The Speculist

Chapter Two

Part I

Chapter Two

The next morning, Reuben arrived at the office still wondering what the fireworks had been about.

He dropped his briefcase on his desk and made his way to the cramped little kitchen behind the copy room, where a big, serious woman named Ola would prepare the staff's lunch each day. She had not yet arrived. He poured himself a cup of hot water into which he spooned some instant coffee and milk powder. He stirred his coffee and turned his attention to a report he needed to review in anticipation of his 8:30 meeting with a Finnish manufacturer of switching equipment.

He found he wasn't ready to focus on technical detail. He needed food.

Without Ola there, he was free to rummage for something to eat. The Mezh breakfast had been particularly unsatisfactory that day, some kind of hairy salted fish and cheap, smelly red caviar. Reuben had in mind a couple of those chocolate-and-graham-cracker cookies with orange jam inside that the Russian staff liked so much. He was attempting his third drawer in this search when into the kitchen walked Sergei.

"Dobraye utra, Sergei," he said, nodding and wishing him good morning in his native tongue.

"Good morning, Reuben."

Sergei was a little older than Reuben, but looked ancient. He was a handsome fellow, with big shoulders and once-sandy hair that had gone gray on him a little early. He was painfully thin, and was always neatly and precisely dressed in a suit that was just this side of shabby. It was no secret that he and a couple of the other Russian guys were ex-KGB hired on by WorldConneX' local partners because of their connections and their ability to see to it that things got done. They could run interference both with the government and the mob (assuming there was occasionally a difference.)

As Reuben understood it, Sergei's main task was greasing the skids to ensure that the myriad of licenses and permits required to do anything in Moscow, much less run a phone company, were received and kept up to date. He also suspected that Sergei played some role in seeing to it that the company didn't have to give away too much service to those mid-level gang bosses who tended to send knife-wielding underlings the company's way any time they had a serious bill dispute.

"So you are going to meeting this morning," Sergei said, uttering one of those Slavic inquisitive-declarative sentences which are not really questions, but which serve the purpose adequately. He reached into the middle drawer and produced a box of the very cookies Reuben was looking for out from under some paper napkins.

"Um…thanks," he said, grabbing four cookies from the box. "Yeah, I was just reading over some stuff." He gestured towards the report.

But on to the topic of pressing interest:

"So, Sergei, what did you think of the fireworks last night?"

Sergei returned the box of cookies to the drawer.

"I did not see fireworks."

"What? Were you out of town? How could you possibly have missed them?"

"Well…" he half-smiled. "Perhaps I heard fireworks after all."

Reuben nodded.

"Perhaps you did. What were they about?"

"Twice a year we have such fireworks in Moscow. In November, is Revolution Day. You know this day; you have seen on television parade in Red Square, yes?"

"Sure," said Reuben. "I've seen that. It's quite a show, with the banners flying and the missiles rolling by. Only I thought that was in October."

"No. Many people make this mistake. Seven November is Revolution Day, commemorating October Revolution. It has not been decided whether this will continue to be holiday. Was good holiday for Soviet Union, maybe not so good for Russia."

"But you had the fireworks, anyway."

"Da. Konyeshnye." Yes, of course.

Well, sure. That made sense. You can always decide later when your holidays should be, but let's use those fireworks while we've got them. Why not?

"Other day we have fireworks will not change. Is 12 April; also sometimes 9 March."

Reuben wracked his brain, trying to think of what those could be.

"Lenin's birthday?" he guessed.

"No, I think we will no longer have fireworks on that day, which is 22 April. You don't know these dates?

Reuben tried to think what they might be. Something to do with World War II?

"Maybe they have fireworks on 20 July in US?" Sergei prodded. "Or on birthday of your…Neil Armstrong?"

Ah. So that was it. The first man in space.

"So Sergei, you're telling me that they have fireworks to commemorate Yuri Gagarin's first space flight."

"Da. Nine March is birthday; 12 April is anniversary of flight. Sometimes in March, but always in April, we have fireworks."

"We don't do anything like that for our astronauts, I'm afraid. So Gagarin is still very much revered, isn't he?"

Something changed in Sergei's expression; he stared hard at Reuben. His eyes were moist and his voice trembled just ever so slightly when he answered.

"Da. Yes. He was good man, Reuben. Good Russian. He was very good man."

His voice cracked as he spoke. He turned suddenly away to pour the water for his tea. Reuben was astounded, not so much that Sergei had strong feelings about Gagarin, but that he had such feelings about anyone or anything.

That just didn't fit the profile.

He wondered - could Sergei have known Gagarin? He studied the back of his head. That would make him somewhat older than Reuben had taken him for. But even if so, this display of feelings was all wrong.

Reuben took a sip of his coffee and munched one of the cookies while he pondered whether it was appropriate to leave Sergei with his deep feelings and wander off as though nothing had happened. He was leaning heavily towards doing just that when Sergei turned back, tea in hand, with all trace of the previous moment's exchange gone from his face.

