Ice Cream, Russian Style

ICE CREAM, RUSSIAN STYLE
(Dedicated to our international team)

“Attention! American Airlines flight 507 has landed. Passengers will be exiting through gate three.”

That’s not our flight. Our flight landed ages ago. Akira Murata was supposed to be on it — a Japanese visitor we’ve been waiting to greet for over two hours now. Where did he wander off to? Ivan Petrovich — who I secretly call Uncle Vanya — is starting to lose it. He’s got a handkerchief out and is constantly dabbing the sweat off his bald spot.

“Sergei, where the hell is he?” he grumbles.

“I wish I knew, Ivan Petrovich.”

We’ve already had him paged twice, asking him to come to the airline’s desk. Fat lot of good that did! I even tried calling Japan. A nice woman with hilariously bad English assured me that Mr. Murata had left the Land of the Rising Sun hours ago.

“Wait, I’ve got his business card!” Uncle Vanya suddenly remembers. He digs around in his wallet and pulls out a bit of cardboard covered in squiggles. “Excuse me, miss, mind if I use your phone? We’ve lost our friend.”

He makes the call while I stand there, watching people come and go through the exit from international arrivals. That’s the border, strictly off limits, guarded by stern border guards and stone-faced girls in uniform. Every so often, though, slick dudes in leather jackets slip through: taxi drivers. One of them sidled up to me an hour ago and leaned in conspiratorially: “Need a ride to Moscow? Fifty bucks, cheapest you’ll find.” Now, I see him chatting with one of the girls in uniform. She’s nodding and smiling...

“Found him, Sergei! He’s already at the office, waiting for us.”

“But how’d he get by us,

Ivan Petrovich? I’ve been watching like a hawk!”

“Beats me! Let’s go!”

After driving through the suburbs and what feels like half of Moscow, we finally reach the office. The building is modern — concrete, carpeted hallways, doors with fancy gold handles, and name plaques. Uncle Vanya’s a fish out of water. He’s a foreman from a tiny factory out in the sticks meeting a foreigner for the first time. But it’s not my first rodeo. After being blacklisted and banned from my profession for ages, I’m finally allowed to work with foreigners again, thanks to Gorbachev, Glasnost, and Perestroika. It’s nineteen-eighty-something AD — the age of freedom has arrived.

In a large conference room, a smiling Japanese guy greets us in pretty decent Russian. “Welcome! I’m Tanaka. How’d you guys miss each other? Mr. Murata’s been here for ages. Let meintroduce you!”

Out of a far corner comes a short, stocky young man with jet-black hair and narrow, slightly slanted eyes. This will be a new experience for me. I’ve never worked with the Japanese before.

He stops a couple meters away and begins talking with heartfelt emotion, then bows low. I figure I should do the same and bow, probably even lower. I sense Uncle Vanya following my lead. After the bowing, the Japanese guy extends his hand and I shake it, thinking this dude’s got a surprisingly strong grip.

“So, how’d he actually get here from the airport?” Uncle Vanya asks Tanaka. “We were going crazy waiting for him.” Tanaka chats with Murata, who responds enthusiastically.

“Simple,” Tanaka explains. “He got off the plane, went through customs, walked down some corridors, and found himself outside with his heavy suitcases. No one was there to meet him, but a taxi driver conveniently showed up and brought him right to the office.”

“How much did he charge?” Uncle Vanya asks. “One hundred dollars.” I cringe internally — that’s two months’ salary for me! Murata’s lucky he made it here at all; he could’ve ended up in a ditch somewhere...

“We need to discuss some technical things,” says Uncle Vanya.

“Go ahead. I’ll get out of your way,” Tanaka replies.

Now there’s just the three of us. Uncle Vanya grabs a sheet of paper and quickly sketches out a factory floor plan. “Mr. Murata, where should we put the machine tools? The shop’s pretty cramped.”

I translate the question into English. Murata just smiles. I repeat it. His smile gets even wider and friendlier. “Eigo-wa wakarimasen,” he says — Japanese for “I don’t understand English.” Well, damn. They spent ages convincing me to take this project, promising I’d be working in English. But Japanese? I barely know anything about the language. After years of painful self-study, I can translate Japanese patents and scientific papers. I’ve picked up a dozen or so common expressions from a phrasebook, but I’d never actually heard anyone speak a single word of Japanese before!

