Begin reading
Contents
Newsletter
About the Author
About the Publisher
Copyright
If you would like to use material from the eBook (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at info@280steps.com
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
About the Publisher
Newsletter
Copyright
It was the sort of café you’d normally make an effort to avoid. The food smelt bad, the windows were black with dust and the whitewashed walls had somehow turned green. But there was something intriguing about the place. Above the doorway, painted many years ago in bright red lettering — now a dull maroon — was the unlikely name, Nirvana. I’d never really imagined Heaven with rusting furniture, ashtrays brimming with cigarette butts and a mangy stray asleep in the doorway. I do now.
Not wishing to disturb the dog, I sat outside. It was a fine day, so I didn’t mind. Customers were apparently a bit of a novelty for the owner, who joined me at the table for some beer and brandy — the latter being his idea. I’d only wanted a couple of beers and some pistachios, but somehow, in Russia, when you have nothing better to do, a couple of beers is never really enough.
He was a jovial chap of dark complexion, seemingly unaware of the full potential of an electric shaver. His tracksuit trousers and grubby denim shirt, unbuttoned to reveal just a little too much of his matted chest hair, bothered me somewhat. But the drinks were on the house, so I put my prejudice to one side and humoured him. I’d studied Russian back in England and he spoke some English, so we could communicate tolerably, even if at times our conversation regressed into an uncomfortable jumble of random words, gestures and grins.
“You are English?”
I nodded. Most conversations since arriving in Volgograd had begun like this.
“I know a man from America. He came to my café three years ago — or maybe six. I forget exactly. His name is Tom. He sent me this card.”
Fumbling in his pockets for a moment, he drew out a crumpled postcard sporting a rather awkward photomontage of a 1950s diner, a horse and the Golden Gate Bridge. On the back was scrawled;
To my friend at Nirvana, greetings from America, best regards, Tom
“Nice that he remembered you.”
“Yes, Tom is a good man. Do you know him?”
“No, I‘m from England.”
“Ah, but your languages are so similar, I think. Like Russian and Ukrainian, maybe.”
“Maybe, but all the same, I don’t know the chap.”
He was disappointed, his theory collapsing around him and his tenuous link to the English-speaking world failing to impress. But he soon perked up.
“Let us drink again then, for my new English friend.”
We knocked back our shots of cheap Armenian bandy and I shivered as the drink lingered a little too long in my throat, slowly dripping down towards my stomach. The bottle had been left out in the sun — never a good thing. I was enjoying it all the same, in the spirit of good old fashioned masochism. And in that brief moment between shots, when — after a few nuts and a bit of salad — the taste began to fade, it didn’t seem so bad at all.
“You have a beautiful watch,” he said, eyeing my stainless-steel Swiss-made watch with some interest.
“Yes, it was a gift from a friend, for my sixteenth birthday.”
“You are only sixteen?”
“No, but I was when I got this watch.”
“It’s a good watch.”
“Quite.”
He sat there, staring at it, like a dog waiting for some food to drop from the dinner table.
“Can I try it on?”
“Why?”
“I try your watch, you try mine.”
I was suspicious. His apparent fetish for watches unnerved me. Next he’d want to try on my shirt, my socks... Who knows where it might end.
“Here, take mine. It was my grandfather’s. You can keep it,” he said, pushing his tacky Casio watch into my hands, then sitting back to await my response.
I had little choice.
“Okay then, here, try this on. But just for a minute.”
I slipped the watch off my wrist and handed it to my curious companion, who quickly put it on.
“Hey Dima,” he shouted.
A large, uncompromising chap with a hooked nose and unusually pointed ears stepped out over the dog. The café owner showed him my watch with some pride. Dima wasn’t particularly impressed.
“This is my new English friend, James?”
“Yes, James Eastaway.”
“I have given him my grandfather’s watch, and in return, he gave me this.”
“I did what?”
“You gave me this watch. I will be sorry to lose my own precious watch, it was given to me by my grandmother. But you are my friend, and I wish you to have it.”
“I thought you said it was your grandfather‘s.”
“Ah it was, you are right, but he gave it to my grandmother when he died. She gave it to me on her death bed.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem to bring the wearer much luck.”
“But they were very happy before they died. I hope you are happy with this watch.”
“No I’m not. Give me back my watch — it’s special, very special.”
“And I shall take care of it.”
I reached across the table to grab his arm, but his oafish friend stepped forward and pushed me back.
“Leave him alone. Stop bothering him.”
