Belly of the Beast (11 page)

“Papers!” demanded a gruff bureaucrat, a sickle and hammer insignia on his uniform.

Niki held out her crisp maroon passport for the third time in five minutes, and for the third time she spoke only English.

“Canadian?” asked the bureaucrat as he pulled out Niki’s visa and studied it.

“You bet.” Niki replied nervously.

“Nyet?”

“No, I said
you bet
. It’s like yes.”

“Then why you not to say yes?”

“I should have. Sorry. Yes, I am Canadian.”

“You are traveling to Sverdlovsk?”

“Yes, Sverdlovsk.”

“For what meaning?”

“Business.”

The bureaucrat grumbled something about the changing economy, stamped the passport with red ink, and handed it back with a form.

“
Intourist
to fill form every night. You must not to deviate itinerary. Arrest to proceed if failure.” He nodded for Niki to pass.

“May I go?”

“You bet.”

Niki knew she would not be staying at the government controlled
Intourist
hotels; filling out forms was a problem for later.

The immigration line fed two counters at customs: green - —
NO FOREIGN CURRENCY
TO DECLARE
, and red—
CURRENCY TO DECLARE
.

A big, ruddy-faced man eyed her from the corner of the room.

Niki queued in the red line with just a few other people. While there were more people in the green line, it moved quickly. Niki noticed that several businessmen shook hands with an official and their bags were not inspected.

The two officials at the red line counter were engaged in a private conversation. Yuri had cautioned that things would move slowly. When they finally got to Niki, they emptied her bags. “It’s a radio,” Niki explained when they examined Yuri’s gift. They plugged it in to make sure it only received proper channels.

The officials carefully counted Niki’s dollars, then filled out a Russian form. Feigning that she didn’t understand Russian, she waited while they tried to find a translator. After ten minutes, Niki wished she had spoken Russian, but it was too late for that.

“I to speak English, not Canadian,” said a young woman.

“Close enough,” Niki replied, then replied to the woman’s blank expression, “I understand English.”

“Accounts all moneys,” said the woman. “Dollars only official exchange. Present receipt exchange on exit country.”

Niki thought she understood. “Okay, but where are the official exchanges.”

“In bank.” The woman motioned Niki to one of the chutes that fed new arrivals into the tall glassed foyer of Sheremetyevo Airport. People milled about in apparent confusion.

By the door to the outside, Niki quickly checked that she had everything. “System,” she whispered to herself. It was her newly devised acronym to keep organized. She had struggled to create a memorable word until she remembered what Yuri had said about all Canadian airport codes starting with a Y. That Y easily stood for Canada and she had a Canadian passport. Y stood for passport. Niki took inventory: S - Suitcase, Y – passport, S - Satchel, T- Tickets, E – Extra clothes, just her coat out now, and M – Money. Everything was in order to change airports.

With her satchel strap over her shoulder and a roll-on suitcase in tow, Niki went outside. The ground was hard with frozen slush, the air thick with diesel fumes; it did not matter, it was cold, slightly familiar. Skinny black spruce poked their noses through ground fog in the distance. Above, heavy clouds hid any trace of the midday sun.

“Taxi, miss?” a fur-capped man asked in English. “Best price.”

How did he know to speak English?
“How much to Vnukovo Airport?”

“One thousand five hundred rubles. Best price. Guaranteed.”

Niki was shocked; things in Russia were changing faster than Yuri realized. “I only have a thousand Rubles,” she said, “but this should do.” Niki held out two twenty-dollar bills.

“No, no,” said the cabbie. “Get that out of sight.” He glanced at a man standing by the main doorway and took a step backward. “I deal rubles only. Foreign money illegal.”

As the cabbie retreated, Niki glanced at the man by the doorway. He was the ruddy-faced man she had seen inside. He stood, hands in his pockets, looking everywhere but directly at Niki.
Yuri said foreigners are usually followed. The guy by the door must have spooked the cabbie. I’ve got to find a bank.
Niki looked about.

Across from the airport was the spruce forest. Apart from the airport, only one building was in sight and it didn’t look like a bank.

An old woman touched Niki’s arm. Her coat was threadbare, fingernails dirty, face like a squeezed-out sponge, but she smiled warmly as she pointed to the right. A crowd of airport workers, their breath rising in a cloud of steam, crowded around several buses. “Avtobus. Na duriga,” said the woman.

“Thank you,” Niki replied politely in Russian, “but I need to take a taxi. Is there a bank near?”

“No bank,” the woman replied in Russian. “Taxis too expensive. Only fifty kopecks to take the bus.”

Pennies, but Yuri said to take a taxi. “No thank you,” said Niki.

“Taxi drivers beat and rob pretty girls,” said the old woman. “It’s easy to get to Vnukovo Airport. The 6RR express goes to Rechnoy Vokzal, then take the Green Line to . . .”

Niki looked back toward a line of taxis.

“Pay my fare, and I’ll go with you,” said the woman. She grabbed Niki’s wrist and tugged her toward a crowded bus.

“This is not a good idea. The bus is full.”

“Don’t be silly,” said the old woman, “Always room for one more.”

Niki planted her feet. “No.”

“Rutabagas.” The old woman grabbed Niki’s expensive suitcase and shoved it into the bus doorway.

Niki grabbed the woman’s coat and reached for her suitcase. Someone inside pulled it up the bus stairs.

