Another beautiful quote, from the same source, Gazeta.ru (I read them in Russian, they are really good; but I have no idea how different their English version is):

We are used to calling what's going on in Chechnya a counterterrorism operation [not "war"]. What's been happening in Russia in the past few days is a terrorist counteroperation.

CORRECTION:

Sorry - the hospital siege happened in June 1995 in Budyonnovsk, Southern Russia. And in Daghestan, in 1999, they took over seven villages. Sorry. I can't be trusted now.

Grozny looks like shit - I've seen photos and footage. They don't show much of it here (or anywhere) - but in the little that you get to see there're way too many ruined buildings and men in uniform. There is some imitation of life there - not just the election but even a university with some totally charming guys studying there.

Much of Russia looks like shit, too. The difference between war-torn Grozny and certain small towns elsewhere in Russia wouldn't be as striking as, say, between Baghdad and a town in the U.S. Midwest.

There are many Chechens living in Moscow and elsewhere in Russia, and in the West. A few are very very rich but most live quietly and poorly, just like most other people. If you ask me, the rich ones should go back to their homeland and kick some asses: it's all about money, not independence.

The newly-elected Chechen president looks and sounds a lot nicer than the recently murdered Kadyrov: I'll feel genuinely sorry for him when they blow him up, too. I didn't feel sorry for Kadyrov, he was a thug. His son is even worse: thank God he's only 27 and couldn't run for president after his father died. I did feel terribly sorry for all those people who gathered on May 9 at that stadium to watch the Victory parade and ended up nearly killed: all those beautiful skinny mamas, dressed up and made up, who came to show off their beautiful teenage daughters. For them it wasn't imitation of life - it was life, a holiday, and some schmucks made a mess of it. Fuck independence.

Now, North Osetia isn't populated by Russians. Daghestan (where they seized a hospital in 1999 - was it 1999?) has too many ethnicities and languages to count and most people there aren't Russian either. It's like killing those 12 Nepali construction workers in Iraq. What for? Why?

Many Russians think there's no war going on in Chechnya. That's what they are being told - and they are either too dumb or too tired and underfed (or overfed and drunk) to bother to think. Many Russians think Daghestan is some foreign country, populated by all those Muslims. A cab driver yesterday said: "Fucking Muslims." And I had to go into explaining the complexity of it all to him: the Cohen plus Hamas kind of equation.

There's some oil in Chechnya. There's money that's allocated for reconstruction but gets stolen by the fat assholes, never reaching Chechnya. Read Anna Politkovskaya's book for that. Also, there's been only one precedent so far when part of the country proclaimed independence and was recognized by the rest of the world: Bangladesh in 1971. Maybe I'm wrong here, though.

Mishah's home from work - maybe I'll write more later - but now I need a hug real bad.

Love,
Veronica

P.S. I forgot to mention the Chechen soccer team, Terek - those guys rock! They've had some very unlikely victories lately and are becoming quite famous. The fans who accompany the team - to Moscow and to Poland, among other places - are very sweet, too. Not the types who'd take hostages or blow themselves up.

I spent five or six hours away from the news and I really hoped it'd all be over by the time I get home. But nothing has changed. No "happy end" yet.

I wanted to write something "clever" about Chechnya - but I can't. It's as crazy and complicated as a Cohen lawyer defending a Hamas guy in the States - a Cohen helping Hamas and Hamas trusting a Cohen, a Hamas guy with a house in Virginia and $1 million to spare for a bail.

Fuck them all, as I said yesterday. All except the hostages.

"Nord-Osetia"

This is from a headline in one of the Russian online papers. Refers to the "Nord-Ost" theater hostage crisis in Moscow some two years ago.

Severnaya Osetiya... North Osetia... Nord-Osetia... Nord-Ost...

Very creative. I envy people who are able to come up with puns and stuff when something as horrible happens. I would give the guy a Pulitzer for this headline.

Some sources say there are 400 hostages being held in that school - kids, parents, teachers - and some say there are 150-200... Some say 15 kids have managed to escape, others say 50.

We've just had another explosion - in Moscow, near a subway station, at least ten people dead, though I don't know whether this includes the woman who blew herself up or not. What a day. Full moon. It normally takes me about three to four days to recover - but then it happens again. The 12 Nepalese hostages were kind of too far away and I decided not to pay too much attention, so then it happened in Ber-Sheba - and as if that wasn't enough, they decided to do it in Moscow, too. I know it's not about me, not at all (alhamdulillah), but I'm a spoiled only child, so I do feel like it's all happening to me. Fuck them all. I'm exhausted.