“He’s nicked my damned watch.”
“You are making a problem of yourself. Please go home, and come back when you are sober.”
The café owner grinned at me, his smirk echoing his friend’s command.
“Go home my good English friend. This is no time, or place, to fight. This is Nirvana.”
Reluctantly, I put on the jinxed Casio watch and headed glumly back to my flat.
I didn’t return to Nirvana — well, not for a few months. I was afraid he‘d just nick something else from me. And the chance of getting my watch back seemed slim.
A fortnight or so later, I was walking past on my way to the market. It was early in the morning and the road was empty, except for a couple of police cars parked outside the café. Two policemen were standing by the doorway with Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders. One of them was smoking a cigarette. The windows were smashed and the furniture was spread all over the pavement, as if a brief but severe hurricane had struck. And there, on the ground by the entrance lay a slightly bloated lump, carelessly covered with a grey woollen blanket. I kept to the opposite side of the road, not wanting to appear conspicuous, and yet not quite satisfying my morbid curiosity.
As I passed I could see a pale chubby arm protruding from under the blanket and there, glinting in the sunlight, was my damned watch. For a moment, I pondered heading over, to ask for it back. But I decided it was best just to let it go.
It had been a fairly smooth flight. I don’t remember much else about it, other than the amusing bickering of a Russian family sat in front of me, the limitless supply of beer from the obliging, yet solemn, Aeroflot hostess and, of course, the moment when, emerging from a dark blanket of cloud, I caught my first glimpse of Russia.
Peering out of the window, as the plane lurched to one side to prepare for landing, I could make out the speckled dots of animals roaming the fields and cars driving along the back-roads of some tiny village. I followed one car as it crawled along a narrow road, around a large lake. I tried to imagine the driver — some elderly, bearded man in a peasant’s frock, smoking a cigarette, with a chicken sat next to him.
The plane straightened up for the final descent and we fastened our safety belts. It was hard to see where Moscow actually began, with the sprawling concrete blocks and factories merging quickly into what appeared to be the city centre. The plane slowed to almost a stall as we approached Sheremetyevo airport. I half expected the ancient Russian jet to belly-flop into the Red Square, as I’ve always been a nervous flyer, and as such generally expect the worst. Dropping a little above the tree-line, the plane swooped down impressively onto the runway and some American passengers gave a cheer as we rattled noisily to a halt. “We could still die,” I wanted to say. But I’d arrived, and that was all that mattered now.
We were ushered off the plane and along a windowed passageway, under the suspicious gaze of some pretty, short-skirted customs officers, in leather boots. I followed the shuffling passengers down a staircase and joined a long queue of serious-faced people waiting to have their passports checked. The passport control was also staffed by young, uniformed girls with a taste for thick makeup.
“Passport,” a stern girl with tired eyes demanded, as I finally reached the front of the queue. She’d had a bad night, or life.
I handed it over and she studied me carefully, then the passport, then me again. Had I been rumbled? Did she know about those shot-glasses I’d nicked from that wine bar in Covent Garden? She stamped my passport with some passion and pushed it back at me.
“Thank you,” I said cheerfully, in Russian.
“Go,” she said, in English
I went.
A stocky middle-aged man with designer stubble and a leather jacket was waiting for me. He held an A4 piece of paper with “English Forever — James Eastaway” scribbled on it. English Forever was the school I was going to work for in Volgograd and this man had been given the task of transfering me to the railway station.
“Hallo, I’m James.”
“Victor, you come this way please.”
I followed him through the crowds of taxi drivers. “Taxi, taxi,” they said aggressively, attempting to grab the suitcase from my hand. Victor swore at them and took the case himself.
“They arseholes,” he said, grinning.
We got into a large black Russian car, parked at a bus stop in front of the main doors. Several buses were trying to negotiate their way around it and the drivers cursed Victor through the open window. Muttering irritably to himself, Victor crunched the car into gear, stamped on the accelerator and we sped off, amid the screeching breaks and horn of a passing taxi.
It was early summer so the streets were not full of fur-coated, fur-hatted Muscovites, as I’d been half expecting. In fact, as we weaved at some considerable speed through the heavy traffic towards the city centre, the pedestrians looked very much like British pedestrians. The buildings were as I’d imagined them to be — tall grey blocks of flats spreading into oblivion, tacky-looking casinos with fairy-lights strung all over them and small kiosks offering beer, bread and condoms. The Moscow traffic was an interesting mix; lots of clapped-out soviet machines, but also a large number of blacked-out Japanese 4x4s and German cars.