“Thank you,” yelled the woman, then turned to Niki. “You had better get used to crowds. I’ll take good care of you and your bag. Get your money out.”

Niki watched her bag disappear. She wanted to yell for help, but she was surrounded by common people like the old woman, people who might actually be trying to help her. Niki slipped her hand into her purse and pulled out a hundred-ruble note without exposing the rest of her money. Lenin’s portrait stared at her from the pink and blue bill.
CCCP,
the Cyrillic initials for the Union of Soviet Socialists Republic, reminded Niki exactly where she was. She looked about for the ruddy-faced man, but didn’t see him.

“I can’t change that,” said the money-taker who stood by the door.

The old woman snatched the hundred and gave the money-taker a one-ruble note. “For both of us.”

“And fifty kopecks for the bag.”

Begrudgingly, the old woman handed over a fat coin, then said to Niki, “I’ll give you change when we get to the airport.”

Niki began to realize that two economies existed in Russia. The hundred ruble note was worth two-hundred bus rides, but she’d need fifteen of them to take a cab.
It doesn’t matter if the old woman keeps the money, I’ve got to get my suitcase.

Niki followed the woman onboard, grabbed her suitcase from a man who politely nodded, then fought for breath as more people packed in.
This is a very bad idea.

Niki folded her elbow against the top zippers of her satchel and checked her SYSTEM. She couldn’t afford to lose anything, especially her satchel with her passport, tickets, and half of her money. She felt the reassuring lump of the rest of her money inside her coat.

“It is always like this before New Year,” said the old woman. “Are you going to see your mother?”

“No.”

“You should go to see your mother.”

“I already did. Now I’m going to find my father.”

“You are a good girl.”

Niki kept her satchel tight and her suitcase against her leg as she was jostled back and forth. She thought about her Valium, but opening her satchel again was out of the question. People got off, just as many got back on. With the armpits of men who sweated for their living only inches from her face, Niki wished she was anywhere else. Everything was too close, too loud. A lifetime passed before the driver called, “Rechnoy Vokzal.”

An open market paralleled a row of buses. Niki took charge of her suitcase again and caught her breath. Vendors sold tea and borscht from steaming pots, others hawked potatoes, beets, and used clothing. Standing in the cold did not seem to bother them. Everything was strange, yet there were traces of America and the new economy. Posters showed cowboys in the desert smoking Marlboro cigarettes. A building billboard read
Pepsi.

“Now we get on Metro,” said the old woman.

“Metro?”

“Underground railway, the subway.”

“No, I can’t go underground. You didn’t say anything about a subway!”

“Of course I did. What did you think the Green Line was? It’s only thirty kopecks and no charge for your bag, cheaper than the bus. What’s a few kopecks to a rich American?”

“Canadian, and I’m not rich.” Niki scanned all about for a taxi while the old woman scanned Niki’s clothes.

“You look rich to me. I bet you make five dollars a day?”

“You know how to convert to dollars?”

“I’m poor, not stupid.”

“Forgive me. But I can’t go underground. I’ve got to find a taxi.”

“No taxis here, just buses and the Metro.”

“Then I’ll take another bus.”

“Buses don’t go across town. Vnukovo is across town. We have to take the Green Line to the Red Line and then the 511 bus. I told you that at the airport. Weren’t you listening?”

“You don’t understand.” Niki looked about, then pulled back her sleeve and anxiously checked the time.

The old woman eyed the Seiko watch. “Very nice.”

“There’s got to be another way.”

“You could hire someone with a car, but they’ll take your money and leave before you can get your baggage out of the trunk. Stay with me. I got you this far.”

Niki looked at her watch again; she had to catch her flight to Sverdlovsk. A crowd streamed through the doors that led to the subway. If they all could do it, it couldn’t be that hard, she reasoned. Niki dug for her Valium and quickly took one. She put the vial back in her purse along the side by her rubles for quick access. With her satchel clutched to her side, Niki tightened her grip on her suitcase, and nodded to the old woman. “Okay, if you get me to Vnukovo Airport, you can keep what’s left of the hundred rubles.”

The old woman smiled. “I told you it would be easy.”

An escalator dove into the underground of the Moscow Metro. A crowd of people behind Niki prevented any thought of a quick return to daylight. Blinking fluorescent tubes lit the blue tiled walls of the underground station. Rows of brown marble columns held the ceiling.
This isn’t so bad,
thought Niki, a little ashamed that she hadn’t trusted the old woman. Niki followed her to the edge of the platform, then peered down the dark tunnel.
On second thought, that doesn’t look so good. What am I doing here?

A rumble preceded the rush of air that swept papers from the tracks to the platform. A headlight lit a jumble of wire and pipe as it raced through the tunnel, the subterranean train followed, squealing to a stop in front of Niki. The doors opened. Niki tried to focus on Alex as she forced herself inside. The doors closed. Air hissed, brakes squealed, lights flickered on and off. Again, everything was too close, too loud.

“You are doing fine,” said the old woman as the train squealed in and out of underground stations. She gave Niki’s arm a little squeeze.

Niki held her satchel tighter and shut her eyes. She tried to imagine the snow-clad Rockies, fresh ski tracks, pine trees frosted white—it was no use. “How much longer?” she whispered as the train squealed to another stop.

No answer. Niki looked about. The old woman was gone. The train nosedived into darkness again before Niki could get off.