Anne Virve ope
ned the window, and the room was instantly filled with the hum of Narva Street. This was even though the windows did not face the street itself, which was one of the apartment’s shortcomings. Another was that the streetcar tracks passed underneath the window. There was also a third—the ceilings were too low.
But what was the point of fretting, when something different cost more, and not every single woman nowadays could afford to buy a four-room apartment practically in downtown Tallinn before she was thirty? In Tallinn, a fifteen-minute walk from the towers toward Viru was not exactly on the outskirts, but still...
Anne closed the window decisively. If the air conditioner was good, the polluted street air was not necessary. In recent years, she had stopped making good money and was hard-pressed to put aside one or two hundred euros per month. And time was passing. Could a poor girl living with her parents in the poverty-stricken Õismäe quarter hope to find a decent match? Ridiculous.
Before moving in, Ana had spent a long time hesitating over whether to enlarge the kitchen by tearing down the inner partition. She would have gotten a kitchen-dining room. She finally decided against it, and she made the right choice: It was no longer fashionable to display sinks and refrigerators. It was much better to pass from the living room into the winter garden, with green plants visible through the glass wall of the small kitchen. With a smile, Ana touched the mane of the papyrus peering out from a ceramic pot. There was even room for a small bench, where one or two visitors could sip their coffee.
Oh, what a lot of money had gone into the living room! It was horrible to even imagine what it had looked like before! Wallpaper with an old-fashioned pattern on uneven walls, gray linoleum with black cracks. Apparently, the previous owners had been elderly people.
The intercom buzzed merrily. A camera in the entrance really was necessary. She would have to seek an agreement with the other neighbors.
“I’m with the Problems of Democracy International Fund,” said a young female voice in English. “And I’m conducting a random survey. May I ask you for a few minutes of your time to answer some questions?”
Ana hesitated for a moment. On the one hand, ever since Estonia joined the EU, various sociologists and public workers gave it no peace. On the other hand, it would be nice to welcome a cultured person to her new home.
“Come in,” she said, pushing a button. Her English was not perfect, but nothing to be ashamed of.
The visitor, who was a very young woman, disappointed Ana at first sight. She was thin and not particularly tall, dressed in the manner of educated female representatives of the old Europe: running shoes, black jeans, a dark-colored turtleneck, and a light, pink jacket. Her long chestnut hair fell loose over her shoulders, and she obviously hadn’t visited a good hairdresser in a while. It was difficult to conclude whether she lived in a trailer or an inherited castle. You could never tell with such people.
“Please have a seat in the living room.” It was hard to imagine that the girl, probably a student, would notice the light-colored beech furniture standing out nicely against the perfectly flat, blue walls, or the huge, 2-by-1.5 meter home theater with its LCD screen occupying almost an entire wall.
“Nice place you have here.”
“Do you like it?” Anne beamed with satisfaction. “I just moved in.”
Sitting down in a linen armchair, the girl immediately pulled out a palmtop computer from her pocket and began writing on it with a stylus. There was something odd about the way she held objects in her left hand.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“Thank you, perhaps later.” It was only now that Ana noticed the girl’s unusual voice, melodious but at the same time husky.
Ana suddenly lost all desire to show her new apartment. There was something incomprehensible about this girl, who as they talked was checking boxes on her palmtop: age, sex, marital status, occupation, favorite sports—skiing, rifle shooting. Good, at least it wouldn’t take long.
“We’re interested in the opinion of Estonia’s native inhabitants regarding the problem of the so-called Russian-speaking population. How do you see the solution to this problem?”
She needed to formulate her answer carefully—to be politically correct but to answer honestly. The old Europeans should have no illusions on this issue.
“Unfortunately, I see only one possible solution; the Russian-speaking population needs to be extradited to Russia. Russia can deal with its own.”
“And would you say that among Estonians there are many supporters of allowing the Russian population to stay and assimilate?”
“To the great resentment of all Estonians, including myself, there is a misunderstanding between the Baltic countries and other countries of the EU. The issue of the Russians is unique. The historical guilt of the Russian occupiers of the Estonian nation is too great to relegate to oblivion. We are essentially a very hospitable and friendly people. Haven’t we granted asylum to so many Muslim migrants?”