Uncle Vanya elbows me. I open my mouth and, for the first time in my life, utter something in the language of the samurai. “Watashi-tachi no koba-wa chiisai des. Jikan-ga nai.”The Japanese guy lights up like a cherry blossom. He understands me and launches into a response that makes my head spin.

“All right! We’ll figure it out when we get there!” says Ivan Petrovich. “Let’s head home!”

We hit the road. The smooth, European-style highway soon gives way to a very Russian road with all its...charms. Now and then, we get thrown against each other. Akira’s tucked himself in a corner, chain-smoking.

“Stop!” Uncle Vanya orders our driver, Sashka. “Let’s take a breather.” We pull off into the woods. Sashka turns on the SUV’s dim interior light. Uncle Vanya pulls out a plastic flask and a bag of snacks. Sashka digs around in the glove compartment and hands us three plastic cups nestled inside each other. Uncle Vanya carefully fills them to the brim with vodka, and the smell fills the car.

“Welcome to Mother Russia!” he says, offering Akira a cup. The Japanese guy grunts. He doesn’t want to drink. “Come on, don’t insult us!” says Uncle Vanya. Straining, I translate that to Japanese. Apparently, it sounded convincing enough that Akira takes a quick sip. I also down the burning liquid, warmed by the heat from Uncle Vanya’s body. Things get merrier and we drive on...

What the hell? Sashka slams on the brakes. There’s a fire on the road (I’ll be generous and call this bumpy clearing a road). A pile of tires is burning. Someone whistles shrilly from the bushes. Akira shrinks into his corner, whispering something: “Nan des ka?” (What is this?)

“Reassure him, Sergei. Tell him it’s just some punks messing around — it’s St. Peter’s Day.” My Japanese only stretches far enough to explain that these are “bad people playing games.” In the darkness, I see Akira turn pale.

It’s morning when we arrive. Time for bed!

We’re at the factory by noon for the traditional visit with the bigwigs. I’m struggling with Japanese. Akira’s having an even harder time with English.

The chief engineer — a really young, short guy — is all fired up and joking around: “How are you settling in? Anything we can do for you, Mr. Murata?”

“Everything is fine.”

“Did you bring the technical documentation?”

“Yes.”

“Did you leave it at the hotel?”

“No.”

“Where is it then?”

I recall hauling documentation for some Brits from Sheremetyevo a few years back. Their metal chests were so heavy our minibus sagged on its springs.

“Here it is,” Akira says, pulling a black leather cigarette case out of his bag.

“Ah! I see, I see. A mini computer,” says the chief engineer.

“It’s a hard drive. We need to hook it up to a computer. Do you have one?”

The chief engineer scratches his head. “We’ll look around. If worse comes to worst, we’ll borrow one from the neighbors.”

We’re in the workshop and I’m sweating bullets. My mix of English and Japanese is barely getting through to Akira Murata, and not always at that. I’m dredging up stuff I thought I’d forgotten ages ago from the dusty corners of my subconscious. Sometimes, Akira and I just stare at each other, our eyes glazing over.

“Did you get that?” I ask.

“Yes!” he replies. I step away and realize with horror that I’d just been speaking Arabic. I took a job in Egypt once...

There’s an English saying: “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” In other words, if you really want to do something, you’ll find a way. Gradually, we start understanding each other better. Plus, I never put down my pen and notebook, learning Japanese every spare minute and reviewing my notes before bed. My experience translating Japanese patents comes in handy too.

In the workshop, they’ve nicknamed him “the robot.” He spends all day turning screws, drilling holes, connecting wires, and occasionally dashing out for a smoke break. Our workers watch him, saying, “Now we get why the Japanese are so far ahead. Look at how they work!”

“What’s stopping you?” I ask.

“If we got paid like he does, we’d work like that too.” I find that hard to swallow.

