“Perfect,” she said, turning her attention to the tangle of bodies on the dance floor.
Neither of them said anything for several moments. While Pyotr struggled to come up with some kind of clever line that would ensnare the young woman who had unknowingly stumbled into his presence, her drink arrived, causing her to turn back to the bar. Still unable to decide on a clever pickup line, he stalled a little longer, resigned to the likelihood that she’d pay for her drink and scurry away from him. That was the excuse he easily conjured for delaying one of his brilliant utterances. When she reached for her purse and started to pull out a jumble of ruble notes, he decided to take unprecedented action. He offered to pay for her drink.
“No, no. Please allow me. It’s the least I can do for a traveler stuck in this godforsaken city,” he said, not exactly happy with his delivery.
“The city’s not that bad, but I’ll accept your offer. Travel funds are a bit tight for this trip,” she said.
“Well, you certainly picked the wrong place to conserve rubles,” he added, feeling a little more at ease with himself and the situation.
“Thank you. I had to experience the famous Russian nightlife at some point during my trip. This is the first stop that offered more than a dank pub filled with shady characters,” she replied, closing her tiny purse.
“You’re more than welcome…though I’m afraid this club is filled with plenty of shady characters. You’re riding the Trans-Siberian?”
“I’m writing a travel story about the journey, but I’m doing it backwards. I started in Vladivostok,” she said.
“Ughh. Another charming Russian city.”
“The downtown area was interesting. A little gloomy overall, but it was an easy introduction to Russia. I’ve never travelled here before.”
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Sidney, Australia. It made sense for me to start on the eastern end of the railway,” she said.
“Well, you should have skipped Novosibirsk. I’ve been here for two years, and I ran out of things to see and do within the first few days of arrival. My name is Pyotr, by the way.”
“Katie,” she said, exposing her Australian accent.
He couldn’t believe his luck. A seat next to him opened up at the bar and an attractive foreigner slid right in. Australian on top of that! He wished there was some way he could ask her to continue the conversation in English without sounding creepy. He loved to listen to Australian women on the television. He decided there was no way to do this that didn’t end with a drink in his face. He had to play this cool.
“What do you do here that keeps you in the city against your will?” she asked, reaching for her drink on the bar.
“I’m a scientist. More of a biologist, actually.”
Her eyes lit up for a moment, which he took as a good sign. He had considered adding his title and function at Vektor, or completely lying to her about what he did in Novosibirsk. Instead, he went with the truth for once, and it seemed to pay off.
“I studied biology for a year before switching to journalism. I loved the basic biology courses, but chemistry turned out to be a problem for me. I should have seen that coming,” she said.
“You probably had a much better university experience with a journalism concentration. Biology kept me locked up inside the academic buildings. Not much of a social life, I’m afraid,” he said, trying not to throw back his entire martini in one gulp.
“And here you are in your favorite city?” she said, teasing him.
He was starting to feel a little connection with her. Maybe she could tell that he wasn’t like the rest of the crowd packed into the club. Not many molecular biologists dancing to painfully outdated ’80s music on the dance floor in front of them.
“Exactly. I suppose it’s not so bad, but it’s nothing like Saint Petersburg,” he said.
“Do you think I should make the trip out to see it? The Trans-Siberian ends in Moscow, but it seems such a waste to miss Saint Petersburg.”
“You absolutely must make the trip. This may seem forward, but I would consider joining you for the journey. I spent seven years in Saint Petersburg and could be your tour guide. It’s the most fascinating of all Russian cities. You can’t miss it under any circumstances.”
“How can I turn down an offer like that?” she said excitedly in Australian-accented English. “Sorry. I have a tendency to switch to English when I’m drinking. This is a strong drink,” she said, switching back to Russian.
“Pretty much straight vodka. A little more civilized than the traditional Russian method of drinking vodka,” he said, in his best English.
“You speak English? That will make things easier. I can feel this going right to my head. I don’t know how you all pound shot after shot of vodka. Cheers,” she said, raising her glass.
Pyotr downed his drink and watched her do the same. He could listen to her talk all night in that accent. This had worked out perfectly so far, but he still had his work cut out for him. He had so many angles to pursue. A trip on the Trans-Siberian with her to Moscow and eventually Saint Petersburg was the grand prize, guaranteed to result in multiple sexual encounters in grand fashion. He might have to play it really cool tonight and sacrifice the more immediate opportunity in order to achieve that long-term goal. A hasty sexual encounter tonight could lead to an awkward situation, dissolving his invitation to accompany her on the train. He was getting ahead of himself and overthinking the entire situation. He had a tendency to do this, and it often resulted in disaster. He wouldn’t make that mistake with this young lady. He’d go with the flow on this one. The flow of alcohol to be precise, which he would facilitate.
“Two shots of vodka. The good stuff,” he said to the bartender, who barely acknowledged him.
“I don’t know about shots. Straight drinks hit me hard,” she said, still smiling.
“One shot to toast your arrival in Novosibirsk. It’s a tradition. When you drink vodka quickly, it doesn’t hit you as hard. That’s how we can drink so much,” he said, not sure if that made any sense.
“I suppose one shot won’t kill me. This is really exciting,” she said.
Four vodka shots later, they departed the club for his apartment, swaying arm in arm down the chilly street. He had decided to hedge his bet on the train trip and take what he could get up front. She’d become extremely “friendly” after the second shot, resting her hand permanently on his leg and eventually holding his hand with the other. All of this could change tomorrow, when the effects of the vodka wore off and she was faced with the choice of spending the next four or five days on a train with a virtual stranger or slipping quietly out of town to continue her journey alone. Alcohol had a wonderful way of making even the most impractical suggestions or plans sound feasible for a limited period of time.
They walked for about fifteen minutes, stopping to kiss and grope each other in the shadows at random intervals along the way. When they turned onto Planovaya Street, he could see his apartment building in the distance, situated above a pleasant bakery and café. He would bring Katie some coffee and pastries in the morning. They crossed the well-lit intersection, dodging the odd car still negotiating Novosibirsk at one-thirty in the morning.
By the time they reached the door to his apartment building, he suddenly realized that Katie was supporting much of his weight. He felt dizzy, almost like he was floating. Finding the keys to the building seemed nearly impossible, though he managed to produce them. Katie helped him open the door, and they somehow made it up the stairs to the third floor. He tried to think back and count the number of shots they drank at the nightclub, but his memory was hazy. He couldn’t remember the name of the last club they left. He must have overdone it at some point, which was a real shame.