It doesn't look like they are trying very hard to hide... Though if one assumes that some terrorists are terrorists and others are freedom fighters, then it's different, of course (and I don't just mean Hamas here; there's also Mr. Zakayev living very comfortably in London and pretending to speak for the thousands of displaced Chechens)...

Bail at $1M in Videotaped Bridge Case

by Brian Witte
Associated Press

BALTIMORE — A man described as a high-ranking Hamas operative was freed Monday on a $1 million bond, but must appear before a federal grand jury in Chicago probing the Palestinian militant group's financing.

Ismael Selim Elbarasse was released during a closed-door detention hearing in federal court in Baltimore, said Vickie LeDuc, a spokeswoman for the U.S. attorney's office. His attorney said he was traveling to his home in Annandale, Va.

Elbarasse had been arrested after officers pulled him over Aug. 20 just west of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge after spotting his wife filming the structure with a video camera.

Neither Elbarasse nor his wife was charged with any wrongdoing. However, Maryland authorities held him after discovering a material witness warrant had been issued for him in Illinois the same day.

Federal officials in Chicago want Elbarasse to appear before a grand jury probing the financing of Hamas, which the government has designated a terrorist organization.

"He's going home, and I suspect what he and his family will do is stop keeping photo albums of their vacations," said Elbarasse's attorney, Stanley Cohen. A phone call to Elbarasse's home was unanswered Monday afternoon.

Cohen said Elbarasse's friends put up property to post the bond.

No date has been announced for Elbarasse to appear.

Court documents allege Elbarasse and defendant Mousa Mohammed Abu Marzook — considered one of the highest-ranking leaders internationally of the Palestinian extremist group — shared a Virginia bank account used to launder hundreds of thousands of dollars for Hamas. [...]

What's really cute about it is that the name of this guy's lawyer is Stanley Cohen.

***

Meanwhile, I'm waiting to hear from my former classmate who lives in Ber-Sheba with his beautiful wife and a sweet little baby daughter. I hope they are alive, healthy and not too upset about today's bus explosions, for which Hamas has claimed responsibility and which killed at least 15 people.

Yesterday, I saw this name on the list of the dead: V. Meglinskaya. I wanted to call Mishah at work because this is the last name of one of his colleagues in Moscow - she's Irina, but it could have been her relative. But then I got too upset to call him.

He told me in the evening that he had also noticed this name. He talked to Irochka on the phone about some work issues that day and at some point he said he hoped that was just a namesake of hers.

She hadn't seen the list yet. She said, "You know, we don't have any namesakes in this country - all Meglinskys are in some way related. My mother is V. Meglinskaya - but she's not flying any planes, she's at home, in Southern Russia. I'd know if she all of a sudden decided to fly to Volgograd from Moscow, right?" Then Irochka thought for a while, trying to remember any other of her numerous relatives whose first name starts with a "V" - "Venera," she finally said, a relative she hadn't seen or heard from in a very long time. She hung up right after that, and Mishah didn't have the guts to call her later to find out if that was indeed her relative Venera. He felt guilty for making Irochka worry - but I told him he shouldn't be.

Today, I checked the list again and noticed a correction: it's V. Miglenskaya - not Meglinskaya - now.

They haven't determined yet whether the planes went down because of terrorist attacks - but if they do, the relatives of the victims won’t get a cent because, even though all the passengers were insured, the insurance doesn’t cover death as the result of a terrorist act. If these were "just" accidents, they’ll get some $3,500 for each of their dead.

I know nothing about insurance; I've just heard this on the news. I think this is outrageously unfair: in a country at war, terrorism is as likely as accidents.

Some pretty disastrous things always happen in August here: it's become a cliche by now, and everyone's expecting the worst. The coup that brought the Soviet Union to its collapse took place on August 19, 1991 (which was a good thing for many, though; today - well, yesterday - is/was the Independence Day in Ukraine); the default happened on, I guess, August 17, 1996, and way too many people lost their jobs and savings; the Kursk submarine sank sometime around August 12, 2000. There could have been something else but I don't remember. And now this.