"You should know Yuri Gagarin, Reuben. All Americans, all peoples, should know. What you know of him?"

"I know a little. He was a cosmonaut, the first man in space. Before that he was an air force pilot. He died a few years after his space flight when he crashed his MiG on a routine training flight. "

Sergei smiled. Reuben sensed that he had handled the question better than expected.

"Da, those are facts. Essential facts. But you should know more. It would help you. To understand more."

"Help me?"

"In your work, Reuben."

He took a long sip from his tea. The emphasis on the word was unmistakable.

"My marketing work, you mean?"

Sergei let out a little snort, then treated Reuben to a look of abject perplexity

"Is there other work? What other work? You are head of Special Projects for WorldConneX Russian International Business Unit? Da?"

His tone and manner had shifted. For an instant, Reuben could picture this guy doing a real Cold War style interrogation.

"Da. That's what they tell me."

"So what other work I could possibly mean?"

Reuben didn't know how much Sergei knew about his actual job. He probably had a few suspicions, which there was no point in supporting or worse yet, confirming. He decided it was best to deflect the question.

"Oh, you know. I have some other projects. I've been perfecting my roulette system in the casino. And I've been trying to master a technique for hitting on the Russian ladies."

Sergei laughed.

"Okay, Reuben, we take it one at a time."

The Russian cop was gone, the jovial colleague was back.

"Roulette I know from visit to Monte Carlo, long time ago. I have friend, we both play roulette. His system is bet red. Always bet red."

"Another good Russian."

Sergei nodded.

"Da. Good Russian. He always bet red, he win every time."

"So you're saying that I should just bet red on every spin?"

"Not so simple. Every time I bet red, also. But I don't win every time."

"How can that be? You and he were betting on the same spins of the wheel?"

"Ah. Now we come to point. When I bet on red with friend, I win. When I bet on red without friend, I don't win. I win sometimes, maybe. Sometimes red, sometimes black, sometimes zero. Only one zero on French roulette wheel, but ball land on zero many times when friend is not there."

"Huh. That's not good. And you know, these Russian casinos use an American wheel."

"I know this. Two zeroes. So how to win without winning system?"

"So you're saying that the winning system in roulette is to be with your friend?"

"Nyet. No, Reuben. You must understand. There is only one winning system in roulette."

"And that is?"

"Must be lucky."

Both men took a sip from their cups. Reuben took another bite of cookie and thought about this. Sergei eyed him for a moment and then spoke again.

"Are you lucky, Reuben?"

"That," he answered, swallowing a bite of cookie, "I just don't know. But I'd like to be. Maybe that's what I need to help me with my other project."

"Russian women."

"Right."

"Here I can help you little bit, maybe. But first I ask question. What it means when you say you want to 'hit' woman? Why you would do this? I can not help you with that."

The tone was scolding.

"Go back to U.S., hit American woman. No. Don't. Don't hit woman. Why you ask me this?"

"Sorry, Sergei." Reuben played along. Sergei had surely known what he meant. "I would never hit a woman.

"Well, I would never hit a lady," he amended. "Anyway, I don't want to hit anybody. 'Hit on' is just American slang for picking a woman up. You know, trying to get lucky. "

"I see - hit on. A most unfortunate expression. Sometimes is hard to tell, what is hit, what is hit on. Also, what is woman, what is lady, da? But never mind. You answer your own question. Just like roulette table, you want to be lucky."

"So luck is the answer to everything."

"I think no. With woman, you must be more than lucky. Must be very careful. Anyway, get lucky, that is American expression again, yes? It means the girl talk to you. She like you. Maybe she come back to hotel room with you. No?"

"No. I mean, yes. I guess. Well, to be precise, I think you'd say the whole lucky part kicks in sometime after you get her to the hotel room. But, yeah, close enough.'"

"So you tell me, Reuben. Is get lucky what you want to do with Ksenia?"

Touché.

Reuben knew he had to answer quickly.

"Now, Sergei. She's just a kid, after all."

He had never mentioned Ksenia to Sergei, or to anyone else at the office. He had made a point of it.

"She is kid, you think? Looks plenty grown up to me."

His tone and expression had not changed. Just two guys talking about a girl.

"You're right. She's an adult."

He snorted again. Then he slowly shook his head with his eyes cast upward, a patient man sent beyond his limits by this American and his nonsense.

"Everything must be so complicated with you, da? She is kid; she is adult; she is lady; she is woman."

"Well, Christ, everything is complicated, Sergei. Ksenia and I are friends, that's all. I've thought about asking her out, but I don't know if it's a good idea."

"Not good for you or not good for her?"

"Either one. For me, I've got to get used to being single again."

Reuben suddenly wondered whether Sergei was keeping tabs just on his life now, here in Moscow, or whether he had access to his past.