For Akira Murata, the Kyoku Kikai company is home sweet home. When he talks about it, his eyes seem to mist over. Ask him if he’d walk through fire for Kyoku, and Akira would probably say, “Where’s the fire?” He’s got a three-month-old daughter back home. So do I. He showed me a color photo of him with his wife and child sealed in clear plastic,. I showed him mine: black and white and a little crumpled.

Patrick and Jean arrive a week later (thank goodness!). Patrick’s a towering figure over two meters tall, radiating an infectious enthusiasm for life. Jean is slender, with a mustache.

The first thing Patrick asks me when we get to our temporary digs is, “How’re the women around here? Any good ones?”

“Take your pick!” I say confidently.

“Just so you know, I prefer blondes,” Patrick tells me.

To this day, I have no idea what his nationality or native language is. He was born in Alsace, where they speak both German and French. He served as a paratrooper with NATO forces in Germany, spent the last few years in London with an English wife (though that marriage hit the rocks), and even though this is his second time in Russia, the country’s still full of surprises for him.

He speaks three languages fluently and picked up two more just for fun. What does he do for a living? He’s a mechanic.

Then Peter shows up. He’s a German, serious and unsmiling, old enough to be our dad. He spends the entire workday silently tinkering with circuit boards, occasionally humming a tune. When I asked if he has kids, he shot back: “Let’s save the personal stuff for after work.”

Jean’s over there, machining rollers on a grinder. He flashes a smile at every girl who walks by. Sometimes, he’ll take off his safety glasses and say something. If he gets a blank look, he whips out a notebook from his chest pocket, sketches something, and then ducks into the locker room and comes back with a little package. The girl nods and they’re both happy. Jean puts his glasses back on and gets back to work.

Patrick’s lying under a lathe, his crazy-long legs sticking out from under its base. He’s got a wrench in one hand, a cassette player on his belt, and tiny earbuds in his ears. “What’re you listening to?” I ask when he crawls out and plops down on the floor.

“Here, have a listen.” My eardrums are assaulted by a deafening march.

“It’s a science thing,” Patrick explains. “Music boosts productivity and reduces fatigue.”

“And the bosses are cool with this?”

“The bosses want results. This helps me work. Hey, what’s that picture on the wall?”

He’s pointing at a huge portrait of Lenin with meter-high letters declaring that the decisions of some party congress will be carried out.

“That’s Lenin.”

“Who’s that?”

“The leader of the international proletariat.”

“Why’s he up there?”

“It’s a science thing,” I say. “It boosts productivity and reduces fatigue.”

“That’s stupid,” Patrick says. “You gotta pay people. Then they’ll work.”

“People are working.”

“Then why are the stores empty?”

“Dunno... It’s always been like this here.”

“Too many freeloaders — bosses everywhere you spit. And everyone’s trying to grab a piece for themselves.”

“Is it like that where you’re from?”

“Pretty much. Nobody shortchanges themselves. But with us, if you work better, you live better. Here, you’ve got a herd of slackers wandering around the shop and you can’t fire anybody. And how do they work? Can you even compare them to Akira?”

“We’ve got good workers too.”

“Sure you do. But what do they get? Whatever crumbs the boss throws them? Look, if a person doesn’t have a selfish interest in their work, they won’t give it their all. That’s human nature, and that’s what you need to build an economy on, not portraits on walls. How much do your workers make?”

“It varies.”

“But the first and biggest slice goes to the boss, right?”

“Always.”

“Why? Is he a valuable worker? A smart leader?”

“He’s usually an idiot, but sneaky.”

“So why’s he got the job?”

“Dunno. It’s always been like that here...”

Patrick stares at me intently. He’s thinking. Finally, he speaks. “Tell me, do you snitch on me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. Don’t lie. I can’t stand lying.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t think. I’m sure of it. All you Russian interpreters are plants. They wouldn’t let you near foreigners without KGB clearance. I’m the enemy. I’ve come to find out where your military airfields and nuclear subs are. And you know the foreigners’ language, so you’re tasked with unraveling their devious plans and peering into their dark souls. Then you write a report for the state security officer. What do you say to that, sir?”

