Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“And just look at this gangster-looking thug walking in. He drives a black Lada, he wears a black shirt and black leather jacket, black denim pants and what does he wear on his feet? British Knights trainers whiter than new snow! Where did he find those? First time wearing them. Just look how clean they are. They must glow in the dark. Why can’t Russian men get a hairstyle? You think they all just came from the army.” I feared what she might say about my worn-out style of mismatched jackets and dirty blue jeans I couldn’t quite get clean for the last four months.

“They wear their hair that short so nobody can pull their hair in a fight, and the police can’t grab them by it,” Hans commented to her, somehow instantly knowledgeable about gangster fashion.

“Don’t encourage it, Hans,” I said dryly to him across the table in English. This woman was thoroughly ruining my weekly ritual. I quickly checked my own reflection in the plate glass window. My hair looked horrible and I had thinned out considerably.

“Hans, how did your presentation go last week? Did your Masters topic get approved by the panel?” I asked him, trying to infuse some intelligence into our conversation.

“Yes, the panel approved. So, I will start my formal research now and then come back in September for one more year,” he cheerfully replied.

“Hans is taking me to Germany for the summer break, right Hans?” Tamara added.

“Is that even possible, Hans?” I queried with irony. He kicked me under the table.

“How is your research coming along, Peter?” Hans was trying to change the subject quickly.

“Swimmingly, thanks!” I was very amused at the perturbed look Tamara had her face at the thought that a girlfriend visa was not a valid travel document. I took a swig from my Pepsi bottle trying not to laugh at the world of trouble Hans was in now.

“Sweetheart, you told me it was possible for me to stay with you this summer in Germany,” was the most intelligent comment she could make, not picking up on the real motivation in this faux relationship.

“It should be fine. Peter is doing the same with his girlfriend and it’s harder to get a visa for America than for Germany.” He was surprisingly very good at lying.

“Oh yes!” I put down my bottle and played along for Hans’ sake, “I will go to the American Embassy in June with our papers to prove that we are a serious couple and tell the consular that it’s time that she meets my parents. They’ll stamp the paperwork without further question.”

Hans kicked me under the table again.

Looking at my watch I stood up and declared, “I have an appointment at two o’clock, so I need to get going.” I left my plate of chicken bones for Hans to clean up, gave Tamara a peck on the cheek and a wink to Hans and was out the door to meet Misha for another round of apartment viewing.

Misha and I had agreed the week before to meet just off the Bolshaya Pokrovka Street at the cross street of Oktyabraskaya for two or three viewings. As I was running a bit late I decided to forego walking the usual scenic route and headed out through the narrow residential streets, heading up Nesterova Street, past the hospital on the left and crossing the busy Vavarksaya street. When I stopped to wait for the light on Vavarskaya street, a very long legged young lady in a yellow sun dress waiting to cross on the opposite side caught my eye and kept my attention. I shamelessly watched her walk towards me. I walked as slowly as possible toward her. As we met in the middle of the crosswalk I turned to see her from behind as she passed me. To my surprise just a few steps behind me was the fellow that Tamara had spotted at Gordost; short cropped hair, all black clothing except for the snow-white trainers with the British Knights logo on the side. He too was looking back, watching the swaying skirt and hips. Before he noticed me looking at him I snapped my head around to walk forward, now at a faster clip.

“Is he following me?” was my first thought. “No, he’s just heading to Pokrovka as well, don’t be so paranoid. Who wouldn’t go to Gordost first and then walk to Pokrovka? It’s Saturday. This is the fastest route.”

I did keep an eye on him in the store front window panes, just in case, as I walked on. When I stopped at the corner where I was to meet Misha at five minutes to two, the British Knights walked on and turned left up Pokrovka as casually as anybody.

Misha arrived right on time again and seemed to emerge from another dimension, as one minute he wasn’t there and the next he was right in front of me.

“How do you do that?” I asked him startled.

“Do what?” he was unaware he was doing anything odd.

“Nothing, nothing. I just didn’t see you until… nothing, nothing.” I was flustered.

“Are you okay today? You seem nervous,” he observed.

“I was just watching the girls and not watching out for you,” I lied.

“Oh, yes, it’s that season again isn’t it? May holidays coming next week. All the girls out today in their short skirts, are they?” He took a quick glance around. “Okay, let’s go.”

We walked on along Oktybraskaya opposite the tram tracks on the pavement behind all the parked cars. We continued past the junction, to the left up Dobrolyubova Street until we came to a red brick apartment block, maybe twelve stories tall directly opposite a dingy gray church that was just starting its renovation. On the ground-floor there was a small shopping complex with the usual boutiques selling cheap imported cosmetics and pantyhose as well as a green grocers and bakery. We entered on the ground floor and took the lift to the eighth floor.

After seeing two different apartments in the same building, which were less than optimal for our desired clientele, we exited the building onto the Sergiyevskaya street on the other side of the building and walked down the incline to the intersection with Dobrolubova Street to turn right and back toward Pokrovka. As we turned right, I glanced instinctively left to check oncoming traffic and saw, leaned up against the scaffoldings built up around the church, the glowing white British Knights of a young man dressed in black, smoking a cigarette. He was looking at his wrist watch and watching the entrance where Misha and I had entered the building. He was following me!

“Misha, we’re being followed,” I muttered to my colleague.

“I know. I spotted him already on Pokrovka. He was walking behind you from Vavarskaya and fell in behind us when we met and started walking. What an idiot wearing those shoes to be a tail.” Misha didn’t break his stride and kept on walking. When we reached the tram stop, we jumped on board and watched out the back window to see our tail still standing in the shade of the scaffolding, his plume of cigarette smoke and his shoes giving him away. He hadn’t seen us climb aboard and we rolled away with a sense of relief.

“You know that Del’s apartment was broken into?” Misha asked.

“Yes, I was there last night. I heard the whole story,” I answered.

“Something is going on. Not too sure what it is, but they sure are a bunch of amateurs, especially that guy!” motioning over his shoulder out the back window.

When we came back to Pokrovka I moved toward the doors but Misha motioned that I stay on the street car. I didn’t question his judgment as he seemed to know better what he was doing than I did. We stayed on the street car until we came close to Senaya Square via Bolshaya Pecherskaya, which ran parallel to Minin Street. We stepped off at Frunze Street. Misha thought it important to inform Del that I had been followed. I decided to walk back to Gordost and get a good look at the fellow when we came back to pick up his car that he had left parked on the upper embankment street. Misha didn’t think that a good idea and went to find Del to consult with him about how to proceed. When I arrived at the restaurant to spot the driver of the black Lada, it was not where I watched the same fellow park it. I decided to walk on toward Minin Square and down the grand stairs to the waterfront and to the River Station bus stop. It was time to leave the old city today and spend some time at home. My face had become too well known in the old city.