The Black Russian

The invitation reads as follows. “Dear Philip Johnstone, you are cordially invited to attend this year’s management conference. Only a select group of management will attend. Consider yourself part of the elect. This year’s exclusive management conference will be held at the Kremlin, Russia, where the new global head of the company will be revealed. Your travel arrangements are as follows…”

There are two parts of the invitation that catch my attention, as I sit in my office reading it. The first is being classified as part of the “elect.” Never have I read the words “consider yourself as part of the elect” in any previous conference invitation. Come to think of it, never in any company correspondence. And there is the added mystery of the revealing of the global head of our company.

I am thrilled; going to Russia is on my bucket list. But this year’s conference would not be the usual kind, enjoyed by the entire company.

I turn the invitation over. On the back is a picture labelled ‘St Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow’s Red Square’. The image strikes a chord with me, it somehow exudes emotion, drawing me in. My eyes scan the image, giving me a sense of this powerful, rich, cultural empire, steeped in history, and art. Tchaikovsky’s Symphony Number 5 plays in my mind. I picture Nureyev leaping impossibly high, almost from one side of the stage to the other, like no one else could.

Having spent time in the military, before entering the corporate world, my thoughts naturally move onto the military tradition of Russia. I could see the troops, the Red Square and tanks all on display in a magnificent parade. A display of military might, not one out of step, precise and deliberate movements. The 1812 Overture reaches a crescendo in my mind.

“Dude, we have that conference call with the sales team now.”

“Yes, right, thanks Jason.” Awakened from my day dreaming, I turn my focus to the tasks at hand. We have urgent business to attend to.

After the conference call, I spy the invitation under paperwork on my desk, and I cannot help but return to the Russian military, and the scientific advances of Russia. I wonder at the dichotomy of beauty in art and culture, the exquisite dining and ballrooms in palatial baroque settings, against the rugged terrain and unforgiving cold, and harsh militaristic discipline. The common folk of Russia had to be strong to endure the harsh winters, and then there was the suffering of the Russian people under various regimes throughout history. What I admired most about the people of Russia was their discipline. From what I did know, they push themselves to the limit, to produce the best. I thought of the gymnasts, ballet dancers and chess players who proudly represented Russia throughout history, and the hard, brutal training they endured.

My mind moves on to the astounding structures and architecture of St Petersburg and Moscow, and to the natural architecture of the Caucasus Mountains rising up out of the green fields. A country landscape of contrasts; soft green rolling fields and hills culminating in grey, jagged cliff faces and towering mountains topped with white at their peaks. Breathtakingly beautiful. I wondered again about being “elected.”

But I have work to do. I have little time for day dreaming. I add the travel dates to my calendar, put the invitation in my drawer and get back to work.

The days and weeks fly by quickly, as always. Before too long, I am packing. I am flying to Moscow. Russia, here I come!

It is only myself attending from my office. The others, each at my management level, were flying in from their respective locations around the globe.

I arrived at Sheremetyevo airport in Moscow. The smell of tobacco smoke mixed with coffee, rich chocolate and freshly baked pastries fills the terminal. The airport is busy with the hustle and bustle of people, like any major airport. But the people here were not loud as I expected; instead, their voices merged into a monotone hum. Everyone seems quite serious, focused only on where they are going. There was no joking around, no silliness here. I look around in case any of my international colleagues happen to arrive at the same time as me.

I find a help desk manned by a perfectly groomed and strikingly beautiful attendant. She gave me directions to the metro railway station. It seems their speech was no nonsense as well.

“Enjoy your stay in Russia,” she instructed in a thick Russian accent.

Down on the platform of the metro train service, old ladies wearing head scarves huddle together in groups of three or four. They illustrate that timeless image of the Russian grandma, the babushka. I can’t help but smile.

The Aeroexpress pulls in. The doors open, and the Babushka Brigade push in front of me, taking their seats. I am more amused than anything, happy for them to have a seat. Besides, I knew that in Russia, the elderly were always given first preference. I muse that this once common custom in western culture is on the decline, as I watch them mutter to each other in Russian, and I wonder what they talk about, where they are going. One of them looks at me intently. I smile at her. The next thing I know, she grabs her own head with both hands and she calls out to me. I cannot understand, of course. I shrug, gesturing that I don’t understand. She must have thought I was hard of hearing, so she raises her voice even louder, imploring me to understand.

