Spring of a Down - 11
Да, Да, Да. (Do-Do-Do, Da-Da-Da)
“Da, da, da. We have done nothing wrong. All I want to say to everyone in the West: this is only deNazification and demilitarization.”
The speaker affirmed his innocence with a nod. Mikhail was his given name, but he was called Romanovich because of his father, thus he was Mikhail Romanovich Vasiliev. Few people call him Misha. Most of them were dead or in a far hovel in Siberia.
They were in a Korean BBQ Restaurant not far from the Moskva River. The speaker said this to his girlfriend du jour, Vera Smirnoff (though no relationship to the Vodka,) and to two friends, the Volkov’s: Maxim and Victoria, or as everyone called them Max and Vicky. Nicknames were common in this crowd. Four peas in a pod, 3 of them alike. All in power suit with pinstripes.
All three of them nodded in unison.
Vicky took a drink of her sparkling water and peered around. “Everyone listens to the same programs: MSNBC, CNN, the BBC, DW. Only the same movement of real politicians tells the real truth.” Which, bien sur, was a Bolshoi Lie.
Vera poked at her Banchan bowl, then look at Galbi in the center of the table. Then she offered her advice: “Perhaps LePen will win the final election.”
Max merely nodded but without conviction. The brown brick was cold and the high seats with the dark brown cushions offered no advice. Vicky merely looked at the light brown Hangul modern glyphs present as drawings.
There was a pause.
The speaker waited for just an instant and then pontificated: “Ours is the victory. Kyiv was only a feint to gobble up the rest of the Donbas region.” Words to thank for his position.
Max leaned back. “1000 marine traitors just surrendered.”[1]
Vicky looked about hesitantly. “More will come.”
The speaker noted: “They are running out of food, fuel, and frozen rope.[2] It will not be much longer.”
Vera glanced aimlessly. “I need to wash up.” She then stared at Vicky and half-smiled.
Vicky took the hint. “Scusi,” then to her husband with a slight smile: “permesso.” The girl left arm in arm.
Maxim looked after his wife, then two men waited and then settle down to a more conspiratorial stance.
Romanovich glanced around the room but there were not many people there. “You met her in Italy?”
“They used to have – lax – enforcement of rules. Especially where income is concerned.” He peered around.
“Da. Da. Da. Officials cracking down.”
“I want to ask you Romanovich: is the explosion on the Moskva an accident?”
“If the news says it is true, who am I to doubt their word?”
Max leaned back into the cushion.
“You never know.”
“No, one can’t be too careful.”
The girls returned.
The Romanovich excused himself and entered the WC. Once inside he took the loo and closed the door. He fumbled with his pinstripe suit and then slide his hand to the outer pocket. The white magic came too. He had paid the owners a small sum of money, not rubles, to be discreet about his habits. The white powder was more than just drugs, it was power in a plastic bag.
Romanovich leaned onto his back his eyes tacking in the floor. Ecstasy in fine powder. Whap thump. He soaked in the awareness and then left quietly. Heel-toe heel-toe.
After that, there was laughing. A bit too loud but not overly so.
But then there was silence. The large mahogany double doors push open, and they were 4 men, 3 in black, one in a trench coat. The owner asked a question of the woman who waited at the tables. She only pointed. At Romanovich.
Vicky, under the table, clenched her hands. But Vera lit a cigarette and smoked, though this was now forbidden. Long puff. Long puff.
The men moved with robotic grace and stop in front of the high table.
The man in the trench coat looked at Misha. “We have some questions. Come with us.” It was in the imperative. Everyone knew what would happen if the command was questioned.
But Misha leaped over the couch into the other table and tried to make a run for it. He failed with the three goons on top of him. He was dragged to a black car kicking and screaming.
Back at the table Max lead over to Vera and smiled. She merely tilted her head with no inflection. Then the three were all alike. Finally, Vera said: “Misha was a first-class goat.” The other two nodded. But Vera was a Блять and a fine one too.
Max said: “Let us get out of here and into something warmer.” Vera nodded she needed to wander around in the night.
Outside the trench-coated man kept repeating the name of a blogger. She had not taken the party line on the police action. Misha denied everything but receipts were found for the meow-meow – the mephedrone. The plastic blue lights revolved; Misha kept repeating: “This is all I want to say to you: I have done nothing wrong!”
Whap thump. Curtain.
[1] The date is one or two days from 13 April.
[2] Frozen Rope is slang for bullets.