looked at Snow blankly. ‘It means something like “road hog and menace” in Russian.’
‘I thought they spoke Ukrainian here?’
‘They speak a mixture. They were forced to learn Russian when it was still the Soviet Union. “Rusification”, it was called. Since independence the official national language has been Ukrainian but everyone can speak and uses Russian. More so in Kyiv and in the east of the country. The further west you go, the more Ukrainian you hear spoken.’
‘Sounds a bit like Wales.’
‘Similar.’
Victor piped up again and Snow nodded. ‘If you look to your right you’ll see Misha the bear on the grass verge. Look there, see it?’
Arnaud looked and saw an eight-feet-high cartoon-style bear made of painted concrete. ‘What is it?’
‘He was the emblem for the 1980 Moscow Olympics.’
‘Oh, I see. That was a bit before my time.’
‘When were you born?’
‘1981.’
‘Jesus.’ Snow frowned playfully. ‘I’ve got shirts older than you!’
They passed a large sign welcoming them to Kyiv. The city was expanding fast as more and more high-rise tower blocks were built in the suburbs. The new builds looked like luxury hotels compared to the old Lego-box Soviet architecture. Arnaud stared at the roadside billboards and squinted until he realised he couldn’t read the words because they were in Cyrillic and not because he needed glasses. They passed a two-storey shopping centre and then a McDonald’s.
‘That lot’s only been here for the past five years,’ commented Snow. ‘They had to make do with proper food before that.’
‘How do you say “Big Mac” in Russian?’ Arnaud’s mind drifted to his favourite film, Pulp Fiction.
‘Big Mac,’ replied Snow. ‘They don’t bother translating the words. I think Ronald McDonald is rather keen on brand awareness.’
Suddenly the tower blocks dropped away and they were at the river Dnipro. They crossed the bridge. The side they had just come from, the left bank, was littered with high-rise blocks; the right was covered with thick green trees. Several gold, onion-shaped domes poked out between them, reflecting the summer sun like mirrors. Arnaud recognised the Pechersk Lavra Monastery from his Lonely Planet guidebook and remembered it contained more mummies than all the pyramids and temples of Egypt. Next to the monastery was a tall metal statue of a woman. In one hand she held a dagger and in the other a shield. He couldn’t remember what it was. Snow anticipated Arnaud’s question. ‘That’s Brezhnev’s mother.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what they call it. Brezhnev ordered it built as a symbol of Mother Russia.’
‘That’s right.’ He started to remember.
‘You see the dagger? That was originally a sword but, after it was completed, the planners realised it was actually taller than the grand church tower at the Lavra Monastery. So it was made shorter. Brezhnev wasn’t happy but in this case the Church beat the mighty Soviet State. It’s still allegedly taller than the Statue of Liberty, but don’t let the Yanks know! The statue is on top of the military museum. I’ll take you there if you like; they’ve got loads of Soviet-era tanks, planes and helicopters.’
Arnaud stared. ‘Cool. I’m into all that. You know, military stuff.’
Snow tried not to smile. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I was in the TA for a while at uni, even thought about becoming an officer.’
‘What stopped you?’
‘I’m not a fan of green. No; I met this girl, and anyway, I didn’t in the end. I’m not a meathead. I’d rather not get shot by an Arab.’
‘I used to be in the army.’
Arnaud blushed. Had he offended his fellow teacher? ‘Oh?’
Snow paused to maximise Arnaud’s potential embarrassment. ‘The Salvation Army. I had to give it up, though; I got repetitive strain injury from banging my tambourine.’ Snow held Arnaud’s gaze for a second before both men started to laugh.
They reached the right bank of the river and took a road which suddenly became cobbled and wound its way between the trees and up towards the city centre. As they did, Snow pointed out the city barracks, ‘Arsenalna’, before they arrived at Khreshatik. Snow described it as a mixture of Bond and Oxford Streets, but four times as wide. Two minutes later, after fighting the traffic, the Lada mounted the pavement and parked in front of the arched gates of the apartment block. Victor opened the boot and handed Snow and Arnaud the bags. He then extended his hand and shook Arnaud’s. ‘Good day.’
‘Good day,’ replied Arnaud with a smile.
The Lada pulled back into the road and headed back down to Khreshatik. Arnaud looked around. Pushkinskaya ran parallel to Kyiv’s main boulevard – Khreshatik. It was lined with six-storey apartment blocks at this end and a couple of government buildings at the other. On the ground floor of most of the blocks were restaurants, bars, a travel agent and a shoe shop. The road itself was just wide enough for two-way traffic. The pavement on both sides was almost as wide as the road.
‘Not a bad street, eh? The architecture is a lot better here in the centre than on the outskirts.’
Arnaud agreed. From what he had seen so far, Kyiv’s city centre reminded him of a much cleaner version of Paris, although his part-Gallic blood wouldn’t allow him to vocalise this. ‘So, where’s the school?’
‘Twenty minutes away by car on the other side of the river, I’m afraid, even though it’s named after an area ten minutes’ walk away. Come on, let’s get inside. The quicker we dump your bags, the quicker I can show you the bars. Unless you’re tired?’
‘What, and miss out on a beer? Nah.’ Arnaud looked at his watch. The flight had landed at ten-thirty, it had taken forty minutes to get his bags and clear customs, and about the same time to get here. It was almost midday. They walked through the door in the three-metre-high iron gates and round the back of the building. There was a small courtyard bordered by other apartment blocks from the neighbouring Prorizna Street. Snow led the way to a door and tapped in a code.
‘The actual foyer and front door face the street but, for some bizarre reason, the other residents have decided to use the back door, and who am I to change this?’ He shrugged. They walked through the door up three steps and into the dark foyer. The walls were painted a two-tone of cream and dark-green. Snow pushed ‘3’ on the keypad and the small lift slowly descended.
‘Here’s something to remember. The floors are numbered in the American way. The flat is on the second floor but we need the third.’
‘Right.’ Arnaud frowned.
‘This is not the ground floor but actually the first floor. Are you with me?’
He wasn’t but didn’t let on. On either side of the foyer sat rows of dark-green mailboxes,