I'm so scared of flying - and to think of what all the relatives are going through now is horrible. There were about a hundred people on board of those two planes - or, hopefully, fewer: they keep confirming something and then there are some vague disclaimers. One plane's burning tail has been found, and the other one is still missing though it looks like they've almost found the place where it fell. It happened so late at night and Russia's countryside is very very dark.

Mishah flew to that airport just a week ago - it's a newly redesigned airport, Domodedovo, with really tight security. There's a commuter train service between the center of Moscow and the airport - the trains are brand new and comfortable - an incredible thing for Russia.

It can't be an accident. Two of them at the same time. They were at the stage of the flight that's the safest statistically.

Today, there was also a minor explosion at a bus stop in Moscow - in the area that's like a Bermuda Triangle: two apartment buildings were blown up there in 1999 and the theater hostage thing also happened nearby. But only two people are reported to have been hurt in today's explosion and no one took it seriously - it's Moscow, after all, a crazy city. But now they are beginning to panic - I've just read a piece that, among other things, mentions that the bomb had gone off roughly halfway from the center to the Domodedovo Airport.

Compared to what's going on in Iraq, this is nothing. Even though it is probably connected with the upcoming elections in Chechnya.

Only fools die for ideals.
(Bora Djordjevic, RIBLJA CORBA)

The Bosnian boy spoke reluctantly – either because he didn’t trust me, or because he was shy. Or both. He was reluctant to give me his full name, too. He was one year my junior.

When I was growing up in the Soviet Union, those of us who had a chance to visit his country, Yugoslavia, were considered lucky. It was almost like going to the West. Those lucky ones returned wearing absolutely enviable shoes. Even Italians used to buy Yugoslav-made footwear, cheap and of superb quality. The 1984 Winter Olympics in Sarajevo, broadcast on our black-and-white TV, was such a wonderful childhood memory, too.

I’ve never been to Yugoslavia. I met the Bosnian boy in Iowa, briefly, in 1998.

He went to war when he was 15. Four years later, in 1994, a landmine blew off his leg.

He started out with the Bosnian government troops. Then, he switched sides and joined the rebel forces of Fikret Abdic, a Bosnian businessman and politician. “The leader of the mosque would tell us: ‘You have to go there and fight, and you have to die, today. And you’ll be born again: in three months, you’ll be the same person.’ Stupid. In five years, I didn’t see anyone who woke up.”

After the landmine accident, he migrated from one refugee camp in Croatia to the next, and then all the way to the Midwest. In the refugee camps, he said, “seven years are like 100 years, and one night is like one year. Every day is the same. Every day is the same. You just think it’s your life.”

The war is about friends: “I am Muslim, but we fought each other because we wanted to be nice with Christian people. I fought for my city, home, friends. Not for religion or politics. For freedom. I couldn’t watch my friends leaving the city. When the war started, I still had friends who were Christian, but they had to leave because it was dangerous to stay in the city. Someone made them leave.”

War friends are different from peace friends: “You have a friend in the war and you share with him. Maybe he saved your life, maybe you saved his life – you know what I mean?”

Refugee camp friends are like war friends: “We helped each other. We had to say four times a day, ‘Take your pills. Take your pills.’”

One of his refugee camp friends, a tent-mate, had had a brain injury, and they all tried never to contradict him: “Whatever he said, we had to say, ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Like, ‘This is a chair,’ and it had to be a chair, not a sofa.”

Many people in the camp thought the Bosnian boy and his friends were the happiest among the refugees – because they always had something to laugh about: “We were so strong because we made jokes all the time. One year we spent in a joke. We didn’t even think of anything, just lived for today and tomorrow. We made jokes about politics. We made jokes about people without a leg, like myself. We made fun of each other because we could understand each other. We made jokes because refugee camp was hard.”

Once, the Bosnian boy’s mother made an attempt to leave the camp and return to their house – she found nothing there but holes in the walls. His friends made similar attempts, too, and some got killed: “It’s kind of like a gang. If you fought for my side and you went back, and if some people knew, they’d kill you or hurt you.”

But, if he ever did return, he said, he’d try not to miss the performance of his favorite Serbian band, Riblja Corba (Fish Stew). They played political songs, he said, and their lead singer always got arrested.

***

I have no idea whether the Bosnian boy has risked taking a trip to his homeland – but Riblja Corba made it to Waterloo, Iowa, this past Saturday!

