The Boy from Reactor 4

The local process for queueing, however, was not as pleasant. People didn’t wait in orderly lines. They jumped and jostled for position. Nadia channeled her innermost New Yorker to conform. It took her twenty minutes to get to the head of the line. A suspicious young man interrogated her, searched her bags, and motioned for her to pass.

When she burst into the arrival area, a gang of gypsy-taxi drivers tried to rope her into their cars. Nadia ignored them and continued to the taxi stand. The sun shone on a mild day, but the air smelled of diesel. Peugeots, Fords, and Mercedeses purred in line. While twenty people waited for a ride, five men argued loudly in the yellow hut.

A thirtysomething driver with dirty-blond hair and cynical blue eyes stood beside his cab at the end of the line. “For every three Cossacks, there are five Hetman,” he said in Ukrainian, shaking his head with disgust. “Welcome to Ukraine.”

Nadia checked out his cab. Rust dangled from the body of a filthy white Fiat with Soviet stories to tell. Nadia couldn’t see through the indigo tint on the windows, but the phone number stenciled on the side of the door and the license on his dashboard confirmed he was a legitimate operator.

“Hotel Rus. How much?” Nadia said in English. She rubbed her fingers together in the international sign for money.

He put up four fingers and answered in Ukrainian. “Four hundred hryvnia,” he said. Fifty dollars. Should be closer to thirty, Nadia thought.

Nadia switched to Ukrainian. “I need an honest Hetman. One who’ll take this Cossack’s daughter to her hotel for two hundred hryvnia.”

His lips formed the trace of a smile. “I’m cutting the line. Big violation if they notice. But for a Cossack’s daughter returning to her homeland from America, three hundred hryvnia.”

Nadia stepped back. “How did you know I’m from America?”

He pointed at the KLM baggage tag on her suitcase. “Newark, New Jersey,” he said in broken English, smiling.

Nadia agreed to his rate. He took her bags, opened the door for her, and drove her out of the airport.

“First time here?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Are you a language professor? An academic?”

“No. I was born in America, but I was raised in a Ukrainian community. Ukrainian was the first language I learned. I went to night school for twelve years.”

“You speak it well. Where was your father from?”

“Bila Tserkva.”

The driver nodded. “Sure. My cousins live there. I visit all the time. What do you do for a living in America?”

Nadia hesitated. “Finance,” she said. “I work in finance.”

He moaned with approval. “So you are beautiful, and you make a good salary. You are half of paradise.”

Nadia blushed. She spied his handsome grin in the rearview mirror. “I beg your pardon?”

“In Ukraine, men say that paradise is an American salary, a Ukrainian wife, Chinese food, and an English house. You have the first two covered, so you’re half of paradise.”

“Oh.”

He glanced at her through the mirror. “You know what hell is?”

Nadia shook her head.

“Hell is a Ukrainian salary, an American wife, a Chinese house, and English food.”

Nadia chuckled. “Yes. Stay away from those American women. They’re selfish and spoiled.”

“Really? Ha. What do you know? Just like the men in Ukraine. That makes us two of a kind.”

An eight-lane highway cut through a countryside filled with birch groves and white brick farmhouses. A yellow neon sign proclaimed WELCOME TO KYIV in English. The forest yielded to a sequence of billboards and neat rows of apartment buildings topped with satellite dishes. At first, the landscape was reminiscent of the approach to a regional American airport. Once they crossed the Dnipro River and the hills of Kyiv rolled into view, everything changed. A panorama of gilded church domes decorated the horizon. They blended with modern architecture to create a unique urban skyline.

As traffic picked up, the driver accelerated his pace. He used breakdown lanes to pass on the right and darted between cars in lanes that didn’t exist. Nadia clung to her armrest.

“There are no atheists in Kyivan taxicabs,” he said with a grin. “In fact, you give me an atheist, I’ll convert him to the religion of your choice in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s terrific,” Nadia said. “But I’m already a believer. And if I wasn’t clear at the airport, I was hoping to arrive at the hotel alive.”

The driver laughed and drove more cautiously the rest of the way. When he pulled into the driveway, Nadia tipped him 20 percent.

“Here is my card,” he said earnestly. “My name is Anton. If you need reliable transport, call me. Anytime.”

Nadia looked at the card. Anton Medved, Assistant Professor of Sociology, Kyiv Slavonic University. Why was a professor driving a cab?

“Ukrainian salary,” Anton said, as though reading her mind. “It really is hell.”