My Days

 

I'm kind of proud that I can be tough when I need to be. I mean, who's gonna admit they're a wimp, right? When I was wrestling back in my younger days, even the bigger guys had a hard time pinning me. I fought like a madman, like every match was my last.    

I got a call yesterday; it was my son’s birthday. A woman's voice asked, “Can you do me a favor?”

“What kind of favor?”

“I need something translated from English. Can you do it?”

What an odd question! I've been translating English for ages. It's not work for me — it's my passion.

“I’m sorry, but I'm really busy today.”

After a pause (I always try to be straight with people), I added, “It's my son's sixteenth birthday, and we’re throwing a party for him at our house. I'd rather not work today?”

“Please, I'm begging you. I'll pay for it.”

It was the first sentence that got my attention, not the second. When someone asks me for something (without telling me to do it — ordering me around is pointless), I can't say no. Requests? Sure. Orders? Screw that!

First thing that morning, I'd gone to wish my old English teacher a happy birthday. She was born on the same day as my son. She's well over seventy now and in rough shape. I stepped inside.

“Come on in, Sergey!” she called out softly from the couch, trying to gesture with her hand. Paralyzed by her illness, she’d barely been able to move for quite some time . . .

What a woman she used to be! She didn't just walk; she soared like a big bird. If a slow student got in her way, she'd call out, “Move it, buddy!” and keep on flying. She was a brilliant expert on English who'd never heard a native English speaker in her life. The Iron Curtain saw to that.

And now she was . . . I looked at her . . . Lord, forgive me for thinking it, but I believe I was her favorite student. When she's gone, a part of me will go with her. 

I found the translation job waiting when I got back home. It was something Galsworthy had written, dropped off while I was out. I fired up the computer and got to work. Guests were already arriving. Not many, just close family — my parents, my sister and her daughter.

They sat down around the birthday table. My wife had laid out some simple grub she’d whipped up with budget wizardry: salted fish, salads, a piece of KFC chicken for everyone — a cheap import from good ol' Uncle Sam — and a bottle of vodka. It's not a Russian party without vodka.

The guests drank and talked, badmouthing President Yeltsin and all things American.

“Everything that’s bad is from the West,” my dad declares.

“Especially from America,” my mother-in-law chimed in. “They're all so arrogant over there.” She’d never met an American in her life — only seen them on TV.

I didn’t butt in or argue. It was pointless. They had their own truth. They reminisced about the good old days and the way Comrade Stalin had maintained order with an iron fist. I kept tapping away at the keyboard . . .

The phone rang.

“Sergey? How's my translation coming?”

“I’m getting there, but can't it wait till tomorrow? What's the rush?”

“No, no! It has to be done today — by this evening, if possible. I'll pay you.”

To hell with this job! I wanted to drink and eat! Hadn’t I earned it? It has been exactly 16 years since my firstborn came into the world. I only had one life to live. Didn’t I deserve my share of happiness?

“PLEASE?”

That “please” sealed the deal.

“All right, I'll do it. Come by at nine. It'll be ready.”

“Okay. I'll see you then.”

No, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. With the pittance they pay me at work, it'd be a crime against my family to stuff my face with American chicken now instead of earning a bit extra. I needed to man up. I needed to work.

So, I worked until the guests left and kept on working. The phone rang again: “Is it ready?”

“It’s done. You can come pick it up.”

Soon, a young woman showed up with a tough-looking guy. The streets in our town weren’t safe at night. The girl was pretty cute, and her escort looked ready for anything.

“Here's your translation.”

“Oh, thank you. How much do I owe you?”

I told her.

“Can I bring you the money tomorrow?”

“That’ll be fine.”

The next day was a workday: smelly and soul-crushing. Our team’s boss walked over to my desk (oh, you bosses — you’re the stuff of legends).

“I need you to translate this.”

“What do you want me to translate?”

“From here to there.”

“Show me, please.”