WAITING FOR ILYUSHA

KYIV (October 5, 2000)

Chestnut trees are shockingly beautiful on this Indian summer evening - like redhead women on a stroll, oblivious to all but their own electric universe. Tomorrow, they may turn back into rusty decorations, stuck all over the city to remind us of the ugly November. Today, they rule.

The last thing I wanna do now is look for a vacant park bench. But I've come here to wait for Ilyusha, and I know I may have to wait for him till next morning.

This is a crowded archipelago of wooden benches swarming with all kinds of people - the young ones, some with beer or kids, and some kissing ardently; the elderly ones, some with newspapers or grandkids, others napping quietly. I want a bench of my own, a desert island of a bench, to wait for Ilyusha and see what happens while I wait for him this time.

I love Ilyusha. Once, we were at a birthday party in an obscure Kyiv neighborhood, and at midnight he decided there wasn't enough liquor left to last us all till dawn. So he went outside to buy more and disappeared. At first, I was worried sick about his fate, but then someone or something told me he must've caught the last bus back home. I relaxed and soon befriended a guy who was into rockabilly and had forsaken his normal-sounding Ukrainian name for a more enigmatic one, Billy. (I think Billy was the birthday boy, but I may be wrong.) At 7 a.m., we all awoke to a non-stop ringing of the doorbell: Ilyusha returned just in time for breakfast, looking slightly more disheveled than usual. In one hand he held a half-finished bottle of wine, in the other - a crumpled piece of paper with a detailed map of the neighborhood, sketched for him by some kind strangers from a beer-and-snacks kiosk: School, Lake, Kindergarten, Forest and, finally, the Crescent-Shaped Apartment Building, huge but so elusive that Ilyusha had to wait for the morning sun to track it back down again. Six years have passed since then.

I manage to find a bench I like, but before I even have time to open a beer, an old woman - starushka - sits down next to me. I light a cigarette, hoping to smoke her out - but she acts as if we're sitting in parallel universes, as if I'm invisible and second-hand smoke is a joke. All she sees right now is a man a few meters away: he's finishing up his beer. The moment he puts the empty bottle down next to his bench, she plunges towards it. She leaves her plastic bag behind, with four or five bottles already in it. But she's in a competitive business and, out of nowhere, another starushka appears. They both grab the same bottle, tug at it fiercely, and my starushka wins. Her defeated competitor curses loudly at her; she retorts with as much rage; their verbal fight is getting quite bloodcurdling - and I find myself begging them to stop, promising to donate a bottle when I'm done with my first beer. The old woman returns to our bench and carefully places her newest trophy into the plastic bag.

I realize all of a sudden that I have so much compassion for my starushka, I'm ready to adopt her. I offer her one hryvnia (a paper bill of the lowest denomination; to earn it, she'll probably have to gather at least ten empty bottles), but she refuses. "Then I'll give you three full bottles of beer in addition to this empty one - if my friend doesn't show up in 15 minutes," I insist. The starushka smiles and sighs. She tells me her daytime job is to sweep the park and the area surrounding it. This place is truly her turf - but collecting bottles and exchanging them for money is as "Great Game" as any, and intruders abound. She gets up to leave after a while. "Don't worry about the bottles, take your time - the weather's so lovely," she says. I ask her to please accept that one hryvnia from me, and eventually she concedes, blessing me profusely.

With enough blessings to last me a lifetime, I continue waiting for Ilyusha. Janitors love him, too. One winter day, Ilyusha's mother was approaching their apartment building when a local janitor intercepted her: "You have such a wonderful son! Last week, he helped me so much: he shoveled away all the snow for me - at 6 a.m., just to sober up," she exclaimed. "An amazing boy!"

Amazing he is. Thanks to him, my own mother once had a birthday surprise for me. I left them in one room for five minutes and when I returned, she announced: "I'm going skydiving with Ilyusha when it gets warm! He says it's totally safe - and so breathtaking! I wanted to keep it secret from you - until I actually did the jump - but then I thought that if something goes wrong, God forbid, you'll have a heart attack if you hear about it from someone else... So I decided to prepare you." She meant it, and Ilyusha just sat there, nodding supportively. It took another dear friend, a kind-hearted journalist, and a graphic description of a hapless parachutist he'd seen, to dissuade my mother.

I finish the first beer and put the bottle down on the ground. The natural light is already faint and the sky is barely distinguishable through the leaves and branches above; but the darkness is faint, too, because in the distance, the first streetlights have been switched on. No one rushes to pick up the bottle; it'll probably have to wait till morning. Ilyusha's still not here.

