Vladimir Ross - One Cup Chronicles. Tales Within a Tale of the Russian Underworld

Cover designer Nada Orlic

Translator Paul Lucken

Editor Nicole Stepanek

© Vladimir Ross, 2017

© Nada Orlic, cover design, 2017

© Paul Lucken, translation, 2017

ISBN 978-5-4483-9368-6

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Generals of the Russian Ministry of Internal Affairs made a fatal mistake. Some bureaucrat from the central department was zealous enough to contact publishers in Moscow with a strict forbiddance against the publications of writer Vladimir Ross. Without any hesitation the author moved to the United States. It was not long until an ardent address came from across the ocean. Opposition from Russian security forces had only encouraged this cosmopolitan author to become more driven. Everything that he tactfully omitted while living in his homeland, the author now describes in all of its glory. And not only in his mighty native language. English has come into play. The first volume, “One Cup Chronicles,” is similar to the Russian collection of stories, “One Cup Chronicles,” published on Amazon and Ridero. In the near future the author will return to the public with his main novella forbidden in Russia, The Thief – a stumbling stone of all conflicts with authority. For now, you can enjoy the short, fascinating crime stories of the series “One Cup Chronicles.” A cup of coffee taken along with the new stories will especially emphasize a somewhat bitter taste of the criminal world.

My first audience, critics as they were, have been gracious friends. As it happens, the earliest reading of my work was in a little café on the East River Side. There we gathered on that first extraordinary Tuesday, drinking coffee. I, overcoming my own embarrassment, humbly read the tale about a gentleman immigrant from the collection of “One Cup Chronicles.” Having lived through similar experiences themselves, the two criminal authorities turned out to be a first-rate audience and knowledgeable critics. Fact keeps with fact. For me their opinions were more precious than all of the sales on Amazon. Senya arrived a few years ago in the first wave of immigrants. He was content and spoke a simple English. With first-hand knowledge of the docks, he reasoned about American politics. He had managed to marry a full-blooded American woman, and it was no surprise that he wanted to put in his rusty two cents on the tale.

“Valdemar, I say, this is nowhere near good enough! You write about the pickpocket as if he’s a dead soul. Enliven him. Nazar is a man who deserves praise, and you make him out to be a common bandit. In the past at the Kolyma work camps, I knew many such men, punks of a noble and honorable nature. A righteous kind of thief, not associating himself with just any sort of brigand.”

Ignoring his nonsense, I felt no need to defend myself against what he said, and yet at home I quickly wrote out a part of the narrative in accordance with his comments.

Anastas was much less expressive. Expelled from his homeland of Greece by Greek criminals, carrying only that which was in his pockets, he found refuge in the United States, just outside the range of the Greek community. He usually just nodded and grinned and, when my story caught his imagination, rubbed the bridge of his nose. He always listened through until the end of the story. He was growing acquainted with our Senya, whom I had known already for thirty years. I didn’t know what the two of them had been occupying their time with, but the fact that they found time for a few cups of coffee and my ravings elevated them in my eyes, not because of anything concerning title or class. I am thankful for them. Perhaps it was because of them that the idea for the stories of “One Cup Chronicles” came to fruition.

Tuesday rolled around once more. We always gathered around midday. I hurried out the door, knowing that they wouldn’t hesitate to start without me.

Near the café I already spotted Senya’s blue Cadillac and its perpetual companion, the driver with the face of a bull terrier. Anastas lived not too far away, so he usually went to the café on foot. But I knew that he was already sitting at a table with Senya and the two were already actively discussing some problem or other of Greek society. The rich aroma of coffee made me quicken my steps, and we were soon greeting one another with warm embraces.

“Valdemar, my dear man, you’re late. It isn’t fit for an old criminal. Have you no respect?” Senya jibed.

Anastas, as he was wont to do, merely rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“My friends, I apologize. Please forgive me; it won’t happen again. I was delayed by the ‘Hustler’ himself. I knew I had a highly respected critic to impress, and wished to put my best foot forward.”

Senya grinned with delight. Either he was extremely thrilled to have been deemed a critic, or our friendship just brought him that much delight. After a moment his expression simply exuded a readiness to soak everything in, with the café and interesting moments of new history.

I rarely use clichés when writing new stories. I like to use plain histories in my work. Now and again I simply take realistic embellishments, whitewash them, and construct them into a paragraph. From this process have emerged a great number of stories. And believe you me, a good half of their foundation is in reality, but in unique areas that don’t cover the regular life of the common man. Plots such as this are simply reflected on. And I surely wouldn’t want to disguise my stories likewise.

“Well that there is the ‘The Hustler’.”

I knew of the sublime capabilities Senya and Anastas had in card games. I knew of the weekly battles of these two old friends. And because of this they were twice as interested as I was to receive my new story. As the coffee gradually added to my confidence, I turned the pages of my handwritten sheet, raised my eyes and, seeing the expressions of joy on the faces of my friends, set about reciting the story.

In the criminal underworld, money goes by many names. Some use the term “dead presidents.” Others use less creative expressions – moolah, dough. One of the most distinctive names, however, is a rather practical description: bread. Along with the consumers of this bread, bread which is as necessary for life as its namesake, comes a game.

Alexei made his living as a gambler. It would be very difficult to find a game, no matter the rules, principles, or essences, with which Alexei was not completely familiar. A phenomenal memory and persistent lifelong training allowed him to easily conquer any challenge laid before him. His signature game, and his favored tool of profit-making and self-assertion, was backgammon.

Alexei was eight years old when he first saw his father – a man who, between jails and criminal work camps, had always been gone – a man who went by the name Big. He just turned up one day at the house of his son who, upon rushing to open the door, found himself face-to-face with a gray-haired man. He wore an elegant black suit paired with a brimmed felt hat; he was a man of both presentable appearance and worldly luck. The stranger’s smile formed two rows of gold crowns as he extended a tiny bundle to the boy, and asked, “Well what are you gawking at, boy? I’ll deal with you soon enough, now where’s your whore of a mother?”

The boy went red. He wasn’t prepared to acknowledge such an insult. He turned his attention to unwrapping the gift. Fishing his hand inside the leather pouch he found some ordinary dice. Lyoshka threw the gift into the dustiest corner of the closet, when he was startled by a rude shout.