Meeting the Mafia

My ghostly home in  Krasnodar, which I recently moved out of for good. It looks much more ghostly by night. Believe me. 

Russia has faded from my mind, a new environment has risen up…

It's time to write a sentimental post about the past four months in Russia, crying into a teacup and wondering about what it all means. But I will control myself. I want it to build up, emotionally and in plot terms, so that I can process things in a more logical manner before I start writing Ginsbergesque poetry that no one can understand and which will end up much worse than Ginsberg.

As a result, I am going to catch up, chunk by chunk, on the mysterious, mad and wonderful events that have happened during these months that I never had the time, motivation or retrospect to process in written form.

The titles will be something along the following lines:

1) Meeting the Mafia

2) The Snow

3) Poetry in the Caucasus

4) Helping the Homeless

For the meantime, the title of this post, which, dear reader, illuminates on your screen, is: "Meeting the Mafia". It aims to tell the story of my final evening in Russia before returning to the UK for a one month Christmas break.

I wasn't prepared to leave. I had decided to spend my final day seeing as many friends as I could meet, rather than beginning to pack my suitcases and empty my bedroom. This has always been my pattern. Unless I am forced to pack in one hour, I will take 12 hours to do it, stopping after every 3 minutes to reminisce, to read a line from a book that I never felt inspired to open before, or to just stare stupidly at the ceiling, wondering at how wine managed to get up there or why I had never noticed the design before.

On my final day I met four friends: first, I tried out lots of strange snacks with my Armenian linguist friend, who talked about why he hates Moscow. “It’s like a huge virus: it sucks up all the people from the rest of the country and after a few years they already consider themselves Muscovites and start to behave like one, which is really quite unpleasant. There’s Russia and there’s Moscow. In Moscow people have a good quality of life: the pension is 10 times higher than here in Krasnodar. It’s where you come to get rich. As long as Moscow is doing well, it’s not really that important what happens everywhere else.”

Then I had a long walk with my first friend in Russia. We reminisced about those days when I had arrived, when I had been very unstable and very confused. Cultural shock. He told me about a time he went to an orgy and convinced me that the human race is evolving in such a way that men are dying out and women will reproduce by themselves.

 Afterwards I had a lesson with one of my favourite students which, towards the end, was interrupted by a phone call. Where in England, answering the phone would be very rude, in Russia it seems normal to take calls at any time. It can actually be quite offensive not to answer a call – people get worried and phone about 6 times. You could have been dead, you know. It’s better to answer and say “Hi. Call me back in an hour, please. I’m in a lesson/ at work/ on a tram/ at my granny's / in a sauna/ at an orgy/ eating waffles and too lazy to chat” and then hang up. That way they will be calm. And they’ll probably not phone back anyway, because they were just calling for a chat. You also get a lot of calls from unknown numbers in Russia: they don’t text you beforehand to warn you who they are, they just call and you’re expected to answer. This was the case with my new phone friend. The conversation went as followed:

Unknown individual:       ‘HELLO. Who are you?’

Me:    ‘Ammm…who is this? Can you tell me who you are?’

Unknown individual:       ‘Why did you send Nikita a text??? Who are you? I will find out who you are!”

Me:    “I don’t even know Nikita…Why don’t you phone me back after my lesson? But I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong number.”

…Hang up.

I continued, finished the lesson and walked out into the cold towards the tram. I decided not to answer the stranger’s calls. I needed to get home and pack, not listen to someone shout at me in Russian. I dropped the call about 4 times. I hoped he would give up. But no, he kept calling and an angry, badly-spelt text soon arrived. It went something like this (all text messages loosely translated, to keep the general feeling of how he would have written in English):

“And, do u no even who I is??? Tomorrow Ill go to ur uni and find u. Answer now!!!” 

I decided to pick up the phone. I had a tram to wait for. Maybe it would kill time. His crazy, angry rant continued. I asked him whether he knew my name. He said I was called Denis. I told him my name wasn’t Denis and I couldn’t think of anyone called Nikita. He replied that he was a very jealous man and that he would find me. It was only a matter of time.  He needed to talk to me immediately and in person. I proceeded to explain that he shouldn’t be jealous, that I was a complete stranger and that I didn’t know him. He told me that he would drive to my house and come “sort things out”. I was just about to call bullshit on this prank call when he said ‘You live on Tamanskaya, don’t you?’. Now it wasn’t just a jealous madman on the phone; it was a jealous madman who knew my address...

‘Tell me where you are right now! I will come drive to get you!”

“I’m not at home. Don’t come. I’m leaving for Ireland in 6 hours and when I come back, I’ll be living somewhere else, so there’s no point trying to find me.”

“I’ll send a car for you. I’m coming.”