Two polished and perfumed young women take the starushka's place on my bench. Both are blond and wear all black. I'm eavesdropping on their conversation: "So it got me thinking: he's getting himself all these cell phones and cameras, but he's not buying anything for me... He said he wanted us to celebrate my birthday without guests, just the two of us, and I was like, does he understand that if he's got no money to pay for it all - I mean, we'll go out to a restaurant, right? - does he understand that I wouldn't stand looking at him after that again?"

If only Ilyusha knew what he's putting me through. But waiting for him's never been easy, and he's doing it to everyone. Ilyusha and I once stepped out to a nearby store, telling his sister and her boyfriend that we'd be right back. On our way across the street, we kept running into Ilyusha's numerous friends, and a few invited us to come over to their apartments for tea, and then, several months later, Ilyusha's sister angrily told me that she got pregnant that night and we were the only ones to blame.

The blond girls have left and I'm done with the second beer. A man and a woman of indefinite age - no more young, not yet old - place themselves in the parallel universe by my side. They cuddle happily and start talking about copywriters and Leonid Kuchma. My third beer distracts me from full-scale eavesdropping.

Soon, Ilyusha arrives. It turns out he's bought a car, recently. And he has to park it. So he leaves, promising to be right back.

I am waiting for Ilyusha, again.

SLAUGHTERHOUSE

It rained on the morning of my commencement in June 1996. And there was no hot water in our building. I took an umbrella, a bottle of shampoo, a toothbrush and a towel and ran over to Danil's place across the backyard, for a quick shower.

My parents and I must have walked to the university, five minutes uphill, that morning. I can't say for sure now whether we walked or took a cab, but five minutes of downpour and a nice hair-do are incompatible, and I don't remember applying any styling mousse. I just put on some red lipstick matching my skirt and the flowers on my yellow blouse.

The university auditorium was packed: parents, professors, friends, and ourselves, the graduating students. Solemnly, we were receiving our diplomas on the podium and, as soon as we were through with that, we hurried to the back of the huge room, past the applauding crowd, to grab our last stipends, a few millions in Ukrainian currency, or some 20 U.S. dollars, a few months overdue but still very welcome.

The rain stopped soon after I officially graduated. Enough reasons to get drunk, and this I remember surprisingly well: a few beers at a low-key place near the university; Guinness at the Cowboy Bar; Corona at the billiards place; cognac at home; more beer at the beautiful park; Madeira straight from the bottle on a bench at some unlit playground; red wine straight from the bottle at 4 a.m. by the fountain in front of the Ukrainian Drama Theater.

Then, a blackout for a few weeks. After which I got packed and soon left for the United States for the next two years.

***

In late November 1998, I was at the cashier's office of my Kyiv alma mater, waiting for a friend, a pregnant Ph.D. student. Originally, we had been planning to meet at her place but someone told her she could finally receive her stipend for September and October, and she didn't want to postpone what had already been postponed for so long.

The cashier's office opened at 2 p.m., and she suggested that we meet at three. Suspecting nothing, I promised to pick her up at 2:15 p.m.

I came on time. I intended to look for her in the room I remembered from my own, relatively recent, student past: two windows, four tiny openings in the wall (framed with patterned grates), four women handing out cash (caged in these openings), annoyingly dim lighting and way too many people.

But I didn't get as far as that. I found myself stuck in a small rectangular lobby, from which I could only watch the crowd in the adjacent room, the treasury. My friend wasn't visible anywhere. After 15 minutes of trying to break through and watching I began taking notes.

By 2:30 p.m., not a single person had emerged with the money yet. But some clarity had been established: theoretically, post-graduate students were to receive their stipends first, then - graduate students and finally, undergraduates. In reality, however, everyone wanted to be the first, nobody cared about the seniority principle introduced by the university officials, and the hullabaloo went on.

A middle-aged, overweight clerk pushed herself through the jam and made a cheery announcement: "Don't worry, we're going to give out the money till everyone gets it, all right?" "Right, right, right," gloomily echoed the students in the lobby.

Inside the cashier's room, one window was open and the cold, steamy air was coming in, refreshing students dressed for the snowy season. I saw two guys floating above the rest, but that was just an optical illusion: they had placed themselves on the windowsill to draw attention of friends who were being late.

