Bar in the Departure zone
The story of one escape
Alexander Couprin
Cover designer Denis Lopatin
© Alexander Couprin, 2023
© Denis Lopatin, cover design, 2023
ISBN 978-5-0060-2406-9
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
CATCHING ECHOES OF THE PAST
Attention passengers, please check in for your flight and note that the boarding gate has been announcedFinal boarding call
The woman in the booth appeared confused.
Wait, so you are flying back to Germany now?
Oh, sorry. The traveler felt a crooked smile form at the corner of his mouth. Is it forbidden?
I just dont understand. Your incoming flight just arrived, and youre not even going into the city?
No, I dont care to.
The female control officer pressed a hidden lever, and the FSB officer began monitoring the conversation. The passenger is a US citizen named Dmitry Klimov. He is polite and pleasant, and his documentation is in order, but what does this mean? Getting off one plane, wandering around Sheremetyevo without leaving for the city, and then boarding another plane back to where he came from? The procedure to get here was arduous, with countless forms at the consulate, certifications, and photos required to obtain a Russian visa and purchase a business class ticket. And all this just to take a walk around the airport?
The FSB officer hunched over the monitor, listening to the conversation, and spoke quietly into the microphone. Girls, take a look at the client in Area Four, male, athletic build, wearing a canvas jacket trimmed in leather, light brown shoes, and thick, blond hair possibly a wig.
Once upon a time, Department 7, the section of the KGB responsible for surveilling foreigners, employed operatives of both sexes, so that if the need arose, a target could even be accompanied to the toilet. Now, KGB successor, FSB is all about technology and remote video surveillance is so tightly organized that guiding a target has become no more difficult than playing a computer game, although physical surveillance is still used indoors and outdoors.
In the arrivals hall, a passenger was captured by camera operators, followed, and handed off to customs control. There, he underwent a thorough examination by legitimate customs officers and security personnel working undercover. If no contraband or suspicious items were found, the passenger was subsequently released into the city.
However, this passenger did not leave and instead wandered around the airport building, peering intently at the glass doors, stairs, and hallways. This behavior triggered all the government machinery. He was being tailed, video recordings were being made, and personal data from the visa application form was urgently requested. Only the old installation engineer, who once served in the KGB and had access to the monitors, gloomily commented, He is remembering, remembering and comparing.
What does he remember? insisted the shift supervisor.
Hes a builder, most likely from Rutebau.
Whats that, Valov? What does it mean?
The firm that built the airport. The Germans built it. From West Germany. The Rutebau company.
Hmmm, I didnt know.
And youre a brainless piece of shit, sadly thought the retiree. In the old days, I wouldnt have promoted you beyond a first-grade technician.
But times had changed, and he is no longer an airport security boss, as he was back in the 80s. Ah, the 80s Yes, and he himself should already be at rest due to arrhythmia. What a distasteful word
He did not recognize the person on the monitor screens, although the thick hair remotely resembled someone from the distant past.
After wandering around the airport for an hour and a half, the passenger returned to the check-in counter, passed through customs and passport control, and was now slowly ascending the escalator to the second floor in the departure area.
Right there, where the stairs end, there was once a foreign currency bar, well known to the outgoing Moscow elite. Rubles were also accepted, but not from everybody. Here, well-known athletes poured beer from outlandish aluminum cans, diplomats focused on their caviar sandwiches. Here, the poet Yevtushenko ordered green tea, and beloved artist Volodya Vysoskiy politely asked for cold vodka. All of them famous, all of them bohemian, all those who would be granted the ridiculous foreign title celebrity had passed by this counter.
The memories seemed to weaken passengers knees. The bar was empty, and he chose a table at the edge, sat down, and threw his bag onto a vacant chair. A blue-shaven bartender with a military bearing leisurely approached him. He wanted to tell the visitor that they were on a technical break and that the chairs were not intended for luggage. He even raised a finger to point to the offending bag, but then visitors phone rang. Ignoring the barman, he spoke into the phone in German. The bartender silently returned to his post behind the counter. After about five minutes, traveler ended the conversation and sank into reverie. His eyes scanned the room, trying to recapture the past. Alas, there was nothing to grasp onto. Of course, this was not the same bar. Gone were the curved sofas and the odd barstools at a low and wide bar. And the bar itself was missing as the place had become more of a restaurant.
