Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

To fuck it?

Yeah, to fuck it over! That is our history. In the very beginning, as it is said in ancient chronicle, people of Russia approached men from West and said “Our land is large and plentiful, but without order . Come and possess us.” So it is now. We got oil and gas, wood, furs , caviar, and also plenty of lonely girls. We got many resources. But we have lack of fuckers like you .

U got me now, baby!

I feel it! And I’m horny!

Sing! Sing a Russian song, baby!

The apple and pear trees are in bloom,

Mists have come over the river…

Oh, yeah! How about poetry? Do you know any Russian poetry?

I think I do…

Let me have it!

Tatyana’s Letter to Onegin:

I’m writing you this declaration—

What more can I in candor say?

It may be now your inclination

To scorn me and to turn away…

Ah, shit! I’m coming! Who’s your daddy?

My daddy?

Who is your daddy, fucking Russia?

You. U R my daddy!!!

Peter came into a napkin he had had the foresight to stick into his pants and immediately clicked exit. The session was over. Nine minutes and change.

Nils tossed the napkin with his slimy unborn offspring into the trash can. Then he took a second napkin from the desk, carefully wiped his hands, and tossed it away after the first one. He sat limply at his desk for a couple of minutes, eyes closed. Visions arose into his consciousness: golden fields of wheat, oil rigs, mountains of diamonds, piles of bearskins, a castle with rows of severed heads adorning its walls, and, of course, forestfuls of graceful, supple birches. He pictured himself riding along a cobblestone road through Russian pastoral landscapes, encased in glittering steel armor and wearing a helmet with a splendid plume on top. Russian serfs, notably female, lined both sides of the roadway, all of them on their hands and knees, and one of them, a maiden of striking beauty, came out into the middle of the road to greet him, her master, with a silver tray bearing a loaf of fragrant, freshly baked bread, a salt cellar, and a small bowl filled with pure cocaine.

Peter took a moment to savor his dream, then turned back to his work.

He had to deal with a Russian complaint that had come in the night before concerning the quality of a shipment of frozen potatoes. The Russians had gotten picky lately. They used to accept anything, so long as the label said “Product of the Netherlands,” and never used to complain. Now they’d started spelling everything out meticulously in their contracts, and when the shipments arrived they would bring a surveyor along; they would fish around in the cartons, break the seals, and would call in some expert at the slightest suspicion; before you knew it, they’d be lodging a complaint.

It was the oil that had spoiled them. First oil, then gas. And the throngs of beautiful girls whom the Russians themselves could screw for nothing, but who would charge foreigners just for looking. It wouldn’t last forever, though. Their own Russian expert, a member of the Academy of Sciences, said that the known oil reserves would only last five or six more years. And, in the meantime, the Russians had forgotten how to plow their land and grow their own food. The time would come, he said, when they would crawl to the Netherlands on their knees for a piece of rotten potato and would beg the Dutch to buy their own daughters.

But all that was just poetry. Prose required that the complaint be forwarded to the supplier, in China. Triple F actually purchased its Dutch potatoes from a different Dutch company, but they were still delivered directly from the Chinese port of Qingdao.

Nils had long suspected that the unscrupulous Asians had been pasting fake labels on their own low-grade potatoes, substituting them for the name-brand product, licensed and monitored by a European company, that they had been contracted to supply. Nils had already written his Dutch partner about the complaint. But today he decided to speak directly with the Chinese export manager, a guy named Ni Guan. This Ni Guan dealt with direct exports to Russia, apparently through that same company, Cold Plus. The Chinese sold frozen fish straight to the Russians, but their potatoes went through European packaging plants. Russia was the ultimate purchaser, and Ni also handled the potatoes accounts. And, really, they didn’t devote sufficient attention to the quality of their deliveries, figuring—based on their previous experience with the Russian consumer—that Russians weren’t picky and would eat anything. But the times were a-changing. The Russian purchasers were bringing their European partners to heel; in their turn the Europeans would have to train the Asians.

The time difference between Qingdao and St. Petersburg is five hours. Between Qingdao and Drachten, seven hours. Ni Guan was about ready to leave work when the phone on his desk rang. The secretary reported that Peter Nils from the Frozen French Fries company was on the line, and she connected them.

His European customer had a complaint about potatoes; the official version had arrived by fax an hour before. Ni listened patiently without interrupting, taking notes on a scrap of paper, as the Dutch representative berated him. Ni promised that the problem would be solved to their satisfaction, and that in the future his company would pay special attention to the quality of goods being sent to the Netherlands.

Ni-Eddie hung up, gathered his cell phone, apartment keys, and wallet into a plastic bag and left the office. On the way down in the elevator, all he could think about was some hot rice or noodles. It had been another busy day at work; Eddie hadn’t even had time for lunch.

On the first floor, he was surprised to see his young colleague Tsin Chi—Cindy—waiting for him at the door to the elevator. Ni gave her a polite smile and bowed his head slightly to convey bye, see you tomorrow, poka . In addition to a couple of Chinese dialects, Ni also knew English well, could communicate tolerably in Russian, and had recently started learning German.

But Cindy blocked his way. She stared directly into her boss’s eyes and didn’t say a word.

“Comrade Tsin?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Did… you have something you wanted to ask me?”

“Yes, sir, I did. I wanted to ask why you’ve been avoiding me. Maybe I’m not pretty enough for you? Maybe you’re holding out for a supermodel off the cover of Playboy , and nothing less will do? Maybe I should sign up for a photo session and bring you a dirty magazine with my photos in it, so that you’ll notice me as a woman?”

Tsin’s voice was a little too loud for the lobby, and Ni glanced around uneasily. The elevator doors parted and a crowd of coworkers poured out. Comrade Luan, the department head, walked by. Ni bowed to him, and his boss gave a barely detectable nod in return.

“Let’s talk somewhere else. I’m starving—you must have seen that I didn’t have time for lunch. We can have dinner together. Follow me.”

Eddie made for the exit. Cindy waited a moment, then followed him out.

There were a number of restaurants around the business complex, but Eddie didn’t want to run into anyone from the company. Why fuel gossip? He crossed the street to the bus stop and boarded one headed for the entertainment district by the shore. Cindy got on after him. The bus started off and merged into the heavy traffic creeping out of town.

A half-hour later the high-tech buildings of the business district were behind them, and they found themselves in a little Chinese version of Europe, complete with red-tile-roofed houses and neatly kept gardens.