In the lobby, some were sitting on scratched wooden benches and chatting, others were looking through their class notes and poetry books. One student was reading a paperback by John Grisham. "You came for your stipend, too? There's murder in there," I heard someone greeting a newcoming classmate.

At 2:55 p.m., I was still waiting for my friend. I felt I was getting a sore throat, perhaps even flu.

I went outside and spoke to a graduate student ("aspirant"). He was not very hopeful about getting his money that day - but there were two more days to do this, and then he'd be taking a train to the Carpathian Mountains to backpack and ski for a couple of weeks there. His two-month stipend of slightly more than $50 seemed sufficient to him.

People outside smoked and discussed lots of issues, including the floods in Transcarpathia and frequent electricity shut-offs in Kyiv, as well as their classes and private lives. I asked one undergraduate student ("studentka") how much money she was fighting for, and she explained that undergrads with straight A’s were getting approximately $4.30 a month while those with lower grades could expect no more than $3.70.

By 3 p.m., the first few individuals left the cashier's room, with or without their money. Some sighed heavily or had problems breathing, others had their tongues hanging out or laughed hysterically. I even saw a woman with bloody nose.

"I don't remember anything like this," said a lucky one with some cash secured in her fist.

"I knew there'd be a line, but not this awful," exclaimed a not-so-lucky one.

"I can't believe we're out of there," said an exhausted one and sighed with relief.

"She can't get out...What a madhouse," complained a girl who had lost her friend.

I didn't see my pregnant friend anywhere in this mess, either, but I was curious enough to stay a bit longer.

The crowd in the cashier's room began cheering, or screaming. From the lobby, it was hard to tell what was going on inside, but the sound reminded me of my neighbors who lived a thin wall away and often watched dramatic football games on TV. When the screams came again, I thought someone stepped on a cat. Then the door squeaked, and that sounded just as human, or feline.

I went outside again and saw an ambulance parked nearby - but that was just a coincidence.

Finally, at 3:30 p.m., when I was ready to leave, my friend and her husband showed up, looking fresh and happy but nowhere near as excited as I was. They apologized for being so late. I thanked them for letting me witness something I didn't remember vividly anymore: a slaughterhouse similar to the Soviet-time lines at grocery stores.

I found out that my friend came to receive approximately $122 for two months, which seemed so much more than what undergrads and grad students were getting. Our government did value intellectuals and their work, after all.

And perhaps the notorious "brain drain" could easily be prevented - if only the university officials somehow managed to emphasize to the undergraduate students that if they worked truly hard, they'd eventually ascend to grad school, and their miserable $4.30 a month would sooner or later turn into the glorious $61. Being paid so well, who'd want to emigrate?

Sixty-one dollars might be enough to feed yourself and your family humbly but decently for almost a week. Or, on the other hand, if you saved it up for a year ($61 multiplied by 12), you could buy yourself a plane ticket to the United States.

***

My friend's baby boy must be 4 now. I think they still live in Kyiv. I don't. But I really miss it.

MOSCOW (March 20, 2002)

Mishah came home with two cell phones: one his own, another a brand-new tiny black thing that he had found by a bus stop on his way from the office. He wiped it carefully with a napkin and washed his hands as carefully afterwards.

“I picked it up from the mud, it’s raining now,” he explained.

“We’ll have to find its owner,” I announced enthusiastically, taking the phone from Mishah.

Then a terrible thought crossed my mind: what if the phone’s owner was a syphilitic, or a terrorist had stained it with invisible anthrax spores and placed it in a public place as a trap for unsuspecting commuters? I hurried off to the kitchen to wash my hands and finish cooking our dinner.

“I was thinking of giving it to the cops on duty nearby,” Mishah said at the table, ”but there’s no way they’d ever want to part with it. I think you’re right: we should try to locate the owner.”

There were only two cryptic entries in the phone book of the stray phone, RLM and Zin. Immediately, I imagined a young, clean-shaven boy with a neat haircut: a student, perhaps, who had been skipping lunches for several months to save pocket money. His thriftiness must have finally allowed him to buy this coveted item of every boy’s and girl’s outfit. Before he lost it, he must have been trying to figure out how to enter his friends’ names and numbers. He must have also been searching for that unique tune, which wouldn’t send everyone around him on a bus reaching for their phones when it was his that was ringing. He must have still been enjoying the feel of the yet unscratched new plastic friend - when all of a sudden the friend was gone.

