Belly of the Beast (12 page)

As the train came to the next stop, Niki was first off. Rows of ornately carved marble arches rose to a vaulted ceiling. A long line of chandeliers hung down the center. After the bus ride and the outlying stations, it was not what Niki expected. She paused beneath a well-lit arch to run through her checklist. Everything seemed intact. Niki almost smiled to herself.
Yuri and Rob and Dr. Baxter all thought I was crazy, but I can do this.

Colored signs pointed toward the Grey and Purple Lines. “Vnukovo Airport?” Niki asked a stranger. He pointed to the Grey Line. “One stop to Tverskaya Station, then take the Red Line.”

Niki nodded. The old woman had mentioned the Red Line.

Within minutes, Niki stepped off at Tverskaya Station, then reluctantly walked through tunnels and crowded stairways to the Red Line at Arbatskaya Station. It was even more opulent with arches, sculptures, marble floors, and double rows of frilly chandeliers. It reminded Niki of an art museum she had seen in a magazine. As there were two economies, it seemed there were two Russias, but most of the subway passengers walked through the station without even glancing at the beautiful architecture.

The Red Line went in two directions. “Which train goes to Vnukovo Airport?” Niki asked one of the stone faced people.

“No trains go to Vnukovo,” was the monotone reply.

She asked two more people and they didn’t reply. Everyone seemed in a mindless hurry to ascend an escalator at one end of an arched corridor. Niki felt herself being swept along and stepped on the escalator herself when she saw daylight several stories above. When she finally emerged on Old Arbat Street, it was like surfacing from water. She filled her lungs and looked about.

Ornate stone buildings and grand old streetlights lined the way. It was the antithesis of the Rechnoy Vokzal market. The essentials of potatoes and beets were replaced by cafes and souvenir kiosks, but there were signs of America here too. Several kiosks were stocked with rows of
matrioshka
dolls—a doll within a doll within a doll. Niki recognized Ronald Reagan’s face painted on one, but it offered no comfort.
I’ll feel a lot better when I get to the airport,
Niki said to herself
. Taxis should be cheaper from here. I should have enough rubles.

There were no taxis on Old Arbat, no cars either. Niki turned on a side street and walked a few blocks to a six-lane road, New Arbat. A taxi approached. Niki waved at the driver, but he went on to a man who flashed several one-hundred ruble notes in his hand.

 Niki reached for her money. Her hand went in the top and out the side.
Impossible, I never let—
Niki lifted her expensive satchel. A slit parted the leather. The stack of rubles was gone.

The old woman.
How could I be so stupid? Yuri said to trust no one.

Niki backed into a cold doorway and took inventory. She quickly accounted for her American dollars, plane tickets, passport, and all the government forms. The lavender ski gloves where still there as was the envelope Rob had given her. It was a slight comfort to peek at Alex’s picture. The shiny quarter was still in the envelope as well.
I’ve got to find a bank.

With more directions and a three block walk, Niki entered the Voencombank. After an endless wait in line, she was ushered into a small office. “We can’t exchange twenty dollar bills,” said the man. “They could be counterfeit.”

“I’m sure they’re not.”

“But of course you would tell me if they were? We are only trained to inspect hundred dollar bills. Send the next person in.”

“I have the get to the airport,” said Niki.

“That’s not my problem.”

“There must be someone here who could help me.”

“Go room C3 and fill out a complaint form, then come back here.”

“And stand in line again? I’ve got a flight to catch.”

“Do you expect us to structure our lives around your problems? Would you cheat a mother with two children out of line? Some people have already been waiting four hours. Please, be more considerate.”

“I’m sorry,” Niki apologized half-heartedly as she turned to leave.

“Have a nice day, as they say in America.”

“I’m Canadian,” said Niki as she left the bank and returned to the street.

Yuri had allowed three hours for Niki to change airports. Now she was worried about the time as well as money. She pulled back her sleeve to check the time. Gone. Her new watch was missing.
Right off my wrist without me knowing.
The old hag was a professional, targeted me from the start. What was Yuri thinking dressing me like this?

Niki looked at her
Italian leather coat, fine wool slacks, leather boots, and matching suitcase and satchel, then realized Yuri never dreamed she’d be going to Russia, and it wasn’t Yuri’s Russia any more.

Niki searched for another taxi, hoping they wouldn’t be so skittish about dollars here. While she waited, she watched the steady procession of people. Some were obviously tourists eyeing the tall government buildings, and wearing European clothes like hers. A second group wore fur hats and a range of coats from fine fur to threadbare cloth, but well-dressed or not, their eyes were downcast, their mouths a little sad like the subway passengers.

I must try to look more Russian, not be so conspicuous
. Niki lowered her eyes like the Russians, but knew it would make no difference, dressed as she was.
I might as well wear a
rob me
sign. I’m toast.

