Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“You do not drink? You do not smoke?” the third officer inquired with a scowl on his face.

I looked sheepishly at the questioning officer and gave no answer.

The questions and answers went back and forth like a tennis match.

“Where in the city do your attend lectures?”

“Linguistics school on Minin Street, History department, Minin Square and Literature on Gagarin Street in the foreign students’ division.”

“Who are you advisors there?”

“Mrs. Valentina Petrovna, Lyudmilla Daskova and Dean Karamzin and sometimes Professor Strelyenko.”

“Do you study there every day?”

“Most days, yes sir.”

“Do you have contact with other foreigners in the city?”

“Mostly just the other students from other countries each week, sir.”

“You are not involved with other foreign businesses in the city?”

“I am acquainted with a business man from America who my university advisor introduced me to. We share dinner every other week when he is not traveling.”

“Why do you not live in the dormitories with other students?”

“Honestly, because I want to learn Russian, not speak English with other foreign students.”

“Do you rent this room?”

“Yes, for twenty dollars per month.”

“We are here looking for the owner of this apartment, your landlord. Do you know where he lives?”

“No sir, I have only met him once in January. He doesn’t even come for his rent money. You can see that I have put three twenty-dollar bills in an envelope in my cupboard with his name on it. There, just open that door.”

The second detective opened the cabinet door and found the envelope with the rent money in it from February, March, and April. It wasn’t May yet. He counted the bills and nodded to his boss.

“Its the only money I keep in the apartment. I called him February and told him he is free to pick up his money anytime he is in the neighborhood. I don’t have a telephone in this apartment so I said he could just use his keys to come in and find the money when he needed it even when I am at lectures or the library,” I explained.

“Your landlord is sought on charges of tax evasion. We need to know where to find him,” the detective demanded from me.

“I only have his telephone number. I can give that to you if you wish,” I offered helpfully.

“Yes, please.”

I reached into my bookshelf to find my address book and showed the officer the number scratched into the front cover. He took it from me and noted the number in his own notebook and then continued to look through my contacts. The addresses were from all over Russia; Moscow, Voronezh, Kazan, Ryzan, Samara and a number from Kyiv as well as a Byelorussian from Brest. I waited for his further questions.

“You have many friends in Russia. Have you traveled to all these places?”

“No sir, we all met on a river cruise last summer. We send letters and photographs to each other,” I answered truthfully.

“Please remember that you are not authorized to travel without permission from the police outside this province. Do not leave Nizhniy Novgorod without informing the police. If we are not able to find you, you could be arrested when you return and be fined and then deported. Is that clear?” he threatened.

“Yes, sir!”

With that, the lead detective gave a nod to his colleagues and they filed to the hallway and out the door. I closed it behind them and latched every latch without bidding them good evening. I went to my bed and nearly passed out, shaking and cold. Babushka stayed in her room for the rest of the evening but Raiya knocked softly on my door after fifteen minutes, took a seat at my table and started to ask even more questions than the police did, “That was horrible with all that shouting! Was nobody in uniform?”

I was laying on my bed with my arm over my eyes. I shook my head in the negative, not raising it from the pillow.

“The law says that if a plain clothes detective comes to the door they must have a uniformed officer with them. You were completely right to push them out! Did they ask you for any money?” she asked.

I shook my head again.

“What did they want?” she wouldn’t stop.

They wanted Roman, my landlord.

“Roman has never lived here. His aunt died and left this apartment to him,” Raiya revealed.

On this news, I sat up and looked at Raiya, “Say that again, please?”

“It’s true. Roman, he’s a dirty snake. He never lived here. His old aunt, who he never took care of died last year in February and the apartment has been closed up since then. He never registered the apartment in his name nor ever lived here. He just rents it out illegally,” she embellished.

“Well, there you have the argument for tax evasion…,” I dropped my head back on the pillow.

“Did you read their police identifications?” Raiya insisted.

“Yes, I looked at them but didn’t get time to take notes,” I moaned in annoyance. “For all I know they could have been fake.”

“Did they read ‘Militia’ or ‘F.S.B.?” she continued to push for details.

“F.S.B., why?” I answered.

“Well, because F.S.B. is not the local police that would investigate a man for hitting his wife or a fight at the bar or a stolen car or arrest hooligans at the train station. The F.S.B. are the officers that only go after spies from other countries and make sure spies aren’t in our own country. I can’t imagine that they would pursue someone not paying local property taxes on a little room. It doesn’t sound right. You should report this to the local militia office. It’s very irregular,” she cautioned me.

“And what good would that do when I am a foreigner? Maybe they came to make sure that I am not a spy. Did you think about that, Raiya? I was getting very weary of her talking and decided to go for an evening walk to clear my head and get away from her. I got up to put on my coat and hat.

“You are going to go out? What if they are watching you still?” she was more paranoid than I was.

“Then they will watch me take a walk! I’m not going to call anybody or pass secrets. I’m just going for a walk,” I said defiantly.

“If I was you I would stay indoors until tomorrow and do your normal things. They won’t just go away. I can bet you somebody is outside now watching the doors, smoking a cigarette under a tree or sitting in a car with the lights off,” she was serious.

I put my hat and coat back on the rack and sat at the table opposite her and listened.

“When the Chechens started the fighting last year, the FSB was watching all the different Muslim men in the city. My brother was harassed almost every day. They searched him every day, questioned him about where he was going every day. Followed him and searched his house when he was at work. They had a guy watching him all the time so they knew when they could go into house and when he was home. It was horrible. So, he went to Kazan and left his wife and kids here in Nizhniy for a few months until the harassment stopped. They didn’t trust the Tatars because of what the Chechens did. Tatars are good Soviets too, we are just Muslims by heritage, but nobody seemed to care. Natasha even has a medal from the Red Army for her service in the great patriotic war against the Nazis, but you saw how that officer treated babushka. It’s not fair what they do to us after our men died next to theirs in the war.” Raiya had a deeper story than I had ever suspected.

“What did babushka do doing the war to earn a medal?” I asked in sincere curiosity, having calmed down again.

“She worked in the uniform and boot factory for the entire war. Her fiancé volunteered after the first invasion by the fascists and she volunteered in the uniform and boot factory because she couldn’t go with him of course. Only the men could serve in the ranks. She was an overseer of a huge work group in the factory until it was all over. For that they gave her a medal. They say her factory made the best boots of the entire country and soldiers would fight to get her boots!” Raiya was beaming with a bit of pride.