1. (late August, some year in the present-future)
.:.
I can count on one hand the number of times I've interacted with Russia. For the most part, it's at boss-level, so I never have to do much. I'm grateful for that, because frankly, Russia's intimidating and a little unstable. And I think he's got some kind of sensor or something that can tell when his intimidation strategies are working. I don't count the emails, because those are only ever cc'd to me, and a bunch of other people. Nothing to indicate that he actually sees me as a distinct separate entity.
That's why I initially don't think anything of the letter when I get it in the mail.
In fact, I'm running so late for a meeting with my boss (who is not my favourite, he schedules things like a certain land of the brave and home of the calendar-challenged does - to suit himself and screw what anyone else thinks) that I don't even get a chance to look through the mail until much later when I return home.
Three flyers, junk mail, another flyer, more junk mail, an envelope from CRA, ooh new IKEA catalogue, Environment Canada complaining about Alberta again (this I file under 'to forward to my boss', which he will probably in turn file under 'to ignore permanently'), and the last one is a simple white envelope with my address, the return address coming from Moscow.
I don't think anything of it at all until I realise, wait, Moscow?
Nobody sends letters anymore. The last time I got a message from Russia, it was addressed to a pile of other people as well, and it was an email. I know he has email contact, so why would he bother spending the time and money on stamps?
Stranger still, the letter isn't in English, but in French. I'm glad he didn't pick Russian because despite the spelling errors which really are minor, his French is way better than my Russian. But why French?
Dear Canada, it says,
I have been looking into the finances surrounding certain natural resources under request from my supervisors. As you know I have both a prime minister and president. The president is elected while the prime minister is appointed. The balance of power is also affected; it is like the president is my body, but the prime minister is the face. It may be somewhat of an informal title, as the prime minister cannot make me do anything without the president's interference. For the most part the prime minister is an administrative role. In addition to serving on several councils the title also allows some signatory roles ...
Etc, etc. Russia trails off for awhile here explaining what exactly happens with who does what. This is interesting enough but I could look this up in a book, so I'm really not sure why he's telling me.
Furthermore, you may be aware of the union between I and Belarus; relations have been rocky as my prime minister is dissatisfied with the status of this union. At the moment the union is like the difference between a betrothal and an engagement. I believe my own feelings upon this subject are well-known but that is neither here nor there. Trade relations involve mostly my resources such as natural gas; however, ...
And he trails off again about stuff I already know, stuff like how Belarus is kind of a drain on him (well of course, she's your little sister. If she were your equal, the nature of the relationship fundamentally changes and you two would be married) and that the two of them have been on the outs recently (it's hard to avoid overhearing the rows; Belarus is a freakin' banshee and France keeps us all updated). What the hell is the point of all of this?
I skip through two more pages to the end.
In conclusion, the prime minister has granted my personal request to offer you a competitive price for the maple syrup you are currently providing to certain parts of Germany, if you would be so kind as to send me the forms.
Best regards,
Poccur - Russia.
Wait.
Really? Really?
All of that nonsense just to say please do some investing with us, I have a hankering for pancakes and Prussia's getting too much sugar for someone who doesn't exist as a nation anymore?
This is ridiculous. I understand Russia's got a stupid sense of humour but come on, now.
"Problem?" asks the bear.
"Yes, problem," I splutter, "Russia thinks he's being really funny! What the - what the hell is this even!?"
"A letter," the bear says.
"I know it's a letter."
"Don't get mad."
"I'm not - argh!" Because yes, I am mad. Russia's toying with me like a cat with a mouse and I have no fucking idea why. Did I do something to him? Is this even personal, is it even about me? Does he just want to piss off America some more? Isn't he usually more direct with this kind of thing anyway? He knows I crumple like paper when he turns on the creepy act. Why resort to mind-games?
So I do what I do best when confronted with these things.
Two bottles of Fin du Monde later I've got England on the line. Why England? Well, I sat on my phone and it dialled him by accident and he actually picked up. England a) can barely hear me - though I'm a little louder with beer - and b) is five hours ahead, which means it's like past midnight there. Whatever, he's probably up all night communing with spirits or something. At least this time I've managed to convince him I'm not America.
"Huh," says England, after I've read him the translated contents of the letter once through.
"I know, eh?"
"In French?"
"All of it. In French. I, I didn't even know he spoke French!"
"Everybody speaks French after spending time with France," England grumbles.
"America doesn't."