As we drove deeper into Moscow, I tried to read the shop names and billboards. I was chuffed to find I understood some of the words. Victor didn’t speak as we drove. I assumed he didn’t know much English and he’d guessed my Russian was poor. It was easier to stay silent. Instead, he switched on the radio, which pumped some Russian rock music into the car.
We eventually arrived at Paveletsky station, from where I’d be taking the overnight train to Volgograd. From now on, I’d be on my own. This concerned me a little, but I was also glad. The adventure could now begin in earnest.
The station was a confusing place. People from every corner of the former Soviet Union were there, hurrying to trains, sitting thoughtfully on luggage or arguing with their children; Chinese-looking people from eastern Russia or Central Asia, dark-skinned people from the Caucasus, pale-skinned northern Russians with light fair hair. I even saw a black guy, which was something of a surprise. Fortunately Victor had my ticket so there was no need to join one of the many queues leading to a non-descript ticket booth. He led me through the crowds to the correct platform, train and carriage.
“I leave you here,” he said without ceremony, handing me a few roubles that the school had promised in advance for food on the journey.
We hadn’t had time to develop a bond.
“Thank you Victor, good luck.”
He smiled and headed off back through the station.
A short, plump carriage attendant demanded to see my ticket and led me on to the train, to a small, cosy compartment. She was middle-aged, somewhat weathered and her uniform had no doubt fitted her well some ten or fifteen years ago. But she had a wonderfully kind and motherly smile, which I found endearing. The compartment was empty and I rather hoped it would stay that way. There were two lower beds on either side of the window, with a table fixed to the wall between them and two upper beds, drawn up against the wall, that could be let down if necessary. It was simple, but not unappealing. Coming from a small country, long-distance rail travel always seems exotic.
The attendant brought me some bed clothes and a towel. She was grinning from ear to ear. I wasn’t sure if it was from the novelty of having a foreign passenger or the prospect of a decent tip. I liked her, whatever the reason.
My time alone in the coupe, as the compartment is called, was short lived. A young chap, almost a boy, stumbled in through the doorway with a huge, over-packed sports bag in each hand. He was dressed in a shabby army uniform. Looking at me briefly, with little enthusiasm, he nodded and then began stuffing his luggage into the overhead storage area, above the door. When this was done, he sat down on the bed opposite and began rummaging in his backpack.
I wasn’t sure what to do, so I remained quiet, and watched. He looked up from his bag and said something quickly that I didn’t understand. I must’ve looked blank, and a little flustered, because he grinned and held out a grubby hand.
“Lev, my name is Lev. You are English?”
I shook his hand.
“Yes. How did you guess?“
“You look, how do you say, like a hare in the headlights?”
I chuckled.
“I guess I feel a bit like that. My name’s James.”
“Ah, like James Bond?”
“Yes, that‘s it.”
From then on, we spoke in an odd mixture of bastardised Russian and English. It was the first time I’d used the language in a real setting and, in my own sad little way, I found it exciting.
“You like Russian vodka?” Lev said, pulling a bottle from his bag and slamming it on the table.
Before I’d had time to answer he’d also unpacked a slab of bread, opened the bottle and begun pouring huge shots into two tea cups the attendant had just brought us.
The train pulled out.
Lev, it seemed, was to be my only companion on the journey and it was clear he knew exactly how he’d like to spend the time.
“For Russia and England, friends,” he said as we clinked the full tea cups and knocked back the vodka. It took me two gulps, which Lev seemed to notice. I wanted to vomit.
“Here,” he cut a couple of slices of bread with a large army knife and offered me one. With the piece he kept for himself, he took a large sniff and put it back on the table. I did the same with mine and was amused to find it killed the ill effect of the drink.
“No salted cucumbers, no herring, no dried fish,” Lev said, “In the village, we use bread.”
This little bit of knowledge was to help me through many a drinking session in the coming months. As I sniffed the bread, I was transported immediately from the coupe, from the violent taste of vodka, to a summery barn surrounded by newly cut wheat, or a water-mill, running my hands through freshly milled flour. Wherever the destination, every sniff took me somewhere good and gave me the extra stamina to continue drinking.
“Where are you going? Home, for a rest from the army?”
“I was home,” Lev said, looking despondently out of the window, as the train rolled heavily through the countryside, at the small dachas — the wood-built summer retreats for Russia’s townsfolk — and the distant birch forests, shadowing the far hills,
“I will go to Chechnya, those arseholes. Fighting for freedom.”
