Chapter Fourteen

A brown cloud hovered low over Popov Street as workers hammered and chipped away at the old Glasnost Hotel. The plaster and stucco seemed so brittle that the workers thought at first they'd have an easy day of it, but the walls held firm and the workers sweated and cursed.

Then there was saw dust and pounding, and the foreman in a quilt jacket reported to Rassolnikov that the foyer and lobby were done. The new Peace and Friendship Meeting Room was finished too. Bulletin boards of various sizes and shapes and poster-holders covered all four walls.

Rassolnikov inspected. "Ah, wonderful!" he said. "This room reminds me of the good old days! Look, we can put the enterprise honor board here!"

The foreman frowned. "The what?"

Rassolnikov's face turned red and the veins pounded on his forehead. "Idiot! An honor board, like in the old days!"

"You mean anti-Amerikan posters!"

Rassolnikov's head turned red, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. "No, dunderhead! I mean posters of the employees of the month--those who fulfill their quotas, and here we can put graphs showing our progress, and here we can put up newspapers, and-"

"You'll be out of wall space by then," said the foreman.

"Oh, hush!" said Rassolnikov. "And here, we can put a list of people not living up to their quotas, and here-" Rassolnikov turned quiet, and a weak smile spread across his red face. Liuba Smetanova had entered the friendship room. He bowed low, extending his hand.

"Not now!" she commanded, planting herself in the doorway.

"Why--why, Liuba--Comrade Smetanova, what do you want?" asked Rassolnikov.

"You call this place a first-class hotel, do you?" she demanded.

"Well, yes, Liuba, we're getting there," answered Rassolnikov.

"Then when are you going to get rid of that old hag on the third floor?"

Rassolnikov bit his lip. "Hmm. I nearly forgot about her."

"She's no contribution to the atmosphere at all. She's the opposite. And her niece--or, she says it's her niece anyway--she's living with her, and she feeds filthy, stray alley cats-"

Perezhitkov entered, lugging a tool box. "The widow's lived here longer than nobody, except for the baron possibly," said Perezhitkov. "Why do you attack her so, Liuba?"

Liuba adjusted the fur around her collar. "Well, I expect to live in a certain degree of elegance, you see. Perhaps you've forgotten, Perezhitkov, that I have been to Latvia?"

"Big deal!" he said, under his breath.

She turned to Rassolnikov. "See what I mean!" she shrieked, pointing at Perezhitkov. "Such--such baseness, such Russian-ness! You should get rid of the likes of him as well as that old women in her shabby, out-of-date rags!"

"I'd love to get rid of him," said Rassolnikov. "But he's the appointed building manager, and I'm stuck with him, for now, that is."

"He's a drunken, pot-bellied, lazy, incompetent peasant, that's what he is!"

"I do the best I can, Liuba!" said Perezhitkov, almost sobbing. "But you make that impossible job even more difficult! Why, I can't get parts for anything, and no one will come and repair anything and--and-" His voice trailed off into sobs.

"Oh, hush now!" snapped Rassolnikov. "And just get your work done!" He turned to Liuba. "Now, my little-" His face turned red, and he coughed. "I mean, Comrade Smetanova, you just leave everything to me. Tensions are high, I know, two days before the visit, but you just relax, and I'll take care of everything."

"You'll take care of the old lady too?" Liuba demanded.

Rassolnikov shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, I'll take care of the old lady. I'll get rid of her."

"I hope so!" Liuba sang out. Her eyes lowered and focused in on Rassolnikov. "Why, I would think there'd be a reward--a certain pleasure for the person who does it."

"It will be done!" Rassolnikov answered.

With a swirl of petticoat and skirt, Liuba was gone.

"Why do you have to do kick out the widow?" asked Perezhitkov. "I haven't seen any orders in the paperwork--nothing that says she must be evicted. What do you have against that poor old woman?"

Rassolnikov's eyes narrowed. "What 'poor' woman?"

"Nina Petrova, the widow. What do you have against her?"

Rassolnikov's eyes narrowed even more, and he wrung his hands. "I have plenty of things against that--that witch! If--if only she knew!" His eyes flashed and his face contorted. "That--that woman was my teacher once. She probably doesn't remember. But she gave me a low grade. It kept me out of the Komsomol one whole year. One whole year!" He wrung his hands. "A whole year. Why, why, if I had gotten in a year earlier, who knows where I would be today!" His eyes looked off in the distance. "Presidium member Rassolnikov! Supreme Soviet member Rassolnikov, when there was a Supreme Soviet still! Prezident Rassolnikov!" His hands tightened into fists. "I could have been great! People would have--would have looked up to me!" His face turned purple, and he wrung his hands. "I could have been somebody! Oh, how I hate that--that woman!"