Mishah dialed one of the numbers in the phone book. As he began talking, I nodded at his every word and smiled: in my mind, I still saw that poor student who, for once, was lucky to have encountered a genuinely kind person in this ruthless city.

“Yes, I’m at home now, at Kalashnyy… Aha...if you’re there…from Pushkinskaya, walk along the Boulevard Ring to the TASS building, then turn to Bolshaya Nikitskaya… No, no, the other way, towards the Conservatoire…”

Here, I thought, Mishah was making a mistake, for how would a boy like this know what and where the Conservatoire was? Towards the Kremlin, that should have been the next point in navigating the boy.

“Yes, call me when you are by the Japanese Embassy and I’ll come down,” Mishah concluded and hung up.

“A nice man, polite, sounds educated,” he said, turning to me. “It’s his wife’s phone. They were returning from a concert at the Conservatoire, and when I called, they had just realized that the phone disappeared.”

Half an hour later, the man called back and Mishah took the phone and left. I stayed, responsible for watching the Juventus vs Arsenal UEFA Champions League game for him. The commentator’s eloquent chat was distractful and I turned the sound off. The game suddenly turned lethargic, and my thoughts wandered back to the phone’s owner's new incarnation: an absent-minded female, a classical music fan, accompanied by her refined husband. If I were them, I thought lazily, I’d give Mishah a chocolate bar – at least – as a reward. My ever voracious mind kept fantasizing about edible remunerations we could receive for our act of kindness (Pickles? Pastrami? French cheese?) - until Mishah returned, a solid book in his hand.

“A very pleasant middle-aged couple. They asked how much they owed me and I protested. They decided to give me a Joseph Brodsky book instead,” Mishah said.

I could see he was very moved, no less than I was myself.

“I didn’t want to take it, but they asked, quite ominously, ’What? Perhaps you don’t like Joseph Brodsky?’ So I gave in."

Mishah handed me the book of Brodsky’s poetry and essays, a new hardcover edition. When I opened it, a leaflet from the Svyatoslav Richter Memorial Concert slipped out and landed on the carpeted floor.

MOSCOW (April 4, 2001)

I took a trolley instead of the Metro to get to the movie theater. It was a peaceful ride: all seats taken, a few people standing, the garden-less Garden Ring outside the window, no traffic jams in sight and our vehicle actually moving forward.

As always, I had my trolley ticket punched. Ten cents a ride; one could play a potentially non-suicidal Russian Roulette by riding ticketless and hoping that the hand of Fate would avert a kontrolyor from this particular trolley. If the kontrolyor did appear, the fine imposed would be no more than 35 cents (whereas to see In the Mood For Love cost $4.15).

But I was playing a different kind of Russian Roulette - I was preparing to live in Moscow in violation of the mayor's unconstitutional directive, which required non-Muscovites like me to register with the police within three days of our arrival. I was beginning to learn to dodge the cops in the streets and to have a trolley ticket ready, to avoid unnecessary contact with Moscow's authorities.

I sat next to a woman with a tabloid and furtively scanned through reports of fires, car accidents and maniacs, and the gory pictures accompanying them.

Suddenly, a fatigue uniform-clad man on my right turned around.

He must have stood there for a few minutes after entering the trolley, inconspicuous, an ordinary passenger. He could have easily passed for a retired but still devoted marine, or a bank guard, perhaps. But as he turned around, he reached into the inside pocket on his chest and drew his kontrolyor’s license out - with the speed, grace and menace of an undercover cop drawing his weapon in an American movie.

“Your tickets, please,” he announced in a thunder-like voice.

None of us passengers blinked – dumbfounded rather than unimpressed – and all had a ticket to show. Conscious of the effect his dashing unmasking has had, the kontrolyor blurted out a self-praise at one of the unseated passengers – “Ha! Ain’t I cool, eh?” – and resolutely proceeded to the other end of the trolley.

...I took the Metro back home from the movie theater and saw another camouflaged man there. He was strolling along the station, with an unleashed German Shepherd running in front of him. Hundreds of pushing, reading, laughing, cursing, drunk and just gloomy people waiting for the train didn't bother these two: one was surveying the station for suspicious individuals, the other was sniffing for a bomb that might have been hidden under one of the benches.

“In the mood for love, in the mood for war, in the mood for a walk,” I thought, elbowing my way into the train car.