I move towards her, and when I reach her I say: “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Russian.” To which she replies in more Russian.

“She says you look like her son,” a deep voice says. I turn and see a smiling face.

“Thank you,” I say.

She speaks again.

“She is asking if you served in the Russian army.”

I realise then that she thinks I am her son. “Oh, goodness… Can you tell her that I am just a tourist. I don’t speak Russian.”

He translates the message, and while he does, I realise he is the only black man in this carriage. In fact, he’s the first black man I’ve seen since I landed.

“She says her son disappeared fighting the Chechens.”

“Oh. Poor woman. I’m Philip, by the way. Philip Johnstone,” I say, holding out my hand.

“Nice to meet you Philip. Carl Moskvin,” says Carl, firmly shaking my hand. “Welcome to Russia.”

“Thank you. It sure is different. Quite a serious place.”

“Quite.”

The old lady won’t be left out. She speaks again, a little louder than necessary. Maybe she still thinks I’m deaf.

“She is asking if you have family here.”

“Oh no, can you tell her, please, that I have no Russian family. I’m just here on business.”

Carl translates my message to the babushka. She looks down at her shoes and sobs, quietly. Babushkas either side of her pat her back and speak in low, soothing tones.

She looks at me, her eyes full of tears and hope. I must bear an uncanny resemblance to her son. She stares, I feel uneasy. I smile again and look away, hoping that’s the end of it. But when I look back, there are those babushka eyes, staring. Tears roll down her cheeks. I can think of nothing I can do to help.

I think of my own mother, how she lived for us, and me particularly, being her only son and the eldest. There is nothing she wouldn’t do for me. It’s was like that throughout my life. I look back at the babushka and I see my own mother’s sorrow. Her eyes glisten as the tears trickle endlessly. I remember I have a packet of tissues in my pocket. I offer her one. She takes it, saying, “Spah see boh.” Her friends, the other babushkas, hug and console her.

I cannot help but think of what kind of suffering she would have seen in her life. I feel partly responsible now for opening up a wound, just by existing, right here, right now. I notice a tattoo on her right hand, on her index finger. It looks like two Russian letters, in a script style font. Her sobs continue, though somewhat quietly now. I look at Carl and he returns my look of pity for the babushka. He looks out the window and I follow his gaze. I try to find familiarity in the Russian words that label industrial buildings, and yes, there is graffiti here as well. It isn’t so different to home; the roads are the same, and trees dot the landscape.

As we travel over a canal, the babushka speaks again, and Carl asks me: “She is asking if you can help her.”

“Me? Sure. What does she want me to do?”

“Will you allow her to show you parts of Moscow, to eat with her. She says you don’t need to speak, just be with her and accompany her. She wants to take you to her son’s favourite restaurant.”

Carl turns to Babushka and they seem to be making arrangements. I am very tired from the flight, and would really rather rest with room service dinner and a whisky. But the desperation in her eyes as she looks from Carl to me melts my resolve.

“She says her friends are getting off at the next stop, she says you will get off at the next stop with her. It’s my stop, too.”

She observes my reaction intently, like an expectant child.

“Does she mean now?”

“I think so, my friend. I expect, like me, you need to rest after your flight.”

Her clear blue eyes, still moist, look up and plead silently at me. I cannot say no. “Sure, why not. I have to eat anyway.”

I can afford to spend a few hours of my life with a little old lady. So what if I am tired for the conference. How often in life do we get the opportunity to really help someone?

I nod and babushka’s face lights up. She grabs onto my forearm and tells her friends. They all smile at me now, teeth missing here and there. People turn and stare at the spontaneous celebration in our carriage.

Aware of the difficulty of being unable to communicate, my hope is that she is not disappointed. I hope what I read about Moscow waiters speaking English is true.

The metro stops and the Babushka Brigade say their goodbyes.