At this point, I hung up. I thought maybe he would calm down. I felt nervous as I got on the tram to come home. I had arranged to meet my good friend Julia at my house. She would help me pack, take one of my suitcases to her home for the Christmas period, and say goodbye.  I didn’t want to cancel the meeting for the sake of an unknown madman and I thought she might protect me for those 2 hours whilst I was packing my suitcase.

I continued to reply to his text messages, but ignore the calls.

Me: “Who are you? Why are you threatening me? I’ll phone the police.” (I wrote this text message in my UK mentality and only later did I remember that the police here probably wouldn’t help me. They would just laugh, and, if they did send someone out, it wouldn’t be to protect me against a madman, but probably to bribe me for something or other.)

Half an hour passes. No reply to the texts. But more unanswered phone calls on his side.

Me: “Who are you?”

15 minutes pass.  More calls. Finally a text message comes.

Stranger: “Let’s let this go. Good luck.”

Okay, I thought, the stranger has just threatened me, told me my address, phoned me about 40 times and then decided to calm down, move on and wish me good luck. In Russian, wishing someone ‘good luck’ is often a parting greeting i.e. a way of saying ‘we’ll never see each other again. Good luck with life and all that jazz’. Okay, I thought, I have to find out who the madman is at least, for my own curiosity. As a result, I texted him back, trying to mimic Russian assertiveness:

Me: I want to find out who you are. You were very aggressive and unpleasant towards me in the phone call. I don’t tolerate this kind of behaviour!" 

He tries to phone me a few more times. I send another text asking him to reply to my messages instead of incessantly calling me.

Me: ‘Who are you?’

Stranger: ‘The mafia.’

Me: ‘Aha. Yes, of course.’

Ten minutes pass. I get more and more curious about who this person is and why they are telling me they’re in the mafia. Maybe he’s like some sort of gay basher in a big gay bashing mafia? ‘Oh well’, I thought, ‘if he’s going to bash me, he only has a few hours before I leave the country. I might as well try to find out who he is’.

Me: ‘Tell me who you are. Without any jokes.’

Stranger: ‘U think this is a joke?? If you dont believe, I can drive to u right now!!! The no. of the car is… H222HH23.’

I decided not to reply.  I was already at home and packing my bags. I wasn’t about to go outside and stand waiting for a H222HH23 (Why did the car have so many H's and 2's? Was it a code?). At this point, I was pretty sure it was some guy who had found out my address from someone else and had just decided to go a bit mad. Maybe he was drunk.

After 15 minutes, I received another text: “Do u not beleeve me??? Were shud my my car cum pick u up??? It will b dis one: Number A 555 XX 05. Toyota Landcruiser’

Okay. So the psycho had already changed cars. I guess he didn't like all those H's and 2's. I decided that, even though he was probably just foaming at the mouth from rabies and general insanity, I would be careful and brush him off firmly. 

Me: “I don’t want to meet up with an absolute stranger! Don’t write to me again! Don’t call me again! Understood?”

Then I remembered he knew my address. I decided that, just in case he did decide to drive up to my house without my permission and start some sort of incoherent scandal, I would throw him off the scent by saying that I was somewhere else. As a result, I sent him a text saying I was at a friend's house on Montazhnikov street, which is about 40 minutes from where I live.

About 20 minutes passed. I got home and started packing. He hadn’t replied. I got a bit lonely. I don’t like packing – it makes me nostalgic and I can easily start crying. As a result, I decided to text him back some gibberish. He was clearly insane, right? Two could play at that game. 

Me: “Baby! Baby! BABY!!! I’m waiting for you in the badger’s den! Come quick!!!!”

I was interested in what he would say about the badger’s den. Would he think it was some sort of secret society or the code name for that random address on Montazhnikov street I had given him? Maybe he would think I was a badger.  Badger, badger, badger. 'What sounds to badgers make?' I pondered. 

I remembered that famous badger-badger-badger-mushroom video. I wondered what it would be like to lock someone in a room with padded walls and just play that song over and over again for several plays. Would it be more effective than conventional torture?

Link to the Badger Song

Badgers aside, our dear jealous friend soon replied.

‘Do u think this is a game??? Okay. Just u wait n see!!!’

10 minutes pass. Julia arrives. We have a great old time and I give her a bag full of Christmas presents, which, to be honest, was mostly the stuff I couldn’t take home with me anyway (tinsel, air freshener, cat food), plus a small gift. In return, she gave me some chocolate. We talked about our emotional lives, got lost in our tea and chat, and forgot about the insane man and the badgers. So many odd things like this happen in Russia, that I’ve started to just take them as normal. If anything strange or bad occurs in Russia, it is automatically justified with ‘это Россия, детка» (“Guurrrl, this is Russia.”). I had adopted this mentality. Shit happens. 

Nonetheless, after about an hour I received another text.

