CHAPTER NINE:

Russia, With Love

There is something thrilling about having to run down a hallway when you cant
breathe for fear. No, actually, there isnt one fucking thing thrilling about it. And it was
getting a bit old, to tell the truth.
I literally threw myself into Simons office panting and slightly dishevelled.
What the hell is the matter with you? he asked, looking up in shock.
Wolves! I managed to spit out.
What? Wolves? Where? he cried, jumping up from his desk and glancing out the
open doorway.
I used my remaining adrenaline to leap over to him and put my hand over his mouth
while putting my other hands index finger silently to my lips.
We looked each other in the eyes for a moment until we were both quite still.
I wrote on a piece of paper: Your office is bugged!!!
How do you know that? he wrote back.
Ill xplain. Lets get out of here, I scrawled hurriedly.
Well, then! Cheerio! he said quite loudly. Lets go find you some wolves. Lets go
for a trip to the zoo!
Yeah, okay, Simon. Whatever, I replied dryly, with a roll of my eyes and we left the
offices and went to the bar at Most where I explained the eerie conversation at the elevators
with Boris.

Well, if he said that, they want us to know, Simon said thoughtfully.

I suppose so, yes, I answered, ordering a double gin and tonic for myself and a
double scotch for Simon.
Simon rubbed his eyes tiredly. Which means what?
I dont know, I said. I really dont know.
I dont drink before 5 oclock, he said as the pretty waitress moved off.
You will today.
We should call Misha, he finally suggested as the drinks arrived, fishing out his
mobile phone from an inside pocket of his jacket.
The phones are surely bugged, I replied drinking my gin like water and waving to
the waitress for another.
Yes. Yes. Thats true. Youre probably right. Can we arrange a meeting somewhere?
Like your flat? he asked hopefully.
I shook my head. Andrei says my flat is bugged also. And if mine is, yours certainly
is.
So, thats it?. We have no privacy now? And they want us to know it?
I dont know any more than you do, Simon, I said. But, anyway, the Cyprus
meeting is next week. All we can do is go with the plan as we have it to date and just run dayto-day operations as best we can. We just have to let people like Misha, Tim and Luke know
about this and make sure no one says anything anymore unless theyre in the street. And
maybe not even then.

He nodded and drank his scotch in one gulp. Then, for the first time ever, he loosened
his tie.
In the meantime, I continued, Ill hire a private security service to sweep us for
bugs. And our flats too. But its Russia: we wont ever be able to be sure.
This is utterly....... he began, looking down into his empty glass.
What? I prompted.
This is a betrayal, he answered. An awful betrayal.
Simon, its Russia. Someday youre going to have to get your head around that, I
said.
We were quiet for a moment and then I offered: We could capitulate. And Im not
saying that in a Kevin Costner kind of way.
He laughed softly. I know that, Dasha. I know that. He paused and then continued.
The money needs to stay in the JV; theres no way around that. If we capitulate, weve lost
all management control and might as well go home.

We got through the week just doing business as best we could with no foreign
engineers and no ability to speak openly with each other until it came time for Simon and
Misha to leave for Cyprus. I had the office and our flats swept for bugs and we found quite a
lot of them. But even if I did it every 24 hours, wed find them and we just stopped talking
and bought a lot of shredders.

Baby, baby, its Russia, Andrei said carelessly when I told him all that had
happened later on that week over dinner.
Thats exactly what I told Simon, I responded, grumpy. And I can see now it
doesnt help that much! Cant you find anything more useful to tell me? Or to do? I mean,
youre Russian, cant you do something about this?
No, he answered.
Come on! Of course there must be something you could do!
I will not fight with you about this, he said to me. There is nothing I can do about
the situation.
You could talk to STB. You could talk to Boris, I suggested.
Of course I wont do that, he said.
You have to. The situation is ridiculous. Maybe if you talked to them, theyd see how
crazy theyre acting, I pleaded. You cant bug your own joint venture. You cant bug your
partners! Its just not done. You just have to do something. Its wrong NOT to.
He turned to me without a smile. Do not argue with me.
Im not arguing. Im asking.
We were in a restaurant, sitting next to each other and maybe Id raised my voice the
tiniest bit but no more than that.
You are making a scene and people are watching. Behave yourself, he said sternly,
looking straight ahead.