I ask Carl if he was born in Russia. As he answers, my eye catches a rather unsavoury group of youngsters, skinheads with tattoos. I feel Babushka’s grip on my forearm tighten, and I do the same with my travel bag. One of them, sporting a tattoo of a snake up the side of his neck, stares and locks onto Carl. Snake Tattoo mutters to his mate next to him, who turns revealing a tattoo of tear drops below his left eye.

“Carl, don’t look now, but behind you there are four skinheads looking for trouble.”

“Don’t worry, just ignore them. Hopefully they will move along.”

Snake Tattoo approaches, eyes fixed on Carl. I look for a knife or any other weapon; he seems to be unarmed. His friends laugh and jeer him on, an interpreter isn’t needed. Snake Tattoo says something in Russian. As he reaches out, I instinctively slap his hand away, regretting it immediately. Babushka and Carl start yelling at him, and Snake Tattoo and his gang yell back, and just when I thought we were done for, two Russian policemen stand and deliver short sharp instructions to the thugs, ordering and waving them away.

My heart is thumping, the blood drains from my face. The adrenalin dump causes my limbs shake, but the terror is over for now. The policemen chat to Babushka and Carl. They all laugh as one of them pats me heartily on the shoulder. I wish I spoke Russian.

We watch as the thugs get off the train. “We should get off at the next stop, it’s not much further.” I nod enthusiastically, and Babushka, not needing an interpretation, nods as well. “Man, I can’t believe you slapped that skinhead’s hand away. Much appreciated. That was quite brave of you.”

“Carl, I don’t know if it was bravery or stupidity, it was just impulsive. Those guys were trouble.”

Babushka says something to Carl and they chat for a bit. “Okay, it’s decided that I will accompany you this evening to the restaurant. You need a translator. What do think?”

“Yes! That would be great! Oh, thank goodness, it would have been so hard not understanding one another.”

“Yes, you won’t even be able to read the menu. This is our stop.”

We walk down the road to a restaurant called ‘Oblomov’. We step inside, and it’s like we’ve stumbled into the nineteenth century. The dark wooden furniture is Old World; gold framed paintings decorate the red and gold baroque wallpaper. An antique piano resides in the corner beneath a chandelier. Ornate silver candle holders sit on every table. Sounds of Rachmaninoff fill the air, and the kitchen’s aroma fills my nostrils.

Babushka is warmly greeted and chats with the concierge.

“It seems we have jumped the queue,” Carl says, as the concierge instructs a beautiful blonde waitress, who escorts us to our table. Carl pulls Babushka’s seat out for her. No sooner has she sat down than she barks at our waitress: “Borscht! Poh shzah loo stah!”

The waitress nods reverently at Babushka, taking a step back before turning and disappearing towards the kitchen. I like Russian culture.

The heavy, wooden table, like all the others, is intricately carved. The chairs are upholstered seats in a deep red damask.

Babushka says something to Carl that makes him grin, and she smiles sweetly at me while he interprets.

“She says you look tired, so she has ordered a round of black Russians. She says you are in Russia, sitting with a black Russian, so we must honour the occasion.”

“Oh dear,” I say, all too familiar with the simple cocktail. I look at Babushka and nod, gesturing towards Carl, and she laughs.

The drinks come, and we down them with Babushka. She immediately orders another round.

The Borscht arrives, warming our bellies. The beetroot and cabbage soup energises me, as the next round of Black Russians arrives. Next we have Blinis, Russia’s version of crêpes, with smoked salmon and sour cream and jam.

Then more black Russians. This babushka can drink. I don’t expect to sleep too well, what with coffee liqueur and vodka fighting for dominance. What an extraordinary evening. Carl, the black Russian, and Babushka, with surprising contacts in an exclusive restaurant such as this in Moscow. The food, the contrasting flavours of sweet and savoury, and sweet and sour. The Black Russian, a drink composed of a stimulant and a depressant.

The evening gets louder as the drinks and food kept coming.

“What do we have here,” I say, smiling for no particular reason.

“Ah, these are pelmenis. Pork, lamb and beef. They’re meat filled dumplings in a broth.”

“You know, Carl. I am having a really excellent time, my friend.” I slur. “And these pelminis things are delicious. Tell her. Tell her I said that, Carl.”

