MOSCOW, August 21, 2007 -- The new Simpsons movie has come to Russia to a mixed reception. Many Russians don’t know quite what to make of the Simpsons, who have been officially airing on one TV station since 1997.
When my students ask about them, I tell them that it’s satire – Americans making fun of Americans.
The cool Russians, like my students Dima and Sasha, love them, but a lot of the prune-faced babushkas and the equally prune-faced politicians who purport to speak for them denounce the “yellow freaks” cartoon as “anti-family,” as indeed the prune-faced Bushmaster did in campaigning in 1999, when – according to the Moscow Times – he asked primly, “why can’t the American family be less like the Simpsons and more like the Waltons?”
After nearly eight years of Bush, we might ask today, “Why can’t the American president be more like George Washington and less like Butthead?”
One disgruntled Russian father and lawyer sued for the damage he claimed the series had done to his family life when his son asked “what’s cocaine?” after one of the episodes, and after another called his mother a toad.
Alas, the case was thrown out of court. The Russian justice system isn’t totally hopeless after all!
The derailment of the Moscow-to-St. Pete express last week has been dominating the news here. Miraculously, no one was killed, and only 25 injured. The question: Who were the terrorists and why did they choose to blow up the elite five-hour commuter train?
Immediate speculation focused on ultra-nationalists because the modus operandi was similar to past explosions linked to them – usually targeted at Chechens or Asians. But this was an expensive train used almost exclusively by executives and bureaucrats. No Chechen victims here!
Well, then maybe Muslim terrorists? But what did they have to gain except maybe to make an anti-establishment statement?
Speculation has persistently focused on the timing of the event: the eve of the beginning of the election season with the possible purpose of trying to destabilize the country. But why? Putin doesn’t need to draw the people together around him. They’re already there.
Former TV executive-turned-political-analyst Evgeniy Kiselyov speculated that the event was indeed election-related, but was actually orchestrated by the “ruling elite” in the corridors of the Kremlin who have begun to realize that Putin is serious about stepping down at the end of his term.
It has thrown them into a panic, he suggests. A new president means a new cabinet, new advisors, new string-pullers, and consignment to ignominious oblivion for the old ones. Their money and power base will be gone.
Thus the attempt at destabilization, he speculates, is to create a sense of fear and emergency that will bring a demand from the people that Putin remain in office and leave their power base intact.
My class with Information Plus is an advanced level class, and we sometimes discuss current events. I was trying to explain to them the Kiselyov opinion piece, in which he noted the uses to which terrorist explosions have been used prior to prior elections, the most notorious – at least to those of us from the West – being the 1999 apartment bombings in Moscow and Volgodonsk when Vladimir Putin was head of the KGB>FSB.
Recently-assassinated former FSB agent Alexander Livinenko early on wrote a book exposing the bombings as FSB orchestrated for the purpose of fomenting mass support for a new war against Chechnya and for Putin – the main champion of the war -- as the successor to Pres. Yeltsin.
This scenario gained credence when a couple in the suburban Moscow town of Ryazan, returning to their apartment during the night, noticed men carrying bags into the basement. They called police, who determined that the bags contained TNT. But the investigation was suddenly halted and a couple of days later the FSB announced that they had simply been carrying out a test exercise and that the bags had actually contained only sugar. Not to worry!
Investigations of the FSB connection were undertaken, but as we have noted earlier (Chapts. 41, 258, Putin wraps himself in a constitution he doesn’t believe in), virtually everyone connected with those investigations is now dead – most of them murdered. Litvinenko is simply the most recent.
Kiselyov, then general director of NTV television before Putin closed the station and sold it to the Kremlin’s Siamese twin Gasprom, recalls specifically what happened when they televised a program six months after the event featuring eyewitnesses to the “Ryazan sugar” affair who expressed serious doubts about the FSB’s version of events.
The very next day, he recalls, one of the company’s shareholders received a phone call from a high government official responsible for working with the media. He had been generally supportive of NTV up to that time, but warned the shareholder that “Everything you’ve aired up to now is nothing compared with what you reported on yesterday’s program,” adding “you will not be forgiven for that.”
Within six months, NTV was dismantled.
As I was summarizing Kiselyov’s thesis, I noted the vacant stares from students Andrei and Dima. “You know about this, don’t you?”
They shook their heads. They had never heard of any alleged connection between the FSB and the explosions. As far as they were concerned, Chechens had been at the bottom of it, and Putin had been justified in his retaliative war.
The Putin re-write of history has been successful and complete.