"He's a special case. Anyway, I agree. I can't think of any reason Russia would send you this, and then end it with a plea for - for liquid sugar? That doesn't make any sense."
"That's what I thought. That's why I phoned you up." That and accidental dialling.
"Yes, about that. It is two in the morning, and I've a plane to catch tomorrow at nine, I'm meeting America for a day. So I'll have to let you go in a bit."
"Fine, fine. I'm just glad you agree that there's no initial motivation - like me pissing him off - which, which I haven't done! - as to why Russia's sent me a message like this in French! I mean, it's so obviously not his native language it's almost foolish - droning on and on about stuff that, as, as you say, you could find in a book if you were interested - which I am not! - and when he finally gets to the point it's ultimately about something completely unrelated? No, it's got to be some stupid joke."
"It's not completely unrelated, he did make mention of his trades, but - wait, hang on. What do you mean, not his native language?"
"That'd be Russian, eh?"
"Yes, of course, but - he's spoken French for over three hundred years."
"Yeah, well you've spoken it since the Norman invasion and your French is appalling."
Beer is not good for my verbal politeness filter.
England doesn't seem to care. "To be fair, that's a little bit on purpose, on account of our history. Russia on the other hand ... he's fairly well fluent. I've heard him speak. He even has the accent down. I think he rather liked France."
"Okay, then he's a shitty writer. I mean, uh, it's got mistakes all over the page."
Silence on the line. "Alright, now that's fishy," England remarks.
"Seriously? Y-you're saying that sending me a long-winded letter with a, a mostly unrelated conclusion that so far is completely unwarranted is fine, but the moment it's got a spelling mistake or two, something's off?"
"Is it just one or two?"
"Um -" I look down at the page. "No, there's - actually there's a lot of 'em."
"Think carefully, has Russia ever sent you any correspondence with a single spelling mistake in it?"
"I think you need to first ask me whether Russia has sent me any correspondence, period."
"Alright, then I'll field this one. The answer is no. Not a single one. I thought once that perhaps his English was affected to piss your brother off, but I think it's genuinely accented and he has editors aplenty. But that would mean he's always had someone watching him over his shoulder, waiting for him to screw up. It's not rightly fair. I know I've had my own part to play in that charade but I feel sympathy nonetheless. Anyway nobody else does this. Everyone else just leaves the errors in - Poland's always got something in his, and Ukraine has typos aplenty. It's fine, nobody minds, I wouldn't accuse them of butchering English. You can still understand the message. But everything Russia sends out has gone through five revisions by three different people and sounds over formal."
"That sounds dangerously Cold War."
"Only he's been like that forever. Long as I've known him. Anyway, tell you what, I'll pop by in the morning before I head on out to Washington, if only because now I've got to see this. Be there by perhaps noon your time. Take care."
"G'night," I answer, and end the call, studying the three page letter a little more carefully now.
No spelling mistakes, eh?
I double-check my email inbox just to be sure while nursing my third beer. There's even an exchange between France and Russia, cc'd the rest of the G8 that is actually partly in French (to which America had replied, 'I'm not replying to this unless you speak American', to which France replied, 'But you are replying to it right now', and that started off a whole long chain of stupidity - I wonder if our bosses realise how much time we waste doing this kind of thing).
As England said, Russia's written French - like his written English - is impeccable.
"This doesn't make any sense," I murmur idly, and the bear, climbing up on my lap, hears me.
"Envelope?" he guesses.
And that's when I remember the Soviet birthday card from a few decades ago.
.:.
Unfortunately, there's nothing when I rip the envelope apart this time. "Any more ideas?" I ask Kuma-thing.
"Poison," he says simply.
"What?" I scoot away from the table in horror so quick my chair squeals on the floor. Oh god, it's not the old anthrax in the envelope trick, is it? Geez Russia, what the hell did I do to you?
"Poison." Then the bear climbs off my lap and crawls to the kitchen, looking up balefully at the fridge. I open it, curious, and he noses at the crisper, where I keep the fish.
Oh for the love of. "You're hungry and you want food. Why didn't you just say fish?"
When it suddenly dawns on me. Poison. Poisson.
And why didn't Russia just write what he intended to say in the birthday card instead of on the inside seams of the card's envelope?
I stand there, shell-shocked, for so long that Kuma-jerk manages to eat three-quarters of the fish that was in the crisper, which was supposed to last him through to Thursday.
.:.
