Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

I nodded saying nothing, looking at the floor.

When the door opened we were met by an older woman in her early sixties who obviously had been very attractive in her youth and was well dressed. She was in no way brash and trendy but it was obvious from the way she carried herself and spoke that she had been well educated and well-heeled for her whole life, yet lacking the arrogance of the nouveau riche in Russia. The apartment was also well appointed, but dated. The furniture was obviously 1970s Russia and the television and other fixtures showed that little renovation had been done, but was in surprisingly good repair. The living room was as I had expected, spacious with lots of light. The kitchen was also well equipped with a large refrigerator, a full oven and cooking range, standard cabinets for a Russian home, but again kept very clean and crumb free. The floors were a mix of hardwood and tiles with the bathroom tiled in a stylish art-deco mosaics in black and white. Very avant-garde! It was a dashing apartment with a view onto the tree filled park below in the square with a pleasant view of the more traditional buildings surrounding the park.

To my surprise, this very proper woman, without seeing any credentials or asking for any identification let us into her home to look around and ask all sorts of questions. She went so far as to tell us that her husband who had been an engineer in the town had died a few months earlier and that she was going to stay with her daughter in Samara. She planned to be away for a year as she was expecting her first grandchild, a girl, and needed to make an agreement quickly about renting the apartment. Misha left some paperwork for her to fill in and promised to call her after the weekend and let her know if ‘our agency’ would work to fill her apartment. We left with polite greetings. Once we were on the street walking toward Gorkiy street, and out of earshot of any potential clients, I turned and questioned Misha.

“Misha, I don’t understand any of this. I have to speak honestly! This woman doesn’t know you or me from Ivan the Terrible and she just lets us into her apartment without any assurance that we are who we say we are. We could have robbed her blind! We could have tied her up and carried her away after dark and just taken over her apartment. My friends tell me not to talk to anybody, not to let anybody I don’t know into my apartment, and you won’t even talk to me on the telephone but yet we just walk right into a fancy apartment? Please explain this to me,” I huffed in frustration.

“It’s easy. Russians trust Russians,” Misha said in a flippant expression.

“I’m sorry, can you please repeat that?” I said in disbelief.

“Russians… trust… Russians. Pyotr. If a Russian gives a billion rubles cash, in small notes, to a friend to guard for him while he goes on holiday to Cuba or Cyprus for three years, even if that friend loses his job, is evicted from his home and is starving in the streets, he would not touch his friend’s money. Never! Friendship and trust between Russians are holy! You see, when somebody is from the government we do not trust the person because the government is only out to steal from the people. If you know that, you don’t have to guess and that person will never deceive you. They will walk in and tell you they are taking all your money and putting your grandmother in a hard labor camp. So, you stay away from that person and don’t let them get into your business,” he explained with surety.

“What about the Russian mafia? Isn’t that Russians hurting Russians?” I challenged.

“Yes, but it’s the same situation as with the government. They walk in with brass knuckles and knives and you know exactly who you are dealing with. They don’t hide themselves, you see them everywhere and everybody knows who they are and what they do,” he sketched without subtlety.

“What about the secret police, the KGB or FSB?” I continued to push.

“This is why we don’t speak on the telephone, because we don’t know who they are, but when a Russian looks into another Russian’s eyes, they don’t lie to each other and we don’t deceive each other. Others don’t get the same treatment. A Russian dealing with a foreigner is a dangerous and shadowy relationship. You will most likely never hear the truth from a Russian, you being a foreigner, unless you first become good friends,” he said seriously.

“So that is why you asked me not to speak while we were visiting these apartments,” I concluded.

“Yes, one word with your accent and the deal is over. It won’t go any further because when a Russian gives his word to another Russian… well, Russians trust Russians,” he said again accepting this simple axiom.

“So, foreigners are not trusted in Russia?” I asked in a hurt tone.

“Always very suspect. Why are you and Del in Russia? Simply to get rich and then you will leave,” he accused.

“Woah, hold on there. Please don’t group me with the rest!” I stipulated.

“Why shouldn’t I? Americans are always the first to come when they can make some money and the first to leave when things go wrong. The Brits follow right behind you. You cannot handle any moral ambiguity and sacrifice is only good to a point until it hurts too much, then you run away, even if your cause is just,” he said insultingly.

“You sure to do lay it on thick for a first date, my friend,” I said with an uncomfortable laugh and a frustrated sigh.

“Do you know Stalingrad?” Misha asked quickly.

“Volgograd, yes I was there last summer,” I replied.

“No, the battle of Stalingrad. Study that battle with the fascists and you will understand what it means to be Russian. Russians know what it means to suffer and sacrifice. They won’t stop until they’ve won. They will throw their men, women, children and old men and old women at the enemy instead of surrendering their country to foreigners. They promised to protect their country, and with their backs to the Volga, they didn’t let the Nazis cross. We all know we can trust Russians from Volgograd because their grandparents, every single one of their grandparents fought to beat the Germans, and we know that they have been taught to love Russia,” he said proudly, “do you know why a Russian woman who is beaten by her husband never leaves him?” Misha was treading on thin ice now with me. I didn’t answer but gave him a very annoyed look.

“Because she’s Russian,” he said with no shame.

“Well, we Americans stuck it out to whoop your butts in the cold war,” I said brazenly.

“Hah, nobody ever beats Russia. The Soviet Union lost to the United States, not Russia. Russia is still alive and will come right back now that the foreign leaders in Moscow are gone!” he said with some disgust in his voice.

“So why do you trust Del, a foreigner?” I challenged his hypocrisy.

“Trust? Who said I trust him? I work for him and I keep his business safe. He pays me. When he stops paying me, I won’t protect his business any longer,” he said with an emotional dryness that was believable.

“And what do you do precisely to protect Del?” I asked further.

“I keep the government from stealing from him,” he said as we walked further.

“And you don’t trust the government either,” I concluded.

“Never will. Not until it stops stealing from its own people,” he ruled.

“You are a bundle of contradictions, Misha, just like Russia herself. It’s good to know you,” I laughed aloud in disbelief.

“Please call me next Saturday morning and we will visit three more apartments,” he said and held out his hand to shake mine.

“Where should I meet you?” I asked him waiting to hear his wild instructions. “I will tell you on Saturday morning.”