Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

I stood up from my work station and approached the librarian’s desk.

“Pardon me please, Olya Sergeyevna, but I am not able to access the computers. Has the system been reset? Do I need a renewed password to log on?” I politely inquired.

“I am sorry, youngman, may I please see your student credentials?” The librarian asked me in a very formal manner.

“Olya, you know who I am and you very well that I am a student here. What’s all this about?” I protested.

“May I please see your student card, young man?” she repeated without acknowledging me.

I walked back to my workstation and rummaged about in my book bag and returned to the service desk. I ceremoniously handed the student pass to this suddenly cold and formal librarian with whom I had spent hours upon hours with over the last four months behind these barred windows under the buzzing fluorescent lights. This had become my home away from home. How could she need to see my student card?

“Mr. Tournaire, I am afraid that you are not entitled to use these computers at this location,” Olya replied after inspecting my credentials.

“I’m sorry, what do you say, ma’am?” I replied not believing my ears.

“You do not have a right to use these computers in this facility,” she repeated without looking me in the eyes.

“Can you explain to me why this has changed since last week?” I pleaded.

“I can only tell you that only those studying economics can use these computers, as they are part of the economics department. Your student card says that you are studying linguistics and literature, not economics,” she stated coldly with no emotion and went back to making notations in a notebook.

“Olya Sergeyevna, please explain to me what has happened here. I have been here for four months now using these computers and the database with the permission of Dean Karamzin, who signed the permission for me to research here. I gave that paper to you in January and you created the account for me!” I was getting rather worked up at this point. “And further, I am the only regular student that uses these resources. Can you seriously tell me that you see any students, let alone students from the economics faculty here searching for information? I am the only person in this school with English good enough to utilize what is stored on these disks.” I angrily roared as I motioned toward the wall of CDROMs in their racks covering a full wall of the library.

The librarian did not look up from her writing. She was trying very hard not to speak back to me or let any emotion show, but just before she did look up and bid me a good day she slid a paper toward me and turned it right side up for me to read.

“I wish you a good day, Mr. Tournaire! Now leave!” she said in an angrily to me, but her eyes motioned to the paper she held in her hands.

The scrap of paper read, ‘THEY ARE STILL HERE WATCHING. GO!’ Reading this warning from Olya, I stomped back to my workstation and continued to spout off angry words at her while I walked away.

“I will go to the Dean and to Valentina Petrovna and I will be back today to get my access back. I can’t believe that this has happened!” I was now acting to be angry at my friend.

Just as I stepped to the door and opened it to exit the library I stopped and looked back quickly and gave the librarian an acknowledging nod of appreciative thanks. She replied with her eyes to hurry away. I darted out into the street to catch a departing trolley-bus.

As I burst through the front doors of the school on to Minin Street and directly into the closing doors of the back of the bus, I saw in the corner of my eyes a startled fellow in bright white trainers smoking around the corner of the building to the right as I exited. He didn’t have the time to jump on the bus with me as I barely made it through with the doors closing on my book bag, and I was away. I hadn’t seen him earlier in the morning on Gagarin street, but as this Thursday lecture was part of my weekly routine it was no surprise to see him here again. I continued to watch him out of the back of the bus and noticed that he stepped into one of the black Volga sedans that were parked on the sidewalk that I had to walk around earlier this morning.

As I watched my tag jump into the passenger seat of the lead car, I suddenly recognized the cavalcade of black Volgas, the burgundy Mercedes with blackened, bulletproof windows. It was the same group of cars that had delivered Mr. P. to the Yarmarka for the city auction. Those same cars had nearly run me down there in front of the exhibition hall. This was undoubtedly who Olya Sergeyevna was warning me about.

The lead car jumped off the curb and accelerated quickly to catch up with the trolley-bus. I pretended not to notice them and turned forward on the bus until I reached Gorkiy Square again. I was heading back to Gagarin street to speak with Valentina Petrovna again about the library privileges. To go anyplace else, I reasoned would not have been predictable. To have acknowledged the presence of my persecutors would have given them reason to make direct contact with me, to stop me from exposing the obvious. I needed to pretend still that I was not aware of their shadowy actions in order to keep them in my shadows. I needed it to remain passive and keep it at an arm’s length for just a few more days, but with each escalation of their activity toward me, how much more determined I was to expose their oppressions.

I walked from Gorkiy Square back to Gagarin Street to give my pursuers the chance to catch up with me. The black Volga drove past me and parked just beyond the main entrance of the University building. I could feel their eyes on me from the rearview mirrors as I turned right and entered through the iron gates of the school gardens.

I stormed into the offices of the foreign students and found Arkadiy busily typing away on his word processor. He looked up and greeted me in his always cool, aloof way. It seemed that he was never aware of the stresses of the people around him. He was clueless to the storm clouds gathering around me.

“How can I help you, Peter?” was his cheerful greeting.

“I need to speak with Valentina Petrovna immediately,” I replied to him in English.

“Well, I’m afraid she is in a private meeting. I cannot interrupt her. “She will be another twenty or thirty minutes. The meeting just started,” he smiled his apology and went back to his word processor.

“OK. Arkady, Can I leave my book bag here for fifteen minutes, please? I would like to go across the street for a drink in the student cafe,” I asked.

“That’s no problem, Peter,” he replied as chipper as he could be.

“Can I borrow your overcoat, Sash?” I asked.

“No problem, Peter!” he couldn’t be distracted from what he was typing.

I stuffed by cap into my book bag I pulled on Arkadiy’s black thigh length overcoat as I slipped out the door. I walked right out the front entrance of the University and crossed the street to the café opposite where a number of students were gathered smoking and drinking soft drinks at stand tables. From the front window, I watched for any movement in or out of the black Volga. Everything was still. After ten minutes I stepped outside again, passed the other students and jogged across the street again and through the gates a second time, just in time to see the burgundy Mercedes and the second black Volga pull up and park behind the first. I did not stay on the street to watch and learn what they were doing there. I figured I already knew.

Valentina’s office door was open when I came back to the foreign students’ office. I stepped in without waiting for an invitation and let right into her.

“Valentina Petrovna, when I arrived at the American Library today, the head librarian informed me that my privileges for using those computers and the database had been rescinded,” I explained.