“Anything else?” A uniformed crotch bumped against my table.
I gave the short waiter a royal wave and he lashed the table with a gray cloth in a condescending manner. Andrei equals two hundred-ruble coffee. In Moscow these days, that doesn’t buy you much nobility or time. The current joke is that even the policemen don’t accept bribes under a thousand rubles these days; it’s not worth the trouble. A strategic retreat then, Prince Bolkonsky, to the perimeter of the camp? Very good, Lieutenant, but not too far away. I still had to wait for Luka.
I exited the café and leaned against the window with its decals of fish leaping over the Volga, then opened the book. A rapping sound behind me caught my attention. The waiter inside made a shooing motion, and I thought of flipping him the finger.
When I turned back, someone bumped into me. I knew I was in trouble when the man lifted his gelled head, his rhinoceros hair threatening to impale me. He dusted off his leather jacket and called out to his friend. “You see that? He stuck his foot out to trip me.” A rough hand shoved me against the wall. His garlicky breath savaged me as his face pressed close, eyes tight like lizard’s. I considered my options quickly. Behind, I heard the waiter lock the café to prevent the fight from spilling in. “Hey, look at me when I’m talking.” The punk knuckled me in the rib and when I curled up, his mop-haired friend, who wore a t-shirt with a cross bone print, grabbed my bag. “Sasha, look at this.” He brandished my laptop.
I flailed for it. “Give it back!”
Sasha yanked my hair and shook me, pushing me down on my knees. “Who told you to trip me?” He placed a boot on the back of my thigh, and its chunky lugs pressed through my jeans. “Sasha,” Crossbones called out—A voice of mercy, I thought, until he said, “Don’t forget his wallet.” Rough hands seized my waist, grabbing at my pockets, and I spun like a top, trying to evade them. As I turned, I saw the people around us, looking on. A group of workers in hard hats ate lunch nearby; one of them gave me a thumbs-up as if to cheer me on. A middle-aged woman loaded with grocery bags made a wide berth of us. A girl with a balloon looked like she was about to be lifted from the grimy streets.
Finally, a boot jabbed the back of my leg. I recalled the half-breed boy who’d been kicked to death and felt a flash of anger. Be a man, I heard Father cry, but I huddled into a ball instead, lips pursed against the rough pavement. Why doesn’t someone help me? Why?
Sasha sat on me. “Yeah, yeah, there’s my bitch.” He bounced on my back. “Now, stop squirming.”
“Get off him.” I suddenly heard a cold voice. I felt Sasha’s weight lift and I looked up. Luka was here.
“Mind your own business, asshole.” The two advanced towards him, one on each flank, like hyenas. Luka drew his jacket aside and stroked his gun handle. “I’ll count to three,” he said. “Three.”
The punks scampered like they’d seen the devil.
“Luka. You’re here.” I staggered towards him.
“You idiot.” He cuffed me so hard I knelt again.
1.40
“Why wasn’t your cell phone on?” Luka asked again, even though I’d told him twice. “Do you know how worried I was?”
“Sorry.”
We were in Luka’s car, an old Lada, motoring down Kutuzovskiy Prospekt, away from the Red Square. Muscular foreign cars overtook us. Nowadays, you only see Russian cars outside the Garden Ring Road, because everyone near the center of Moscow is wealthy. Nobody drives Ladas. Except Luka.
In the distance, I saw Ostankino Tower, a half-kilometer spike beaming propaganda and brainwashing the birds around it. After the fight, Luka had made me follow him to his car. “Those punks would be waiting for you. That’s what I’d do,” he said grimly, before glancing at his watch. “Let’s talk and ride.”
As I updated him about what I had written, our car rumbled eastwards past the dumpling-like houses of Dorogomilovo District. “That’s everything?” he asked, when I finished.
“Yes. Unless you want to see the pictures.” I poked at a hole in my seat and felt the stuffing crumble when I pulled my finger out.
Luka frowned at me. “Don’t poke. This car looks old, but it’s solid Soviet engineering. The engine will run forever, unlike your American or Japanese or Korean tin cans. Money’s not for frivolous things. You save it and spend it on things you care about.”
I recalled the expensive Champagne he’d bought, the memory of it fizzing faintly on my tongue. I knew he had bought it for Anton and me to try. He’d spent all that money to treat us. He cared. The warmth bubbled inside until my ribs spasmed. I thought back to the teenagers who’d savaged me—why? Because you let them, I could hear Anton chiding me.
“I need to drop you soon,” Luka said. I suspected he was late for his next appointment. He horned more as he drove, and he gripped his wheel knuckle-white tight. He kept cursing as he cut other cars, and I wasn’t sure whether he was cursing himself or me or the world. Maybe all three.
“It’s ok. Just go where you need to be.” I enjoyed being in his car, watching him. “I’m in no hurry.”
He bit his lips, as if debating something. Finally, he nodded. “Just stay in the car when we get there.”
Twenty minutes later, we reached an industrial area. In the distance, a striped smokestack smogged like it was on fire. The stores here had posters posted, ripped, and reposted over the facade: Russia for Russians! Vote for Your Safety! A teenager in a hoody was spraying a line on the wall as he skateboarded down the street. It’s civic improvement: the dirt-washed walls looked better with that stripe of color. Our car stopped outside a bar called Kopecks and Rubles. I imagined Saint George riding from the bronze face of a kopeck and lancing the two ugly men guarding the entrance. The trolls gazed at Luka’s car in a surly manner.
Before he got out, Luka told me sternly, “Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be back soon.”
When Luka opened the door, one of the men lumbered over. “You,” he said, as if expecting him.
“I have an appointment with Boris,” Luka said curtly.
The troll bent to look at me through the window, then rapped the car door. “Come out.”
“He’s waiting here.” Luka said. “He’s just a boy. He has no business inside.”
That made me open the door. “I’m not a boy.”
“I’m not babysitting anyone.” The troll grabbed me by the scruff of my t-jacket, then pulled me out the car. “Go in. Both of you.”
I glanced at Luka. His eyes were accusing. Look what you’ve done. Before he could say anything, the other man offered a mocking bow. “Go on, you two,” he said, as if curious to see what would befall us inside.
Suddenly, I wasn’t sure I should be here.
Inside, the bar was well-lit. A redhead bartender looked up, then looked away. None of his business. The trolls patted us down and found Luka’s gun. He whistled when he turned it over. “Now, this little friend stays.” He jerked his head towards a doorway. “Go in. Boris hates waiting. You know how short his temper is.” The two chuckled as if sharing some inside joke.