The Camel's Curse by Eli Dahle

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Moscow, Russia

April 10, 1:45 p.m. MSK

Tim deplaned and walked up the ramp, then down a dingy hall filled with cigarette smoke and idle airport workers huddled around ashtrays.  With a start, he noticed two small gray birds flitting above him near the ceiling, going about their day as if they were in a forest, not a dark, noisy airport.  After several minutes he emerged from a long, gray hallway into a cavernous room filled with luggage turnstiles. 

Tim’s bag was one of the first to be regurgitated, an honor he realized was reserved for business class passengers.  One nice perk, anyway.  Without a second glance, he walked through a sliding glass door into a frantic world of bustle and grime.  Dirty middle-aged men with three-day stubble and cigarettes dangling from their mouths accosted him with offers of “taxi, taxi.” Travelers overloaded with bags pushed and yelled.  Sullen policemen in baggy uniforms leaned against a wall puffing away under a no smoking sign.  A baby screamed.  Tim, lost and disoriented, resisted the urge to scream himself.  After a few minutes of frantic but aimless wandering he spotted, with a sigh of relief, a hand-written sign with his name on it.  “Come with me,” the man said.  “Welcome to beautiful Moscow. Our car parked outside.”

The man led Tim quickly across a road jammed with cars playing games of cat and mouse with pedestrians lugging overstuffed suitcases to a parking area near the entrance marked with a large, black sign that read VIP.  “Everything VIP in this country,” he said with a smile.  He stopped in front of a black, stretched Audi A8, gesturing to Tim to enter as he threw the suitcase roughly into the trunk.  Tim sat in the passenger seat and waited.  “Why you up here with me?” the driver asked with a laugh as he settled heavily into the driver seat.  “No problem, but VIP seat in back.” 

Tim looked out the tinted windows as they crawled toward the city.  Even through the closed windows and filtered air of the expensive Audi he could smell the nauseating fumes of the countless trucks and old Russian cars that surrounded them.  To the right, drivers had created a new lane on the dirt shoulder and several cars, expensive SUVs by the look of them, hurtled down the sidewalk.  A black Mercedes with a flashing blue light honked its piercing air horn in the left lane, forcing cars in front of it off the road.  Through the dirty air he saw the hulks of gray apartment buildings on the horizon, as forlorn and decrepit as beached whales.  To Tim, the ambience felt overwhelmingly gray and oppressive – gray sky, gray cars, gray buildings, gray faces.  No wonder no one smiles, he thought.

The driver turned toward Tim, taking his eyes off the road as he gazed serenely at his passenger.  “My name is Vladislav Nikolaevich Petrov.  Americans, they have a hard time with that name.  So call me just Slava.”

“Look out,” Tim yelled, reaching for the wheel as a yellow Lada cut them off.

Slava braked and swerved but did not take his eyes off of Tim.  “No you worry.  I have eyes on back of head.  I drive you when you here, take care of you.  Traffic always bad on this road.  Bad everywhere.  But we arrive at hotel in two or three hours.  Faster than walking maybe.” 

“Why do you have a video recorder?” Tim asked, fingering a small camera mounted on the dash aimed out the window.

“Oh, because of menty, err, cops.  Menty steal you up the ass.  Sorry if my expression is rough, but you understand?”  Tim nodded.  “Best to take photos just in case; protect yourself.  You sit back, relax now.”  With that, Slava turned a Europop station to full volume and re-focused on the road, tapping the wheel to the heavy techno beat.

Several kilometers, three hours, and many pop tunes later, they arrived at the hotel, which was located on a packed six-lane city street lined with severe granite buildings containing stores at street level and apartments above; Tverskaya Street, according to Slava, central Moscow’s main thoroughfare.  A six-story building across the street was completely encased, like a Christmas present, in an ad for Italian lingerie.   Tim realized that he was exhausted - from the flight, from the loud music and from his intense focus on these unfamiliar surroundings – and wanted nothing more than to hide in his room and shut out the world.