Cher Canada, the letter begins,
Je suis em train de faire du recherche à propos de ...
He must mean "en train". It looks like nothing more than a typo.
... sous le directif de mes amployeurs. Comme vous savez, j'ai deux shefs, un premier ministre et un president ...
Which should be 'employeurs' and 'chefs'. It continues on and on. I underline the mistakes, which range from simple typos, to a missing 'e' - common errors in gender - to what would ordinarily be honest mistakes were it not for the fact that apparently Russia speaks French nearly as well as he speaks Russian.
Unfortunately the letters that spells out makes no sense. Firstly, it's not obvious whether the letters I'm looking for are the mistakes or the original letter that should be in there. For example, with "em train", does the message begin with an 'n' - the missing letter - or is it 'm', the mistake letter?
I come up with two keys, one that uses the mistake letters, and one that uses the correct letters. Neither set makes any sense on their own, but it's not too difficult to parse what letters go where based on what the message should be in terms of actual French words. The answer I get winds up being a mix of the two.
But the message not only is riddled with errors, it also makes no sense semantically. It reads, "ma chese lour peze um euf et moite, moin que otre beut". My heavy chair weighs an egg and a half, less than - I think that's votre, and peut - less than yours can?
Chair... chair. Busby's chair?
No, the weight of Busby's chair was not measured in eggs.
Then again, supposing we play this game a second time...
"Ai" from chaise, heavy requires a d and an e, peze should be pese, the s is missing. Un oeuf et moitie - that's an n, o, and an i - unless it should be an m -
Oh gosh. Oh, maple.
It reads "aidez-moi, svp".
This... this is a cry for help.
My blood runs cold. I haven't felt this unnerved since my old boss started inviting me along to his seances way, way back when.
Like a bad dream, the words, only you can help me return to the forefront of my mind. But what does this have to do with a curvy alcohol glass, a mental institution, and a message from Jesus to the devil?
Maple. How long? How long has Russia been asking for help and I just didn't get it?
And this is when I remember something else, namely, Germany telling me that it is almost certainly dangerous to spread information about things like this - coded messages from Russia - around in dangerous times.
And England's coming over tomorrow morning.
The first time I call it goes straight to voicemail. Which doesn't make sense, I know he's at home! So I try it again, trying not to panic when I get to the second, then the third ring. Shit, what if he's already left, shit shit shitshit -
"Ungh, h'lo?"
"England! Englandit'sokayyoudon'thavetocomeovertomorrowwe're goodokaybutthankyouanyway!"
"Canada, you git, d'you realise it's bloody half past five in the morning."
"I - oh." Sure enough when I look at my own clock it turns out it's one am. Time flies when you're having fun. Or being scared shitless by coded messages begging you for help. "Gosh, I'm so, so sor- hey, you remembered me!"
"America's conked out by midnight most nights. He also doesn't talk like a bullet train. Remember? 'Awesome hero voice'?"
"Ah, heh, right. Well anyway. Like I was saying, I don't think you have to come over tomorrow. I think I'll be okay."
"... Really?"
"Yeah, I'm good. I think this is all a, um, -" shit, think quick - "giant misunderstanding ... of some sort. Anyway." That was not smooth. "Really, it's okay. I just remembered something Russia once sent me - something really trivial! - it also made no sense. He just, he just has a sick sense of humour. I remember I asked France about it, he said Russia's real quirky -"
England interrupts my babbling with a heavy sigh and, "Fine, whatever you say. Can I get some sleep now?"
Fist-pump.
Despite throwing England off, I can't get to sleep until three am, and that was with another two beers, which normally would put me out like a light, but my mind is racing and my heart is pounding. Sleep, when it does arrive, is uneasy. I can't shake the feeling that there's something honestly wrong.
Help me, please. Only you can help me.
.:.
I wake up way too early the next morning with a heavy, pounding head.
"Your own fault," Kuma reminds me. True enough.
Three hours later the doorbell rings. "That's strange," I tell Kuma-creature. "I'm not expecting anybody."
"England?" Kuma reminds me.
"No, I called him late last night, told him not to come. You were asleep then."
But sure enough, on the other side of the door is none other than he. "Right," says England, barging in, "let's get down to business."
"I thought I told you -"
"And I thought I told you I had to see this for myself!" he interrupts. "Honestly, child. What part of 'I'm SAS' don't you get. This smells fishier than a London rubbish bin at 3 am after a cheap pint night."