"I see. Forgive me, Reuben, but how long it has been since you separated from, who, girlfriend? Wife?"

"My wife. She passed away two years ago."

Closer to three years now, he realized.

Sergei exhaled, sharply. So he didn't know. Or if he was acting, he was doing it very well.

Reuben didn't handle sympathy well, and he didn't handle pity, period. Sergei spared him both. He could see genuine pain in the older man's face. The guy seemed pretty sensitive for ex-KGB. He had obviously endured his own loss or losses somewhere along the line.

Gagarin? No, that was ridiculous. It had to be something else.

"I'm very sorry, Reuben."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Yes," Sergei sighed. "Is very hard. People tell you, two years is long enough. Is time to start new. They say this to you, da?"

"All the time."

"Again I am sorry. I do not say such things. It is foolish."

"Well. They mean well, after all."

"Da."

There was a long, long pause, as Sergei and Reuben stared off into the near distance and contemplated the countless horrors wrought upon this world by those who mean well.

Or at least Reuben did.

"Then you must also tell me, Reuben," Sergei said after a while. "Why is bad for Ksenia if you try to hit on her?"

That question broke the mood, to their mutual relief. It also reminded Reuben that he was in Moscow talking to, not a close lifelong friend, but a stranger - a man he knew hardly at all, except that he was, like Reuben himself, an agent. An operative. Let's face it, a spy. And not just any spy, but one who - as the saying goes - knew too much.

That needed attending to.

"Oh, it's not bad for her, I guess. We might have some fun. But we'd be coming at this thing from awfully different points of reference. I just wouldn't want her to get hurt."

"I see. You don't want to hurt girl. That is ochyen dobri, Reuben. Very kind."

"If you say so. Or maybe I just don't like feeling guilty."

"Why you would feel guilty?"

"Well, say we go out a few times, have some fun, everything is okay. And then she wants to take it up a notch. Tangle things up a little."

"Tangle how?"

"Well, say she wants to take me home to meet her parents?"

Sergei didn't show any sign indicating that he knew this scenario to be impossible.

"So you meet them."

Reuben shook his head.

"No thanks. Besides, you don't think they'd have a problem with me?"

Sergei pondered this.

"Because you are, pardon me, black man? Da. Yes. They might have problem, might not have problem. Is also the case for you with white girl in America, da?"

"I wouldn't know, actually. I've never gone out with a white girl."

"So? Maybe Russia is good place to try something new. Besides, if they have this problem, is no cause for you to feel guilty. For them maybe, not you."

"No, not about that. I suppose I could. Meet her parents, whatever. But you see what I'm getting at. A girl like Ksenia - she's looking to meet somebody, you know what I mean? Meet somebody. I've heard some stories from the guys I work with. Some of the local girls can get pretty attached to expat guys pretty fast. Ksenia's just asking to have her heart broken."

"You are right," Sergei responded, a little of the slyness beginning to work its way back in. "You are right, she is asking. So why you are refusing?"

"What?"

"It makes no sense to feel guilty, if the girl ask you. If she say 'Break my heart, please' and you refuse, then you feel guilty. Because you don't give her what she want. But do not disappoint girl, even girl who wants broken heart."

Reuben laughed.

"I like that, Sergei. It's really twisted."

"You don't like my advice; you don't have to take it." He drained his tea and put the cup down.

"Well, maybe I'll take your advice after all. I mean about trying something new, not about breaking any hearts. But where should I take her?"

"You have been to ballet?" Sergei asked. "She would like that, I am sure."

"No, I haven't been. But that's a bad idea, Sergei. Too romantic. We want something more…neutral…" The sentence trailed off as Reuben considered his options.

"Neutral?" Sergei looked perplexed. "Take her to Art Museum. They are showing Chagal; my wife asks me to take her. Women like this."

"Hmm, that's not bad," said Reuben. "The Art Museum sounds pretty good, but I'm not so sure about Chagal. Still too romantic, I think."

"Is just pictures," Sergei protested. "How neutral this place has to be?"

They both paused for a moment, considering neutral venues.

"Take her with you when you go to buy snow boots," said Sergie. "That is not so romantic."

"Don't be a wise guy. Actually…you've given me an idea. I've been meaning to find my way over to the space museum. Maybe I'll go this weekend. I guess I could learn something about Yuri Gagarin there."

"Yes. Is good idea."

"So, maybe I'll see if Ksenia wants to go with me."

Sergei laughed, and nodded approvingly.

"Ha. You will never break her heart if you take her to such a place."

"That's the idea, right? But let me ask you something: who told you about Ksenia?"

"I'm sorry Reuben, forgive me," he said, turning towards the door, "I believe you are late for meeting."

Reuben glanced at his watch. Sergei was right.

He was late.

Posted by Phil at March 1, 2004 12:00 AM | TrackBack