I turned to look at him. He was wearing a black turtleneck and his forceful profile was
locked in tension. Im not making a scene, were just having a heated discussion, I replied.
Its the end of this conversation. Theres nothing I am going to do except my job. I
suggest you do the same and try to calm down. He turned to look at me. Youre bordering
on hysterical.
I can fucking show you hysterical, if thats what you want, I muttered angrily,
dropping my spoon noisily down on the table.
He just raised an eyebrow at me and motioned to the waiter for the check. Wed
barely begun our appetizer of borscht.
When we got out into the windy street, he grabbed my hand almost painfully and
pulled me to the curb where he quickly hailed a gypsy cab. He opened the door and
motioned for me to get in. The car smelled of sweat and cigarettes and I rolled the window
down a little for some air.
We went to my place in absolute silence and I looked despondently out the car
window as we crept along, watching the snow fall like it was salting the city and the people
carefully trudging the icy streets.
We walked into my flat and I threw my fur on my divan in the hall and stomped to the
kitchen, Andrei following me. The Russians socialise and drink in the kitchen with their
intimates. Other rooms are reserved for strangers.
I took out a bottle of champagne and handed it to him for him to open while I
retrieved some glasses from the cabinet.

Are we going to talk about this? I finally asked in exasperation, as he poured the
semi-sweet Soviet champagne Id actually managed to develop a fondness for.
He sat down at my antique butcher block table, pushed his chair away from the table
so that he was facing me and slowly crossed his powerful legs. Not here. We will not talk
about it in your flat. Ever. And, Dasha, my preference is not to talk about it anymore at all.
There is nothing more to add. Work is work. These endless conversations are a bore. You are
boring me with it. He took an unhurried sip of champagne and looked at me with piercing
eyes over the glass.
All of which put me into a sudden flood of tears. A real crying jag. You fucking
Russians! I sobbed loudly, covering my face with my hands, my shoulders heaving.
Yes, yes, Im a fucking Russian, he replied calmly, reaching out, taking me in his
arms and pulling me onto his lap and kissing my lips heavily.
You are a fucking Russian. And I hate you, I said, the tears streaming down my
face. I HATE you!
Yes, yes, you hate me, he said, kissing me again and wiping some tears off my
cheeks.
Im American, I protested, weeping and weeping. Im an expat. Im an expat! I
dont need this shit!
Yes, yes, youre American, an expat, you dont need this shit, he repeated.
I dont care about your fucking country! I cried and cried. I dont care about this
stupid country which is completely fucked up. You can all go to Hell. I dont care. I dont
care. I dont care!

Yes, yes, you dont care. You dont care, he murmured soothingly, picking me up
and carrying me like a child down the hallway to my bedroom. You dont
care........Shhh....Shhhhh.
Wed been at a museum in Belarus the weekend before and something strange had
happened to me. It was more like: something had been happening to me, and then it finished
in Minsk.
Wed taken the overnight train from Moscow to Minsk and it had been lovely. The
train, which Id expected to be uncomfortable and inefficient, was both modern and cosy: the
corridors lined with the uniquely beautiful red carpets Afghanistan produces and our
compartment sumptuously decorated in shades of gold and blue. We had drunk champagne
while the train rolled through the night and sucked each others fingers and talked for hours,
until we had been rocked into a deep and satisfying sleep. The journey had taken 8 hours and
wed been woken up by our pleasant stewardess bringing us hot, strong coffee about a half
hour before we arrived, exactly on time, in Minsk.
I had hoped, on that trip, to be going behind the Iron Curtain that no longer separated
us from Russia, but was reportedly alive and well in Belarus. I had heard that in Belarus,
there were no cars, no advertisements, that no one spoke English and foreigners were treated
with fear and suspicion, that Government spies were everywhere and one should be really,
really careful or youll end up in jail for the rest of your life, ala Midnight Express. But that
turned out to be the usual Lonely Planet scaremongering: Minsk is exactly like Cincinnati.
Anyway, after a brunch of Russian pancakes, wed stumbled across a small, but
bright and cheery art museum and had wandered around it for a while and wed come across
a small gallery containing some Pre-Revolutionary paintings of peasant and other agricultural

scenes. These paintings had been suppressed during the entire Soviet period, so they, and
their style, were entirely new to me.
Andrei had been standing next to me as I looked at a painting of a potato farmer
smoking a cigarette in a field at sunset, a tired black dog at his feet. There were dark clouds
depicted in the distance, but where the farmer sat was bathed in pink and purple. I had
suddenly clasped his hand and had breathlessly whispered: Youre so lucky.
Why, hed asked, turning from the painting to look at me.
Russia! I had merely answered. Russia!
He had nodded and smiled. Good girl. Then, he twirled me around the gallery and
we both laughed and laughed.

