in the whiteness negotiating. The begging babushkas had assumed their blackmailing winter position, kneeling in the pavement snow with their arms outstretched. And beneath the fur coats and grimaces, you knew that the Russians were happy, relatively speaking. Because, along with the fatalism and the borsht, the snow is part of what makes them them and nobody else.
"She loves me too, I think. Or she could. She likes me at least."
"Did she tell you that?"
"No."
"Listen," he said, "if she does, she'll mean it. She'll mean it at the moment she says it. But twenty minutes later she'll mean it when she nicks your credit card. They mean everything."
"Have you ever been in love, Steve?"
"You know what you need, Nick? You need to lose your moral bearings. Otherwise you're done for."
I changed the subject. I'd decided to ask Steve if he could help me to help my neighbour Oleg Nikolaevich find his friend. I'd been to the police myself, as I said I would, but I hadn't got anywhere. Masha had come with me: at the last minute Oleg Nikolaevich himself said he had an urgent appointment and couldn't go, though I think he may just have been put off by an ingrained fear of uniforms. The pimply adolescent detective we saw was wearing jeansand listening to gangsta rap. Above his desk he had a sign that said "I cannot drink flowers or chocolates," plus black-and-white portraits of Russia's weasel president and Erwin Rommel. He'd given us the special look that, like their womenfolk, some Russian men have--a commercial version of a pass, a sort of cash-hither smile. "You need to pay," Masha whispered to me in English. I refused, and the detective told me there was no evidence of a crime and therefore there was nothing he could do. As we were leaving, he said that if ever I was in a hurry to get to a meeting or the airport he could loan me a couple of motorcycle outriders. ("Well," said Oleg Nikolaevich when I told him what had happened at the police station, "as long as we are alive, it is possible that one day we will be happy.")
I thought maybe Steve might know a friendly policeman, or a tame spook, or a housebreaker, someone who might be able to make some inquiries, jog a few memories or consciences.
Steve said he was sorry, but the policemen he knew weren't that sort of policemen. He told me not to waste my time, because Konstantin Andreyevich was probably dead--fallen into the river or under a car, or maybe he had drunk the wrong moonshine and keeled over in a forest.
"Don't get too attached," Steve said. "They only live to sixty. Stay here long enough and people you know are gonna die. You know two Russians over sixty, chances areone of them's gonna snuff it. Especially the men. They drink themselves into the ground before they get to see their pensions. You're bored in the Metro, there's a game you can play: try to spot an old man. Russian I spy."
"Any other ideas, Steve? I mean, to help find him. Seriously. He's a nice old geezer, my neighbour. But no money or
krisha
or anything. I think I'm his best hope."
"This is Russia," said Steve. "Pray."
I gave up and asked him whether he knew anything about my new business acquaintance, the Cossack. He found the Cossack much more interesting.
"Little guy?" said Steve. "Pale, slimy eyes?"
Yes, I said. That was him.
"He's not an oilman," Steve said. "He works for the FSB." In case you don't recognize the initials, the FSB is the new-model KGB, minus the communism and the rules. "The story goes that he was done for murder, somewhere in the Urals in the early nineties. The FSB signed him up in prison, got him out, and sent him over to the Far East to help with their poaching scams. I've never actually met him, but I was in a bar on Sakhalin Island once and a Scottish helicopter pilot pointed him out to me. He'd been up in Kamchatka running the caviar racket, I think the pilot said, until they'd moved him on to salmon. He was being lined up for deputy governor of the island, but then they
"She loves me too, I think. Or she could. She likes me at least."
"Did she tell you that?"
"No."
"Listen," he said, "if she does, she'll mean it. She'll mean it at the moment she says it. But twenty minutes later she'll mean it when she nicks your credit card. They mean everything."
"Have you ever been in love, Steve?"
"You know what you need, Nick? You need to lose your moral bearings. Otherwise you're done for."
I changed the subject. I'd decided to ask Steve if he could help me to help my neighbour Oleg Nikolaevich find his friend. I'd been to the police myself, as I said I would, but I hadn't got anywhere. Masha had come with me: at the last minute Oleg Nikolaevich himself said he had an urgent appointment and couldn't go, though I think he may just have been put off by an ingrained fear of uniforms. The pimply adolescent detective we saw was wearing jeansand listening to gangsta rap. Above his desk he had a sign that said "I cannot drink flowers or chocolates," plus black-and-white portraits of Russia's weasel president and Erwin Rommel. He'd given us the special look that, like their womenfolk, some Russian men have--a commercial version of a pass, a sort of cash-hither smile. "You need to pay," Masha whispered to me in English. I refused, and the detective told me there was no evidence of a crime and therefore there was nothing he could do. As we were leaving, he said that if ever I was in a hurry to get to a meeting or the airport he could loan me a couple of motorcycle outriders. ("Well," said Oleg Nikolaevich when I told him what had happened at the police station, "as long as we are alive, it is possible that one day we will be happy.")
I thought maybe Steve might know a friendly policeman, or a tame spook, or a housebreaker, someone who might be able to make some inquiries, jog a few memories or consciences.
Steve said he was sorry, but the policemen he knew weren't that sort of policemen. He told me not to waste my time, because Konstantin Andreyevich was probably dead--fallen into the river or under a car, or maybe he had drunk the wrong moonshine and keeled over in a forest.
"Don't get too attached," Steve said. "They only live to sixty. Stay here long enough and people you know are gonna die. You know two Russians over sixty, chances areone of them's gonna snuff it. Especially the men. They drink themselves into the ground before they get to see their pensions. You're bored in the Metro, there's a game you can play: try to spot an old man. Russian I spy."
"Any other ideas, Steve? I mean, to help find him. Seriously. He's a nice old geezer, my neighbour. But no money or
krisha
or anything. I think I'm his best hope."
"This is Russia," said Steve. "Pray."
I gave up and asked him whether he knew anything about my new business acquaintance, the Cossack. He found the Cossack much more interesting.
"Little guy?" said Steve. "Pale, slimy eyes?"
Yes, I said. That was him.
"He's not an oilman," Steve said. "He works for the FSB." In case you don't recognize the initials, the FSB is the new-model KGB, minus the communism and the rules. "The story goes that he was done for murder, somewhere in the Urals in the early nineties. The FSB signed him up in prison, got him out, and sent him over to the Far East to help with their poaching scams. I've never actually met him, but I was in a bar on Sakhalin Island once and a Scottish helicopter pilot pointed him out to me. He'd been up in Kamchatka running the caviar racket, I think the pilot said, until they'd moved him on to salmon. He was being lined up for deputy governor of the island, but then they
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