I point to Lenin’s portrait and quote him, recalling something from school: “ It is impossible to live in society and be free from society.”

“That’s true,” Patrick agrees and disappears under the lathe again. Popping out a minute later, he adds, semi-seriously: “And hey, you can also report that my favorite sex position is doggy style. And for booze, I prefer Russian vodka with American Coca-Cola.” Patrick chuckles contentedly and crawls back under.

It’s evening and we’re at the hotel. (It’s more like a factory dormitory than a hotel.) Our international crew is playing cards in the common area. A girl walks in and sits down at our table without saying a word. “Meet Natasha,” Jean says. We take turns shaking her hand. Akira stands up and bows. Jean puts down his cards. “Excuse me,gentlemen, but I need some private time with this lady.” We nod understandingly. After a while, creaking and muffled sighs come from behind the wall.

“What an idiot!” Patrick says. “Doesn’t he get that she’s an informant?”

“She’s not who he thinks she is,” Peter clarifies.

In the morning, Jean complains to Uncle Vanya. “Your beds are brutally hard. Get me another mattress.”

Ivan Petrovich promises to talk to the dorm superintendent, though his tone suggests he’s less than thrilled.When we’re alone, he fumes: “The bastard! He turns this place into a brothel,and I’m supposed to fetch him mattresses?! It’s this perestroika and democracy crap! In the good old communist days, I’d make one phone call, and in 24 hours he’d be gone like a bad penny.”

As soon as Jean arrives at work, he rushes to the office and calls Paris. We hear him yelling into the phone: “Marie, Marie! Amour! Je t’aime!”

Coming out of the office and catching Uncle Vanya’s gloomy look, he pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry! I’ll pay for everything.”

Jean heads into the shop, humming a tune.

Later, catching Jean alone, I ask him how it makes sense: a wife and kid in Paris and a mistress in Kukuyevo. “It makes perfect sense,” Jean replies. “Natasha and I have a blast. I’ll buy her a gift. We’ll part as good friends. Who gets hurt? Or should I — a healthy man — just jerk off in Russia?”

“But don’t you have a moral compass, values?”

“Values? Of course!” Jean pulls out his wallet and shows me a few photos. “Here’s my wife and son — they give my life meaning. Here’s my house… my car. And here’s my bank card. These are what I value.” He strokes his handsome mustache and smiles. “And don’t I have value myself? Or is it a mortal sin to love yourself?”

It’s evening, and we’re back at the hotel. Tired of playing cards, we’re just sitting around in the common area, reminiscing.

“She was like a black diamond,” Patrick says dreamily about his last fling in Africa. “And the way she fucked! When I came, I thought there’d been a socialist revolution in Cameroon.” He’s wearing his favorite exotic boxers, a toxic green pair covered in little figures having sex in all sorts of positions — more like a newlywed’s sex manual underwear.

Patrick scratches his bare belly, his hands drifting lower and lower. Suddenly he freezes, slowly brings his hands to his eyes, and studies his thumbnails closely, pressing them together. There’s a barely audible click. Patrick’s eyes go wide.

“Damn! What’s this?”

Peter turns his head, glancing at him with indifference. “It’s a pubic louse,” he says. “You’ve got crabs.”

“No way! I practice safe sex! It must be from the Russian sheets!”

“From Russian whores,” Peter corrects.

“My God! What a country?! This is worse than Cameroon! Why the hell did I come here? The boss offered me Argentina, and like an idiot I picked exotic Russia... What should I do, Peter?”

Without a word, Peter goes to his room and comes back with a dark blue bottle. He hands it to Patrick. “This’ll fix you up. Apply where needed. But shave the area first. It’s going to sting a little...”

Patrick disappears into the bathroom. A few minutes later, there’s a bloodcurdling scream and a naked Patrick comes flying out, bouncing off the walls, his manhood red and standing tall. Curses in five languages shake the room.

“Akira, guard the door,” Peter commands. “God forbid he gets out — if the Russians see this, they’ll never let us hear the end of it!”

Patrick prances around like an unbroken mustang. Akira stands guard at the door. Jean chuckles quietly. Peter sits silently, and I watch, thinking that that somehow, here we are — Russian, German, Japanese, French, and English — living together and getting along, maybe even happily.

