What Grandfather Kuzya had said to me had a precise meaning in the criminal language: receiving a loaded pistol from an Authority is like having permission to use it in any situation. You’re protected; you don’t need to worry about the consequences. In many cases, if the situation becomes critical, you only have to say ‘I have a pistol loaded by…’ and everything will be resolved in your favour, because at that point to act against you would be equivalent to acting against the person who loaded your gun.
Outside Grandfather Kuzya’s house two adult drivers were waiting for us – two young criminals from our area who had been given orders to take us wherever we wanted but not to intervene unless it was a matter of life or death.
Before getting into the cars we talked for a while, to make a rough strategic plan. We decided that Gagarin, the oldest of us, would look after the money, and that he would also have the responsibility of talking to people. The rest of us would split up into two groups: the first would cover Gagarin’s back, and the second, while he was talking, would go round sticking their noses into other people’s business, looking for clues.
‘This is the first time we’ve had to work as cops,’ said Gagarin.
We had a bit of a laugh about this, then set off for our tour of Bender. In reality there was nothing to laugh about: it was like descending into hell.
In the car Mel told me he was a bit worried and handed me a gun, saying:
‘Here – I know you’ll only have come with a knife, as usual. But this is a serious business; take it, even if you don’t like the idea. Do it for me.’
I told him I already had one, and he relaxed, giving me a wink:
‘Been round to your uncle’s, then, have you?’
I felt too important to give away the secret of the gun I was carrying, so I just smiled and sang softly:
‘Mother Siberia, save my life…’
We arrived in Centre, at a bar run by an old criminal, Pavel, the Guardian of the district. Pavel was not Siberian and didn’t live according to our rules, so with him we had to be diplomatic, though not excessively so: after all, we came from the oldest and most important district in the criminal world, Low River, and we deserved respect for the mere fact of being Siberian.
Pavel was in the bar with a group of friends, people from southern Russia who followed no precise rules except those of the god Money – people who flaunted their wealth, wore fashionable clothes and plenty of gold chains, bracelets and rings. We didn’t like this custom: according to the Siberian tradition a worthy criminal has nothing on him but his tattoos; the rest is humble, as the Lord teaches.
We greeted those present and entered. A man got up from the table where the owner was playing cards with his friends. He was a thin man of about thirty, adorned with gold and wearing a red jacket which was as sweetly scented as a rose in springtime or, as my Uncle Sergey would say, ‘as a whore between the legs’. He addressed us very aggressively: his opening remarks alone, according to our laws, would have been enough to earn him a knifing.
He was a troublemaker; men of his kind are like dogs that bark to frighten passers-by. That’s the only function they have. A well-bred, experienced criminal knows that and ignores them; he doesn’t even glance at them, so that it’s immediately clear he’s not a fraer, a clown.
We walked on and headed for the table, leaving the idiot shouting and cursing.
Old Pavel looked at us closely and asked us in a very coarse manner what we wanted.
Gagarin had done three spells in juvenile prison and a year earlier had killed two cops. In his seventeen years of life he had already garnered enough experience to know how to speak to people like that, so he gave him a brief outline of the situation.
He told him about the money, and about the need to find the culprits.
Instantly everything changed. Pavel got up and ripped open his shirt aggressively, displaying his chest, which was covered with tattoos and gold chains. At the same time he shouted:
‘There can be no forgiveness for someone who’s committed such a crime! I swear to God if I find him I’ll kill him with my own hands!’
Gagarin, as cool and calm as a dead man on the day of his funeral, said there was no need to kill him – we would do that; but if he could spread the word around and help us find him it would be very useful. Then he repeated that we would give a big reward to anyone who could help us.
Pavel assured us that he would do all he could to find out who the bastard was. Then he offered us a drink, but we asked permission to leave, since we still had a lot of calls to make.
As we left we noticed that cars and scooters were already beginning to arrive outside the bar: clearly old Pavel had called the people of his district together to explain the matter to them.
Our second port of call was the district of Railway. The criminals of Railway specialized mainly in burglaries from apartments. Theirs was a multiethnic community, with criminal rules which also applied in most of the prisons in the Soviet Union. It was all based on collectivism; the highest Authorities, the Thieves in Law, handled everyone’s money.
Railway, as I have already mentioned, was an area dominated by Black Seed, the caste that officially governed the Russian criminal world because of the large number of its members, and above all of its supporters.
Between Black Seed and us there had always been a kind of tension; they described themselves as the leaders of the criminal world, and their presence was very evident both inside prison and outside, but the foundations of their criminal tradition, most of their rules, and even their tattoos, were copied from us Urkas.
Their caste emerged at the beginning of the century, exploiting a moment of great social weakness in the country, which was full of desperate people – vagabonds and small-time criminals who were happy to go to prison for the sake of the free meals and the certainty of having a roof over their heads at night. Gradually they became a powerful community, but one with a lot of flaws, as many Authorities of Black Seed themselves acknowledged.
In Railway everything was organized more or less as it was among us. There was a Guardian responsible for what happened in his area, who was answerable to the Thieves in Law; and there were checks on those who entered and left the district.
And sure enough, at the border of Railway our car was stopped by a roadblock of young criminals.
To show that we were relaxed, we waited in the car until one of them came over and started talking to Gagarin. The others leaned against their cars, smoking, and now and then threw an abstracted glance at us, but casually, as if by chance.
I knew one of them; I had stabbed him in the fight in Centre. Afterwards, however, everything had been sorted out, and according to the rules, once settled, the matter must never be mentioned again. He looked at me; I waved to him from inside the car and he grimaced as if he were still in pain from where I had wounded him. Then he laughed and made a sign to me with his index finger which meant ‘watch out’ – a playful gesture, as if to say that he wasn’t angry with me.
I answered him with a grin, then I showed him my hands: I showed them empty, with the palms upwards, a positive gesture, which is made to emphasize your humility and straightforwardness and indifference to what is happening.
While I was exchanging gestures of goodwill with this guy, Gagarin was explaining to one of them the reason for our visit. They called someone on a mobile phone, and a few minutes later a boy arrived on a scooter. He was our guide; he had to take us to the Guardian of the area, ‘Barbos’, who was so nicknamed because he was a dwarf, and barbos is a joking name for small, weak dogs.