Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“What’s going on? Are you okay? Why are you calling your parents on a Wednesday in the middle of the night? Why do you need your place ticket? Are you ill?” Yulia peppered me with questions as we sat in the living room.

“Well I, uhhh, I am, uhhhh, I don’t know. I think I’m in some trouble and I don’t know what to do,” I blurted out.

“Is it at the university? Did you have a conflict with a professor or that old witch Valentina Petrovna?” she scowled when she said Valentina’s name.

“Yes, yes, and yes and then some more,” I nodded deliberately but not explaining any further.

“Well, at least we have the holidays coming up and you can take a two-week break. The weather is supposed to be really nice next week! Would you like to go to Moscow with me and mama? We are going to visit my aunt for a few days. The Victory parade in Moscow is always the best. And do you remember the fireworks from last year in Moscow? They don’t do them any better anyplace else.” She thankfully forgot about my troubles, or perhaps didn’t really want to hear about it. Ignorance can be bliss.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t have the needed permission to leave Nizhniy Novgorod. I still have to ask for a travel visa for our voyage in July.” I told the truth but had no intention of staying through July. I was ready to get out as quickly as I could without looking like I was running.

“OK, but what about this plane ticket for the summer?” I thought we agreed to do the cruise again this summer,” she put on a sad face.

“Of course, we’ll do the cruise, but after that I will go home for a month. After being away for seven months, my parents said that they would like to see me for a bit before the fall term begins. My father said he would buy me a new round-trip ticket if I came home in August,” I lied. My fibs seemed to satisfy Yulia and she happily went to retrieve my money belt from her bedroom. I unzipped it to see the ticket jacket and a stack of twenty and fifty-dollar bills.

“I’ll go apply for a travel visa tomorrow for July and August so we’re ready to sail the Volga again,” I smiled.

Yulia served some tea and biscuits and we chatted further about something that I cannot remember as all I could think about was escape, and how to avoid looking like I was trying to be clandestine at the same time. It was a fine balancing act that drained me mentally and emotionally.

When I arrived home that evening to my apartment, I left the drapes wide open and sat at my desk with books open and a pen in my hand. I had the look of a studious academic but I was scribbling in a stream of consciousness all my fear and worries, all the possibilities and variables I could anticipate during my secret retreat; first to Moscow, then the airport and if I could make past the passport control, maybe I could make it home.

As I thought and wrote in my shorthand I obsessed on one thing that could be a hang-up. Even if I made it past the customs agents and boarded the aircraft, I would be flying on a Russian registered aircraft which could be forced to surrender me before the doors closed, or even return to the gate after being cleared for takeoff. A foreign registered aircraft, perhaps from Switzerland or France would not have to hand me over at the last minute to any border patrol. Once on board a foreign registered aircraft, it would be almost as if I was in their embassy. Upon arrival in Zurich or Paris, I could claim some sort of asylum or protection while they considered any request to send me back. The thought also crossed my mind that perhaps, if I could make it to Moscow, maybe on an overnight train when everybody would think I was sleeping, perhaps I could appeal for protection at the US embassy there. Maybe they would be watching for me boarding any trains in the next few days. I was probably already on a watch list. I thought deeply and carefully about how my next steps and went to soak my worried body in a hot bathtub. Tomorrow I would go about my normal business and act as if I was not suspicious nor aware of any of the people watching and following me. I would act completely normal.

The doubts and fears swirled in a mess of fear and adrenaline. The slightest noise would have sent me sprinting. I drifted off to sleep in a whirl of intrigue and insecurity feeling that I would soon be swallowed up by a world that would not stop for me to catch my breath. I felt that I would simply be stamped out. Then, almost suddenly, I realized I was dreaming and felt my tension dissolve into sleep.

On Thursday morning, I returned to Valentina’s office and apologized to her for my behavior on Tuesday morning. She responded as well in a professional manner. I thought for a moment that maybe I had misread everything and began to be hopeful again that things could normalize.

“Mr. Turner, I understand your reaction although I cannot approve of it. You are a serious student and everybody at the school appreciates your hard, academic work and we understand you are not happy to give up your research and your months of work, but, this is still Russia and you must respect that you do not understand the different elements in our society as a foreigner,” she lectured.

“Yes, I have thought about it for the last few days and I recognize that I have been reckless and should think more about my fellow students instead of my hope for glory in print,” I offered my contrition. “Perhaps I can still use the base of my research at the end of next term to write a paper that the Dean will still publish.”

Valentina Petrovna gloated silently in a smug, superior manner and couldn’t have been more pleased to hear this admission of guilt and contrition. “I’m sure that you will check with me in the future to avoid these problems and circumstances,” she said in a self-righteous tone that made me want to jump over the desk and strangle her.

I wondered who had gotten to her to force her to quash my project. Was she directly linked to Mr. P., or was somebody else putting pressure on her to be able to stay in the shadows? I looked through her with daggers in my eyes.

I rode the trolley bus from Gagarin Street down to Senaya Square and walked the rest of the way to the Linguistics school for my one lecture that morning. I had decided that I would keep my usual schedule and on Thursday that meant that I would spend some time on the database in the American library not deviate from my usual activities. As I approached the building I was forced to step off the pavements and walk in the street as there were several cars parked on the sidewalk just before the entrance stairs to the school: two black Volga sedans with a burgundy Mercedes sandwiched between them. I gave them no thought, as there were no designated parking areas anywhere in the city, and the drivers would just jump the curbs and park where they wished. Train stations and airports seemed also to have no parking policy nor enforcement. I skirted the delinquent parkers by walking into oncoming traffic. Horns blared. I was in no mood for it and gave the driver a gesture that warranted another from him back. That conflict quickly settled, I bounded up the stairs and into the school.

Following the lecture, as planned, I settled into my usual corner in the computer lab and set up my usual stack of notebooks and logged into my computer. My user name had not been changed on that terminal by any other researchers for almost four months. Everybody knew it was my spot. On occasion, I would recognize a few faces but for the most part, the students used the resources casually, for a rare reference in a research paper, but there had not been anybody up this point that made research and exploration a discipline as I had. Hence, my complete astonishment when my password was not accepted by the system, blocking me out of my account. I retyped my user name and password three times out of disbelief. There had never been any problems before!