A Moscow lawyer, TV personality and author is being investigated by Moscow prosecutors on charges that his new mystery novel slanders the cops.
Slandering a judge, jury, prosecutor, or officer of the court is a crime punishable by two years in prison.
But how can anybody be slandered by a novel full of fictitious characters?
Where there’s a will there’s a way. The obvious answer is that the criminal pursuits of the fictitious cops in the book were so close to reality that the author should be punished for revealing just how corrupt they are.
And just how corrupt are they? A hint came last week when a senior police officer with the Interior Ministry swerved into oncoming traffic and hit a van head-on.
When traffic police arrived at the scene, they asked to see his driver’s license. The officer refused and tried to persuade the officers not to register the accident, which would result in his license being suspended for a year.
When the traffic cop persisted, the senior police officer attacked him. The traffic cop was hospitalized with a concussion and facial injuries. The senior police officer was arrested and taken to the prosecutor’s office.
So far, so good. Justice was done. Maybe. But any bets on what happens when – and if – the case actually gets to the courts?
Igor continued to lie in his bed of pain after last week’s beating (Chapt. 261, Present from Sochi: Dick bigger than his brain), head hurting non-stop and slogging down aspirin, for the next several days. Finally onThursday he gave in: He wanted to go to the polyclinic.
There was only one problem: He couldn’t walk. It hurt too much.
After a quick conference with Sergei and Andrei, we did the only thing possible: We called “First Aid,” which is the Russian medical service that responds to emergency phone calls. We had also called them in March when Zhorik was having stomach problems (Chapt. 245, Zhorik exits; and so do human rights).
As before, they trudged up the stairs, still looking more like plumbers than doctors. A quick once-over and brief history of the beating convinced them that it was serious – probably a concussion -- and he must go to the hospital. “He doesn’t have any money,” I warned.
“The first three days are free,” they said.
Andrei rode with them so we would know where to visit him the next day.
That night, Andrei, Sergei, and 17-year-old blond boy Artur went “gulyating.” At 3 a.m. the house phone rang. It was Artur -- alone. He was again very drunk. “Have Sergei and Andrei been here?”
“No. What happened?”
“They went to a restaurant and got very drunk. They lacked 500 rubles having enough to pay the bill.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“That’s what I told them,” he said. “Dane, I want to go home. My train leaves in 15 minutes. Can you loan me 200 rubles (about $ 5) for the road?”
God, yes. Getting rid of him for only $ 5 was a huge bargain. But I have yet to understand where he got the money for a ticket, and when he bought it. He left wearing only his shoes and trousers and Andrei’s favorite shirt. He kissed me several times on the lips. “Don’t forget me,” he said.
“I’ll never forget you,” I replied, but not for the reasons he thinks.
I had just gotten back to sleep when the house phone rang again about 5 a.m. This time it was Sergei and Andrei with their friend Alyosha lugging two bags full of expensive liquors plus a plasma TV, a CD player, a flash card, etc.
I remembered the last time Sergei had come trudging home with his ex-boyfriend “Shkola” bearing a cache of unexplained expensive liquors (Chapt. 111). They had been stolen. Although Sergei hadn’t stolen them he came within a hair’s breadth of going to prison over it
“Where did these come from?” I asked.
“Alyosha owns a restaurant. These are from his restaurant,” Sergei said. I doubt it. In any case, they divided the loot, taking half themselves and giving me the other half, including a bottle of “Malibu” liqueur” that smells like macaroons, a bottle of Tia Lissa coffee cream liqueur, a bottle of Tunisian wine that is near brandy, and a few others.
Sergei later assured me he is not a criminal and has never been a criminal. I believe him, although I still doubt that all this came from “Alyosha’s restaurant.”
About noon on Friday we all went to visit Igor in the hospital. On the plus side, Russian hospitals are not the sacred inner sancta of the American genre, where the intimidating aura of the high priesthood of medicine compels you to talk in hushed tones and tread reverentially.
Russian hospitals prompt no such awe. They’re more like old warehouses, with bare concrete steps, no air conditioning, and linoleum covered floors. The halls are filled with comatose patients. Ambulatory patients wear street clothes in the hospitals and generally come and go as they please
Igor met us in front. “How do you feel?”
“Terrible.”
We strolled and talked for a few minutes. “What’s the diagnosis?” I asked. He shrugged.
“Let’s go see the doctor,” Andrei said.
We went back to his ward, a depressing collection of eight middle-aged and elderly men. The doctor entered.