"Ah, England, look, really, it's not -"
But England just stands there with his hand open, expectantly, and gives me a no-nonsense look. He doesn't move until I guiltily hand over the letter. Fine, but if he doesn't find the message - the really scary one - I'm not finding it for him.
England looks at the first page of the letter, and then at the two other pages and gets a look on his face that denotes exhaustion, despite it being one in the afternoon. "Perhaps we ought to make a pot of tea," England suggests, which is really English for 'Canada, go make me some tea.'
"Um, Red Rose okay?" I ask, leading him into the kitchen, where England sits down at the table. I move to fill the kettle.
England sighs non-committally. "It'll do," he says, which I suspect is really English for 'you're getting decent tea for Christmas this year, since I never get you a birthday gift since I always forget it'. Not that I'm bitter.
While England's busy reading, I'm busy thinking. I can't let England know the message is for me to (somehow) help Russia. For some reason that I can't yet figure out, Russia seems to want this kept quiet. If he hadn't, he would have been more overt about it instead of resorting to all this secrecy. He could have just talked to me in person. But he didn't.
Unfortunately, for all of England's blustering, he is genuinely good at this kind of thing. If I give him enough time to think about the message, he'll figure it out, and then he'll freak out. So I need to distract him.
Possibly, very possibly, England might be able to help me with the birthday card's envelope. (And if that one has a scary or creepy message like this one, it is forty years old, so I'm not as concerned.)
"I'll be right back," I tell him, and dash off to get it upstairs before he can reply. Hell, he might not have even heard me.
By the time the water has boiled I've returned with the taped up envelope and am setting the milk jug and sugar out on the table. England has finished reading the long piece of code Russia has sent and is sitting quietly, thinking. "So, uh, can you guess what the message is yet?" I tease.
"Not yet, but give us a moment. Why, did you figure it out?"
I show him the answer that talks about how heavy his chair is. England scoffs. "You weren't kidding about his sense of humour," he remarks. "But isn't this misspelled too? Is it another code?"
"Um," I say, thinking quickly. Crap, England must just pretend to have very poor French to piss off France. "No! No it's, it's not. It's - it's a dialect." Matthew, you genius.
"French has dialects?"
"Sure!" and I hope the crack in my voice isn't too obvious. "You know, Breton."
England gives me a strange look. "What the hell is Breton?"
"The language ... of Brittany?"
England only knows enough about Brittany to know it's a source of pain in France's rear, but that's good enough for me. "Alright," he says slowly, and then - he's still thinking about it, dammit I need to get him started on this stupid envelope! - "How is it you know this language? If it's just a joke surely Russia knows you're fluent in it. But I've never heard you speak it."
"Well," I cough, stalling a bit, "you know. You know Cape Breton Island, right? They, uh, speak it there." They don't, but I'm willing to bet a year's worth of Timbits that England does not know that. "It's, um, a Celtic language? Sort of like Cornish, or, or Welsh?"
England grimaces at the vague mention of his older brother. They must be on the outs. "Ugh," he says, "say no more." Oh thank maple, finally.
"So! Anyway, while you're here, there's something else," I say, and quickly slide the birthday card and envelope across the table. "He sent me that a long time ago, one Canada Day." Arthur takes a long look at it and reads the message while I pour his tea. "Milk?"
"Yes please. I - oh, gross, that's right," he says as he looks up, "you don't use the pitchers that close. Well, I guess it's fine. Don't know how your milk doesn't smell like fridge."
I narrow my eyes. "How terrible does your fridge smell, anyway?"
"Oh, you know, leftovers."
I shouldn't say it, I shouldn't say it ... but exhaustion and stress, like beer, do terrible things to my politeness filter. "If you made tastier food, maybe you wouldn't have to have leftovers all the time."
"Right, that's it. You want to do this yourself, you can."
"No! No no, I'm - look, I'm sorry, it's just been a really weird day, as you can tell. You're now the fourth person I've gotten to help me on this and the previous three had no real leads."
England is immediately suspicious. "Who were the previous three?"
"Uh, Italy, Prussia and France."
This grabs his attention. Nothing placates England more than knowing he's succeeded where someone - particularly France - has failed.
"Well," he says stiffly, trying not to look too puffed up, "because you're family, and all," and takes up the envelope again. "And did those wankers have anything to say about this?"
So I explained to him what Italy had had to say (not much), what Prussia thought of it (I neglected to mention Germany's warning), and what France had told me about Russia himself (nothing conclusive).