The workday ends, and Uncle Vanya walks over to me.

“Go to the office, Seryozha. You’ve got a phone call.”

“Who is it?”

“Just go. Do what I say.”

I head to the office and pick up the receiver.

“Seryozha N.?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“This is Major Orlov from the KGB.”

(Here we go, I think to myself.)

“We need to meet.”

Asking why would be beyond stupid. Saying no would be tantamount to resigning.

“When and where?”

“Are you free Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“At ten o’clock, walk out of the dorm to the road. Turn right and go about three hundred meters. A GAZ-69 will be waiting by the side of the road.”

“Got it. I’ll be there.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Thursday evening rolls around and I head out to the road by myself. I walk about three hundred meters and spot a GAZ-69 parked off to the side. The door swings open, and I climb in.

The driver turns to me, offering his hand:

“Major Orlov.”

“Translator N.”

“Did anyone follow you?”

“Who would do that?”

“Anything’s possible. You need to be on guard.”

The major glances around, then asks, “How’s life? How’s work? How’s your international group doing?”

“They’re doing fine. We’re actually having a good time.”

“What are they interested in? Who do they meet with?”

“They’re interested in Russian women. That’s who they meet.”

“That’s natural enough. But don’t they have other… specific interests?”

“Like what? Our military airfields and nuclear subs?”

“This isn’t a joke. We’ve moved beyond Cold War stereotypes, but not the hard reality. The reality is that we live in a hostile world. Western intelligence agencies haven’t given up hope of destroying our country. Not necessarily with nukes, though imperialism’s capable of that too.”

The major goes on about possible imperialist plots in our backwater region. I study his intelligent, likable face and wonder — how did he end up in a job like this? He must have done university and served in the army. That’s a given. He probably didn’t want to just scrape by his whole life, working at some factory job, so he joined the KGB. It’s a respectable job, prestigious too. It pays well. He’ll retire young with a good pension, while his peers keep on grinding away for  peanuts. He might get shipped off to some hellhole. God willing, he’d make it out alive. But everything comes at a price. Best not to dwell on it.

“What are they like?” the major asks.

“They’re different,” I reply. “Not like us at all.”

“Exactly — they’re not like us, and that’s why we need to know everything about them. Stay alert. If anything happens, send a signal immediately.”

“I will.”

“Got any requests? Need anything?”

I hesitate.

“Don’t hold back,” the major encourages. “Just tell me what you need.”

“I’d like some vodka. Everything’s rationed or regulated here — cards, passes, lists. I’m not from around here, so they won’t sell me even a single shot of vodka. After work, I’d like to kick back with the guys a bit.”

“No problem. Stop by the station tomorrow. Just make sure nobody sees you. You’ll get your vodka. No need to pay. Vodka loosens tongues. Just don’t get drunk yourself.”

“I won’t. I know my limits.”

“Take care then.”

I shake the hand offers me in the darkness.

It’s scorching. This small town isn’t Cairo, but for several days now the sun has been beating down almost as brutally as it does in Africa. This happens sometimes in central Russia.

Akira and I are walking down the street. We’re parched.

Up ahead there is a kiosk with a long line of people. Ice cream has appeared in this provincial town for the first time in maybe two hundred years.

“I’d like some ice cream,” Akira says.

We get in line. It’s crawling forward at a snail’s pace, and people are sweaty and irritable. The lucky ones at the front are walking away with their little cones, savoring their cold, sweet treats.

A tall, red-haired punk muscles his way to the front, shoving past everyone.

“What do you think you’re doing?” someone asks. “Get in line.”

The giant squints, grabs the curious guy by the collar, and shoves a fist under his nose.

“Did you say something? Or did I imagine it?”

The line goes silent.

“I’ll take two,” the redhead says to the vendor.

We wait. The stench of sweaty bodies fills the air.

A big, beat-up foreign car stops nearby, and a young guy gets out, a thick gold chain glinting through his open shirt. He saunters up to the kiosk, and the crowd parts respectfully. He slides a bill through the window. There’s a signet ring the size of a chicken egg on one finger.

