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“You see, the mafia control this part of the city,” he goes on. “They want to buy up the whole area and build another of their hideous housing developments. The residents have so far refused to sell their land and their houses, and so the mafia won’t allow any improvements in the area. This city has been in existence for four hundred years; it received traders from China with open arms and was respected by dealers in diamonds, gold, and skins, but now the mafia is trying to move in and put a stop to all that, even though the government is fighting them.”
“Mafia” is a universal word. My publisher is still busy with his interminable phone call, my editor is complaining about the menu, and Hilal is pretending she’s on another planet, while Yao and I have suddenly noticed that a group of men at the next table have begun to take a close interest in our conversation.
Pure paranoia.
The reader continues to drink and complain. His two friends agree with everything he says. They moan about the government, about the condition of the roads, the state of the airport. These are all things we would say about our own cities, except that here, every complaint includes the word “mafia.” I try to change the subject and ask about the local shamans, which pleases Yao, who can see that even though I haven’t yet said yes or no, his request has not been forgotten. But the young men start talking about the “shaman mafia” and the “tourist guide mafia.” A third bottle of Mongolian-Siberian vodka has arrived, and everyone is now excitedly discussing politics—in English, so that I can understand, or so that the people at the other tables can’t. My publisher finally finishes his phone call and joins in the discussion, as does my editor, with equal gusto, while Hilal downs one glass of vodka after another. Only Yao remains completely sober, gazing off into the distance and trying to disguise his unease. I stopped after my third glass and have no intention of drinking more.
And what seemed like paranoia becomes a reality. One of the men at the other table gets up and comes over to us.
He doesn’t say a word. He merely looks at the young men we invited to supper, and the conversation stops. Everyone seems surprised to see him there. My publisher, slightly befuddled by the vodka and by the distribution problem in Moscow, asks something in Russian.
“No, I’m not his father,” answers the stranger, “but I don’t know if he’s old enough to drink like that and to say things that are completely untrue.”
His English is perfect, and he speaks with the rather affected accent of someone who has studied at one of the most expensive schools in England. His voice is cold and neutral, without a hint of emotion or aggression.
Only a fool makes threats, and only another fool feels threatened. When someone uses that tone, though, it spells danger, because subjects, verbs, and predicates will, if necessary, be transformed into actions.
“You chose the wrong restaurant,” he says. “The food here is terrible, and the service even worse. Perhaps you’d better find somewhere else to eat. I’ll pay the bill.”
The food really isn’t very good, the drinks are clearly as bad as we were warned they were, and the service is appalling. However, the man isn’t concerned about our health and well-being: we are being thrown out.
“Let’s go,” says the young reader.
Before we can do anything, he and his friends have vanished. The man seems pleased and turns to go back to his own table. For a fraction of a second, the tension dissolves.
“Well, I’m really enjoying the food and have no intention of going to another restaurant.”
Yao spoke in a voice equally devoid of emotion or menace. There was no need for him to say anything; the conflict was over. My readers had been the only ones causing the problem. We could simply have finished our meal in peace. The man turns to face him. One of his colleagues picks up his cell phone and goes outside. The restaurant falls silent.
Yao and the stranger stare at each other.
“The food here can give you food poisoning and kill you almost instantly,” the stranger says.
Yao remains seated. “According to statistics, in the three minutes that we’ve been talking, three hundred and twenty people in the world have died and another six hundred and fifty have been born. That’s life. I don’t know how many died of food poisoning, but some must have. Others died after a long illness, some suffered an accident, and probably a certain percentage got shot, while some poor woman died in childbirth and became part of the birth statistics. Only the living die.”
The man who left the restaurant with his cell phone has come back, and the stranger standing by our table continues to show no emotion. For what seems like an eternity, no one in the restaurant speaks. At last, the stranger says, “Another minute has passed. Another hundred or so people must have died and another two hundred or so been born.”
“Exactly.”
Two more men appear at the door of the restaurant and walk over to our table. The stranger sees them and indicates with a jerk of his head that they should leave again.
“The food here may be terrible and the service appalling, but if this is the restaurant of your choice, I can do nothing about it. Bon appétit.”
“Thank you. But we’ll gladly take you up on your offer to pay the bill.”
“Of course,” he says, addressing Yao only, as if no one else were there. He puts his hand in his pocket. We all imagine that he’s about to pull out a gun, but instead he produces an entirely unthreatening business card.
“Get in touch if you ever need a job or get tired of what you’re doing now. Our property company has a large branch here in Russia, and we need people like you, people who understand that death is just a statistic.”
He hands Yao his card, they shake hands, and he returns to his table. Gradually, the restaurant comes back to life, the silence fills with talk, and we gaze in astonishment at Yao, our hero, the man who defeated the enemy without firing a single shot. Hilal has cheered up, too, and is now trying to keep up with a ridiculous conversation in which everyone appears to have developed a sudden intense interest in stuffed birds and the quality of Mongolian-Siberian vodka. The adrenaline surge brought on by fear had an instantly sobering effect on us all.
I mustn’t let this opportunity slip. I’ll ask Yao later what made him so sure of himself. Now I say, “You know, I’m very impressed by the religious faith of the Russian people. Communism spent seventy years telling them that religion was the opium of the people, but to no avail.”
“Marx clearly knew nothing about the marvels of opium,” says my editor, and everyone laughs.
I go on: “The same thing happened with the church I belong to. We killed in God’s name, we tortured in Jesus’ name, we decided that women were a threat to society and so suppressed all displays of female ingenuity, we practiced usury, murdered the innocent, and made pacts with the Devil. And yet, two thousand years later, we’re still here.”