England thinks a moment more and then snaps his fingers. "Think I've got it."
"What - really?" I should probably try to sound a little less interested; England will think something's up. "Uh, I mean, I've had this card for so long."
"Yes, there's a book I read once. Had all these elements in it. Funny title, something something Margarita. Russian author, if I recall. Nabokov, I think." He sets the envelope down with a certain amount of decision. "But it fits. The text of the message is pretty well directly referencing the book's plot."
"What's it about?"
"You and America both! Why don't you just check it out from a library instead of treating me like I'm your walking book report? Suffice it to say I think the 'big reader' clue was a big hint, but it was the big black cat the size of a hippo that was the dead giveaway. And the limes and the curvy glass representing margarita, the drink, instead of the character, Marguerite. That was a spot of cleverness, that one," he thinks aloud, "I wouldn't've expected Russia to be aware of drinks besides vodka. Of course anyone from North America would likely have picked it up, but anybody from an Eastern bloc country would be right baffled. I don't give him enough credit." England looks my way. "What's the trouble? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Oh! I just, I-I can't believe I never caught that before now," I stammer. "I should go get a copy of the book. That's probably what he wanted. Strangest form of advertisement."
"That's the spirit! Listen, d'you mind if I crash upstairs for a spell before I pop out again to meet your brother? Someone's to blame for my three hours of sleep last night."
"You didn't have to come all the way over here," I protest.
England grins and taps the envelope. "But you're glad I did," he replies.
I can barely wait for him to get upstairs before I pull out my computer to find a copy of that book. What the hell had Russia been trying to convey, that he had to conceal it from other Russians like that?
Germany's voice echoes back in my memory, and more now than ever, I realise I've got to stop seeking outside help.
.:.
It was not Nabokov. It was Bulgakov. In the time it takes me to get back from driving England to the airport (in the middle of rush hour traffic), and the library, it's been three hours, which means England should be at America's in about five.
I call him up later to clarify, and all he says is, "Well, you know. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."
"This from the great reader! Next you'll be telling me you don't know who Margaret Atwood is and why she's different from Doris Lessing."
"She some kind of politician?"
I hang up.
.:.
I get through about half of the book. It's a story within a story, which is always perfectly confusing and frankly kind of creepy. The story involves weird shenanigans in Moscow - the character in the insane asylum is either some poet named Ivan, or the Master. I'm not sure which one's supposed to represent Russia, because the first hundred pages of the book have Ivan as the main character and then suddenly the author claims the real hero is introduced. The story within the story involves the Matvei character, though all he does is whine about how unfair it is that Jesus died. That's nothing I didn't find in the bible all those years ago.
Does Russia think he's Jesus? Does he want me to raise hell about his treatment?
I'm still lost.
Aidez-moi, svp says the letter, but with what does he want my help? Besides getting me to read something that was banned in Russia during the time he sent me that birthday card, what does he intend to mean with the book?
I'm officially out of ideas. And half-tempted to just leave it alone, frankly. But then Kuma-thingy nudges the letter accidentally my way when he crawls over the table to sleep on the chair. And the letter stares at me.
I guess ... as much as I don't want to talk to Russia, I guess I owe him this much. If he meant to send these messages - and he so far has, they're not only addressed to me but also refer to things like maple syrup and my birthday. I'm confused for Alfred a lot but there's no way he's not clear on who he's talking to - and if they mean what I think they mean... Even if they don't mean what I think they mean.
Screw it, this needs clarification.
.:.
Unfortunately, looking at my calendar a bit more closely, I don't see Russia again until the APEC summit next May, which strikes me as a bit strange. Surely we can meet a little more regularly than that? I know my boss' foreign minister is so often in Russia that she just got an apartment in Halifax to be nearer to the international airport there. Gets her into Moscow way quicker.
Which gives me an idea.
.:.
Which is how I wind up on a flight to Moscow sitting next to my Foreign Affairs Minister, Diane Martin, a just slightly overweight forty-something Lavalloise with dark hair, dark eyes, and at least one cat judging from her blazer. She's a pleasant enough person when you let her knit, and we left from Ottawa which means security's a little more understanding to a pair of double-pointed needles for socks.
Frankly, I don't understand all America's hype anyway, I mean the woman is clearly knitting socks with the needles, and those things couldn't puncture a balloon, let alone skin, but at his behest we've gotten all paranoid with our security too. (Hoser.)
