Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“Don’t you want to help change things, though? Russia has such a potential and it just seems to be sinking further since all the reforms started. Instead of taking wings like we all expected it took a nose dive and it all seems preventable if,” I asked trying to feel out his motivations.

“…if what? How do you think you could change this? You can’t stop a moving train by jumping in front of it, kid, it will just roll right over you. Nobody will even notice. You won’t even be a speed bump on the rail. You’ll be a moth on the windshield. You’ll only annoy the engineer and he will just wash you off with the windshield wipers. You need to be able to walk away when its time to walk away,” Del pontificated in his prairie philosophy. “Don’t try to be a hero, Peter. You didn’t make this mess. You are not obligated to help clean it up.”

“Oh, I almost forgot!” and with this, I stood up to find my bag and from it produced three weeks of The Economist that Del had missed being away.

Els saw me to the door and said with a bit of motherly concern “Peter, be sure to have some fun too! Remember that you can’t change the world on your own!”

Outside snow was still falling and piling up on the pavements. I rode the bus across the river to the Moscovskiy train station. When I stepped off the bus at the Moscovskiy station there was a smoldering kiosk, charred black and shattered glass, that had recently been extinguished by fire fighters. I didn’t linger and look or ask the last fire fighters what had happened. Everybody knew what had happened. Somebody hadn’t paid their protection money.

After a few days of not seeing each other, and not speaking, I phoned Yulia to invite her out for a real sit-down dinner, in a real restaurant on the Bolshaya Pokrovka to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Like Christmas, western holidays were in vogue with the students but in the city, there was very little observance. To my surprise, Yulia accepted my invitation to reconciliation very graciously.

A few days before my invitation to Yulia, while walking between classes together, Marina pointed out to me that an acquaintance of hers has recently bought a newly privatized restaurant and it was open for customers now. This, of course, piqued my interest. Marina and I stopped to look at the menu of traditional Russian foods. I noticed immediately that there were no listed prices on the menu. I stepped inside to ask for a reservation for the evening of St. Valentine’s Day. Marina was all starry eyed at how romantic it was going to be, and she wasn’t even invited. She was like that.

When Yulia and I arrived for dinner we were met, greeted and seated promptly by a well-dressed and well-mannered waiter. Yulia approved immediately. The dining room was in a sous-terrain, basement with a vaulted brick ceiling. There was a shabby-chic feeling as the basement has been decorated to feel as if the diners were eating in the wine cellar. The white paint peeling off the red bricks of the faux vaulting added to the feeling of being someplace other than snowy, frozen, pickled Russia. The tables were covered in proper linen table cloths and napkins. The silverware was shiny and heavy in the hand. The lighting low and focused creating an intimate and private atmosphere. Yuila thought she was Sophia Lauren and that diamonds were to be served as the appetizer and couldn’t stop smiling. Everybody was so polite and chivalrous as professional waiters and services should be. Menus were brought and aperitifs presented. This bode well to help patch things up between us.

“It all looks so good!” Yulia beamed as she inspected the menu offerings.

“I haven’t had chicken Kiev since I was in Kiev a few years ago,” I said with some wonder, “I think I will try that tonight.”

“I’ve never had it. I hear it’s really good when it’s cooked right,” she said with stars in her eyes.

We both ordered the chicken Kiev but enjoyed a five-course presentation with starters, both warm and cold, an in-between chef’s surprise, a buttery chicken Kiev with a gourmet potato puree with fresh green vegetables and ended with a traditional Russian jam of berries in an unsweetened cream. We drank chilled sparkling mineral water from Austria. The waiter took a photo of us. I was curious but didn’t speak about it with Yulia, but noticed that still there was no mention of a charge or a single price on the menu for the royal treatment of this gourmet dinner.

“Peter, I feel really horrible for the things I said to you that night at the bus stop. I don’t know what came over me. I think you were right that my nerves were still raw from, well, you know what. I don’t want to speak of such things in such a nice place.” It was the first time I ever heard her apologize. It made me uncomfortable.

“Listen, don’t worry about. We all say things sometimes that we don’t mean. Please just let it go.” I reached out and held her hand across the table for a few moments before dessert was served.

As the evening grew later the dining room filled to capacity, but not with elegant diners or couples celebrating Valentine’s Day together, but with groups of young men in their twenties in purple suits. For every table of four or five young men in flashy shoes and ties, short hair buzzed off, there were one or two girls, about the same age at the table hanging on the arm of one of the diners. The ladies were not dressed for dinner.

Yulia finally noticed the other diners and gave me a concerned look across the table, and in a low voice commented in English, “Peter, do you see the people here? They all are criminals. Look at their clothes. Normal people cannot buy these clothes.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed. I like the purple suits!” I said with a grin.

Yulia screwed up her face and looked away.

“This a private restaurant,” I said to her in coded language. She understood.

“What private?” she gasped.

“Meaning that this restaurant is privately owned. I wanted to come here to see what a private restaurant meant. The food has been excellent. The service has been great. Don’t you think so?” I asked innocently.

“Peter, the only people who can pay for a restaurant are criminals. I can’t believe you brought me here,” she huffed and tried not to be too conspicuous about not looking around her.

As Yulia was becoming very uncomfortable I politely asked for the check. The waiter told us that the charge would be forty dollars and retreated to his service station. Yulia was shocked!

“Peter, forty dollars? That is two month’s rent for your apartment! How many rubles is that? My mother and I can feed ourselves for a whole month for that amount! How are you going to pay for that?” she was genuinely concerned that we were in trouble with the wrong people.

“Shhh,” I hushed my date’s growing hysteria, “I expected this and came prepared. You don’t have to worry. I have plenty of money.”

I signaled the waiter again, “Do you accept payment in rubles?” I asked him.

“No, unfortunately only in hard currency, dollars or marks.” was his answer.

I cheerfully paid the waiter with two twenty-dollar bills from my billfold with one hundred dollars in it. The waiter retreated again to his station.

“Peter, that is illegal in Russia. Everybody must accept payment in rubles. You can’t pay in dollars anymore since the beginning of the year,” Yulia hissed into my ear.

“Yes, I understand that, but do you want to tell that to him and him and him?” I whispered back looking at each thug with a nod of my head.

She looked confused as she turned to look around the dining room filled with thugs and their girls.

“Yulia, this is a mafia restaurant. You don’t argue with the waiter in a mafia restaurant. You pay. You smile. You compliment the chef. You leave.” I said as I stood up slowly from my chair.