there. That store.”
Dima obeyed.
“Get me a good box of chocolates,” the man said. He pushed 20 hrivna at Dima, who took it as he moved out of the taxi.
Dima returned quickly and watched the man place 400 American dollars into the box. They arrived at the courthouse just as government workers were leaving for their early lunch.
Not early for them though, as the man removed his cap and combed his hair, seeming to force his whole demeanour into a more relaxed frame. As he slowly stepped out of the taxi, he perplexed Dima by saying, “Please go to Soba now. I shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
That was enough time for Dima to drive by the kiosk as he had promised. Seeing his daughter where she should be, he called in a quick report to his wife. The restaurant was fast work and gave him time to stop by a coffee vending machine – they had mochas that he liked for 2 hryvnia – before driving through lunch traffic back to the courthouse. He had fifteen minutes to spare. Fifteen minutes to think.
The man reminded him of a Lieutenant he had hated in Afghanistan. A man he almost killed. Trust was something Dima felt for most people on some level. To his way of thinking, many people had trust breaking-points. So it was life circumstances that had really failed him along the way. The wrong people in the wrong situations.
But this is life. Some men, like that officer and this man, did not present even a kernel of trustworthiness. He couldn’t relate to someone like that, no door to open to it. He checked all his mirrors. The man’s bag was still there. He hadn’t dropped it off at the hotel. Dima checked the mirrors and courthouse entrance again.
He isn’t one of the trusted. He doesn’t need my trust. It’s not a problem. Dima leaned into the backseat and unzipped the bag. A shirt, deodorant, shaving stuff. Train tickets, two. For that night at 6:00 to Kiev. Plane tickets. Dubai. Dubai? Time was up. He felt it. He zipped the bag and turned forward, working through possible excuses, but the man took another five minutes.
When they were on the road again, the man informed Dima he had two hours to kill before dinner.
“Take me somewhere where there are no people. No noise. You can keep the meter running.”
Dima suggested a section of the beach with an abandoned shipyard where it was often quiet and the cell phone reception was still good.
“Sir, I ask. What business you do?
“Nyet.”
“I understand,” Dima replied.
“Good.”
The man walked to a broken and graffiti-painted boardwalk bench, sat, and pulled out his cell phone. The solitary state seemed to fit the man, a cold and friendless object.
Dima found his thoughts returning to Afghanistan again as he habitually rubbed at the tattoo on his upper right arm. This day was becoming very unhealthy for him – he could feel it. He could ditch the man since he had paid at every stop they made. He wouldn’t really lose anything, just anything more. And maybe he could stop at the Market on the way home and catch a few rides to help cover the loss. But something compelled him to remain, something other than the money.
Did he hate himself as much as he did that Lieutenant? He caught his own confusion. This man is not the Lieutenant. I’m losing some reality. He lit a cigarette and calmed himself. He noticed the wind was blowing with unusual strength. That would be a problem for the man’s cell phone reception. Dima took satisfaction in that while he sat down in his taxi to call his wife.
“Katya doesn’t answer her phone,” she said right away.
“She is always running out of Bee-Line cards. Go to the store and email her. You know she is at the hotel ten times a day using their internet.”
“Yes. I will.”
“You are crazy today. She is fine. Please.” He laughed, subduing his own fear. “My American is back. Bye.”
Dima drove them to Soba by way of his daughter’s kiosk. She wasn’t there. Probably on break and at the hotel to check her email. When they parked, the man gave him American dollars.
He hesitated before taking it, knowing this would mean something.
“I need you to watch from across the street. Maybe twenty minutes. I will come out to smoke. I’ll give you an envelope to take back to the courthouse. Understand?”
Dima nodded, already reaching for the large tip.
Arriving at the courthouse with the envelope, Dima took in the details of the building. An odd faded green with ornate white trim. The front façade was 1950s, Stalin-Georgian, and the real building behind pre-Bolshevik. Leaning against his taxi, he took a final drag on his cigarette. He trudged up the gray stone steps and through the chipped-paint goliath wooden doors. As he entered the great hall, his gaze was drawn to the double staircase pressed against the far back wall, the black iron handrails leading to the visible second floor hall from both sides. The ceilings were much higher than he was used to seeing in government buildings. The open space was a shrine to the former days, the Soviet years. The tall, draped, deep-red window curtains and blood-red display table-cloths set against the dark browns of the wide-board flooring and custom hand-carved paneled walls. Those walls were a museum of military history. Soviet heroes with uniforms hidden somewhere under the medals. Dima had thirty years to reflect on his war and wondered who they thought was still in the market for this fantasy. He guessed that he once must have been.
Looking to the packet in his hand for the first time, he read, Ministry of Records. He found directions on the wall and climbed the stairs to the upper hallway. Down the hallway, the office entry was more modern, bringing him into the early 1970s through the overwhelming presence of plywood wall paneling. The woman behind the pressed board counter took his packet without looking up from her ancient computer monitor. She opened the paperwork and for a lack of anything to consume his mind, he read some of the paper in her hands. Suddenly, he was interested. The first name of a woman was much repeated. Katya.
He leaned forward, fishing for a last name, but his movement caught the eye of the seasoned bureaucrat.
She quickly shuffled the papers into an official manila folder.
All worries about his Katya came rushing in on him, “Excuse me, what was the last name for Katya on that form?”
“It is not for you. I know, because I issued the form to the petitioner this morning.”
“Right. But I work for him,” He said with pleading eyes. “Please, what was the last name?”
“What is the petitioners’ name?”
Dima hated himself. Why didn’t I know a passenger’s name? I should have demanded to know his name. I always know names!
“The marriage certificate is filed. We are closed now.”
“Yes, but…”
“You are very sweaty. We are closed.” She stood