Just then, the door to the friendship room swung open. The Baron entered, looked around, and tipped his hat. "The earth shall rise on new foundations!" he sang.

"That man is crazy!" snapped Rassolnikov.

"He's harmless!" said Perezhitkov. "He lives in his own world."

"He's insane, and he has to go!" said Rassolnikov. His eyes flashed.

"We have been naught, we shall be all!" sang the Baron. With that, he bowed from the waist, replaced his hat, and headed for the stairway.

"This place is a mad house!" said Rassolnikov. "And to think the premier himself is coming in two days! I just hope this dump holds together just long enough for the grand opening!"

Perezhitkov shook his head, rubbed his chin, and headed for the cellar.

#

A light snow was falling, collecting even on the movie poster strung across the construction fence. One could barely make out the letters. "Showing tonight at the Glasnost Theater: 'The Fountain,' a contemporary satire." Across the street, spectators poured from the theater, and people rushed for the subway station and the bus and trolley stops. David and Anna walked up Popov Street.

"I liked the movie," said Anna.

"Me too," said David. "But it's too bad it shows life so gloomy."

"But it's true, I'm afraid. Life is like that all over this country. It's been a mess, and it's time to make things better finally. This whole country was crazy!"

"I thought it was just the Glasnost Hotel that was crazy. You know, because of all the construction, all us crazy foreigners."

"I'm afraid that craziness extends far beyond the confines of that one building! And in a special way, this whole city's mad. It always has been."

"But it's a gloriously mad city, isn't it?"

Anna nodded, smiling.

"I mean, what more glorious and crazy city is there than Saint Petersburg?" he asked.

"None, I suppose. Moscow is crazy too, but in its own way, a more normal way. How about America?"

David paused, brushing the snow from Anna's hair. "Well, you've seen the reverend and his wife, and Winston Hale the capitalist extraordinaire and Johnny Frisco the mafia man and Nick the Greek the con artist, so I think you've seen a pretty fair sampling of American craziness too."

"But you're not at all like them!" she protested.

He laughed. "And you're not at all like Rassolnikov or Liuba or the others!"

They crossed Popov Street. "Why do you like Perezhitkov so much?" she asked, her hand tightening on his arm.

"Because, my dear," he answered, putting his arm around her shoulder. "Because he is the salt of the earth! And all our hopes rest on people like him!"

#

"I can't stand it! I can't stand it!" Winston Hale was jumping up and down in the Peace and Friendship Meeting Room. "You told me we'd be paid by now! You promised! You promised!"

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait," said Osip. "Look, if we don't take the dollars now and put them right back into the enterprise, we'll never get anywhere and this place will never open! Believe me, we need to grease more wheels, if you know what I mean. Otherwise, we'll never get the dishes and linens still and utensils and furniture and-"

"You got a bigger problem!" said Johnny Frisco, in a voice that was uncharacteristically low. He stared down at his open palm. "You think this is money you gave me and Nick?" He shook his head, then turned his palm so that small pieces of multi-colored paper drifted to the floor. "This isn't real money, pal!"

"What do you mean?" asked Osip. "That's twenty thousand rubles! Do you know how long, say, a truck-driver or a carpenter or a teacher even has to work to make that much money?"

"I don't care," said Johnny. His eyes went from the rubles on the floor to Osip's face. "I want real money. I'm talking dollars."

"There'll be plenty of dollars later, when the hotel opens, when it starts collecting revenues, in hard currency!" pleaded Osip. "But for now, we need every dollar we have to get the things we need to open! It's that simple."

"It's even simpler than that, pal," said Johnny Frisco. "You pay me in real money now--in dollars, or me and my boys go home."

Osip's eyes flashed. "Look! You can't just come over here and start taking profits right away! You need to build things, to wait! Your country too--it took time at first, I imagine. You Amerikans! Don't be so--so damned impatient!"

"I, for one, am sick and tired of waiting!" said Winston, jumping up and down. "Why, I'll--I'll sue!"

"Look, we're in this together," said Osip. "We need to stick it out just a little more."

"I want my payments now, in dollars," said Johnny through gritted teeth. "I need those dollars right this minute. They--they have to, to re-circulate--that's what you call it. And I can't use no rubles!"

"There's nothing I can do right now!" said Osip. "My hands are tied!"

"And if this was California or Vegas," said Nick, shaking his finger. "Your hands would be tied!"

"What's with you Amerikans?" Osip pleaded. "You can't wait? Everything has to be done now? I mean, this hotel isn't even open yet! I'll never understand you kapitalists. I mean, I thought we apparatchiks were greedy and impatient!"

Johnny shook his head and lit a cigarette. "Look, pal, just pick your little paper funny money off the floor here, and go bring me a handful of the real stuff, the green stuff!"

