blog post turned story about a real life event. still consider it fiction, though.
I was just about ready to leave when the pounding started on the door. Heavy, rhythmic, coupled with my name shouted in a heavily affected Russian accent ‘БРЕНДАН’ (pound pound pound). I opened the door.
Before me stood my downstairs neighbor, Alex. We generally don’t see each other much, we generally don’t talk much besides exchanging pleasantries on the stairs from time to time. Most of our conversations occur when the sound of people at my parties becomes unbearable for him on Friday/Saturday nights and he comes upstairs in order to ask us to be quieter. Usually he’s very civil, tonight he didn’t seem so civil and I had no people over to my apartment. I was confused.
Alex was visibly drunk. There were stains on his roughly knit shirt. He was carrying a large jar in each hand. One appeared to be filled with tomatoes; the other, with berries and a berry colored liquid that appeared alcoholic. Behind him stood a young man, early teens, pre-pubescent mustache. He was looking at the ground. On Alex’s shoulder was a cat.
-Brendan! I’ve come today to celebrate with you! I’ve brought my son and my cat!
-Alex, I was just about to head out, I’m meeting friends
-Nonsense! Today is the day of defenders of our nation, we have to drink!
He entered, entourage in tow. He led us into the living room. Let the cat go. She immediately ran into my room and under the bed. He sat down heavily, looked about him.
-Brendan, this is my son ________. He is fourteen years old. I wanted him to meet the American.
-Hello _______ I’m Brendan. How are you?
-….I’m fine….thanks
-Brendan! my son, he is a very good one. He studies hard, gets good grades, studies German.
-You study German?
-Yes….a little.
-Versteht dein Vater Deutsch?
-….um….Nein.
-Ist alles okay?
-Ja.
_________ wasn’t making eye contact, looked a little uncomfortable. I pitied him.
-Brendan! You can speak German?
-Yes, I lived in Germany for about two years.
-You are, you are, a person of the world.
-Thank you Alex, I appreciate the complement.
-You….and I….are people of the world.
-Yes we are Alex, yes we are.
He looked at me for a few seconds without saying anything. His eyes watery with drink.
And red. He seemed lost in thought for a few seconds. He blinked, shook his head.
-Brendan! Do you have shot glasses?
-Yes, just a second.
I walked into the kitchen and started washing the few shot glasses I had for us to use. I didn’t notice that he had followed me in.
-Brendan! Do you have a knife?
-Yes, just a second
I handed him the biggest knife I had, thinking he was going to use it to cut some bread for us to eat. Instead, he started to play with it, flipping it between fingers, lunging.
-Do you know how to do that?
-No, I don’t. In America, we don’t have required military service
-I was a member of the military, during the soviet times. Do you know the USSR?
-Yes, of course.
-I know how to kill with this knife, I know how to kill with lots of things. Do you know how to kill?
-Well, I guess with a knife it’s not so hard, but…
Alex lunged at me, put the knife near my throat, told me not to worry.
-I am in complete control.
He was drunk; I was afraid. Not that he intended to kill me, but that in his drunkenness he would stab me. I tried to make my way out of the kitchen. Get out [of this situation]. Invited him to come with me. We headed back to the living room.
Alex took the lid off of one of the jars. Told me it was called ‘Nastoika’. Told me his grandfather made it.
-Is it like Vodka?
-No, much better, it’s made at home, my grandfather made this.
-Distilled?
-Yes, distilled, distilled!
-With berries?
-Yes! With berries! Let us drink!
He poured from the jar into two shot glasses. His son looked on silently. Looked embarrassed. The cat was missing. We drank. It was delicious. It was like vodka without so much burn and was filled with the sweet flavor of berries. It went down easily.
-Alex, this is the most delicious thing I have ever drank.
-Only Russians know how, you don’t have this in America. You can’t find this anywhere else.
-That’s probably true.
We drank again, Alex opened up the jar of Tomatoes, put one on the table. He took out the knife I had given him and tried to cut it. The tomato ended up all over the floor. He took another one, bit into it. The juice and brine ran down his face and onto his shirt. The air was permeated with the smell. He offered me one and I refused.
-You don’t like tomatoes? My grandmother pickled them.
