Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

In Volgograd after a warm day of bus tours, we bid farewell to one batch of tourists in the afternoon and had the night off, until ten in the morning to relax and rest until the next group arrived for their voyage from Volgograd to Moscow — via Nizhniy Novgorod. After a few shots of vodka, Nikolai was loose enough to help me perfect the walk, the squat and the deep guttural talk of the street punk. After a few more shots we were strolling around the bar, bow legged, to the hysterical laughter of our colleagues as we perfected the lazy drawl, the long O’s of the Volga vagrant and sitting on chairs with our legs wide open, slouched with a look of complete incredulousness on our faces, not caring if Tsar Nicholas himself had just been raised from the dead. Between shots of Pepsi and vodka I practiced squatting in the corner for twenty minutes at a time until my knees went numb or until Kolya fell over half drunk laughing his head off. My beard had fully grown in and was as red as an Irishman’s.

That evening before bed, like I always did, I took a stroll along the entire railing of the top deck. It was a calming practice I had picked up the summer prior and it felt natural to do it again. I padded around the deck in my gangster flip flops and track suit; slap, swish, slap, swish. While I rounded the stern of the boat, I noticed Lara staring out across the water into the city lights. A warm breeze was blowing through her shoulder length sandy brown hair. She was off duty like the rest of us for a shore-visit or other horseplay.

I greeted her in proper Russian, not in the street slang I was practicing in the bar, “Good evening, doctor.”

“Good evening, Pyotr.” she looked briefly at me and then looked away.

“We missed you tonight. Did you go for dinner in the city?” I inquired.

“No, I don’t know anybody here. This is only my second voyage,” she replied in a business like way.

“OK. Would you like to join me for a nightcap in the bar?” I invited.

“No thank you. I don’t like sharing a drink with a street urchin,” she glanced me up and down. I reached to zip up the track suit jacket and hide the undershirt. I stood quietly for a moment.

“Pytor. Do you think I’m a fool? Do you not think that I know what you’re doing? And don’t you realize how stupid and dangerous it is?” she blurted out with no warning.

“Lara, I’m not asking you to do anything. Why are you so upset?” I protested.

“You’re asking me to stand by and watch you get picked up by those thugs again and get beaten so nobody can recognize your face anymore! You won’t fool people for long, you know!” she was rather emotional and turned away.

“I only have to fool them for maybe four or five hours until I can get on a train and make it to Moscow. I’m not going back to my apartment. I won’t be going back to school. I just have to blend in long enough to get from the river station into the train station without somebody recognizing Peter Turner. That’s it!” I explained. I’m very confident it will work!”

“Why don’t you just get on a flight from Volgograd and go direct to Moscow? That way you don’t have to go back to Nizhniy at all,” she proffered.

“I’ve thought about that. But the one place that they will check my passport and visa will be at the airports. I don’t have permission to be on this boat, I don’t have permission to be in Volgograd. I don’t have permission to even be out of the Nizhegorodskiy Province. If I tried to get on a plane here, in Volgograd, they’d collar me so fast. I know, almost for sure, that my name is already on an FSB watch list. If any border guard sees my visa, that it’s not in order, and checks his latest national alerts, they’ll have me either way. At least sneaking through Nizhniy, I have a chance to make it to Moscow without getting picked up,” I explained earnestly.

“How will I know…” she stopped herself short, “How will we know if you’ve made it?”

“Lara, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were this concerned about me. I can always send you a postcard or call your grandmother from Moscow to let you know,” I offered.

“Maybe I could come with you, just to make sure?” she half whispered looking me in the face.

“Don’t be silly. Why would a beautiful woman like you be walking arm in arm with a street punk? That would only call attention to me, just as if I put on my orange rain coat again. If I don’t go as a street punk they will make me from a hundred meters. There is no other way,” I rebutted.

“Is there any way I can help you? I could not bear it to think of you being beaten again. What they did to you the first time without even trying was horrible!” she shuddered.

“Well, if you really want to help me…,” I left the possibility hanging in the air. Lara turned to me to hear my suggestion, “will you have your grandmother call a few people for me in Nizhniy and give them a message from me?” I asked skeptically.

“I can ask her. I will talk to her tomorrow morning from the captain’s telephone on the bridge before we depart tomorrow afternoon. Please let me know who you need to call and what the message is,” she replied resolutely.

“Thank you, this will help me greatly. I am sure there are people worried about me. I left without a word,” I said with gratitude.

Lara took me by the right arm and walked with me toward the staircase. “Come, let’s have that drink…” and she tipped her head against my shoulder as my sandals said: slap, swish, slap swish across the smooth deck. “…and please take off those stupid sandals!” she laughed.

As the turbines revved up to push us northward from the moorings at Kazan on Saturday night, my heart jumped. The bow was pointed north and the next stop, and my last stop, would be Nizhniy Novgorod. It was a late Saturday evening and the sun and clouds had made a brilliant sunset in the east. Heading indoors was the last thing on my mind. Sleep, I knew, would not be possible that night. After eight days, the stiffness and pain from my bruised ribs were gone, even though the bruises still hurt when poked. Lara had dressed them just that morning again and told me for sure that nothing had been broken. The gash in my arm was closed up and getting ready to leave a manly scar. I had eaten well this last week and felt confident and ready to make the dash to the train station.

I packed my new Russian rucksack with my new clothes and my black shapka, I couldn’t be parted from it. I left my other clothes and shoes with Nikolai. Maybe his brother could use the blue jeans and shoes this fall. My beard after a week and a day looked perfect. My hair just a bit longer, but still cropped close. With the sunglasses on, the open track suit, an unlit cigarette in my mouth, my own mother wouldn’t have recognized me. I could hardly believe the mirror myself. I was ready. There was a knock at my door. I took off the glasses and hid the cigarette, as I hoped it was Lara. It was.

“I don’t know if I will get a chance to see you in the morning before you disembark. I just wanted to wish you good luck. Please don’t forget to call from Moscow. I have the next week off of work and will be home. My grandmother is almost always home. You can leave a message…” she was pining.

“Thank you. Did you get a chance to call home before we left Kazan port?” I queried.

“Yes, Grandmother spoke to the people you wanted to give messages to. She says they were all very relieved to hear you were safe. Yulia wanted to know where to find you. Baba didn’t know so she couldn’t tell her. That’s all. The man she phoned, she couldn’t understand him but he understood the message,” she reported.

“Thank you very much!” I leaned over and gave her a bristly peck on the cheek, “That’s fantastic news!”