It looks strange - between England diverting his flight plan at 2am to me hopping a plane at last minute to Moscow. And probably I should've told my boss (and he'll let me have it when I come back) but travel is a little cavalier to people like me to begin with. When the only people who really understand you at any level are in other countries, it's easy to take a long flight and to fly it frequently. Besides, what's hours spent on a plane when you're immortal?
I tend to sleep during travel, so most of my flight's unconscious, but my moments of clarity are partially spent thinking about what exactly I plan on doing. I have to corner Russia somehow, get him alone. Then he can explain just what the hell it is he meant by all of this code. What can I help him with?
The rest of the time, I'm reading that book. It gets somewhat interesting when the character Matvei comes in, but the story within a story aspect still concerns me, especially when the character appears in both stories. At what level should I be taking this? As Levi Matvei tells the devil to back the crap off - this is obviously the message delivery he was talking about - what does he want me to do? Who is Russia's devil? And will that entity grant Russia peace?
I manage to finish the novel but it just leaves me unsettled, and my dreams, when I have them, are uneasy... I'm flying above a grand ball and a bonfire, then suddenly I'm on the ground and there's a man off in the trees. Someone's screaming my name, someone else screams that they're invisible.
I wake with a start and can't get back to sleep, but with dreams like that I don't really want to, so Martin teaches me how to knit and I make her a square to pass the time. I'm glad when we finally land in Moscow.
.:.
Martin introduces me brusquely to the Russian foreign aide - a tall, well-dressed, but frosty man, perhaps in his late fifties - as Dmitri-Vasilievich-Morozov, and I remember briefly from some diplomatic informational brochure I read long ago that introductions in Russia are done first name, father's name, last name. It makes me wonder whether Russia's got a middle name as well. I know his sister took one for security's sake, despite not having a father.
Russia, speaking of, looks pissed. I thought Morozov was angry but holy hell. Russia takes one look at Martin and one look at me and, although nothing changes in his face, the air around him goes still and I can feel the waves of pure, hot ire coming off him like thermal radiation. Morozov, for his part, is upset but reasonably understanding. "You did not inform me of this," he tells Martin in clipped English.
"It's not uncommon for the representative to tag along," Martin says, shrugging. Morozov gives her a look, then glances at me (I'm trying to be the picture of innocence... and trying not to accidentally disappear on everybody), and shakes his head, resigned. Martin adds, "I could ask why yours has accompanied you when this also isn't usual."
Russia is polite but sharp. "I am always cognisant of what happens at my borders. When I recognised this one entering," he says, gesturing to me, "I was alerted. You may rest assured remainder will know soon enough, for I have taken the liberty of contacting them, as per constitution." He stresses liberty and constitution particularly scathingly, and that makes me wonder.
Morozov says something to Russia I can't understand, because my Russian is pretty awful. "It can't be helped," he says in English, for my benefit. Then he shakes my hand and tells me that if I should require anything during my stay in the capital to please inform him and to please call him Dima. Russia nearly pops a blood vessel in his eyes and proceeds to have a very silent apoplectic fit. While smiling.
I'm so very dead and I feel my skin prickle as it slowly becomes transparent. I could really have called, I suppose, and given more warning. It'd've been nicer. But that would defeat the purpose, because then Russia would've shown up with an arsenal of bureaucrats and I'd never get him alone.
Steel yourself, Mattie, and keep calm, I think, shaking off the prickling. You're just as good as he is. Don't let him intimidate you.
"Well," Martin says, completely oblivious to the hell that is Russia right now (do humans just not see this?) "perhaps you can show him around or something. But for us, we'd better get down to business, eh, Dmitri? It's your son's birthday later today, right?" And Mor- Dima beams brightly and they go off and talk.
I am halfway to following them when I feel a heavy weight on my shoulder and a firm grip. "Not so fast, comrade," Russia says, and I can feel the growl in his voice. "We should talk, and then I can introduce you to my bosses."
"Have, um, we got a lot of time?" I ask him fearfully. At his raised eyebrow I explain, "To talk."
He shakes his head. "It will have to be next time," he replies, and his voice is getting quieter by the word. "I assume you got my letter."
"Yes," I whisper. "The ... transmission was successful."
"Good. Then I need not stress how important it is that - that we must correspond solely to one another. Even now I am not ... at liberty."
Liberty again. It's got to have something to do with all of this. "I understand," I reply, "I can wait until your speech is a little ... freer. Just let me know."