-I can’t eat them, I’m allergic
I lied. I just don’t like pickled tomatoes.
-So you were in the army?
-Yes for a long time. They taught us how to kill in the army, kill Americans. Americans are barbarians! Kill them!
-Really?
-Of course, it was the cold war. Americans were taught the same, ‘Kill Russians’!
-I don’t know if that’s totally true
-Of course it’s true, it was the cold war.
I contemplated this idea, thought about the other conflicts going on during the cold war, [troubles with] Cuba, Korea, Vietnam. Russia wasn’t so important to us that our only military focus was their destruction. (is that really so??)
-Brendan, We were taught to kill, to kill Americans. I know how to kill with anything. With this spoon, this fork. With my hands. With my gun. Do you want to see my gun?
-Your gun?
-Yes, my gun, I have many of them. I was in the army.
-Um, really?
-Yes, _________! Go get my gun and bring it up here.
His son looked at him, got up and went into my bedroom. He emerged about thirty seconds later with the cat. He walked out the door. I figured we wouldn’t be seeing him again.
-We were taught that Americans were Barbarians. Now I see you, I know that’s not true.
-Why is that?
-Look at you? You don’t know how to kill. You went to college, you came to Russia to teach Russian students English.
-I guess I do know how to kill, but I don’t think I would be able to.
-That’s what I mean. You aren’t a barbarian, you speak English and German and Russian, and you’ve lived in a foreign country.
-That’s true, I guess.
-Let’s drink to that!
-Okay, let’s
He poured two more shots, we drank. We [then] drank three or four more shots together, commenting on the quality of the Nastoika. The door opened. A broad woman stood in the door. Tense. She walked into the living room, stood by the doorway.
-Alex! What are you doing here?
-I’m drinking with my American friend! It’s a holiday, we’re celebrating!
They descended into Russian beyond my understanding. From what I gathered, she was furious that he had asked their son to bring a gun upstairs, and wanted him to come home. He protested that he was just sharing a drink with his friend and that it was a holiday. He would do what she wanted tomorrow. She left. We drank again
-To people of the world!
-Yes, Alex.
My phone rang, my friends who I was supposed to meet were wondering where I was. I didn’t answer, but I sent a message that my neighbor came over and that maybe they should come over and join us/help me. Alex had been here a while, he was making me very uncomfortable.
-I’ve killed people.
-Really?
-Yes, I don’t know how many, but I know it was many.
-How does it feel?
-I don’t know. I don’t think about those things.
-Do you feel sad?
-No.
We drank another shot. He ate another tomato. The brine was all over the table.
-I don’t think about it because that’s how it happened. I didn’t think. I just acted the way I was trained.
-Oh.
He stabbed the table with the knife. His eyes scanned the room, landed on my mandolin.
-Balalaika! You play the Balalaika!
-It’s actually not a balalaika. It’s a mandolin
-What’s that?
-Sort of like a balalaika.
-You play it? You can play songs on it?
-Yes.
-Play!
-Play what?
-I’ll tell you what
I went over and got the mandolin from its case. I sat down. There was a knock on the door.
-Who’s that?
-My friend Yana, I told her to come over
-Is she your girlfriend?
-No, a friend
I let Yana in. She walked in and sat down on the chair opposite the couch where Alex sat. They introduced themselves
-You’re very beautiful
-Thanks
-My wife, she is beautiful too, but she’s getting fat. But you couldn’t have me if you wanted to.
-Well, that’s okay
-She has a full fur coat, I own lots of stores. I have lots of money.
Yana looked at me. She understood.
-Are you going to play a song?
-Yes, he is!
Alex started to sing. He told me to play along. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Then I recognized the song as one often sang by Russians at my parties. I remembered the chords. Alex grabbed the knife and stood up to dance. He sang off key, stumbled, thrusted and twirled the knife. Danced about the room. His voice filled the room, the knife flashed with the reflections of the lights above it. It was beautiful. I played on.
Later, he would fall asleep on my couch, try to call and invite his friends over, say dirty things to Yana. Eventually Yana would have to explain to him that he needed to go home to his wife because she and I had ‘lovers’ activities’. He would leave, and Yana and I would look at each other in disbelief, start to clean up. The apartment would smell like brine for the rest of the week.