We didn’t speak for a few uncomfortable minutes. I wasn’t sure what to say, while pondering whose freedom he was referring to. But Lev soon took the bottle, poured us another couple of gigantic shots, and I relaxed once again.
”The Russian army,” I said rather weakly by way of a toast, as we took our cups and slices of bread from the table.
“The Russian army can go to hell,” Lev said, looking coldly at me and then at his feet, “To the Russian soldier.”
”The Russian soldier,” I echoed.
He looked up and his mouth widened into almost a smile, displaying a number of blackened teeth.
We knocked back the shots.
The train had left in the early evening and we wouldn’t be in Volgograd until the following afternoon. I’d have time to sleep off the alcohol, so long as we didn’t continue drinking until the morning, or midday. We were both growing tired and hungry as the sun edged lower behind those distant wooded hills and the train rattled on through the twilight, through the empty, endless fields, past bubbling rivers and desolate lakes. It was unbeautiful scenery, in its lack of detail, its vastness. The landscape was soon submerged in darkness and I’d have to wait until morning to scrutinise it further.
Lev suggested that we went to the restaurant car, to get some hot food and meet girls. I thought it a good plan.
“You can meet our Russian girls,” said Lev, tucking in his shabby army shirt and flattening his greasy hair clumsily as he stood up.
I followed him out of the coupe, a little off balance. I was afraid our fellow passengers would be disgusted by the sight of a drunk soldier and foreigner stumbling along the carriage. But the few people we passed — standing looking out of the windows in the corridor, or smoking at the ends of the carriages — barely batted their eyelids. Drunk soldiers, and I assumed foreigners, were commonplace on train journeys.
We reached the restaurant car and it was empty of girls, or women or — come to that — people. There were just two people — the waiter, sitting at a corner table eating his supper, and a very drunk-looking middle-aged man in a suit, drinking by himself at a table in the middle of the carriage.
We flopped into the seats of a table at the opposite end of the carriage to the waiter, and waited for him to come to us. He didn’t, so Lev shouted out. The man stood up irritably from his food and strode over to us with a pen and notepad.
“What do you have?” Lev said.
“Pelmeni”
“Then two portions of pelmeni”.
There was no verbal response, but I understood by the fact he was scribbling something in his pad, that he’d accepted the order.
“And 200 grams of vodka,” Lev added.
We ate our pelmeni and drank. No one came in to the carriage and no one went. We talked little, communicating mainly through grins and vodka. The former of which grew wider as the latter disappeared.
In time, the middle-aged man in a suit stood and almost fell across the carriage to our table. He brought with him a half-empty bottle of vodka.
“May I drink with you, with the Russian hero?” he said.
Lev moved over and the man sat down. We shook hands. His name was Volodya and, despite my own intoxication, it seemed to me he was most atrociously drunk. We talked for an hour or more on all manner of subjects, in great depth. The more I drank, the better my Russian became, the more I could join the conversation and the more intelligent the discussion became. And oddly, the more alcohol that went down, the more sober Volodya seemed to become. It was uncanny. He actually became as sober as us.
In the end some policemen appeared at the end of the table.
“Go back to your beds and sleep, or you’ll be arrested,” the larger of the two said.
All I remember from then on is that Lev and I were accompanied back to our coupe and the door was shut. I fell onto my unmade bed and plummeted into an intense and dreamless sleep.
The following day, with the benefit of a less-clouded, although somewhat aching, mind I realised Volodya hadn’t become more sober — as I’d thought — we’d simply deteriorated to his level, or no doubt further. I told myself, I’d never drink to such an extent again.
In a few hours I’d be in Volgograd. The countryside was much as it had been outside Moscow, except there were less houses and larger tracts of land. Endless greenness and little more.
Lev was subdued — not, I guessed, just from the hangover. He was sipping on a beer he’d bought from a rail-side vendor during an earlier stop at Voronezh. I was sticking to tea, not wanting to arrive at my school stinking of alcohol. I could see fear in his eyes, as they flitted from me, to the bottle, to the window. They couldn’t rest on anything. He was scared of what awaited him in the Caucasus. Maybe he’d left a girl behind in Moscow, or a young wife. If he had, he hadn’t spoken of her. Everything was lost to him now, until his return. And this in itself, as he clearly realised, was by no means certain. We both remained silent, his imminent future haunting the coupe like an imposing and persistent ghost.