“Ive already arrived! Im at the intersektion of Montazhnikov/Garazhnaya!”

I told Julia the story. She said that I could go to her house if I liked and stay there until  I had to go to the airport at 2am. I declined, but thought seriously of taking up the offer. We decided it was just some sort of ridiculously jealous madman, who thought I had slept with his boyfriend (this mysterious Nikita he had mentioned). I tried really hard to think of who Nikita could be and why I would have texted him. Finally, I remembered: It was Nik! (Okay. I was a bit slow in working out the puzzle. But I genuinely thought that Nik’s full name was Nikolai, not Nikita).

Nik was a guy, who I had met with once.  He had written to me online for about 2 months, constantly wanting to meet up, but not really giving me any good reason to do so. Finally, one day I gave in and invited him for tea. We ended up chatting for about 2 hours. He was just over thirty, but had already decided that he was probably too old to leave Russia, even though he’d like to. He seemed like quite a nice man. Fairly intelligent, if not that interesting. I had expected he would just be one of those relatively dim older guys who ask me questions like “Is Ireland in Scotland?’ or ‘Do you speak Dutch in Ireland?” and then proceed to flirt with me, not knowing that if you get my country wrong, I’m definitely not going to fall into your elderly seduction clutches.

To be fair, though, I had almost completely forgotten about Nik, apart from the fact that he had offered to let me live in his old apartment after New Year ('You'll be living with some friendly gays. I'm just moving out because they don't have a washing machine and they don't wash their dishes. It's unacceptable: I only forgive disorder and messiness in people under 25'). Recently, about 2 days ago, I had sent him a new message asking why he had never got back to me about the apartment and, in my new found harsh Russian honesty, said that we’d probably never meet again, so good luck with life and all that jazz. Suddenly I began to form a picture: maybe this madman was his boyfriend (that I hadn’t been informed about), who was reacting to what must have sounded like a dramatic parting message from a virulent lover.

The text messages continued:

Stranger: U invited me heer. And now u dn’t want 2 meet?

Me:  What do you want from me? Are you trying to be friends with me or are you threatening me?

Stranger: (Blank text)

3 minutes pass.

Stranger: Its not me whos waitin der but my people! If u want dey will tak u to my house! I live in the german village.

Me: And what are we going to do in the German village?

Stranger: Come out now. A 555 XX 05 Toyota Landcruiser is waiting for u. Ill take u 2 the airport.

Me: Is it waiting on Montazhnikov? You know, I’m not going to get into a stranger’s car.

Stranger: Its on the intersection Montazhnikov/garazhnaya.

At this point Julia decided to leave. I hauled my suitcase down 4 flights of stairs, lifted it into her car and we parted with much love and affection, speaking the most beautiful, dramatic New Year wishes into the cold night air.

“A beautiful and fulfilling new year!” I cried.

 “Happiness and love!” she shouted back.

I almost cried. Where with most other people this would have been sickeningly sentimental, with my dear friend Julia, an honest and kind person, it felt somehow a relief to shout such beautiful words into crisp night and actually mean the sentiment. I could almost imagine how they would add the effects in a film: the words would be uttered from our mouths, twist up like a warm breath in cold air, white, dusty letters across the screen, rising up to some sort of heaven and then when they had reached the roof of my dilapidated, 4 storey ghost house, they would intertwine, fade and just become ever more unclear, more distant, more elusive…

But, of course, packing removed my sentimentality once more. Having remember which Nik we were talking about, I decided to give him a call. It went as follows:

'Hello.'

'Hello. Can I ask you a rather awkward question? Are you Nikolai or Nikita? I’ve always just thought of you as Nikita.'

'I’m Nikita.'

'Oh, well, then I really need to tell you something… today this crazy man phoned up and said that he knew you, asked me why I had texted you and told me that he was a very jealous person. I felt like he was threatening me.'

'Oh, yeah, he probably was. He is extremely jealous.'

'Did you used to date or something?'

'Yes, you could say it like that…'

'You know, I think he’s quite dumb, no offence. All his texts are in really weird, grammatically incorrect Russian with terrible spelling.'

'He’s not dumb, he’s just a foreigner. He’s from Uzbekistan.'

'Oh, I see. And why is he phoning me? He won’t stop.'

'As I said, he’s jealous. Just don’t answer. I don't know what he'll do'

#Okay. I won’t. But yeah, I’d stay clear of this guy, Nik. He sounds absolutely crazy. He seems to be sending cars out across the city to look for me. And he told me he was in the Mafia…'

At this point, rather than denying that the Uzbek man is in the mafia, Nik wishes me a happy new year, a good flight and says that he hopes we will meet again. Our conversation ends on a positive note.