Just try not granting them asylum! The whole EU would be howling at them in fury. But that was better left unsaid.
The girl listened to Ana carefully, but something was not right.
Ana went on, “We are happy to welcome those who have done us no harm. But no matter how hard some Russians try to adapt to our way of life, and there have been such individuals, how can we forget that Russians imposed the bloody Communist regime on us in the 20th century?”
Surely that made sense.
But the girl shot back: “If you had spent less time in 1919 betraying Yudenich to the Bolsheviks, they wouldn’t have had Communism to impose on you.”
Who was Yudenich? Oh, this was in 1919!
“But the Bolsheviks had ceded territory to us!”
“How nice! They were good to you— then!”
Only now did Ana realize that the girl was speaking in Russian.
“Mina ei raagi vene!” Ana exclaimed with a fear that she did not understand. Imagine, an impudent Russian girl pretending to be a sociologist! Russians liked to behave like this when they were young, but they were quickly broken. Once they were registered by the police, employment problems were guaranteed.
Although she tried to calm down, Ana remained nervous. “All of you raagi speak English quite well when you need to.”
The girl slipped the palmtop into her pocket. Ana noted again the awkwardness of her left hand.
“How dare you intrude into my home? It’s illegal!” Ana made three steps backward toward the window, as if fleeing from the visitor.
“Don’t move!” said the Russian girl, pulling a pistol from the right pocket of her jacket. “Stay where you are, and don’t even try to get close to the alarm button!”
Something frightened Ana so badly that her hands began to tremble. It wasn’t the pistol. It was how this juvenile non-citizen knew where the alarm button was!
“What alarm button? I don’t have any alarm button here.”
“No—except for the fake switch next to the real one that opens the blinds. You still don’t recognize me?”
The girl’s right hand held the gun without trembling. The left was buttoning the pocket with the palmtop, but with effort. Only three fingers were moving. The ring finger and pinky were rigid.
“No!” Cold sweat appeared on Ana’s forehead. “It can’t be you!”
But it was her; she hadn’t even changed much. Her hair was now long, whereas before it had been short; it had been impossible to tell the color because of the dirt. Her face hadn’t grown much. Before, it had even seemed older, bloated, and ill. She now recalled the hand—wrapped in a gray rag, stained with dried blood—and an old, quilted vest over a light T-shirt. They had kidnapped her in summer and it was already November outside. A hard, dead season—the trees were bare. It was no time to work.
That was why Ana had come to visit Ahmed. She had seen the girl just a few times. But she remembered her well—a poor girl with her head bowed in fear. That’s what had made it difficult to spot her no
w.
“You used our occupiers’ language to babble with him while you screwed. And you did business in our language.”
“But you’re not even Russian!” exclaimed Ana.
“You even remember that,” said the girl, smiling almost amicably. “My mother was Russian, although you wouldn’t know that. And there’s Russian blood everywhere. Ask any Estonian genius, scientist or composer. Just please don’t mention Ristikivi; we have so many classics like him that the publishing houses don’t know what to do with them all. You are mono-ethnic quadrants, just like in Marquez, and in the end you’ll produce children with pigs’ tails.”
Alright, let her babble about Marquez if she wants. The most important thing was that she wanted contact. The longer the conversation, the more difficult it would be for her to pull the trigger. Talk to her, get closer. If she already knows about the alarm button, simply grab her by the hand and flip her over. You’ll beat the slender girl easily in a real fight.
“All that was so long ago... And then you just show up. What have you been doing all these years?”
“Studying.“ The girl was cautious. It was too early to get close to her.
“Studying. And what have you been studying?”
“What have I been studying?” said the girl, smiling. “How to be a qualified hater. It’s a complicated program. How much effort one needs, just to examine all the possible variants of the Stockholm Syndrome! And I didn’t even know I had it. I thought it was just a fabrication by the experts. But I did have it. Oh, there are so few people who are qualified to hate!”
“But why me? Why do you hate me personally?” The girl really was insane. A fruitcake. That wasn’t good; the physical strength of crazy people sometimes exceeded the strength of their muscles.
“You? I hate everybody who was there. And everybody who could have been there. In the end, it’s all the same.”
“I was just there by accident. I’m not a Chechen. It was just business.”
The Mosque of Notre Dame Page 6