After Andrei carried me to bed, he slowly took off all my clothes, leaving his own on.
Then he spent the next three hours murmuring quietly to me in Russian I could not
understand and exploring every inch of my body in every way he could, while he held my
hands above my head with one of his large ones so that I could not touch him, until I thought
Id of die of longing and pleasure.
My alarm went off about an hour after wed fallen asleep, reminding me that Simon
and Misha were on their way to the shareholder meeting in Cyprus.
The preparations for the Cyprus meeting had been intense and wed all worked until
late into the evenings, mostly at restaurants, preparing all our information and projections and
getting everything perfect. Wed rehearsed with Simon and Misha and had tried to imagine

every possible thing the Russians could bring up and wed planned succinct but persuasive
responses. We had even gone carefully over choices of suits and ties.
Whats that? Andrei asked. What time is it? Its still dark.
Six, I answered, sitting up on the edge of the bed. I wanted to wish them good
luck in Cyprus.
Go back to sleep, it will be fine, he said, pulling me back down into the bed. If you
dont, Ill have to make love to you again.
I sighed. Thats hardly a threat. I love fucking you.
We dont fuck, we make love, he said, kissing me. I love you. I love you. I love
you. He buried his face into my neck and made a strange and unexpected noise.
Whats wrong? Are you crying? I asked, bewildered. I ran my fingers through his
thick hair.
I just love you so much, he whispered into my ear. I am so happy. You have
changed everything about my life.
When I think of strong, intelligent Russian men, I think of the way the lions used to
be kept caged in the Bronx Zoo when I was a little girl in New York in the 70s. All that
power confined to a tiny, empty space, resulting in an endless pacing and growling that was
unbearable to watch.
For all the Russians ultimate control over the management of our JV, the Russians in
the offices with us were systematically treated like shit by the expats. They did all the grunt
work and worked much longer hours than we did. Their career paths were stunted for lack of
real decision making experience and their potential, castrated. It was a situation that seemed

all but openly encouraged by the Western parts of the JV. It was very colonialist in mentality
and the Russians were systematically treated as others and inferiors.
For the women, it didnt matter very much: Russian women generally want an easy
life; ambition is simply not their thing. The Russian men were resigned to it. They assumed
this is how the West would treat them or how their own Government would treat them.
Joseph Conrad wrote: Dont you forget what is divine in the Russian soul and that is
resignation. So, the men get angry at first, because there is no vent, then they get violent and
then they just get depressed.
I never understood the expression one so often hears during a trailer at the movies:
Theirs was a forbidden love. But, now I do. Its a love that challenges and disrupts the
accepted social order. Because Andrei was a man, our affair put him, a Russian, on equal
footing with the Westerners. And that proved very challenging and disrupting to the social
order. If hed been the woman, it would have just been standard Western exploitation. But he
was the man and a very dominant one.
And slowly, our interactions with our colleagues had begun to change. My consistent
refusal to act like it was a mere dalliance around the other expats, including Simon, had really
begun to make people uncomfortable. My giving of the best assignments to him and other
Russians had really begun to make people uncomfortable. We were changing things by
kissing and that was a nice feeling. A revolution of love in the way Headquarters operated.

Me too, Andrei. Me too, I whispered to him.

He looked at me and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and we both smiled and
laughed at ourselves a little before we started kissing and making love.

I must have been exhausted, because, after we were done, I fell quickly back into a
dreamless stupor, Andreis arms around me tightly.
At about 11:00, the land line phone, which was in the living room, began to blare,
frightening me. No one ever used that line because it was unreliable at its best moments. I
jumped up and ran to get it.
Allo? I said huskily, trying to get my bearings. Andrei, still naked, came into the
room and leaned against one of the columns. We smiled a fond greeting to each other.
Its me, Simon. Im in Cyprus.
Hi. Whats going on? I asked.
They didnt show, he answered.
What do you mean? Who? Who didnt show? I said, alarmed. Andrei came over to
me and frowned. He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and soothingly stroked my neck.
The Russians. They didnt show.
At one point during the battle of Stalingrad, an arriving Soviet soldiers life
expectancy was 24 hours, if not less.
I think youd better get out of Moscow as quickly as you can, Simon said. And then
the phone went dead.

COMING NEXT WEEK: Peace and War, Punishment and Crime