The ring! Of course, the ring! Where was it the hole left from the bronze ring in the ceiling, dislodged by a champagne cork? The entire ceiling of the airport was made up of these rings they clustered together and hung like brown honeycombs over thousands of bustling passenger bees. This was Sheremetyevos hallmark. No other airport, and probably no other building in the country, had anything like it. But the rings were gone. The ceiling was now completely different, ordinary like any other airport in the world.
What had he and Anya been celebrating in the storage room? And why had he not allowed her to open the bottle? In his inexperienced hands, the champagne popped deafeningly, the heavy cork shot up like a bullet and stayed there. Seized by horror, they stared as one of the millions of those rings fell. It turned out that they were not metal but rather plastic with a bronze finish. Frightened to death, they quickly stoppered the bottle with something and rushed to the exit, through the checkpoint to the bus.
Dima searched the ceiling for a long time for the stuck cork until Uncle Vlad, the senior bartender-administrator, noticed and remarked, They already know your face well enough. Stop looking up.
Yes, the ceiling of the airport was made up of rings to mask the lenses of surveillance cameras it was a joke to all the employees of Sheremetyev-2 in those years. And the passengers presumably thought the same.
Es tut mir leid, geht es Ihnen gut? asked the bartender with genuine concern as he touched the passengers shoulder and set a glass of cold water in front of him.
Oh, forgive me, for Gods sake, he answered in Russian. I just felt a bit dizzy. May I sit here for a few more minutes?
Yes, as long as you like. Call me if you need anything. Ill be over there working on some papers.
Oh, those papers shift change schedules, the commodity report, warehouse requirements, and something else, and, finally, the most important thing is the report on the currency received. An error on any document could cost you your job. At the same time, if the figures were manipulated cleverly and plausibly, some excess money could drop into the bartenders pocket without much risk.
Paperwork is creative work, Anya quoted a friend of hers. Treat it with your soul and get a sweet reward. She folded a small airplane out of a hundred ruble note and waving it above her head, walked into the back room.
After all, you wouldnt refuse to go with a lady to the Arbat tonight? She pushed him against the crates of mineral water, pressing her breasts into his chest, and her eyes shone with a myriad of twinkling lights.
Looking up from the papers, the bartender regarded his only customer who was still looking off into the distance, into the depths of years past, and the bartender even imagined he saw a tear running down the guests cheek.
No, no, I dont need any help. And the flight has already been announced. Thank you. Thanks.
He grabbed his half-empty bag and headed for boarding. Strange passenger.
DIMA (1981)
Dima shifted in his seat, his face still pressed against the window as he observed the spit-stained station platform. The view wasnt particularly exciting, but as a passenger, it was customary to look out the window. Spherically fat grandmothers, or perhaps young women disguised as grandmothers, dressed in identical quilted jackets and gray shawls, were selling simple food on the platform. Nuts, pies with various fillings, including questionable meat that Dima had learned to avoid after getting sick in Khabarovsk. The gray mass vaguely resembled meat but was of uncertain origin, rumored to be a mixture of offal, soy, or even stray dogs. Dima had learned his lesson after two days of illness.
A cheerful former convict, released early due to illness, teased Dima, calling him First on the Pot, referring to his recent bout of sickness. Fortunately, the nickname didnt stick, and Dima remained known as Dima for the rest of the journey. The ex-convict, weakened by his condition, rarely left his folding bench. He joked about going home on the path of recovery, a sarcastic reference to his release certificate. Although everyone in the train car understood the underlying meaning, it was a sensitive topic, and no one dared to make light of it.
Dima stayed seated when the conductor motioned for him to come to her compartment.
Why are you sitting there, kid? He almost certainly has tubik, she remarked.
Whats tubik? Dima asked.
Tubik, my boy, means tuberculosis, the conductor explained.
But he says its his stomach, Dima replied.
Well, then you must know better, doctor. Get out of here.
Regretting her interaction with the youngster, the conductor worried that he would spread what she said throughout the car. Dima, however, remained silent, simply moving a bit farther away from the former prisoner.