Niki stomped her feet.
And these boots are cold.

As she looked down the street for a taxi, she saw the sad people part as a big man approached. He could have been an Olympic weight lifter, except for his pinstriped suit, black dress shirt, and white tie.
Al Capone in Moscow
, she thought. A few steps behind was another man with gold chains at his neck and a knee-length fur coat. An old man fell trying to get out of the way. ‘Damned Novo-Russky,’ someone muttered.

Heels clicking, a woman caught up with the gold-chained man and put her arm in his. Red silk showed at the collar of her white fur coat. A gold bracelet dangled dangerously from her wrist.

People gave them wide berth. It seemed some Russians didn’t have to deal with the crowds and weren’t afraid of the thieves.

Niki quickly re-evaluated her position. She looked a bit like that woman. She could be one of the New Russians too.
All I need is confidence
.

A taxi rounded the corner. Niki stepped to the curb, stood straight, and swung her hips like the bracelet-dangling woman. She held up her hand. The cab slowed, but then went on and stopped at the man in the pinstripe suit. He had his hand up to, but blue and pink ruble notes stuck from his fingers.

Niki, cussed in English and Russian, then looked for another cab. She had a twenty dollar bill ready to flash. She was ready to fall in front of a cab if she had too.

Someone tapped Niki’s shoulder.

Niki spun, heart skipping a beat.

“I have a cab,” a man said in Russian.

“I have to get to Vnukovo Airport in a hurry. How much?”

“Shush. Don’t worry, not much. Follow me.”

The man walked around the corner. Niki followed cautiously. Halfway down the block there was a beat-up car.

“That’s not a cab.”

“Lady, every car in Moscow is a cab. Two hundred rubles, and I’ll drive like a maniac. Pay in advance.”

 It seemed too cheap. “Okay,” Niki agreed, “but I want my suitcase on the seat next to me and I’ll pay you when we get there. And don’t drive like a maniac.”

“Deal. I’ll drive like a bat out of hell.”

Niki settled into the well-worn leather of the old Volga’s back seat and wondered if the driver thought she was Novo-Russky. She leaned forward. “Who did you think I was?”

“How should I know? Do I look like KGB?”

“I don’t know what the KGB look like. I suppose like everyone else.”

“They are everyone else.”

“Sorry. It was a dumb question.”

A familiar arch caught Niki’s eye. “Is that an American hamburger place?”

“Pepsi, Pizza Hut, McDonald’s. We have them all. You want to stop?”

“No. I’ve got to catch that plane.”

The cabbie shifted gears. “You should have been here last week. There was a Big Mac line down Gorky Street three or four blocks long night and day. Then they raised the price.”

“They must have been really cheap.”

“Maybe if you’re American. I don’t know why they stand for hours to buy something they can’t afford—maybe just to say they tried something American. You’re American, aren’t you?”

“I’m Canadian,” said Niki. “Is my Russian that bad?”

“Your accent sounds German, but you dress American with your French purse and Italian boots.”

“I hoped you thought I was Novo-Russky.”

The man accelerated through a traffic light. “You shouldn’t. Novo-Russky are men.”

“Oh. They seem rich.”

“Too rich. One bought a silk tie for ten thousand rubles and his friend says, ‘You were taken. You could have bought the same tie across the street for twenty thousand rubles.”

The man caught Niki’s eye in the rearview mirror. “It’s a joke,” he said.

Niki allowed a smile. “It must be difficult for you to see others who are so successful.”

“It’s my success they’re spending. My wife and I put rubles in the mattress for twenty years. The Novo-Russky wiped out our savings in one day with the April monetary reform. The old way was better, even under Stalin. The Novo-Russky didn’t lose a kopeck in their damned reform and now they’re stealing everything we own. They got the government to give them our factories, our land, even the taxi business. Fares went up fifty times overnight and only a few kopeks go to the drivers. They’ll cripple us gypsy cabbies if they catch us.” The driver checked his rearview mirrors. “I literally mean cripple. They’re nothing but lousy thugs and thieves.”

“You must feel terrible. Someone stole most of my money today.”

“Welcome to Moscow. I’ll have to raise my prices too. They’re going to triple the price of petrol. It’s already a ruble a liter.”

Niki thought for a minute while the driver skidded around a turn.
Eight cents a gallon
.
It’s a wonder there aren’t shortages.

“We couldn’t even get gas last week,” the driver continued. “Sorry that you were robbed.”

“I still have enough to money pay you.”

“I wasn’t worried. That Italian bag of yours is worth a year’s wages.”

“It was a gift from someone. I guess he was pretty well paid.”

