excerpt
Miraculously it was open, and there appeared to be a supply of beer. He found himself standing behind one of the frenetic Canadians.
“Good day,” he said politely in Russian directly into Jennifer’s ear. She jumped.
“I beg your forgiveness,” he added hastily, at the same time seizing this opportunity to wedge one foot closer to the drink counter, before a particularly rotund grandmother stepped in his way. The girl from Canada understood Russian, he knew that. He had been listening to them in the waiting room, and he had noticed this one particularly. He handed his token to the attendant.
“You have 18 in your group,” he said to the still startled Jennifer. It was better to know for sure. She might say that there’s another group on their way and they are all ahead of you in line for the plane to Moscow. But, instead, she seemed astounded. Perhaps she had never been spoken to by a live Tatar before. Perhaps she thought we were all aliens out here in the republics. “You have 18 in your group. Is that correct?” he asked again.
Finally, Jennifer found her tongue.
“Yes… uh, no. What do you mean? My Russian is not so good, please.” She seemed covered in confusion. She was not holding a drink coupon but continued to stand at the counter blocking the way.
“You must pay the cashier first,” said Sergey helpfully, pointing at his bottle of beer that had been unceremoniously thrust at him. Perhaps she didn’t understand.
“Oh yes, thank you,” she answered, looking at his drink and moving away rapidly. Then she stopped and appeared to reconsider. She turned to him and said in impeccable Russian: “Why do you ask how many is in our group?”
When the call for loading finally came, Sergey Ivanovich, the machinist from Novizavod, walked out on the tarmac with the group from Canada, though in the rear. The severe lady walked right up front, having relied on an airline representative to do a count. But she might turn around and take stock of her brood at any minute. His English was not good enough to understand what was going on here, but he rather thought that even if he had elected the English language in school, he would be no more enlightened. One thing he had always been able to do well was count. There were 18 here all right—including him.
Just recently he had read an article in Krokodil that exhorted him to seize opportunities wherever they might be found to further the socialist…
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 