“What’s your relationship?” he asked.
“Brothers,” Andrei responded.
“Who’s the oldest?”
“I am.”
So they disappeared for a few minutes and came back with the news that Igor has a broken nose and a brain contusion that could exacerbate his epileptic condition. He’s to drink absolutely no alcohol.
“He needs to be here for two weeks,” he announced.
“Two weeks!” I gasped.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Russian medical tradition is to put you in the hospital for anything that ails you, and keep you there interminably. I’m convinced it actually kills patients. A few weeks ago, a 28-year-old friend of Sergei’s died in the hospital. He didn’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. He had been diagnosed with pneumonia and died in the hospital after three or four months! Iatrotegenic murder, I’m convinced.
But a brain contusion probably does need hospital treatment.
Cost?
“If we go through official channels, and sign documents, etc.,” Andrei said, “the doctor said it would cost 40,000 to 45,000 rubles (nearly $ 2,000).” If we don’t do the documents, he will treat Igor ‘under the table’ for about 20,000 rubles – less than half that.
“We can split the cost three ways,” Andrei continued. “I’ll pay one-third, Sergei will pay one-third, and you pay one-third.”
That’s fine, but where are they going to get their respective thirds? They keep talking about somebody in Domodedovo who owes them $ 5,000, but they’ve been here for ten days and they still haven’t been able to find him.
I had promised Igor I would visit him on Saturday, but for the first time since I can remember, I really didn’t feel well. There was a persistent dull ache in my stomach, and I had the predromic symptoms of a migraine headache.
I have no doubt whatsoever that it was a result of the stress of the last week, capped by Igor’s stupid antics and consequent trauma. There was also an element of depression. I’ve invested a lot of time, love, and money in Igor, and to what end?
I managed to get through two lessons with students at home, and then called Igor to tell him I just didn’t feel like coming. I slept a good part of the afternoon and evening.
After Andrei woke up on Sunday, he and I discussed going to visit Igor. Realizing that in all likelihood I would be stuck with Igor’s full hospital bill, I told Andrei that if this was going to cost $ 700, I just don’t have $ 700 and won’t have $ 700.
He shook his head. “They’re not doing anything we can’t do for him. He’s just getting rest. He could come home today.”
So he called Igor. Igor was more than delighted at the prospect. So I caught the metro to Poloshaevskaya Metro Station, then caught a cab to Hospital #67, where Igor was standing on the sidewalk waiting for us.
I immediately started feeling better.
His head is still very painful. He also said they gave him a spinal tap, but the site of the tap is still extremely painful and he thinks maybe the doctor didn’t do it correctly.
I told Igor there was a new set of rules: l) he absolutely had to obey me; 2) he’s not to be on the street by himself; 3) he’s got to be in bed by midnight; 4) he’s to drink absolutely no alcohol. The rest we would forge as we go along.
The rules didn’t stay in force for even 24 hours. Sunday night about 11:00, just after Igor had spent 15 minutes telling me how bad he felt, we got a phone call from Andrei.
“I have to meet Andrei at the metro station,” he said tersely.
I exploded and insisted he not go. “I have to,” he said.
“Can’t you simply say no?”
“You know Andrei.”
When they all finally got home at midnight with one of Sergei’s old – and ugly – girlfriends in tow, I discovered that Andrei had wanted him to meet a potential new girlfriend.
Andrei was also lugging an unidentifiable chunk of meat from the nearby supermarket. Beef is not a Russian tradition, and they don’t know how to cut it. Not only was it tough, but Andrei fixed it badly. It wasn’t finally ready to eat till 2 a.m. and then was tough and tasteless.
When I went to bed a few minutes later, Igor was not there.
“Where’s Igor?” I asked.
“He went to meet the girl he met earlier.”
I was furious. I called him on the mobile phone Andrei had given him so he could communicate while he was in the hospital.
“Where are you?”
“I’m here near Belarusskaya Station.”
“Why aren’t you at home in bed? You’re nearly dead and you’re wandering around the streets of Moscow at 2:00 in the morning? You’re an idiot!”
And I hung up.
And I then and there made up my mind. I’m not going to spend any more time or money trying to take care of him if he’s not going to make any effort to take care of himself. He’s got about as much sense of responsibility as a 12-year-old. He apologized the next day and promised not to do it again. But I still have my doubts.
He, Sergei, and I had already decided he needs to continue treatment. If he doesn’t, he said, he runs the risk of paralysis. He can go back to the hospital in Chisinau and be treated free as a Moldovan citizen. That’s what he will do. I don’t have any money at the moment. In three days, Sergei will buy him a ticket and give him $ 100, and he will return to Moldova.
