COLUMNISTS

By Deidre Dare

The King of Spades is doing renovations. Now, nothing bores me more than renovations and I've generally tried to keep out of the way. However, one lovely morning as we were having coffee in bed at my place, his Uzbek contractor phoned.

"Fuckers!" the KoS muttered in anger after he'd hung up.

The police were trying to get into his flat.

"What do they want?" I asked in horror.

"Probably a bribe," he answered. "Let's go to my flat."

When the KoS has important Rus­sian business to attend to, he likes me to come along. Apparently, even though no one really likes Americans, we are still considered reliable and trustworthy (or, maybe just wealthy) as individuals and it helps the KoS conduct his transactions if I'm sitting by his side saying, "What's happening now? What's going on? What's she saying?"

Well, it turns out, it wasn't the police, it was JACK and we had to go to the nearest JACK office and find an inspector named Svetlana, the contractor informed us.

"What's JACK?" I asked him as we walked.

"You don't want to know," was all he answered.

(ZhEK is the acronym commonly used to describe the communal housing services department, I am now reliably informed.)

Svetlana turned out to be quite a problem and my American-ness didn't impress her at all. Conducting herself as if she were FSB, she grilled the KoS relentlessly and accused him of flooding the bank underneath his flat, which was just not possible because the work he was doing was purely cosmetic. She even asked him if his contractor was licensed, which, apparently, is unheard of in Moscow, and which enraged the KoS.

"You will admit it!" she shouted as she called in "The Plumber". Who this guy was, I never determined (but he looked as if he'd just gotten out of bed and had scary looking scabs on his face) because the KoS began shouting and, knocking over benches in fury and slamming some doors in wrath, stormed out, with me following sheepishly after him in bewildered surprise.

More doors were slammed. People were chasing us and shouting. It was a melee.

Back to the apartment we went, where the KoS told the contractor NOT to let Sveta in no matter what happened. As we left the flat and entered the foyer of the building to go to breakfast, there was a terrible pounding on the outer door.

"Svetlana! I'm certain of it!" I whispered urgently.

Sure enough, it was her. As we opened the door, she stomped past us in a rage, shouting some more, and ran up the stairs.

She was acting like one of Charlie's Angels. "I will find evidence!" she yelled down to us. "I will investigate this myself! You will not get away with it!"

"Remember your Zhivago?" the KoS asked, turning to me quite calmly, but with the usual laughing sneer he used whenever that movie came up in conversation. I nodded.

(I had made him watch Dr. Zhivago once. He had thought it a ridiculous film, and called it a silly and typical American interpretation of Russia.

I had demurred and blamed Pasternak. He had just given me a bit of a disgusted look that said, "Pasternak! Please!")

"The scene where he comes home right after the Revolution and all these Soviet petty officials are milling around his mansion ordering people around and calling them ‘Comrade' and they question him about his discharge papers?" he reminded me. I nodded again.

"That's the mentality this woman has. It's because we let them get away with it in 1917 that we have to put up with this shit today."

From upstairs we heard nothing but silence.

"Well, the contractor let her in," I suggested, "or we'd hear her pounding on your door."

"Fuckers," the KoS said, and we returned to the flat.

No Svetlana.

We stood around, perplexed and then I heard her rushing down the stairs.

"She's coming!" I warned.

When she reached the top of the landing and saw that he was still there, her entire attitude suddenly relaxed and her face lit up with a smile. Then, the KoS turned on the charm and about five minutes later, she was eating out of his hand and was coquettishly complimenting him on his innovative renovations.

"I hear ya, Sister," I muttered in English, because I knew exactly how she felt.

The whole thing reminded me of a time when the KoS and I were in a restaurant in the States and we'd had a terrible fight because I had been talking to the valet parking attendant. Not flirting mind you. Talking. The fight had escalated to the point of shouting and slamming and storming and the KoS had left me at the bar with a vow that he never wanted to see me again.

When I'd left the bar myself about 10 minutes later, forlorn and frustrated, there he was in a cab, waiting for me and oozing that Kingly charm. The relief was so great, all was immediately forgiven and I was amazed to find myself apologizing to him.

It had worked with me. And it worked with Svetlana of JACK, despite the Bolshevik mentality.

Russian men play women like Garry Kasparov plays chess.

And, take it from me, it feels so gooooood.

xxoo   DD

■ Deidre Dare's novel "Expat" can be read online at: www.deidredare.com