Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

As I turned from the window there was a quiet knock on my door and two children poking their curious heads in to look. They had never seen this room in the apartment as the room had been closed and locked for years.

“Come in, come in,” I waved them into the room with my free hand. They stood at the open door and gazed around the room.

“Babushka says you talk funny,” was the introduction from the young girl.

“Well, what do you think?” Both of the kids giggled. “I think that is yes,” and I put on a clown’s false frown and hung my head.

“Neecheevooah!” the girl shouted laughing, saying in one word “it’s okay, it’s not important.”

The smile jumped back on to my face. More giggles.

“I come from a far away place across the ocean, where we speak a different language. Different from Russian and different from Tatar.”

We introduced ourselves. Murat the boy and Nelya the girl both introduced themselves in Russian and then in Tatar and I introduced myself in Russian and then in English. How they giggled. How exotic! As it goes with little children, a little grown-up talk goes a long way and they retreated to the kitchen where they drew pictures with crayons for the rest of the afternoon. I went back to brooding over my notes from the night before. The doorbell rang again. It was Yulia.

“Come in, please!” I greeted her warmly. We sat down at my table facing each other on the corner. I didn’t touch her at all.

“How are you? It’s been a long time,” she said awkwardly.

“Yes, about five weeks,” I remarked with remorse, “Are you still angry with me?”

“Well, the reason I was angry at you was justified, but I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean to cause me grief. You just didn’t know any better being new here. I should have thought more about it. The food, the setting, the service. It’s not typical. I should have warned you when we arrived… but I guess I wanted to be treated like a lady for a night. It was a very nice dinner and you paid so much for it and I was so ungrateful.” was her apology.

“What have you been doing for five weeks then?” I asked trying to change the subject that I was still ashamed of.

“Lots of writing for our newspaper column. I am trying to write something more about Bolshakov, of course, and try to slip something into our newspaper about the issues he wrote about, but of course I am being censored by the editor. He says he doesn’t want any more dead journalists, especially himself. But I keep trying and arguing with him anyhow.”

“What about all that talk about staying away from these dangerous matters that you lectured me about? It seems rather unfair that you’d not talk to me for five weeks and then still try to get an article about the same topics into the newspaper,” I pointed out her the hypocrisy.

“I know, that’s why I am here tonight. I realized that too,” she said ashamed of herself.

There was a long awkward silence. Yulia broke the silence.

“What have you been up to since we saw each other last?” she asked me.

“I’ve been buried in the research library hiding from the weather as well as Mr. P. as you warned me I needed to,” I told her honestly.

“Who is Mr. P.?” Yulia asked.

“You remember the bald man that came into the restaurant after the police officers went into the back room? That is Mr. P. He’s the boss.” I was surprised that Yulia didn’t know who he was.

“How did you learn his name?” she asked curiously.

“I was dancing at his club last night,” I said without thinking of the implications.

“Dancing? Dancing with who?” she asked with her ears pointing straight up with a stunned face.

“Hans, I went dancing with Hans,” I replied innocently.

“You danced the whole night with Hans? I don’t think so. Who did you dance with?” she demanded to know.

“Woah! Calm yourself. We hadn’t seen each other for five weeks. Why do you think I can’t dance with anybody I choose?” I said defensively.

“Did you dance with one girl the whole night, or just skip around the dance floor dancing with any pretty face?” her jealousy was rising and I was desperate to cool it off.

“I was there on assignment from the Dean! I didn’t go to go dancing, and you know I didn’t go there to drink,” I said trying to give the evening perspective.

“Why would the Dean send you dancing to a club for an academic assignment, and you had better be very careful with you answer, Peter, very careful,” she warned me with a upheld finger.

“I was there to see Mr. P. in his element,” I admitted, “and it was quite a show.”

“Why would your professor tell you to do that?” she demanded to know the answer to such a ridiculous idea.

I couldn’t quite swallow right. “He wants me to write my article about Mr. P. and his activities,” I said carefully.

“What?!? How… what are you… are you mad? Are you completely out of your head?” she exploded.

I sat quietly and did not react further. She stood up and paced the room,

“Are you trying to get yourself killed? You don’t write about the local neighborhood mafia man, certainly not somebody who already knows your face! Are you so foolish?” she ranted.

“And you’re trying to have articles printed to carry on the work of Bolshakov? What’s the difference, Yulia? Tell me, what is the difference? We both see injustice, abuse and we both want to do something about it. Can’t you see you’re just as crazy as me?” I blurted out.

“Yes, but I can take care of myself. I can’t protect you though if you keep doing stupid things like this!” she screamed at me and then burst into tears.

“Can’t we do this together then?” I proposed.

By Monday morning I had to put my snow boots on again as well as my wool overcoat and shapka to I make my way to the history faculty for a fateful meeting with the Dean in his office. I wondered that morning if Russia had a similar tradition to the American Ground Hog’s Day, a day on which winter and spring would battle for pole position before the spring equinox. If it had, I concluded that in Russia there would always be six more weeks of winter. The weather was miserably wet and humid with slush everywhere.

The history lecture that morning seemed to last forever with wet snowing falling outside, streaking the classroom windows. I huffed at the weather. The battles of old Muscovy were not relevant to the contemporary issues I was pondering. I stopped listening after fifteen minutes. I was very agitated and restless.

Sitting down behind his desk, Dean Karamzin cleared away a number of papers and folders, stacking them in a hurried fashion on to an already leaning stack of other folders and papers. He put his arms in front of him on the desk and asked.

“So, Mr. Turner did you enjoy the party on Saturday evening?”

“Yes, It was very educational. I learned a lot about a number of different people. It’s amazing what people will tell you when they have a few drinks in them,” I postulated.

“Did you get a chance to see Mr. P.?” he asked excitedly.

“Yes. In fact, we shook hands and were introduced by Marina Karlovna; you’ll know her from our lectures. Cute, short girl, always smiling,” I mentioned.

“Oh yes, Marina. So, you met him. Did you speak at all?” he was wanting the play by play account.

“Well, he speculated that I am a CIA or FBI agent and then he invited me to lunch one day so I could tell him why I came to Russia,” I reported.

“That’s perfect. That means he doesn’t suspect you at all,” the Dean exclaimed with glee.

“Suspect me of what?” I was puzzled.