I am considering telling him not to return to me. I’m not sure I want the continued responsibility of being his keeper. The minimal sex I get isn’t worth it.
“This is the police,” the gruff, surly voice said on the mobile phone Friday afternoon when I asked who was asking about Igor.
I actually tried to tell him Igor was in the hospital, but the dump fuck (“dumb as an oak” is an apt Russian description) didn’t understand anything I was saying.
“Is he here? Did he return?”
I at first had assumed it was a follow-up call on Igor’s street fight and hospitalization. But it slowly dawned on me that this was a fishing expedition and the dumb oak knew nothing about Igor, so I purposely started being obtuse. “I don’t understand,” I repeated. Finally, exasperated, he said, “I’ll call again later.”
When he hung up, I looked at the number and recognized it as a number in this immediate area. It had to be the ucheskovkiy. But it was not the voice of the shit-head I’d dealt with earlier.
After Igor got home on Sunday afternoon, he said his friend Grisha was in the courtyard and he wanted to meet him. I at first said, “no way,” but he said he felt like walking down to the courtyard and that Grisha had said he wanted to talk to him in private.
“What if the Uchoskoviy sees you?” I asked.
“He won’t. Besides, there’s a new ucheskoviy here. That guy’s not here anymore.”
At that point I was certain that it had been the ucheskoviy and it had been a fishing expedition and that if he called again, I would tell him Igor went back to Moldova in June and I don’t know where he is.
Sunday night I got another call: “I want to speak to Ivan Ivanovich.”
That’s very official.
“Who’s calling?” I asked.
“Who are you?” he said in return.
“Who are you?” I countered.
“This is the police.”
“He left for Moldova in June.”
“Moldova?”
“Yes.”
“What’s his phone number?”
“I don’t know his phone number.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
When I told Igor about the call, he said it was the police checking on him from the hospital visit. I lied to them. They almost certainly have Igor’s address. They will probably visit here.
“What will we do?” I asked Igor.
“Whatever happens, happens.”
One positive note that came out of Igor’s hospitalization was that it enabled me with a clear conscience and the ring of absolute truth to tell Natasha the landlady that Igor isn’t living here yet and we wouldn’t start the 30,000-ruble-a-month regimen till next month.
No problem.
In the meantime, Igor insists that he can get legally registered much cheaper by someone he knows at Voikovskaya Metro Station and that we don’t need to pay the extra $ 300 a month, in which case we’ll need to find a new place to live, because Natasha’s excuse for the extra $ 300 was that there would be three people living here.
In fact, it began to look like there would be four people living here – Sergei, Andrei, Igor, and I. Since the nightmare last Monday night, Andrei has been a model of comportment. But Sergei told me Sunday night that when Andrei gets his $ 5,000, he has promised to give $ 2,000 of it to Sergei, which Sergei will use for himself and me, and he will tell Andrei to return to Stavropol. He doesn’t want to live with Andrei. I’m greatly relieved. Their chemistry is simply too volatile.
And with Igor headed back to Moldova, it may be just Sergei and I until Zhorik arrives next June. That would be okay. Sergei loves me very deeply and is very concerned about my health and well-being. He suggested we resume our sex lives together. I care for him very much.
The long hot summer is over – not the insufferable heat, but the insufferable money drought I’ve been experiencing.
With my new students starting last week – both referrals from former students – even after paying the rent I go into this week pretty much even and the prospect of raking in about 500 bucksi this week.
And within two weeks, I expect several more promised new students – from Maxim, from Basil, from Arman, and others – to begin their lessons, so I should be out of the hole for good.
So the hand-to-mouth – or bread to water, as the Russians say – season is over; I hope forever. I will never again let myself get into this precarious monetary position. I’ve been incredibly stupid and unbelievably naïve over the past year. Never again. I’ve said that before, but I’ve never had my tail feathers so close to being singed as they’ve been this summer.
Of course, I did explain last week why I’m not a millionaire, so I wouldn’t put any money on my sudden new spurt of judicious money management just yet. But my intentions have never been better!
See also related pages:
Chapt. #41 - A replacement for Zhenya
Chapt. #263 - The KGB IS the State
Chapt. #261 - Present from Sochi: Dick bigger than his brain
Chapt. #258 - Putin wraps himself in a constitution he doesn’t believe in
Chapt. #245 - Zhorik exits; and so do human rights