“She just ordered some more, and these ones are special. You are experiencing the best food of Russia, thanks to this lady.”

I am about to applaud her, when Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture plays and the “special” pelmenis arrive. I break out into a little air conducting, using an index finger as a baton, as Babushka eats hers. Carl is waiting for me , so I bite into mine, and he laughs as tears come to my eyes. My nose runs, a festival of mucous ensues. “I need tissues, Carl!”

“You’ve got some, in your pocket, remember?”

“Oh yeah.”

Another round of black Russians arrive. I knew that drinking soda is not a good idea as a remedy for mouth-burn. Today, I learn that drinking anything containing caffeine after consuming a spicy dish will also end in tears. More tears, in my case. Babushka, the sadist, laughs at me. Carl soon joins in, and finally our beautiful waitress. Tears roll down all our faces. Barely able to speak for her cackles, Babushka says something no doubt at my expense. Well, if anything, at least I am entertaining them all.

How does this little old lady handle spice and alcohol like this? Her tears of sadness had turned into tears of joy. The attack of laughter subsides, and the waitress has gone to presumably touch up her make-up.

But after her joy came sorrow. Babushka sobs. Carl puts a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “She was just saying that her son reacted in exactly the same way to that dish. His name was Yuri. He was her only child.” At the sound of his name, she sobs a little louder. Babushka is more composed for the rest of the evening, though still she remains hospitable. A selection of desserts arrive, and I am grateful for the distraction. Light, delicate cherry Zefir, small bowls of deep red Kissel and mini rounds of ptichye moloko adorn the table, served with black coffee.

Babushka, speaks in serious tones. “She asks if we can join her tomorrow. She wants to travel to Dagestan. To the place where her son had gone missing. It’s in the ancient village ruins in the mountains.”

I had the company conference to attend, though I wasn’t absolutely sure it was tomorrow. The time difference and alcohol is messing up my circadian rhythm. “Carl, please tell her that I need to contact my office,” I say slowly, trying not to slur. “I need to check the date of the company conference. If it’s the day after tomorrow, I will of course be degil… dillegy… delighted to accompany her to Dagestan.”

I’d like to see Dagestan anyway, and although I had no plans to go there, I couldn’t say no, not to the Babushka. The alcohol in my system is causing me to say yes, to agree to things I wouldn’t normally agree to. But I still felt sympathy for Babushka.

Before I know it, it is decided that we are leaving the restaurant. I am finding it hard to understand my own English, it sounds a little like some dialect of Swahili. I cannot drink like a Russian.

I was awake early the next morning, after not sleeping too well the night before. It feels like the vodka and coffee liqueur had taken part in a boxing match in my head, and had probably thrown spiced dumplings at each other, too. The conflict spread to my belly, and a few quick, short sprints to the bathroom were made through the night.

In the morning, I call the office in Moscow. The conference was in fact on the following day. I call Carl, and thankfully, he is also free for Babushka’s day trip to Dagestan.

Babushka, Carl and three Black Russians meet me in the hotel bar at 9am. I was worried I’d need to be close to a toilet all day, but my stomach settled down after the cocktail. The remedy and the poison were one and the same. The very thing that made me feel so unwell had rectified the damage.

We catch the metro to the airport and buy tickets to Dagestan. I feel a little queezy at first, but I settle down and make it through the uneventful two-hour flight. From the airport at Makhachkala, we pay a local driver, Yevgeny, to take us to the ruins up in the mountains. Babushka directs Yevgeny, in his furry hat and Niva four-wheel drive, up the road through rough terrain. Carl reminds him, a few times, to slow down.

Green foothills and rolling countryside change into jagged grey rock wall faces, towering up in front of us. Yevgeny shouts out in Russian, and as he scratches at his grey stubble, I see a tattoo of a skull on the back of his leathery hand. What is it with Russians and tattoos?

Yevgeny stops at the foot of the rock face, where the village ruins lie. Babushka holds onto me as we walk around the abandoned village. As she clings to me, I can feel her anguish. This was where her son had last been seen.