“Be careful,” the man said as he skidded around another corner, “many are desperate enough to kill for what you’re wearing.”

“The couple with gold chains strolling down Arbat Street didn’t seem worried.”

“Didn’t you notice the thick-necked guy in front of them? Bodyguard. Mafia. The Novo-Russky and Mafia sleep together. People fear them more than the KGB. Don’t mess with either, just look the other way. The Mafia won’t bother you unless you’re foolish enough to go into business. You’re not here on business, are you?”

“Just doing a bit of research,” Niki replied nervously.

“Good thing. They run all the businesses.”

“Things will probably change when Russia gets more capitalism.”

“We don’t need that; the shelves are already bare. When they eliminate ration cards, Novo-Russkies will buy all the food.”

“Do rations apply to them now?”

“Probably not. I suppose you know more about capitalism than I.”

The man slowed to a stop at the far end of the Vnukovo Airport’s little parking lot.

“Best not to advertise that I’m in business. Two hundred rubles, please.”

Niki exposed a twenty-dollar bill.

“Whoa. Is that what you had in your hand on Arbat Street? Hard currency is illegal. Don’t you have rubles?”

“I didn’t mean to trick you, but I was desperate. Can’t you change dollars somewhere?”

“You can, I can’t. We have two sets of rules here. Common Russians can’t change currencies. We can’t even go inside Pizza Hut.”

“You’re not missing much.”

“I suppose I could hang on to some dollars for a while, sort of an illegal investment. You’ve just corrupted your first Russian.”

“I thought your cab was illegal.”

“It was a joke—about you corrupting me. You wouldn’t believe what we have to do every day just to survive.”

Niki passed the twenty-dollar bill forward. “This should be worth almost a thousand rubles. Keep the change.”

The cabbie tucked the bill out of sight. “I don’t want to be ungrateful, but how do you figure a thousand rubles?”

“I was told I could get forty-seven rubles per dollar.”

“The official exchange rate is half a ruble per dollar, but we both know that’s unrealistic. Give me another twenty and I’ll call it good, but let me show you how to pass it. Fold it in your palm and shake my hand.”

Niki did as she was told and the money disappeared.

“It’s called the Moscow handshake. It’s how we get things done.”

“All I have is twenty-dollar bills.”

“You can probably get most things done with a twenty dollar bribe, but you know you’re supposed to account for all foreign currency when you leave the country?”

“I’ll worry about that later.”

“Best to worry all the time. Good luck.”

While Niki waited at the back of the queue inside the Vnukovo Terminal. Sunlight lit a tall glass clearstory, but a cold draft swept Niki’s neck. Ahead of her, people with gold chains and black-shirts cut to the front of the queue.

Things will get better once I get to Sverdlovsk and meet with Yuri’s son.

“Sverdlovsk full,” squawked a loudspeaker.

Full. It can’t be full. I have a ticket.
Aeroflot agents sat idly at three other counters. Niki stepped from the queue and approached an agent who was filing her nails.

“I have a ticket to Sverdlovsk,” she said, “Can you help me?”

The agent didn’t look up, but pointed her nail file toward the queue Niki had just left.

“I just wanted to know—”

“That’s the line. What are you, American or something?”

“Actually, I’m Canadian.”

“You think I care? Wait in line with everyone else.”

Niki looked at the queue, thought about the woman on Arbat Street, and stepped in front of the people at the counter. She slapped her ticket down and said, “I have a ticket to Sverdlovsk.”

“And so does everyone else.”

“But I need to go on this flight. Someone is to meet me and—”

“This flight is full. There may be space next week.”

“Next week?”

“Flights are grounded. Don’t you know there’s a fuel shortage?”

Niki thought quickly about getting things done in Russia
.
She slipped her hand into her satchel, folded a twenty-dollar bill into her palm, and thrust her hand at the agent.

“Thank you for your help anyway,” said Niki.

After the quick Moscow handshake, the money was gone.

“I’ll check the records once more,” said the agent. “Perhaps someone didn’t show up.”

Niki wanted to apologize to all the people in line behind her, to tell them that her son’s life depended on her getting on this flight. She turned toward them, but they all looked away, all but the ruddy-face man standing by the exit with his arms crossed. A shiver ran down Niki’s spine.

Twenty minutes later, a farm tractor pulled Niki and a trailer full of other people to the plane. Niki climbed the stairs. There were no smiling faces or familiar smells on Aeroflot 219. There were no ads for Marlboro, Pepsi, or McDonalds. No tourists. Not one word of English.

Niki inhaled the fumes of men smoking strong Russian cigarettes as she stepped inside the cabin. Every sight, sound, and smell was already foreign, and Niki was about to penetrate deeper into the inhospitable Russian bowels.

She turned to the sound of the cabin door being locked. There was no going back.