“Fuck you!” That’s the boss's favorite phrase. “Are you drunk?”

I flare up instantly. “Fuck you, too. Did you get me drunk?”

“Watch your mouth! Wanta kiss your bonus goodbye?”

“I don't get bonuses.”

“And you never will, I promise you that.” Red-faced with anger, the boss scurried out of the room.

Sasha yelled at me from the far-right corner: “Tell her to go fuck herself, Sergey. It'd be cheaper.” We're surrounded by women. Are they deaf or what?

“Come get your pay, please!” called the cashier from behind the partition. I went and got mine.

I saw how much my colleagues got even though I didn’t want to. Payday is always a day of shame for me. They pay me only a fraction of what the others get. Actually, they don't pay any of us for the work we do. They pay us for the vibe we've created for ourselves, and my vibe sucks. I talk back. I don't do like my female colleagues and say, “Why are you insulting me?” When I’m hit on one cheek, I don't turn the other. Bosses don't like me.

And to top it all off, I'm a disgraced outcast. I'm not allowed to travel abroad. It's a concept left over from the days of “mature socialism.” I’ll swear on the Bible or the Quran that I've never committed any crimes, never betrayed anyone, never passed on any secret documents. My knowledge of the technologies our design bureau works on doesn't go beyond what's in its ads. But I don't want to know or remember even that. My head's full of other stuff. A jumble of words from six languages with one thought burning through — why? A criminal has a right to his day in court. He’s told what he’s accused of and the punishment he faces. I don't have that right. I'm beyond the law.

But I’m needed. I'm a person of interest for “operational investigative activities.” I provide justification for high salaries and excellent pensions.

I watch in pain every day as my colleagues butcher the language of Shakespeare and Milton. My attempts to correct even the most glaring mistakes are angrily rejected. “Where did you study?” the boss asks, glaring at me. “Harvard or Oxford? You graduated from some crappy teachers' college and think you know something?” The torment continues. Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.

Stunned by the how little I received, I hurried to the bathroom. Leaning against the wall, I greedily inhaled a bitter cigarette. We would scrape by for another week or two somehow, but what then? How would I live and feed two kids, a wife, and a big dog? Damn it, I was so sick of all this!

The workday ended. I rode the company bus to visit my aunt who lives nearby. I rarely see her.

“Want a drink, Sergey?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I do!” Especially after abstaining yesterday.

Vodka. Conversations. Stupid, thieving bosses. Workers know their stuff but can't get anywhere. I was getting tipsy and more outspoken than usual. “Take a look,” I said, pulling out my packed lunch: a carton of kefir and a piece of bread. “My pay was so small today that I couldn’t swallow a single bite.”

“That's how it goes,“ my uncle said. “You can't earn anything doing honest work. This country's not a country, it's a madhouse. You've got to be a bastard to get anywhere in life.”

That was followed by more talk — and more vodka. My uncle named off his ailments one by one. The metallurgical plant where he works is in crisis; it’s only producing mineral water now.

“Can you believe it?” my uncle said. “There’s no money to pay the workers, but the bosses are building palaces for themselves.”

I believe it. I've seen the palaces.

I finally got home and turned on the computer. As always, I opened my email inbox with a little flutter in my heart. It's what connects me to the outside world. I'm very curious. I want to know how other people live.

Grey started barking. It was the lady from yesterday with her bodyguard friend. What a beautiful girl she was! — and how bad her English was! At her age, I was reading Dickens in the original.

She’d brought the money she owed me. I was touched.

“Is there anything else I can do for you? Write an essay or grade an exam?”

“No, thank you. You did a good job on the translation. Here's the money I owe you.”

She handed me the amount we’d agreed to. In Moscow or anywhere else in Russia, they'd charge at least three times what I do. Especially on a son's birthday.

Something hit me. I took a bill from the thin stack she gave me and handed it back to her. No, I'm really not a tough guy at all. I never have been.