On the platform beneath the dimly glowing neon sign reading Sverdlovsk, Dima purchased hot potatoes wrapped in newspaper and two limp pickles from the spherical ladies. Carefully removing the newsprint from the potatoes with a knife, he ate without much enthusiasm. The black newspaper text left a blue imprint on the potatoes, puzzling him. He sat there for a while, lost in thought, not about the color transformation of newsprint but about the fractures in life and the need to adapt and make changes.
Dima was not an outgoing person; he preferred to listen rather than speak. But the journey seemed to loosen peoples tongues more than any interrogator could.
If you had stayed a few more years, you would be on the icebreaker Lenin, feeding penguins, someone remarked.
Penguins? Are there penguins in the Arctic? Dima asked, amazed.
Why not? Where else would they have gone? I saw it on TV, someone else chimed in from a nearby bench.
Dima found the statement to be blatantly ignorant and chose not to respond, not even turning his head.
And so, is it hard to get into the Marine College? the ex-prisoner asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
No. I applied after being discharged from the Army. Service counts. Acceptance was easy.
Did they kick you out, Dima? Didnt have enough pull?
It just wasnt my thing. Even in the Army I got tired of barracks life.
Not your thing? Hah! But then what is your thing? Dont answer. Its already time for me to get measured for a wooden suit, and I dont even know what my thing was or how I fucked it up Did you say you have an uncle in Moscow?
Dima sat on another bench, seeking solace in observing the ceiling covered with fly droppings. He preferred to have a conversation about life with the old ex-convict without the eager listeners surrounding them, making him feel like he was in a Komsomol meeting. Unhappy thoughts started to intrude into his mind.
Indeed, he had an uncle in Moscow. Despite his reluctance to turn to him for help, circumstances had left him with no other choice. All roads seemed to lead to Vlad, his weary uncle and only remaining relative. Dima loved and respected him, but there was an incident at Dimas farewell party before he went off to the Army that left a sour memory.
Uncle Vlad worked as the manager of an anonymous café and an adjoining grocery store. Living alone, he felt a sense of responsibility towards his few remaining relatives, including his sister and nephew. He provided them with food, financial support, advice, and patronage. As a grocer, he held a respected position in Soviet society, and people from various backgrounds sought his acquaintance, including engineers and prosecutors.
For Vlad, organizing Dimas farewell party as he transitioned from civilian life to the Army was a small matter, an inconsequential task. With loud farewells, the alcohol flowed, and Dimas friends and neighbors slowly dispersed into the Zelenograd apartment block. But then, unexpectedly, a local small-time criminal known as Chief called Dima over. Dima, being non-confrontational and having no issues with Chief, approached the garages without expecting any trouble. However, what he heard there turned out to be worse than any physical altercation.
Dimon, heres the thing your uncle Vlad is a fag.
What did you say? Dima was outraged. You drank the port wine and vodka he brought, and Vlad didnt act oddly at all. What happened?
Chief realized the conversation was going south and fell silent. Then Tolyan spoke he was older, already had completed military service but had not yet found a job, preferring to spend his days hanging out in the yard.
You dont get it. Hes a real faggot, a queer.
Dima wanted to get away never to return to this courtyard or this city.
As through a fog he heard Tolyan say that Vlads new friend, an Estonian, had tried to stab him. The police hauled both of them in, and the Estonian said he wanted to kill Vlad because he was jealous.
The weight of the situation overwhelmed the 18-year-old Dima, leaving him physically ill. When the dizziness subsided and everyone had left, he found himself alone. His uncle, who regularly sent greetings in letters from his mother, had taken over the correspondence when she fell ill with advanced form of breast cancer and became unable to write. In the winter of 1979, Dima was granted leave to attend his mothers funeral. At first, he didnt fully grasp the fact that he was now completely alone in the world. It was only after returning to the barracks that the reality sunk in.
During the memorial service, the director of the Defense Research Institute, where his mother had worked her entire life, mentioned that although housing was state-owned, Dima could keep his mothers apartment if he agreed to join the institute upon his return. However, deep down, Dima knew that he would never return to that apartment or the Moscow satellite city, let alone the closed defense facility. He observed his grief-stricken uncle Vlad with detachment and dismissed the rumors that were circulating. After all, the Estonian had been released quickly, and there he stood behind Vlad, wearing a comical hat adorned with a wolfs tail.