“Who is that?” I ask my neighbor in line.

He gives me a surprised look. “You’re not from around here, are you? That’s Arkady!”

I have no idea who the legendary Arkady is, but he’s clearly a big deal.

Arkady grabs a whole box of ice cream and gets back in his car, slamming the door. The battered BMW peels out, leaving us in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.

Christ! At this rate, there might not be any ice cream left by the time we get to the front! I walk to the front of the line, looking for the friendliest face I can find.

“Excuse me. I’m here with a friend. He’s Japanese, a foreigner. Mind if I cut in? I just need one cone. Just for him. Could I?”

Friendly Face considers for a moment.

“Sure, go ahead! Get two.”

I step up to the window and pull out some crumpled bills. Then, from behind:

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, you bastard?”

I turn around.

“Comrades, I asked if I could cut in. They said I could.”

“Who said that?”

“This guy here.”

The man who let me in stays quiet. He looks scared.

“Throw him out!” someone yells from the crowd.

“People! Citizens! Comrades! It’s not for me — it’s for a foreign GUEST.”

“Oh yeah? And what makes him so special? Let him wait and sweat with the rest of us. Rules are rules.”

“Come on, show some hospitality. He’s a good worker. He’s here building a factory for us.”

“Get lost! They just come here to leech off Russia. Beat it! And take your Chinese friend with you.”

“He’s Japanese.”

“Same difference.”

That’s when I lose it.

“To hell with you! If only you worked as hard as he does. Instead, all you do is drink vodka! You wouldn’t do a lick of work if somebody beat you with a stick!”

“Who the hell do you think you are? Who are you to lecture us? Petro, punch him in the eye! Shut him up.”

Someone obliges and lands a powerful punch right on my nose. I stumble back and land in the roadside dust. My vision blurs with rage. My hands instinctively search for something solid and seem to find it. You bastards… Right now I could do anything. I’ll show you…

But someone grabs me from behind and drags me away. It’s Akira. I try to break free, but the guy’s strong as an ox.

“I don’t want any ice cream,” he pants in my ear. “I don’t want anything. Let’s go home…”

We head back to the hotel. I can’t hold back the tears. Akira pats my shoulder, saying something about kokoro. It’s Japanese for “soul, heart, emotions.”

At the hotel, Patrick meets us.

“What happened?”

I don’t say anything, just wipe the blood from my nose. Akira explains and Patrick clenches his jaw.

“Let’s go take care of this.” He pulls a pair of jeans on over his green boxers and threads his belt through the loops. “How many of them are there?”

“Don’t, Patrick. There are too many.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a hundred…or more.”

Patrick sits down.

“Yeah… Today’s not our day…”

He goes to the fridge, pulls out the vodka bottle I got from the major, and grabs a few cans of Coke.

“So, a bunch of strangers beat you up. That sucks, but you’ll live. It’s worse when you’re betrayed by people you trust — people you consider friends. Now, drink up and remember, you can count on me and Akira.”

The bus station. I’mleaving, and we won’t see each other again. Patrick and Akira are seeing me off. Akira holds my suitcase packed yesterday with their gifts — scarves, cans, boxes, Japanese newspapers, and magazines.

“You have my contact info,” Patrick says. “Come see me in London anytime and stay as long as you like.”

“Come to Osaka too,” Akira adds.

I know it’s not realistic. I’ll never have the money for a trip like that. And more than that, picking up and leaving the country isn’t something I can choose to do. Unknown officials in high offices decide that for me. I’m not my own master.

Patrick gives me a hug. “Take care of yourself. Love your wife and kids. Everything else is just noise.”

“Sayonara!” Akira calls.

I get on the bus. I wave as it’s pulling out, wiping away tears.

At home, my wife greets me.

“Back already, traveler!? How was work?”

I kiss her and, exhausted, set down my suitcase. I’m glad to be home, but I feel like a piece of my soul has been ripped out.

“What’s wrong?” my wife asks. “Don’t you feel well?”

“My soul aches. Do we have any vodka in the house?”

Translation by James McVay