But it’s still important to continue ignoring. The complicated alpha-female psyche will punish premature directness with a loss of interest. The ensuing minutes of sitting in silence next to each other will give her synapses time to develop an explosive mixture of attraction and insecurity that she will inevitably interpret as being in love.
After half an hour she gathers her phone and handbag and disappears toward the washroom. There are hardly any free seats and a couple with a small kid seize the opportunity and take her seat. The kid whines.
Five minutes later the mother-to be of our twins reappears, appraises the situation (surely cursing under her breath, but with enough class that no one notices), and remains standing in the hall fifty feet away. She and her cell phone and her bottle of ice tea. I pay no attention, but I’m jealous of those two items.
The flight is called at Gate B4. Fortuna and Cupid have come to an agreement and decided that we are to have the same destination, as I notice in the cagelike waiting room into which passengers have been crammed to have their tickets inspected. I position myself ten feet away from her. Coquettishly, she appears not to notice me and plays with a strand of her hair.
Fortuna has prepared another surprise for us. The lady is sitting in 11D and I’m in 12C, places diagonally opposite each other, making it easy for me to continue not paying attention to her. She unpacks her white headphones and watches The Hunger Games on her cell. Only a thriller about life and death can distract her from her inner emotional chaos.
I lose her at the luggage collection at Saint Petersburg when my backpack takes longer than her black trolley bag. I totally ignore how gracefully she walks toward the exit. As consolation, at least I know that the memory of this encounter, all those nagging what-ifs, will occupy her mind for years to come. No doubt about that.
SAINT PETERSBURG
Population: 4,880,000
Federal District: Northwestern
VODKA CURES ALL
WHEN THE BAND Leningrad recorded their song “V Pitere Pit’” (In Saint Petersburg, you drink) they probably expected a number of different reactions: indignation from the citizens of Saint Petersburg, trouble with the law, criticism from the Ministry of Health. And they got all of these in no short supply, but there were also two surprises. First, the mind-boggling popularity of the song, which in no time had amassed two million hits on YouTube. And second, praise from the Saint Petersburg Committee for Tourist Development: “The song triggers an urge to discover for yourself everything that can be seen here—monuments, museums, restaurants, events, festivals for all tastes and age groups,” claimed its director, Viktor Kononov.
His remarks are all the more extraordinary as monuments and museums play no role whatsoever in the lively ska-pop song. The song’s message can be summed up thus: in Moscow people sniff cocaine, in Rostov they smoke pot, but true drinkers are found in “Piter,” as the locals endearingly refer to their city. In the music video you can see employees from a variety of businesses telling their bosses how they really feel about them, leaving their workplaces, and then getting totally wasted. Vodka acts as a cure-all for every life circumstance; it would have been less surprising if the distilling industry rather than the tourist officials had used “V Pitere Pit’” for its purposes.
My hostess, Arina, visibly enjoys translating the lyrics while we knock back massive amounts of Georgian red wine. The song in all its coarseness is a subversive masterpiece, especially since Saint Petersburg is considered the intellectual capital of the country, a metropolis so permeated with high culture that the local pizza service is called “Dostoyevsky” and afternoon tea is referred to in the local slang as “Tchaikovsky” instead of chai. Arina has long blond hair, is roughly five foot nine, and is one of those people who with every confident gesture, casual expletive, and drag on a cigarette seem more rock star–like than most real rock stars. Her online profile includes a photo of her holding a sign like a beggar that reads: “I’m from Russia. I sell drugs, weapons, and child pornography” and another photo with the caption: “My father is a bear and my mother a balalaika.” When I saw her profile I thought: This will be interesting.
She lives at the southern tip of Saint Petersburg in a high-rise not far from the Gazprom headquarters, a few bus stops on from the last subway station at Prospekt Veteranov. Her bookshelf contains Kurt Vonnegut, “German Gesse,” Murakami, Sartre, Pelevin, and illustrated books on street art. Next to the bookshelf is a heap of VIP passes for concerts and conventions—she works as an event manager.
At home Arina looks after two cats, Misha and Masha, both strong characters. Time and again she breaks off mid-sentence with a “Miiissshhhaaa. Tsk tsk tsk!” or a “Marusya! What are you doing??!!” directed at the creatures.
Three-month-old Masha, nicknamed Marusya, is at the moment not quite compos mentis, as she has licked up drops of wine from the floor. Since then she has been trying out ridiculous climbing maneuvers on the kitchen curtains without ever reaching her target, the windowsill. In “Piter” even the cats drink.
Arina is an expert on Russian rock music. She plays me her favorite songs from Saint Petersburg groups like Splean, Kino, The Night Snipers, and Leningrad at volumes that the neighbors probably find a bit excessive.
She tells me that the last time she had a journalist as a guest there was a bit of trouble with the Federal Security Service (FSB). “An Indian sport photographer. At the airport he was immediately intercepted and questioned because he had a press card. The agents wanted to know what he was doing here and how long he was planning to stay. He was nervous and gave them my telephone number.” A telephone call from the FSB didn’t fluster Arina, however, as she’d had plenty of dealings with the security agency through her job. Once a year she works for the Saint Petersburg Economic Forum, which President Putin also attends. “Sometimes in the week before the event they tap into my phone. I know when it’s happening as the phone gets hot and my battery drains quickly.”
So she picked up the phone and the FSB agent wanted to know her connection to the Indian man. She assured the agent that her guest wasn’t a terrorist and said to let him go. Then the agent asked for her address. “I said: Excuse me, are you really from the FSB? We’ve been talking for five minutes and you haven’t checked my phone number and found my address?” The tipsy cat jumps onto Arina’s lap and she laughs hoarsely. “The guy got mad: ‘Do you know who you’re speaking to? I work for the FSB!’ And me: ‘So what?’ He: ‘Federal. Security. Service.’ And I just said: ‘We talk and talk and you still don’t know where I am? Are you an intern or what?’”
After a slight delay the Indian guest appeared at her door. He seemed to be pretty wired and right away asked what the hell she had done: immediately after the telephone call the FSB had told him he could gather his stuff and go.
“First of all, I said: ‘Sit down. Next month I have an event for the United Nations. If I have any kind of trouble with the FSB, believe me: I’ll find you. I know India is big. But I will find you.’” The poor man didn’t get off to a good start in Saint Petersburg, but after a few drinks he managed to calm himself down a bit.