Intrigued, and with still 2 hours to go before I had to be at the airport, I decided to phone the Uzbek man and explain the situation, hoping that this time he would be more coherent and the phone quality would be better. Maybe that way he would move his car away and go home.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello. Why didn’t you come out to the car on Montazhnikov?’

‘Well, to be frank with you, I thought you were a psychopath. Firstly, you never explained who you were, secondly, you weren’t making any coherent sense. You just kept saying you were jealous and needed to see me immediately. Do you think that's normal behaviour?’

…

I then proceeded to explain how I had met Nik and reassured my dear Uzbek that I was not having an affair with him. Nik was all his -- as long as Nik consented to that, of course. I felt compelled, however, to tell him that this is not the appropriate way to behave with someone. I transformed into a sort of bizarre counsellor for a complete stranger, listening carefully to his every word, speaking in soft tones (although sometimes in harsh words), and reminding him that this kind of extreme jealous would not be beneficial: not to him (‘it’s clearly making you act in an extreme manner. It’s not normal to phone a complete stranger in rage’), nor to Nik (who sounded pretty afraid on the phone) or really to me.

He told me his story. He said that he was a successful business man in Krasnodar, that he had 3 cars and he had sent some of his employees out to wait for me on Montazhnikov. He insisted that he wasn’t angry (‘I’m not that kind of person. I would meet you before I judged!’) but that he simply wanted to meet me in person so we could clear up the situation. He told me that he had fallen madly in love with Nik (‘even though I never normally date old guys. I used to date twenty year olds’) and that he was, by nature, an extremely jealous guy.

‘What do mean you’re jealous?’

‘It’s in my nature. I just always get crazy jealous. I can't control it.’

‘It can’t just be in your nature. There has to be something behind it. There must be some reason for you feeling so uncontrollably jealous. You need to find out what it was. And in the meantime, think logically: who is this jealousy helping? It’s scaring off complete strangers and driving Nik further and further away. The more jealous you act, the more he’ll think you’ve lost your mind’.

Apparently he had known Nik only for 2 months, but was already doing all he could to help him, or, in my mind, control him.

‘I paid for him to get a huge apartment in the city centre. That’s why he moved out. I told him from the very start that if he met any other guys, I would castrate him. I paid some of my workers to follow him around the city… I found out who he was seeing and what he was doing.’

‘You do know that makes you absolutely insane, right? That is not acceptable behaviour.  The less freedom you give him, the more he’ll run for the hills…  Was he your boyfriend?’

‘I’m in love with him.’

‘But is he your boyfriend? Did he ever actually say the words ‘I am your boyfriend’ or ‘We are in a relationship’?’

‘No.’

‘Then frankly you have no right to be controlling his life, sending cars around the city to search for potential lovers and to tell him who he can or cannot date. Even when you are in a relationship, you have to give people freedom. You have to base it on trust, otherwise you’ll live in suspicion the whole time and destroy yourself. But you’re not even in a relationship.’

‘I told him I loved him. He said he didn’t love me yet.’

‘He’s not your boyfriend. Let him be free. Don’t go crazy, jealous, because the way you acted today was not even half a step from a mental asylum.’

‘Okay. But I love him!”

 ...

‘And what happened today?’

‘Today I saw his text to you and jumped to conclusions…’

‘You know I thought you were threatening me….’

‘Of course, I wasn’t! I’m not insane. I’m a good person, believe me,  I would get to know you first…I have to establish the facts.’

 ...

‘Why did you say you would come find me in university?’

‘Oh. I know people there. I know people everywhere. I’m very famous in this city. Everyone knows my name, everyone knows my car. I would have found you through someone or other.’

 ...

In the end, me and my old Uzbek friend ended up having an hour long phone conversation, which consisted mostly of me telling him that his behaviour was crazy, that he needed to learn to trust people and to not let his emotional state depend so strongly on the life of someone he had only met two months before.

‘But, Daniel, haven’t you ever loved before? What would you do if you loved someone and they were seeing someone else? Wouldn’t you be jealous?’

‘Yes.  I probably would be jealous, depending on the situation. But I wouldn’t take my jealousy out on a complete stranger. Who does that help? At some points tonight I literally thought you were a psychopath. I was ready to lock the doors. Jealousy is a very negative, destructive emotion. It’s better to understand. You don’t always have to forgive. But try to understand, and to let your emotions depend less on other people and more on yourself.’

After this long conversation, having felt like I was a supercounsellor (not least, having done it all in Russian), my dear Uzbek friend bid me farewell, threw his old New Year wishes of good luck and happiness into the telephonic air and promised that after Christmas he would track me down and we would have a lovely lunch at his expense.

I’m not sure whether to be happy to have made an Uzbek friend or whether to fear death by mafia on my return. In any case, I’ll try to keep him on my side. He does have 3 cars. I guess I should memorize those number plates…