Russia smiles then, and his eyes are kind. It's a split second before his body language changes entirely. His muscles tense, he pales, the sparkle in his eyes fades dramatically, and his smile completely disappears - to be quickly replaced, like nothing's happened, though it's clear to me he's distressed and almost - nervous? Is this what Russia nervous looks like? It's twice as terrifying as Russia angry.
Finally, he says more loudly, his voice betraying nothing, "Ah! Excellent. May I present to you my supervisors ..."
Russia's bosses are Svetlana-Ilinichna-Petrova, and Vladislav-Yurievich-Borovsky - Petrova is the president, Borovsky the prime minister. Both are frightening and tall, with imposing figures, high cheekbones (almost aristocratic, dare I say it), severe features, and unimpressed, dour looks.
Neither of them are overly pleasant folk. Neither of them are smiling. And neither of them invite me to call them by their nicknames.
Russia grins pleasantly at me as he stands between them. It's a smile I recognise - the one that doesn't reach his eyes, the one that warns, tread lightly, comrade.
.:.
We spend lunch together at one of the more expensive French restaurants (I'm nervous when I see the ridiculous amount of rubles that salmon is supposed to cost - even accounting for the exchange rate - but Russia pats my hand with very quick taps, like my flesh is on fire, and tells me not to worry, because all downtown Moscow restaurants are like this - which really does not help my worries).
Then Russia takes me on a quick walking tour of the governmental section of Moscow. And then we have dinner at an Italian place down the road. When I inquire over scallop linguine about 'actual Russian food, you know, like borscht and stuff' Petrova sniffs, Borovsky's lip curls and Russia blushes bright red. It's much better if they think I'm a total dolt. Dolts get ignored, the clever get scrutinised.
Throughout the entire day, Petrova and Borovsky follow us around, not a metre behind us, while Russia and I make endless amounts of small talk about Definitely Nothing Important At All.
How the hell will I possibly get Russia alone at this rate? Even if I wait around for APEC next May, he only ever shows up at meetings seconds before they begin and leaves seconds after they end, with the bosses in tow. I know my boss is constantly hovering during my meetings, and though it's annoying, I think it's just because he doesn't understand fully what I do and things he doesn't understand, he doesn't like. He's also nowhere near as creepy about it as these two, who seem to take their job titles as Overprotective Parents or something.
I don't see Russia at all the next day, and Martin implies over breakfast at the hotel that it's probably because he's busy with work. She tells me Dmitri told her that would be likely.
So I'm surprised when, just as Martin and I are getting into the cab to head to the airport, Russia stops me. Behind him are Petrova and Borovsky, looking very pissed - I don't know what about, but pissed.
"Listen," Russia says awkwardly, "before you leave." He gives me a quick hug. "Thank you for coming."
"Um," I say. "You're welcome?"
Russia releases me, beams, and drops something small and light into my hand. "For you, for luck," he explains. "You put it in your pocket."
It's a chestnut.
His bosses look murderous and he gives them a shrug. "What? I confess I am a bit superstitious."
"There is nothing to be superstitious about," Petrova insists.
Russia shrugs again. "Old ways die hard," he explains. "You know. And he has long trip to travel. Would be bad for bad things to happen to my good friend Canada."
"Since when, good friend," Borovsky grumbles.
Russia ignores him and smiles. I'm beginning to recognise all of his smiles. Sometimes they say 'When I kill you, it will make me snort with glee' or, 'You don't deserve the air you breathe; allow me to remove it from your lungs for better use elsewhere'. Others say 'I actually had a good time for once'. I saw all three of those - and more - yesterday over lunch and dinner.
This is the one that says, 'I don't know what you are talking about and I am perfectly innocent'.
There is definitely something inside that stupid thing.
.:.
"So! Productive meeting?" Martin asks me on the plane, purling furiously.
"I've had worse," I murmur, toying with the chestnut in my pocket.
.:.
When I get off the airplane everything seems to happen very quickly, like someone's pushed 'fast forward' on my life.
Get home.
Feed Kuma-beast.
Check cellphone - forgot to turn it back on after getting off flight to Moscow - one voicemail from Alfred -
"YO, BROSKI -" dammit, must remember to hold phone away from ear with him - "Are you gonna be free after the meeting on Tuesday? Cuz I was thinking we can go hang out afterwards! By which I mean I'm gonna treat you to a beer! By which I mean my boss is totally not gonna dick yours over! Okay awesome bye!"
