immediately arises from the table. That’s the kind of handy tables they have here. They always give you a carafe of vodka. I drink a shot, take a bite of marinated mushrooms in sour cream. Humankind has yet to invent any better zakuska . Even Nanny’s half-sour pickles can’t hold a candle to this. I consume an excellent piece of jellied beef aspic with mustard, drink the glass of sweet kvass in one gulp, and set to work on the fish soup. You must always eat it slowly. I look around. The merchants are polishing off their second carafe, jabbering on about some “third-level magnetic tape sorter” and 100-horsepower paracletes they bought in Moscow. The Europeans talk quietly in English. The Cossacks mumble in their own language, wolfing pastries and washing them down with tea. The Chinese man and boy chew on something of their own from a bag. The lady smokes aloofly. Finishing the soup, I order a cup of Turkish coffee, pull out my cigarettes, and light up. I put in a call to our guys on the Road: I need to get up to speed. Potrokha’s face appears. I switch the mobilov to secret conversation mode. Potrokha rattles off the main points:
“Twelve trailers; ‘High Fashion’ ‘ Shanghai-Tirana.’ We put a little fly in their ointment, stopped them right after the gates, drove them straightaway onto the sample clarifier, but the insurance guys dug in their heels—they were paid by the old docket, they don’t want to cook up a new contract. We lean on them through the chamber, but the head honcho says they have their own interests with those merchants, there’s a wet petition; we go back to customs, but they’re getting a piece of the action, too, the chief closes the case, and the clerk turns . The upshot—they’ll let them go in two hours.”
“Got it.” I start thinking.
In these kinds of affairs you need to be a good chess player, to think ahead. This case isn’t simple, but it’s clear. Since the Customs Department clerk turned , they must have a corridor with clout , and they renewed the contract right after the frontier post. So that means they went through the Kazakhs clean . It’s obvious: customs closed down so they could smile at the western gates. They’ll hand in the second contract, pay in white, then they’ll tear up the insurance contract, and the Western clerks will draw up a four-hour report. Then they’ll hide the mole, sign a clean contract—and twelve trailers of “High Fashion” will sail off to the Albanian city of Tirana. And customs will get the better of us again.
I think. Potrokha waits.
“Here you go, man. Take the cardiac , made a deal with the clerk about a white discussion, take the greased junior clerk to the meeting, and get your physicians in place. Do you guys have a rotten contract with you?”
“Of course. What time should I set the meeting?”
I look at my watch:
“In an hour and a half.”
“You got it.”
“And tell the clerk that I have it .”
“Understood.”
I put away the mobilov. I put out my cigarette. The plane is already boarding. I place my palm on the table, thank the transparent for the meal, and walk down a delicate pink hallway that smells like blossoming acacia into the airplane. It’s not big, but it’s comfortable—a Boeing-Itsendi 797. Not surprisingly, there are signs in Chinese everywhere. He who builds the Boeings orders the music. I enter the first-class cabin and sit down. Other than me there are three people in first class—the old Chinese man with the boy, and that lone woman. All three of the Russian newspapers are available: Rus , Kommersant , and Vozrozhdenie . I already know all the news and don’t feel like reading about it on paper .
The plane takes off.
I ask for tea, and order an old movie: Striped Passage . On business trips I always watch old comedies; just a habit. This one’s a good little flick, cheery, even though it’s Soviet. You watch lions and tigers being transported on a ship; they break out of
“Twelve trailers; ‘High Fashion’ ‘ Shanghai-Tirana.’ We put a little fly in their ointment, stopped them right after the gates, drove them straightaway onto the sample clarifier, but the insurance guys dug in their heels—they were paid by the old docket, they don’t want to cook up a new contract. We lean on them through the chamber, but the head honcho says they have their own interests with those merchants, there’s a wet petition; we go back to customs, but they’re getting a piece of the action, too, the chief closes the case, and the clerk turns . The upshot—they’ll let them go in two hours.”
“Got it.” I start thinking.
In these kinds of affairs you need to be a good chess player, to think ahead. This case isn’t simple, but it’s clear. Since the Customs Department clerk turned , they must have a corridor with clout , and they renewed the contract right after the frontier post. So that means they went through the Kazakhs clean . It’s obvious: customs closed down so they could smile at the western gates. They’ll hand in the second contract, pay in white, then they’ll tear up the insurance contract, and the Western clerks will draw up a four-hour report. Then they’ll hide the mole, sign a clean contract—and twelve trailers of “High Fashion” will sail off to the Albanian city of Tirana. And customs will get the better of us again.
I think. Potrokha waits.
“Here you go, man. Take the cardiac , made a deal with the clerk about a white discussion, take the greased junior clerk to the meeting, and get your physicians in place. Do you guys have a rotten contract with you?”
“Of course. What time should I set the meeting?”
I look at my watch:
“In an hour and a half.”
“You got it.”
“And tell the clerk that I have it .”
“Understood.”
I put away the mobilov. I put out my cigarette. The plane is already boarding. I place my palm on the table, thank the transparent for the meal, and walk down a delicate pink hallway that smells like blossoming acacia into the airplane. It’s not big, but it’s comfortable—a Boeing-Itsendi 797. Not surprisingly, there are signs in Chinese everywhere. He who builds the Boeings orders the music. I enter the first-class cabin and sit down. Other than me there are three people in first class—the old Chinese man with the boy, and that lone woman. All three of the Russian newspapers are available: Rus , Kommersant , and Vozrozhdenie . I already know all the news and don’t feel like reading about it on paper .
The plane takes off.
I ask for tea, and order an old movie: Striped Passage . On business trips I always watch old comedies; just a habit. This one’s a good little flick, cheery, even though it’s Soviet. You watch lions and tigers being transported on a ship; they break out of
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