Val Karren: The Deceit of Riches

“Oy! That will be… wonder… very nice of you,” she looked to Yulia for confirmation.

“I have Irina’s telephone number in Moscow,” Yulia proffered, “We can tell her about you,” Yulia’s spoken English was awkward but always very correct. She understood far more quickly the spoken word than she could speak it back, but when she did it was always the right word with the right grammar.

“Will I speak to Americans the whole day through?” she asked excitedly.

“Yes, many Americans with many different accents. All day long, and sometimes in the middle of the night too,” I warned her.

After we had eaten a bit of our dinners, two tall young men in their late twenties came over and introduced themselves in very sophisticated English accents and shook hands. Their clothes looked a bit shabby and their hair a bit wayward creating an obvious mismatch between accent and appearance.

“Good evening, I am Richard, this is Andrew,” the first one spoke for both, while both leaned in for a proper handshake. I stood to meet their handshakes.

“Hallo. Peter Turner. This is Pasha, Marina, and Yulia,” I replied motioning to each of them in turn.

“Nice to meet you all,” Richard said to all three looking them politely in their faces, “So sorry for intruding but we don’t hear many American accents in this town, or spoken English here for that matter. We just had to find out about you as we know probably all the westerners here.”

“Just arrived over the holiday weekend. I’ve come for a Master’s program here at the university for the next year,” I revealed, “What brings you both here? You’ve been here a little while I can see,” I said pinching my still stiff collar on my shirt.

Richard rolled his eyes with a bit of knowing disgust and pinched his collar to help it stand a bit taller. “We are here with the World Bank outreach,” he replied.

“Really!?” I was immediately pleased to meet them for the research connections that they represented.

“That’s right,” Andrew replied just behind Richard’s shoulder in the cramped corner space of the Stubbe.

“How long has that been going on?” I inquired.

“About fourteen months now, but we’ve only arrived maybe four months ago and will stay another two,” Andrew confirmed.

“Would you like to join us?” I asked and I made a scooting motion with my hands to those sitting in the corner booth bench to see if we could make room for two more backsides.

“You are very welcome!” Marina bubbled as she moved closer to Pasha to further compress her already small size.

Richard replied politely, “No, no, please, we were just leaving, but please stop by our office for a chat, it’s just around the corner next to the new pizza restaurant ‘New York’s Best.’ This term ‘New York’s Best’ was spoken with some irony between the three westerners.

“I certainly will. Our history lectures are here at the square on Mondays and Wednesdays,” I mentioned.

Marina nodded to confirm the information.

“Very nice to meet you, Peter,” Richard said holding out his hand again for a second shake.

“And very nice to meet you all as well,” he said somewhat slower and more annunciated than needed.

After seeing Yulia onto her bus that would take her back across the Oka River, the three of us rode the bus back to the dormitories on Gagarin Street. Pasha helped me to carry my bags that we had retrieved from Yulia’s apartment earlier in the afternoon. Marina kept talking and asking questions, half in English and half in Russian while we rode through the cold dark night.

We wished Marina a good evening and climbed the stairs with my bags, after paying homage to the superintendent who noted down our arrival. Pasha kindly introduced me to my roommates, now present, and in different half states of being dressed, with the radiator still open and pumping waves of rising heat at full force.

Standing in the open door surveying my new colleagues, Vitaly, the only Russian in the room, dressed in Adidas training pants, tapochki with no socks and a sleeveless undershirt yelled,

“Current!”

Hearing this I reflexively flung my backpack on to my bed and kicked the door closed with my left foot.

Most cultures in eastern Europe have a paranoid fear of drafts or cross winds in a room. If a window is open and a door is left ajar at the same time, those in the room will yell “Current!” This translates loosely into English as “Close the door before you make us all sick!”

Vitaly was immediately very curious. “You are American? Why do you come to Russia? We all want to go to America or Europe.”

“I have lived in America, I have lived in England and now it’s time to visit Russia,” I replied without guile.

“You are crazy! How did you learn to speak Russian?” he demanded to know.

“I spent last summer working on the Volga boats as a translator for American tourists, and that is where I learned to speak real RUSSIAN,” I emphasized the word Russian with a local Volga accent —very heavy and very round on the vowels.

“Where did you visit?” his questions were rapid fire.

“Almost every little village between Moscow and Volgograd. I really like Yaroslavl and Nizhniy the best, but Volgograd is something special!”

“Did you visit the little town Ilyanovsk nearby Saratov? I am from Ilyanovsk,” he proudly proclaimed.

“No, we sailed past Ilyankovsk but stopped in Samara and Saratov,” I consoled him.

“You speak very good Russian,” Vitaly remarked while jabbing my chest with an index finger in a friendly gesture of approval, “I think you might be a spy, maybe CIA?” He joked from one side of his mouth while suspicion rummaged around in his thoughts.

“That’s all past tense now. Russia and America are friends now,” I rebutted.

“No, Russia is being a lap dog, and America the boss, not friends. One day, Russia will bite back for sure,” Vitaly proclaimed with a big of arrogance.

“I don’t know. I don’t think that one can stop the progress that has come and the changes already made will be very hard to turn back,” I commented as I started unpacking one of my backpacks.

“America is happy now about Gorbachev and Yeltsin, letting them do whatever they like around the world, but America needs to worry about when the mafia takes over. That is when the real fighting begins! When the big mafia bosses want something, they’ll kill anybody to get it. Nothing matters to them except control and money. Did you not see the TV exposé special last week about it? We hardly know who is mafia and who is for Russia,” he blathered on.

“Don’t you think democracy will fix that problem?” I remarked trying to brush him off.

“Hallo, American boy!” Vitaly spoke in good spirit but seriously, “Russians don’t know yet how democracy works. Russian workers don’t know what capitalism is. We were taught that profits were for criminals until five years ago. Do you think everything has changed because we voted for Yeltsin? It will take too much time to fix. But do you know who already understands these situations? The criminals, because they lived outside the Soviet laws already for many years. They know how the world works and will be the first to figure out how to take over Russia, and maybe with lots of blood. Russians aren’t afraid of blood in the streets,” he continued on obviously already drunk.

“C’mon, Vitaly,” I rebutted a bit annoyed at his pointless rambling, “Ivan the Terrible has been dead a long time. The modern world doesn’t work like that any longer!”

“You tell that to Stalin! He is dead now only forty years. He killed more people that Ivan Groznovo. Stalin could come back. Some say he never died,” Vitaly raised his eyebrows for suspense. “Did you hear about what is going on in Moscow? The gangs are killing each other every day. One group wants to control the aluminum factories in Siberia, another wants the nickel mines in Murmansk, one group is fighting to control the ports and customs duties. The government isn’t able to do anything about it. Business men are being killed every day in Moscow! The government doesn’t do anything about it because they are all part of a secret group too, helping make it all legal by privatizing Russia’s black gold into their own hands. I stay out of politics and business. It’s too dangerous. I’ll be an engineer and build bridges and keep myself alive.”