READ RUSSIA PRIZE 2020 shortlisted titles - excerpts

Excerpt: Rock, Paper, Scissors and Other Stories

On his arrival he is possessed by a spirit of profligacy and buys ridiculous, expensive gifts for his friends and family. And on the plane back to Russia, before it even leaves the ground, he commits an act that will make him feel ashamed.

Here’s how it plays out. The plane is stuffed with passengers, and he’s seated at the window next to the emergency exit—a rare, valuable seat, with more legroom, which he reserved in advance. Beside him slumps a middle-aged gentleman who weighs around 170 kilograms; you see that kind of obesity only in America. What’s more, he’s completely drunk, and drenched in sweat; his hot flanks extend far over the edges of his seat. It’s clear that this situation won’t improve during the flight to Moscow.

He scrambles out past the mountain of flesh and, without even thinking of what he’ll say, wends his way to the stewardess and informs her that his neighbor is drunk. In his view, that constitutes a threat  to the safety of everyone on board: in the event of an emergency, would the man be able to help his fellow passengers climb out the exit?

“Sir, would you like to be reseated?” the stewardess asks the fat man. “No?” She asks him to speak up. “Well, then we’ll just have to call the police. You’ll fly to Moscow in the same seat, at the same time, but tomorrow.”

Now he feels the need to intervene, to vouch for his neighbor . . . Having freed himself from the mound of flesh, he has a clearer sense of what he has wrought. Maybe the fellow had simply been nervous before the flight—many people are afraid to fly; he himself has had to resort to alcohol, though in smaller doses. But both parties ignore him, and as soon as the fat man hears the word police, he gets up and trudges after the stewardess to the back of the cabin.

He feels ashamed. He’s behaved like an American. Oh, well, what’s done is done—this isn’t a matter of life and death.

A woman takes the place of the fat drunk. She’s about forty-five, rather young-looking, freckled. Her hand brushes against his on the armrest, and he feels a pleasant chill through her shirt. Very nice.

Now he’ll take a sleeping pill, they’ll bring him some wine, and he’ll doze off and wake up in Moscow. But they don’t bring him wine.

“But how will you help your fellow passengers in the event of an emergency?” The beverage cart is operated by that same stewardess: it turns out that not all Americans approve of snitching.

Let’s see if the pills work with juice. They would have, if it weren’t for his new neighbor. She finishes her Diet Pepsi, rattles the ice in her cup, and talks, talks, talks.

She’s from New York, going to Russia for the first time. She wants to know more about the country; he’s supposed to enlighten her. Half-asleep, he mutters various inanities, but the neighbor is insatiable. She changes the subject to America, then to the whole world, and finally—to herself. The conversation on the plane with a random fellow traveler is a popular genre. It substitutes for psychoanalysis, for confession. She recently broke up with her lover: he used to bribe her with expensive gifts—the last straw was the Jaguar.

“How would you like it if a woman gave you a Jaguar?”

He’d have to think about that, yes . . .He closes his eyes, and she prattles on—about her ex-boyfriend’s disgusting habits, the restaurants he took her to, the cigars he smoked.

Oh, he has an idea: this ought to stem her eloquent tide.

“A woman is only a woman,” he says in English, “but a good Cigar is a Smoke.”

But the neighbor just nods, unperturbed: “Kipling.”

She knows the poem. She studied “creative writing” at Princeton.

Anyway, this Kipling used to buy her cars, but he refused to have children. The radical measure of sterilization is fairly common in the United States. Kipling had a vasectomy, and now she herself is too old to conceive.

That’s why she’s flying to Russia—to adopt a girl. Russia, Kazakhstan, Romania—the few places left where you can find an orphan of European descent. He looks at his neighbor with new eyes.

She extends her hand: “My name is Jean.”

He gives Jean his name and sees a slight change in her expression. A half smile—not mysterious, exactly. Will she say it? Of course she’ll say it. No, she keeps mum.

“Tell me—it was your dog’s name, wasn’t it? Your cat’s?”

“My hamster’s,” Jean confesses.

How sweet. They both laugh.

She tells him about the process of adoption. There will be a court hearing. She shows him a photo of the little girl, eleven months old. There’s a lawyer waiting in Moscow. They’ll travel to Novosibirsk together. Everything has been arranged, even a Russian nanny. Why a Russian nanny? “What do you mean, why? The girl’s only heard Russian her whole life.”

There’s one thing Jean hasn’t arranged. She asks him to fill out her customs declaration, and it turns out one can’t bring in more than ten thousand dollars on one’s person. Jean brought a bigger sum with her. Well, there are two options: either hide the money deeper, or entrust some of it to him. He’d wait for her at the glass doors; he has no luggage.

“Of course I trust you . . .” she says, somewhat abstractedly.

So she doesn’t trust him, but she really has no other choice. He takes her money: Don’t worry, Jean. That’s the end of their conversation. They both need sleep.

The plane flies over Tver. There are no clouds. He lets her look out the window: See the wretchedness? He’s no longer with Jean. When he exits the plane and the customs inspectors ask, “What are you traveling with?” he’ll wave his hand and say: “All kinds of crap.” They’ll smile the best they can—one of ours, on you go. Jean and he will say their goodbyes at the glass doors; friendships struck up in airplanes don’t usually develop, but they’ll exchange phone numbers, addresses. He’ll get in his car and his mind will again turn to his father. For some reason, car trips give him a fleeting sense of reunion. He’ll drive into the city—which is aggressive, barbaric on weekdays, and not so bad, more or less familiar on weekends—and make his way to Manezhnaya Square. A decade ago, the traffic around the square was two-way, now it’s one-way—he’ll have to tell his father about that too.