The ruins look like the inside of an enlarged anthill, with brown walls and rooms without any rooves. The ruins were sprawled but connected to each other, all up the mountain side. A huge human anthill that was now desolate, and abandoned. Babushka speaks, looking up at Carl.

“Babushka has seen enough,” he says, putting a protective arm around her. “It’s time to head back.”

So we leave. Babushka takes both our arms as we silently leave this empty shell behind. I, too, was holding onto her, thinking of my own mother. The loss of her recent passing finally surfaces. A mother without her son, and a son without his mother. I stop, and when she sees my watery eyes, she embraces me and we hug, and cry, together.

Yevgeny, our wild driver, takes us back down to the bottom of the Caucasus mountainside, only too happy to show off his driving skills again.

At the airport, Babushka and Carl say their goodbyes and leave together. I am taken aback. My two Russian friends that I have spent all of my free time with, sharing meals, laughs and seeing the sites, have left. Babushka had seemed quiet and withdrawn, the day had exhausted her, and still she was without her son. The joy was now gone.

It occurs to me that I may have done something wrong. They didn’t seem annoyed, but perhaps I had committed a Russian cultural faux pas. I had paid for Babushka’s flight, and paid the driver. I look out the train window. So much had happened since I saw this same view, before I knew Babushka and the black Russian.

I think about the conference tomorrow. I would need a good sleep tonight, and I don’t doubt that will happen.

I order room service as soon as I get into my room. I ask for shashlyk, which is meat and vegetables on a skewer, beef pirozhki, and, of course, a Black Russian.

Then it hits me, I am suddenly utterly exhausted. I manage to brush my teeth before collapsing into bed.

I wake up at 5am, feeling refreshed. The conference was at the Kremlin, the company must have gone all out to organise this.

A tall, solid, suited Russian shows me to a grand hall, lined with upholstered chairs of red damask. This is where the meeting was to be held. As he opens the large door, I catch a glimpse of a skull tattoo on his hand. I can’t place where I’d seen it, but then I remember: Yevgeny! This man is young, clean shaven and obviously fit. Surely this couldn’t be him?

As I enter the hall, I wonder, who were the big names in history that had walked these halls before me here today? I look around at everyone, and there are some familiar faces I recognise from other countries, but many that I did not know. The hall itself was breathtaking, decorated in white with gold embellishments. White pillars with bands of gold surround the room, each archway intricately adorned with golden patterns. Large gold and crystal chandeliers light up the room, reflecting off the shiny, polished marble floors.

The hall reminds me of seventeenth century palaces in the movies. It was nothing short of a fairy tale. But this was real. I almost expect Cinderella to walk in at any moment, with her prince next to her as the royal ball begins to the sounds of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto One.

A beautiful young lady approaches. “Welcome, Philip Johnstone. I am Elena Gonye, we spoke on the phone a few days ago. Please take a seat,” she says as she ushers me to a seat.

I am worried for a moment, fearing I am plagued by illusion. She has the same tattoo that babushka had on her hand. Maybe they are different Russian letters, but it looks the same.

“Thank you, Elena. I’m sorry, I feel rather underdressed in this suit. I feel like I should be in a tuxedo.”

“Not to worry, what you are wearing is perfect. “Can I offer you a drink? Would you like to try a Black Russian?”

“Yes, thank you, Elena. That would be lovely. But first, where is the bathroom?”

Elena directs me down the hall, assuring me that my drink will arrive shortly.

I wash my face, and as I am drying it with a cotton towel, I turn to the man washing his hands at the basin next to me. “Rough night,” I say. He chuckles politely, and as he turns to walk out, I see a snake tattoo on his neck. I follow, but I lose sight of him. He isn’t a skinhead. He wore a nice suit, and he had a sensible, corporate-approved haircut.

Was I drugged the other night? No! This was before all the Black Russians. I must be seeing things.

Distracted by my tattoo dilemma, I dawdle to my seat, where Elena waits, Black Russian in hand. The conference begins, and our host has the audience laughing in no time.

Finally, it is time for the big announcement. The hall is silent with anticipation.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your new global head of GZM pharmaceuticals, Mr Carl Moskvin.”