Read Online Eight Pieces of Empire by Lawrence Scott Sheets - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Scott Sheets
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on a Saturday, Vova and Ellie picked me up in a taxi. The day was unusually bright and warm for the time of year, and we headed out of the city in high spirits.
We passed small villages, where people from the city were tendingtheir gardens in a get-back-to-the-land ritual as old as urbanization in Russia itself. Turning down a dusty road, we eventually pulled up to a nondescript but cozy-looking two-story wooden cottage and piled out of the taxi. Vova’s father was outside, working the garden. He stood and silently scowled at us like interlopers to be barely tolerated. His facial expression gave away his thoughts: “Here comes trouble—my criminal son and his unsanctioned foreigner in tow to visit me, a Communist factory manager, here, at my getaway dacha. What’s next?”
Vova shed his shirt, revealing a sinewy physique dotted with tattoos. He got out a slab of meat he’d brought for the occasion, and began chopping it into small pieces before putting the chunks into a metal canister, letting them marinate in vinegar and herbs. In the meanwhile, we were dispatched into a nearby wood to gather kindling for a fire. Vova relished the feeling of being in control, entertaining his guests.
He nursed the fire slowly until red-hot embers emerged. We stuffed ourselves with bread and pickles until Vova instructed us to start putting the meat onto skewers. He carefully turned each over the hot coals, making sure the proper degree of cooking was attained. Then we sat down to eat at a picniclike table, Vova’s father grudgingly joining us, poking the shish kebab with his fork and chewing, a silence looming between father and son.
Vova eyed a bowl full of sugar for making tea, and the conversation turned to the price. Riding out in the taxi, a woman on the especially conservative Mayak (Lighthouse) radio station had been literally weeping through the car’s speaker over the alleged lack of sugar in the stores. Vova mocked her, and especially the radio station, which he accused of deliberately using old audio clips in an effort to discredit economic reforms.
“There’s been plenty of sugar in the stores for at least two months now,” Vova sneered. His father countered that perhaps there was sugar for sale, but that after the latest round of price increases, it was expensive.
“The price is fine,” snapped Vova. “But Communists always want something for nothing,” he said, referring to his father.
Vova’s father glared.
“So, Vladimir, when are you going to start working?” he pointedly asked.
Vova murmured something, and Ellie giggled. We finished the meal in an awkward silence.
I wondered what was going through the mind of Vova’s father. The talk in Leningrad—some of it imagined and some of it real—was all about bandits, mafia, killers, and the like. Yet it was as if people were talking about mysterious creatures existing only in speech and print. Bandits and killers, after all, had parents, families; some had children. I doubted that Vova’s father, when asked what his son did for a living, answered, “My son is a racketeer” or “My son is mafia.” I wondered if he thought about it at all. Whatever he thought, his drooping shoulders betrayed a deep disappointment with the road his son was on.
After lunch, Vova’s father went back to silently tending his garden, distracting his thoughts from the chagrin caused by his progeny while the rest of us lounged around. The sun approached its peak in the sky. The world was quiet. I watched Ellie tease Vova, sprinkling him with a garden hose. I wondered what exactly attracted her to him. I thought it must have to do with having a kind of status, or some promise of future wealth—or maybe the hope of meeting someone connected to Vova who could provide both in greater measure than he could. One thing was evident, however: Ellie was clearly not in love; she was merely passing time.
DESPITE ALL THE crock imagery of endless suitcases full of dollar bills
We passed small villages, where people from the city were tendingtheir gardens in a get-back-to-the-land ritual as old as urbanization in Russia itself. Turning down a dusty road, we eventually pulled up to a nondescript but cozy-looking two-story wooden cottage and piled out of the taxi. Vova’s father was outside, working the garden. He stood and silently scowled at us like interlopers to be barely tolerated. His facial expression gave away his thoughts: “Here comes trouble—my criminal son and his unsanctioned foreigner in tow to visit me, a Communist factory manager, here, at my getaway dacha. What’s next?”
Vova shed his shirt, revealing a sinewy physique dotted with tattoos. He got out a slab of meat he’d brought for the occasion, and began chopping it into small pieces before putting the chunks into a metal canister, letting them marinate in vinegar and herbs. In the meanwhile, we were dispatched into a nearby wood to gather kindling for a fire. Vova relished the feeling of being in control, entertaining his guests.
He nursed the fire slowly until red-hot embers emerged. We stuffed ourselves with bread and pickles until Vova instructed us to start putting the meat onto skewers. He carefully turned each over the hot coals, making sure the proper degree of cooking was attained. Then we sat down to eat at a picniclike table, Vova’s father grudgingly joining us, poking the shish kebab with his fork and chewing, a silence looming between father and son.
Vova eyed a bowl full of sugar for making tea, and the conversation turned to the price. Riding out in the taxi, a woman on the especially conservative Mayak (Lighthouse) radio station had been literally weeping through the car’s speaker over the alleged lack of sugar in the stores. Vova mocked her, and especially the radio station, which he accused of deliberately using old audio clips in an effort to discredit economic reforms.
“There’s been plenty of sugar in the stores for at least two months now,” Vova sneered. His father countered that perhaps there was sugar for sale, but that after the latest round of price increases, it was expensive.
“The price is fine,” snapped Vova. “But Communists always want something for nothing,” he said, referring to his father.
Vova’s father glared.
“So, Vladimir, when are you going to start working?” he pointedly asked.
Vova murmured something, and Ellie giggled. We finished the meal in an awkward silence.
I wondered what was going through the mind of Vova’s father. The talk in Leningrad—some of it imagined and some of it real—was all about bandits, mafia, killers, and the like. Yet it was as if people were talking about mysterious creatures existing only in speech and print. Bandits and killers, after all, had parents, families; some had children. I doubted that Vova’s father, when asked what his son did for a living, answered, “My son is a racketeer” or “My son is mafia.” I wondered if he thought about it at all. Whatever he thought, his drooping shoulders betrayed a deep disappointment with the road his son was on.
After lunch, Vova’s father went back to silently tending his garden, distracting his thoughts from the chagrin caused by his progeny while the rest of us lounged around. The sun approached its peak in the sky. The world was quiet. I watched Ellie tease Vova, sprinkling him with a garden hose. I wondered what exactly attracted her to him. I thought it must have to do with having a kind of status, or some promise of future wealth—or maybe the hope of meeting someone connected to Vova who could provide both in greater measure than he could. One thing was evident, however: Ellie was clearly not in love; she was merely passing time.
DESPITE ALL THE crock imagery of endless suitcases full of dollar bills
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