- roll my eyes.
One from France in French telling me he'd be in town soon with boss and could they have dinner with "Québ- euh, c'est-a-dire, Canada" in regards to the Jeux de la Francophonie.
Roll my eyes again; great, another 'nation within a nation' deal. In addition to putting up with France, that'll give me a headache for a week.
Must buy more Advil.
Check email - several unread despite checking it hours ago - newfound popularity, well this is new -
One from Alfred saying pretty much the same thing as the voicemail.
One from my boss reminding me to go to my meeting on Tuesday with America - roll my eyes again, I am not a child you micromanaging jerkoff -
One from Petrova, cc'd Borovsky, Martin, Morozov and some other guy named Braginski, saying how nice it was to meet me and perhaps I would do her the courtesy of informing them the next time I wanted to merely wander into Russia's borders unannounced (which sounds really dirty to a nation).
Another from my boss asking me if I really just up and went to Russia, why would you do that without my say so, that is so unlike you, we need to grab lunch sometime this week I am free Tuesday so I'll see you at noon. What, I am already booked Tuesday, you know that -
Another email from Martin saying she was meeting with boss tomorrow, will try to postpone admonishing Tuesday lunch with boss for perhaps Thursday when you are back from Washington, say hello to Alfred he is such a nice boy.
Must buy chocolates for Martin.
Finally, sit down with tea so weak it's the colour of dishwater and try to calm my nerves because holy maple my pulse is racing and adrenaline is shooting through my veins like a drug.
Pull out the chestnut with shaking hands.
You know, this - this whole thing has been very perplexing. On one hand, I was right about Russia. On the other hand, that doesn't make me feel much better about it all - judging from Russia's reaction, he didn't even want to involve his bosses, which means I should not even involve my own, much less other countries - I'll need to go it alone. At least I know a fair bit about helping other nations, but I really need specifics. Now, when I'm going to get those, aucune idée. No idea at all.
I can't believe I ever thought of Russia as merely that weird guy who says weird things. There was a time not so very long ago that, if he'd given me a chestnut, I would have laughed - a nut giving a nut. I would have thought he's totally cracked. I would have assumed it was a mistake, that he meant to give it to America. Now I'm convinced it contains some kind of secret message.
Holding the chestnut up to the light reveals a tiny, hairline crack down the middle, like someone's split it with a very thin, sharp knife and glued it back together. I pry both halves apart with my thumbnails; the chestnut springs apart and both halves go flying. And thank god I remembered to feed the creature - who's still busy picking the meat from the bones out of the arctic char - or the chestnut would've gotten eaten by my bear-shaped vacuum cleaner.
There is a tiny rolled up piece of paper wedged into one half of the chestnut, which I almost rip in my haste to open it. It reads:
The life that I have
Is all that I have
And the life that I have
Is yours
The love that I have
Of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours
A sleep I shall have
A rest I shall have
Yet death will be but a pause
For the peace of my years
In the long green grass
Will be yours and yours
And yours
(ascending order please)
At this point, I'd like to remind people that most of the time, I get forgotten. Most of the time, if people do spot me, they think I'm my brother. Russia, to date, has not once mixed me up for America, though occasionally he doesn't see me in meetings. He appears to notice me more since this all started.
And now he is sending me a love poem.
So my first thought was: What. The crap. And I start to panic.
Ah! but wait, something inside me remembers. This is not what it appears to be.
This had better not be what it appears to be! the other half of me - which is furiously red, mortified, and fixated on the vivid memory of Russia's body pressed close to mine in a hug - insists.
It takes three tries to type the poem's first two lines into Google because my fingers are flying and I cannot make them move any more slowly, but the search results make my stomach settle and I exhale slowly, trying to keep myself from hyperventilating.
The poem isn't original. In fact it's from the second world war, and the first thing that pops up is its Wikipedia entry, which claims it as an example of a poem code.
I knew it, poem code. And I begin breathing more easily, though my stomach is still flip-flopping like mad.
It turns out poem codes are fairly simple to use - you agree on a poem beforehand and pick words from it, then assign numbers to the letters in the words you chose. Then the coded message looks just like a set of numbers and if you don't have the original poem, it's impossible to decode. Sure enough, Russia's got several words underlined. I just have to work numbers into a letter.
And what a fabulous excuse Russia has given me to do that with this trade business he wrote me about.
Okay, I think. Now we can get started.
.:.
(Thank you again for reading!)