"I can't," said Osip.

Johnny Frisco glared back at Osip. The two men stood motionless and silent.

"To hell with you then!" screamed Winston Hale. "To hell with your waiting! Do you realize I have an MBA from Stanford--an honorary MBA? Why, I've waited more than long enough, and now--now, I'm--I'm going home! That's what I'm doing. I'm leaving! I'm going back to my Mercedes and my BMW, back to my ocean house and my desert house! Back!"

With that, he turned on his heels, jumped up and down one more time, and disappeared from the room.

"So long, chump!" said Johnny to Osip. "We're leaving too." He motioned for Nick, and the two men walked out of the room.

#

"What's going on?" asked a tired Perezhitkov the next morning. He was standing in the foyer, rubbing his eyes.

"The nuts are leaving," said Rodion.

"Which nuts in particular?"

"Winston Hale and Johnny Frisco and Nick the Greek."

"Why?" asked an incredulous Perezhitkov.

"Impatience, I guess. Those Amerikans, they expect everything at once!"

There was a commotion on the stairway. Down came Winston Hale with seven suitcases and behind him came Johnny Frisco and Nick.

"Call us a cab!" Winston commanded Rodion.

Rodion picked up the phone, waited, then ordered a cab. "Thank you," he said. He turned towards Winston. "They'll have you a cab in three days."

"I want it n-n-n-o-o-o-w-w-!" cried Winston, stamping his feet.

"Here then, you try!" said Rodion, handing him the phone.

Winston threw it to the floor. "Johnny Frisco, get me out of here!" he screamed. "Like you promised!"

"Come on!" said Johnny, taking Winston by the arm. "We'll go get us a cab or a bus or a trolley."

"A bus?" shrieked Winston. "With all my luggage?"

"Okay, okay. Don't worry. I'll hot-wire the first vehicle we see."

With that, they were out of the door. Gone from the Glasnost Hotel were Winston Hale, the honorary MBA financier and real estate mogul of television seminar fame, along with the gentleman from San Francisco, and his partner from Las Vegas.

"Can we survive without them?" asked Rodion, leaning on his snow shovel.

"Of course!" said Perezhitkov. "People forget how we Russians can get things done. Just leave everything to old Osip! Those foreigners--they were just in the way."

#

In no time, Johnny Frisco had the engine of the white Volga sedan purring. The defrosters whirred, and little by little, a clear, flat spot formed on the windshield and then spread upwards.

"Great going!" said Winston Hale. "You started this thing as fast as I could, if I had the key!"

"It's nothing! Just a little trick I learned in grade school," Johnny said. He bent down low to peer through the clear spot on the windshield. "Now, where to?"

"To the airport!" said Winston Hale. "Let's get out of this awful country as soon as possible!"

"Okay! To the airport!" said Johnny Frisco, putting the sedan in gear. A thick frost still covered the windows. "Imagine the nerve of that Osip! Trying to pay me in rubles!"

"Where's the airport, boss?" asked Nick.

"I dunno. I wanna go back and teach that Osip a thing or two about what happens when you double-cross a business associate."

"Oh, for God's sake!" shrieked Winston. "Forget about Osip and just find the god-forsaken airport! I'm--I'm going crazy. I have to get out of this country!"

"Okay, okay!" said Johnny. "Just quit that yelling and screaming. My ears hurt."

"I'll quit when I get to the airport!"

"Okay, okay!" said Johnny, waving his hand. "Look, we'll just head out of town. I'm sure we'll come across the airport."

They rode on through city streets that became wider and wider, over bridges and past squares and hills.

"What's all those lights over there?" asked Nick.

"I don't know," said Johnny Frisco. "Just let me drive, okay?"

Winston Hale leaned into the window, clearing a spot through the frost with his glove. "Why, I think that's the winter palace there! Yes, thank God! We're going in the right direction!"

"How do you know?" asked Nick.

"Because we passed the palace on the way in from the airport, stupid!"

They drove on in silence, crossing a series of narrow jagged streets, and coming upon a wide street, with busses and trolleys.

"So, Mister Hale," said Johnny, making a wide turn. "Have you thought more about our little proposition?"

"Well, no."

"What are you gonna do then?"

"I got it all figured out, thank you!"

"Tell us!" begged Nick.

"No! You'd just laugh!"

"We won't!" said Johnny. "We promise!"

"Well," said Winston, settling back in the seat. "I'm going back to California. I'm going to open up a new-age church. 'The Temple of Hidden Knowledge of the Ages'--that's what I'll call it."

"Nobody'll buy it," said Nick.

