Heads You Win

Sasha climbed into the front seat, once again wondering if they would make it. He gazed out of the window as they passed the Kremlin.

“You’ll live there one day,” said Fyodor as they left Red Square behind them and drove on through the empty streets.

“How many people are you expecting this evening?” Sasha asked.

“We have no way of knowing, because we’ve never done anything like this before.”

Sasha couldn’t help wondering if the Russian Alf would be able to muster more than a dozen men and a sleeping dog. He turned his thoughts to what he might say to his audience. If the gathering was small, he decided, after a few opening remarks he’d just take questions, and be back at the hotel in time for dinner.

By the time the car drew up outside the workers’ hall, he had a few remarks prepared in his mind. He stepped out onto the pavement to be greeted by a woman dressed in Russian national costume, who presented him with a basket of bread and salt. He thanked her and bowed low, before following Fyodor down a narrow alley and through a back door. When he entered the building he could hear cries of “Kar-pen-ko, Kar-pen-ko!” As he was led up onto a stage, over three thousand people rose as one and continued to chant, “Kar-pen-ko, Kar-pen-ko!”

Sasha stared down at the packed gathering and realized that his youthful boast, meant only for the ears of his friend Vladimir, had become a rallying cry for countless people he had never met, who, for generations, had remained silent about how they really felt.

His speech lasted for over an hour, though because it was interrupted so often by chanting and applause he only actually spoke for about fifteen minutes. When he finally left the stage, the building echoed to the repeated cries of “Kar-pen-ko! Kar-pen-ko!”

Out on the street, his car was mobbed, and it was almost a mile before Fyodor was able to shift into second gear. Sasha suspected that if he tried to describe what had just taken place to Charlie or Elena, neither would believe him.

Sasha had always hoped that he might be able to play some part, however small, in bringing down Communism and ushering in perestroika, but now, for the first time, he believed that he might live to see that day. Would he regret not remaining in his homeland and standing for the Duma? He was still preoccupied by these thoughts when he entered the hotel lobby, and quickly returned to his old world. The first person he saw in the lobby was Fiona.

“Have you had an interesting evening?” he asked.

“The embassy got us tickets for the Bolshoi,” she replied. “We called your room, but you were nowhere to be found. Where were you?”

Someone else who wouldn’t have believed him if he’d told her, and perhaps more important, wouldn’t have wanted to.

“Visiting old friends,” he said, picking up his key and joining Fiona as she walked toward the lift.

“Which floor?” he asked as they stepped inside.

“Top.”

He thought about telling her that was always the worst floor in the Soviet Union, but decided she wouldn’t have understood. He pressed two buttons, and neither of them spoke again until they reached the fourth floor when he said good night.

“Don’t be late for the bus in the morning. Nine fifteen sharp,” said Fiona as the doors opened. Sasha smiled. Once a head girl, always a head girl.

“The Russians are famous for keeping you waiting,” he said as he stepped out into the corridor.

He placed his key in the door of a room that was probably half the size of Fiona’s. The only compensation was that it would have half as many bugs. Suddenly he realized he hadn’t eaten, and for a moment he thought about room service, but only for a moment. He put on his pajamas and climbed into bed, still hearing the chants of Kar-pen-ko as he placed his head on the pillow, pulled the blankets over himself, and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep.

Was the persistent banging all part of his dream, he wondered, but when it didn’t stop, he finally woke. He glanced at his watch: 3:07. Surely it couldn’t be Fiona? He dragged himself out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and reluctantly padded across to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Room service,” said a sultry voice.

“I didn’t order room service,” said Sasha as he opened the door.

“I wasn’t on the menu, darling,” said a long-legged redhead, who was also dressed in pajamas and a dressing gown, but hers were in shimmering black silk, and unbuttoned. “I’m tonight’s special,” she said, holding up a bottle of vodka in one hand, and two glasses in the other. “I did come to the right room, didn’t I, darling?” she purred in perfect English.

“No, I’m afraid you didn’t,” replied Sasha in perfect Russian. “But do come back again at seven thirty, because I forgot to ask the front desk to give me a wake-up call.” He gave her a warm smile, said, “Good night, darling,” and quietly closed the door.