You Are One of Them by Elliott Holt

Author:Elliott Holt
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Literary, Fiction
ISBN: 9781101617977
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2013-05-30T00:00:00+00:00

8.

ULITSA PETROVKA WAS A NARROW STREET. It was one of the places in Moscow that probably hadn’t changed much in a hundred years, though its Old World charm was tarnished by chipped moldings and peeling paint. The entrance foyer of number 26 was in a state of aggressive decay. A uniformed militsiya man stood outside the booth that had been installed next to the elevator, his rifle on prominent display.

“Pasport,” he said. The word is the same in Russian and English, but he fired it at me in such a threatening manner that it took me a moment to understand. I felt like I was at Checkpoint Charlie and might be shot if I tried to get over the Berlin Wall. I shimmied my passport out of my bag—despite warnings about pickpockets, I refused to carry one of the hidden wallets or fanny packs that so many Americans use—and handed it to him. He studied my passport while I studied him. He could not have been older than I was. His cheeks were pocked with scars, and his chin was corrupted by cystic acne. One pimple was particularly ripe; the pus was practically oozing out.

“Amerikanka?” he said. I nodded. Obviously I was American, not just because my passport had been issued by the United States but because my body’s stiff, awkward simulation of deference revealed how unaccustomed I was to having my movements monitored. Sure, we had to go through airport security and show ID to buy beer, but we never questioned our freedom or our privacy. In 1995 I was not used to being watched. I was a privileged, white, American girl; I had never before worried that I’d be arrested or detained. The sight of this guard’s gun changed that. He seemed tempted to punish me just because he could.

“Otkuda vy?” he asked. Where are you from?

“Washington,” I said. “Iz Vashingtona.”

“CIA?” he said.

“Nyet,” I said quickly. “Studyentka.”

I was not a student anymore, but I wasn’t anything else yet. And I didn’t remember the words for any other professions. He raised an eyebrow. I suppose my grasp (a tenuous grasp, but most Americans don’t speak any Russian) of his language made him suspicious. Either that or I was so busy trying not to seem suspicious that I was especially suspect.

He picked up the red phone in his booth. “Allo?” he said, and then began talking so fast that I couldn’t follow anything, except that he definitely said, “Amerikanskaya devushka” (American girl) twice. He paused for a long time, listening and interjecting an occasional “Ladno” while I tried not to gawk at the acne on his chin. He hung up the phone and regarded me. I waited. He didn’t release me from his stare.

“Moy pasport?” I said, reaching for it. He stepped toward me and adjusted his gun. “Nelzya,” he said. It was forbidden.

I didn’t know what to do. There were no cell phones then. The public telephones in Moscow were broken. (“I’ve never found one that works,” Corinne had told me.

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