"Well, they bought that Razhneesh Bagwad, or whatever his name is, didn't they?" protested Winston. "And he owned a whole city in Oregon and a fleet of Rolls Royce's too!"

"Hmmmm," said Johnny. "Tell me more."

"And they bought that Claire Prophet--You know, that woman who claims to be the reincarnation of Christ and Saint Germaine and everyone else too!"

"Sounds like another fruitcake to me!" said Nick.

"Maybe so, but a rich fruitcake! She owns half of Montana, and she's not done yet!"

The car made another wide turn. "So how ya gonna sell this thing?' asked Johnny.

"Aha!" said Winston. "That's where my background really comes in! With expert saturation and target-marketing, I can't lose! I'm going to plaster the country with radio commercials and television appearances, and I'm going to talk about finding the new age and its principles in the heart of Russia, or in the desert maybe, wherever my research suggests is best. Then I'll do a direct mailing and-"

"You need investors?' asked Johnny Frisco.

"Well, maybe."

"You got it!"

Suddenly, the car windows turned a frosty blue, then there were blinks and flashes that reflected off Johnny Frisco's cheeks.

"What in hell is that, boss?" asked Nick.

"Dunno. Dunno." Johnny rolled down his window and peeked out of the sedan. "Shit!" he said. "We're being followed. By police!"

"How do you know?" asked Winston.

"It's happened enough to me before, believe me. I know!"

Soon there were blue blinking lights ahead and off to the left and off to the right and behind too.

"Damn it!" said Johnny, slamming his fist on the steering wheel. He leaned forward. "Hey, Nick, give me a smoke!"

Nick handed him a cigarette. The car spun into a turn, gathered speed, and spun again. There were more blue lights. Now red ones too, and yellow ones.

"Shit!" said Johnny, turning the wheel hard to the left.

"Oh, save us! Save us!" cried Winston Hale. "Johnny, get this bucket going faster, for Christ's sake!"

Johnny spun the wheel again. The car leaned hard around a corner. More blue blinking lights.

"God, it must be their whole god-damned police force!" Winston gasped. "Go faster, for Christ's sake!"

Johnny Frisco leaned into the wheel, and the car jerked its way through a maze of narrow, winding streets. The sweat flew off Johnny's forehead.

Another turn. "Shit!" called out Johnny. The car spun around like a skater on ice. "I--I've lost control!"

"Christ, can't you even drive a car?" shrieked Winston, grabbing onto the arm rest. "Faster! Go faster! Stop this god-awful spinning around!"

The car spun around again, then, wham! It ended up crunched into the side of another white sedan.

"Alright, crazy foreigners, outside!" boomed a voice from a bullhorn. "Come outside of car, pleeze, with putting hands on top of heads!"

Johnny Frisco and Nick and Winston Hale got out of the car. A cloud of steam gushed from its radiator. The white sedan had ended up alongside another, identical white sedan. they looked like two pigeons, cooing on a ledge.

Cars with blinking lights and soldiers with rifles and policemen with guns drawn surrounded them. Men in uniforms got out of their cars and took up position behind fenders and opened doors.

"What is beeg idea?' asked the man with the bull horn.

"We're leaving your stinking country, that's all!" said Johnny.

"I don't theenk so," called out a man in a brown uniform.

"And why not?" demanded Nick. "We're--why, we're American citizens! And, and we're here on an official project. From our president. And your president too! You tell 'em, Johnny!"

Johnny was silent.

The man in the brown uniform stepped forward and pointed to a pin on his lapel. "You see, my friends, you have stolen a KGB sedan."

Nick swallowed hard.

"And you have crashed that sedan into another KGB sedan."

Johnny Frisco swallowed hard.

"But as it is so very conveniently for you," said the man, his eyes glowering. "You crashed right in front of Kresti Prison!"

Winston Hale put his hands to his face and burst into tears.

"Now, my foreign capitalist friends!" said the man in uniform. "You will come with me, please, across the street."

Winston turned back towards the sedan.

"This way!" the officer commanded.

"Oh, I just want my suitcase, that's all!" wailed Winston.

"Where you are goink, my friend," said the officer. "You won't need your suitcases. Everythink will be provided."

Winston fell down on his knees, his long fur coat dragged on the dirty pavement. "Thank you, officer!" he shouted, hands clasped. "Oh, thank you so much for rescuing me! These awful men--they were kidnapping me!"

"Get up and start walking!" commanded the officer.

They headed across the street that was bathed in the eerie blue lights.

"You call that little out-house a prison?" snapped Johnny Frisco. "Hell, our county jails are better looking than that dump!"

"Oh, it is very, very beeg buildink!" said the officer. "You see, its front door is here, in Saint Petersburg, yes? But it's back door. It is in Siberia!"

Winston Hale sobbed louder.

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