Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“Oh, that’s comforting. I thought you called me back because we’re friends, and that’s what friends do for each other,” I said wiping mustard from my lip with a waxy napkin.

“Don’t make it personal, kid. I have always told you that you need to be able to walk away when it goes wrong. Don’t get into it so deep that you can’t walk yourself backward out of it. I’m just doing my job,” Del said chiding me.

“Del! Shove it up your…,” I blurted but then stopped short.

“Woah, take it easy!” Del was adamant. “You are one of the sharpest students I’ve met. You have adaptive skills. You’re sociable. People tell you things off hand that I can’t pay for! You’re actually the one who helped me make the link between Mr. P. and his father Mr. S. I was still paying too many people in the city for the information you volunteered last week. Without the information you provided, we’d all still be in Nizhniy on a fishing expedition. Kid, I don’t think you could have done better work if I had been paying you.”

“Like you paid Valentina Petrovna? She was playing you and Mr. P. and that’s why you didn’t know anything about him. It’s just like you taught me, Del, everybody has a shadow agenda,” I muttered trying to hurt his pride.

“Yes, that’s why we spread the net as wide as possible” he countered and finished his beer with a swig and a gulp. “Just think about it, kid. You could do a lot of good in this crazy world if you applied your skills the right way.”

“I’m optimistic that things will work out without having to kill anybody,” I said with a sarcastic smile as I washed down my last bite with the rest of the Pepsi in my glass.

“Good then. Shall we go take in some nice artwork? Have you ever seen the Tretyakov Gallery?” Del said standing up from his chair. “What’ya got in the backpack, kid?”

We strolled slowly down the Arbat street back to Smolenskaya Boulevard in order to prevent any sudden actions from those who were watching and waiting for their respective signals to pounce, to shoot. Del seemed to be sincerely enjoying the nice spring weather and couldn’t be less concerned with the scramble of secret police agents going on behind us, but yet, nobody touched us just as Del had predicted. Del was firmly in charge of the situation.

We waited for four or five minutes for the same taxi and driver who had found me at the Kyivskiy station, to pick us up in front of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We waited there idling in the car for another four or five minutes and then the driver slowly drove us south on the ring road along Smolenskaya Boulevard toward the next bend in the serpentine Moscow river. As we ascended the Krymskiy bridge over the water, the towers and walls of the Kremlin appeared out on the left, white and gold against the blue sky. On the other side of the river, we passed the majestic gates to the famous Gorkiy Park on the right that extended up and down the river bank as far as the next bends in both directions. After turning north off the broad boulevard, we headed up into the old city of Moscow on a narrow one-way street, Pyatnitskaya Street, in between low built buildings, some in stone, some in wood, all in different states of dilapidation or restoration, in light pastels or drab colours, some grand and some very humble. The street was in need of repaving.

The car slowed and pulled up to park on the curb in front of a faded, crumbling old red church with scaffoldings holding it up. Del climbed out of the car and gave me a signal to follow him. We stood and admired the church being restored like curious tourists.

“Del, why are we standing here like idiots?” I complained.

“Because this is one of Moscow’s busiest foot passages, well, besides around Red Square, and the tourists and the families and kids all walk past here. Nobody will pull a gun or kidnap you or me here. Too many good citizens as witnesses,” he explained while pointing to the church tower having a new bell installed. “We want everybody to see and follow us into the museum, Peter. We can’t outrun these people. They have guns and radios, they have cars, they have jet planes and helicopters. We have to outsmart them, not outrun them. Have some patience and enjoy the sights,” he seemed perturbed at my lack of perspective.

After a few moments of sightseeing, we strolled lazily down Klimentovskiy lane, a pedestrian street, following the signs to the Tretyakov Gallery. We wove in and out between groups of tourists who were following an umbrella or an orange flag on a pole, moving to and from the museum. As we approached the Gallery’s ornate orange and white brick facade, there was a long line for tickets and entrance to the museum stretching nearly to the end the street. Del was very concerned when we saw the long line.

“We’ll be sitting ducks in that line. They will use local police to pick us out without causing any commotion from the onlookers. Too risky,” Del observed.

“I’ll go find us a guide for the museum,” I responded.

“Kid, we’re not here to see the paintings,” he retorted.

“Del, the guides have special passes. They can cut in line and can get us in faster,” I appealed.

“OK, great idea, but make sure she speaks English!” he agreed.

I found Del again and introduced him to Tatyana, a middle aged English instructor with hair dyed orange against the gray roots, tied up in a flyaway bun on the top of her head. She was moonlighting as a guide for the recent influx of American and English tourists to the city. For twenty-dollars she would take us to the front of the line past the tourist with guidebooks, and tell us all about the history of the Tretyakov family, the mansion that houses the collections and of course, the paintings.

Del asked her immediately, “I am very interested to see The Execution of the Streltsiy, I understand that it is in this museum. Can you guide us to that room when we get inside?”

“Oh yes, I know that painting. It’s very powerful. We can go now,” Tatyana answered and motioned for us to follow her away from the main entrance and through a hidden door that is reserved only for guided groups. Tatyana showed her museum credentials to the guard and we were waved through to a staircase which descended half a floor where we merged with the rest of the tourists in the basement wardrobe and checked luggage room.

“It is not allowed to carry bags in the museum, young man. You will need to check your travel bag,” Tatyana said to me sweetly.

I gave Del a bit of a panicked look when I heard I had to leave my bag in the basement, knowing that indeed we weren’t there to see the paintings and was afraid that I wouldn’t get it back if we had to make an emergency exit.

Tatyana tried to reassure me: “No, no, everything will be fine. These ladies are are faithful as any guard dogs. Nobody will be able to take your bag while it’s stored here. Nobody can take your bag as long as you have your claim tab. These ladies are professionals and they take their work very seriously and they have a police officer here with them if anybody other than you tries to take your bag.” Indeed, there was a uniformed police officer standing nearby keeping a watchful eye on the wardrobe.

I slipped my folded plane ticket and passport into the front pocket of my pants just in case. I then reluctantly turned my bag over to the stone faced middle aged ladies on the other side of the counter and received in return a red triangular claim tab made of hard plastic with the number 375 engraved in white digits on it which I could redeem again for my personal belongings. I had a strange feeling that I would never see the bag and its contents again. As soon as I returned to my small group Tatyana stepped out in front of me and Del and led us through the corridors to the main exhibitions and up a wooden staircase to the third floor. As we climbed the stairs Del held his hand out to me and looked me in the face without speaking. I did not understand what his open hand was waiting for.