capitalism.txt

Ivan

"You've been doodling on yourself again," said Ivan, as he noticed some swirling brown lines poking out from underneath the cuff of Galya's sleeve. She quickly tugged it down again, and blushed.

"I had some free time. It was a long train ride."

"Should have flown," he smiled. She looked mildly insulted.

"There's a lot of radiation up there." she said piously. "Never fly if you can help it. It gives you 5 microSieverts, that's like a couple of X rays."

Not altogether sure what a microSievert was or whether Galya knew either, Ivan said "I'm the one who needs to worry about that, surely. Anyway, why not paint your hands? That's the normal thing, isn't it?"

"I'm not strutting around in front of the whole think tank with henna all over me. They'll think I'm weird. This stuff takes a week to get off."

"They're not intolerant people, Galya. You're all paid to come up with new ideas."

"Well, we are, but everything the others do is acquired, Vanya. They have...what can I say. A stiffness in their souls. No, don't roll your eyes. Are you going to say you have a stiffness in your pants? Very clever. Please spare us from hearing it out loud."

Ivan shrank, with a shamefaced smile. "Sorry. I shouldn't have let you get to know me so well."

"No, I'm glad. It's useful. If I couldn't see all your cock jokes coming I'd have killed you by now. But yes, they all talk about freedom and liberty and justice for all. But when I bring up gay marriage for Russia, you should see their faces. Like someone crapped in their porridge. It takes more than an iPad and a politics degree to make someone a liberal, Vanya. They're all bigots, deep down. They don't understand anything."

"Now you're resorting to cliches." he said automatically. He toyed with the ringbox in his pocket and hoped he could steer the conversation onto a less combative and more suitable course."How's the microcredit thing going?"

This was the one thing guaranteed to put Galya in a good mood. Microcredit, like Deepak Chopra and henna tattoos, a winning Indian export. She spent much of her working life trying to sell the Grameen model to provincial banks, government relief institutions and so on. A couple of regional banks had shown signs of interest. "This could be the big turning point, Vanya. They'll want trials, I suppose. Psh! forget trials. There's a gigantic and stunningly successful trial. Bangladesh? Hello? So much entrepreneurial potential. And here, everyone at least has running water at home and knows how to read. Look at your Anna Petrovna."

"Pavlova. What about her? You want her to start her own business? She helps me out at home."

"She could help a dozen people out if she had the capital. You know, like apprentice maids or something. Let's face it, Vanya, she survives on your charity. It's kind of you, but you don't have the money to feed every babushka in Moscow. Kindness won't help them."

"You're right." said Ivan. "I'd ask her, if she was interested. I'm no monk."

"Hardly matter if you were. They're all so spiritual in India, and they recognize life is a whole. Making money is a form of devotion too. That's what all the pandits say. They're all businessmen too. Commerce isn't inherently dirty, and there's no sin in making a good living. Let me see if I can remember that quote. 'B stands for better and best. Go first class all the way and the universe will reward you.' Isn't that beautiful?"

"Absolutely," said Ivan. His English wasn't as great as he wished,  and he didn't quite grasp it. But he appreciated the sentiment in her tone. He put a hand on her arm. "Look, Galya," he said, "there's something I wanted to tell you."

She arched her eyebrows, and did the same, imitating him with comically precise accuracy. She looked into his eyes and said solemnly, "Ivan Fedorovich, do not speak. Let us utter our confessions without words." Then she burst out giggling.

God, she annoyed him. A pang of doubt swam in his stomach and he knew if he didn't kill it at once it would breed and grow and destroy all his resolve. When would there be another chance? Galya was going away for longer and longer these days. The ring (200,000 rubles) would always be there, but would she?

"I made a trade." he said swiftly. "A big one. It went really well. I'll work, I mean, I should, a man should. But you, you can be...we can already...I love you. Everything is going to be..." His shivering fingers tight around the box, he drew it out, opened it, and sank onto his knee.

The restaurant fell silent. Everyone was staring. A waiter dropped a glass; no one noticed. Galya's mouth, ringed with her perfect teeth, hung open like a painted cave.

"Galina Andreyvna," said Ivan, "I ask you, will you do me the honor of becoming..." And now he could see her throat flexing, her jaw tensing, her cheeks suffusing with whiter-than-white...the floor dropping out from under the whole world. 

"NO!" she shrieked. "No, no, no! No, I can't, I don't..." she grasped at the tablecloth wildly, as if she would fall off her chair. He rose, frightened, tried to touch her. Her hand flailed and she slapped his face, twisting and retreating from him. "Vanya. No. I'm sorry. I'm so...why?! Why, you....Oh God!" She screwed her eyes up, tears seeping out from the edges. Then she flung herself out of her seat and ran.

By the time Ivan reacted she was several meters away, moving at an astonishing pace despite the heels she was wearing. He dashed after her, past all the incredulous faces, calling her name. She was at the door and outside and - merciful heaven! The heels betrayed her; one went flying after the other and she fell onto her face, skidding across the snowy pavement. He'd get to her for sure now. Ivan's hands touched the door and were on the point of tugging it open, when he felt someone tugging his sleeve.

"Sir," said the maitre d', "sir, the bill..."

"Fuck off!" roared Ivan, tearing a credit card out of his wallet and throwing it at the man's head.

The delay had been fatal; she'd picked herself up by now and she was wrenching open the door of a waiting taxi. By the time Ivan got to where she'd been, it was lost in the traffic and out of sight. He picked up an abandoned Prada pump and held it blankly, without thinking, standing under the gently falling snow.