the Russian border.”
“He claims to work at his apartment more often than one would expect,” said Smirnov.
“I have heard rumors of visits from women,” said Izrael. “Do you think they are true?”
“I don’t know,” said Smirnov. “My worry would be that rumors of visits from women emerge to cover something else.”
“Is it true he has a special SBU security unit assigned to him?” asked Izrael.
“Yes,” admitted Smirnov. “He can come and go as he wishes, travel abroad, and is secure in his office as well as in his apartment.”
“Such contrast,” said Izrael. “Here I am reassigned to Slavutich with Chernobyl refugees and workers. No one smiles here. And now, with the economy going to shit, companies are pulling out and Natashas walk the streets eager to be trafficked because families starve. Meanwhile, our superiors live high on the hog. There is a rumor here of a Chernobyl Trail taking girls away to so-called jobs, but I believe it is simply a rumor started to cover the old Balkan Trail. Soon the traffickers will be waiting at the orphanage gates the day the girl reaches puberty. Oilmen in the Middle East still think they are all Russian Natashas, no matter if they come from Ukraine or Romania or wherever. So there is my speech for today.”
After hanging up the phone, Smirnov went to his window and looked down at Khreshchatik Boulevard. As he did so, he realized he often went to his window when information piled up, coming at him from many directions. He wondered if it was psychological—the connections, the firing of neurons in a certain sequence—that made him stand and go to his window. Perhaps it was a kind of enlightenment, his subconscious knowing these facts are related in some way while his conscious mind slithers along the ground like a slug.
Below his window the afternoon rush home had begun. The street and sidewalks on both sides were jammed, and sidewalk movement was faster than street movement. One man down there reminded him of Izrael because of his black, bushy hair as thick as the hair on a black bear.
As he stared down at the rush, Smirnov thought how easily the masses were controlled. The lighting of a simple DO NOT WALK sign like an electric fence. But soon the WALK sign lit and pedestrians oozed out onto the crosswalk, slugs like him. Unlike Kiev, the village in which Sofya Adamivna Kulinich lived was very quiet. This was because only a few old women lived in the village. Sofya’s neighbor, Tatiana, had come for lunch and stayed at least an hour afterwards. Sofya stood in the doorway watching the entire time Tatiana made her way back to her own cottage. Tatiana had brought over an herb to put in their tea during lunch, something to give them more energy and help them forget they were widows. Of course, they both agreed no one could forget a thing like this and spent an hour after finishing their borsht, bread, and tea speaking sadly of the days when husbands walked the streets of the village, or rode their horses, or went on errands to restock the vodka supply using the collective’s truck driven by Albert Nikolaevich Bobrova, the party boss.
Without men, the village was simply not the same. The only men they saw came from outside the village—a militiaman visit, a postal worker visit, a food delivery, or a medical team. Of course, the doctor was a woman, but she sometimes had assistants who were men. And this would give the women of the village enough gossip for a week.
“You should have seen how low he bent when she checked my varicose veins.”
“That’s nothing. When she did the female examination, he didn’t even leave the cottage. He stood there looking out the window and … I swear on my Bible this is true … sniffing.”
In previous summers they would at least have some activity, like a bus now and then full of young workers going to the guardhouse at the fence west of the village. This was not the large guardhouse to the south on the paved road
“He claims to work at his apartment more often than one would expect,” said Smirnov.
“I have heard rumors of visits from women,” said Izrael. “Do you think they are true?”
“I don’t know,” said Smirnov. “My worry would be that rumors of visits from women emerge to cover something else.”
“Is it true he has a special SBU security unit assigned to him?” asked Izrael.
“Yes,” admitted Smirnov. “He can come and go as he wishes, travel abroad, and is secure in his office as well as in his apartment.”
“Such contrast,” said Izrael. “Here I am reassigned to Slavutich with Chernobyl refugees and workers. No one smiles here. And now, with the economy going to shit, companies are pulling out and Natashas walk the streets eager to be trafficked because families starve. Meanwhile, our superiors live high on the hog. There is a rumor here of a Chernobyl Trail taking girls away to so-called jobs, but I believe it is simply a rumor started to cover the old Balkan Trail. Soon the traffickers will be waiting at the orphanage gates the day the girl reaches puberty. Oilmen in the Middle East still think they are all Russian Natashas, no matter if they come from Ukraine or Romania or wherever. So there is my speech for today.”
After hanging up the phone, Smirnov went to his window and looked down at Khreshchatik Boulevard. As he did so, he realized he often went to his window when information piled up, coming at him from many directions. He wondered if it was psychological—the connections, the firing of neurons in a certain sequence—that made him stand and go to his window. Perhaps it was a kind of enlightenment, his subconscious knowing these facts are related in some way while his conscious mind slithers along the ground like a slug.
Below his window the afternoon rush home had begun. The street and sidewalks on both sides were jammed, and sidewalk movement was faster than street movement. One man down there reminded him of Izrael because of his black, bushy hair as thick as the hair on a black bear.
As he stared down at the rush, Smirnov thought how easily the masses were controlled. The lighting of a simple DO NOT WALK sign like an electric fence. But soon the WALK sign lit and pedestrians oozed out onto the crosswalk, slugs like him. Unlike Kiev, the village in which Sofya Adamivna Kulinich lived was very quiet. This was because only a few old women lived in the village. Sofya’s neighbor, Tatiana, had come for lunch and stayed at least an hour afterwards. Sofya stood in the doorway watching the entire time Tatiana made her way back to her own cottage. Tatiana had brought over an herb to put in their tea during lunch, something to give them more energy and help them forget they were widows. Of course, they both agreed no one could forget a thing like this and spent an hour after finishing their borsht, bread, and tea speaking sadly of the days when husbands walked the streets of the village, or rode their horses, or went on errands to restock the vodka supply using the collective’s truck driven by Albert Nikolaevich Bobrova, the party boss.
Without men, the village was simply not the same. The only men they saw came from outside the village—a militiaman visit, a postal worker visit, a food delivery, or a medical team. Of course, the doctor was a woman, but she sometimes had assistants who were men. And this would give the women of the village enough gossip for a week.
“You should have seen how low he bent when she checked my varicose veins.”
“That’s nothing. When she did the female examination, he didn’t even leave the cottage. He stood there looking out the window and … I swear on my Bible this is true … sniffing.”
In previous summers they would at least have some activity, like a bus now and then full of young workers going to the guardhouse at the fence west of the village. This was not the large guardhouse to the south on the paved road
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