Yuri stuck his head out the window again. 'What the hell is the matter with you? Is this your first day driving? '
'Shut up, you goddamn foreigner, ' the driver behind yelled back. 'Why don't you take your ass home to wherever the hell it was you came from.' Yuri started to respond but changed his mind. He settled back into his seat and exhaled noisily like a punctured tire deflating. The driver's comment had unwittingly awakened a sense of tosta that descended over Yuri like a heavy wool blanket. Tosta was a Russian word that connoted melancholy, depression, yearning, anguish, weariness, and nostalgia suffered all at once in the form of deep, psychic pain.
Yuri stared ahead with unseeing eyes. For the moment the disillusionment and anger about America was swept away by an evocative reminiscence. All at once an image popped into his mind of himself and his brother going to school on a crystalline, frosty morning in his home city of Sverdlovsk, USSR. In his mind's eye he could see the communal kitchen with its conviviality, and in his heart he could remember the pride of being part of the mighty Soviet Empire.
Of course there had been some deprivations under the communist regime, like occasionally having the women wait in line for milk and other staples. But it hadn't been as bad as people had said or as bad as the fools here in America wanted to believe. In fact, the equality for everyone, excluding those high in the party, had been refreshing and conducive to friendship. There certainly had been less social conflict than here in America. At the time, Yuri didn't realize how good it had been. But now he remembered, and he was going home. Yuri was going back to Rosslya-matosata, or little mother Russia. He'd made that decision months earlier.
But he wasn't leaving until he had had his revenge. He'd been deceived and denied. Now he would strike back in a way that would get everyone's attention in this smug, fraudulent country. And once home in Russia, he would offer his revenge as a gift to Vladimir Zhirinovsky, the true patriot of rodina, the motherland, who would surely return the glory of the USSR if given the chance.
Yuri's musings were rudely interrupted by one of the back doors of his cab being yanked open. A passenger tossed in an ostrich briefcase and then climbed in after it.
Irritably Yuri regarded his fare in the rearview mirror. He was a small, mustached man in an expensive Italian suit, white shirt, and silk t
'Union Bank, 820 Fifth Avenue, ' the man said. He sat back and flipped open a cellular phone.
Yuri continued to stare at the man. He saw something he'd not seen at first. The man was wearing a yarmulke.
'What's the matter? ' the man asked. 'Are you off duty? '
'No, I'm on duty, ' Yuri said morosely. He rolled his eyes before turning the meter on and then gazing out at the stalled traffic. It was just what he needed, a Jewish banker, one of those creeps running the world into the ground.
While the man made a call, Yuri was able to inch ahead by one car length. At least now he was on the brink of the troublesome intersection. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He toyed with the idea of telling the Jew to get the hell out of his cab. But he didn't. At least the creep was paying for him to sit there in traffic.
'Whoa, a lot of congestion, ' the man said after he'd finished his call.
He leaned forward and poked his head through the gap in the Plexiglas divider. 'I could walk faster than this.'
'Be my guest, ' Yuri said.
'I got time, ' the man said. 'It feels good to sit down for a moment.
Luckily my next meeting isn't until after ten-thirty. Do you think you can get me to my destination by then? '
'I'll try, ' Yuri said indifferently.
'Is that a Russian accent? ' the man asked.
'Yes, ' Yuri said. He sighed. This guy was going to drive him mad.
'I suppose I could have guessed by reading your name off the taxi license, ' the man said. 'What part of Russia are you from, Mr. Yuri Davydov? '
'Central Russia, ' Yuri said.
'Very far from Moscow? '
'About eight hundred miles east. In the Ural Mountains.'
'My name is Harvey Bloomburg.' Yuri glanced up at his fare in the rearview mirror and shook his head imperceptibly. He was mystified why people like Harvey wanted to tell him personal things.
Yuri couldn't have cared less what Harvey's name was.
'I just got back from Moscow a week or so ago, ' Harvey said.
'Really? ' Yuri questioned. He perked up. It had been a long time since Yuri had been there. He remembered the delight he'd felt the first time he'd visited Red Square, with the Cathedral of St. Basil sparkling like an architectural jewel. He'd never seen anything so beautiful or moving.
'I was there for almost five days, ' Harvey said.
'You're lucky, ' Yuri said. 'Did you enjoy yourself?'
'Ha! ' Harvey voiced with disdain and a wave of his hand. 'I couldn't wait to get out. As soon as my meetings were over I fled to London.
Moscow is out of control, what with the crime and the economic situation. The place is a disaster.' Yuri felt a renewed pang of anger from the knowledge that the current problems ravaging Russia had been created by the likes of Harvey Bloomburg and the rest of the worldwide Zionist conspiracy. Yuri could feel his face flush, but he held his tongue. Now he really needed a glass of vodka.
'How long have you been here in the States? ' Harvey asked.
'Since 1994, ' Yuri grumbled. It had only been five years, but it felt like ten. At the same time Yuri could remember the first day he'd arrived as if it had been yesterday. He'd flown from Toronto, Canada, after a three-day problem with U. S. immigration, which resulted in his obtaining only a temporary visa.
Yuri's odyssey to get to America had been grueling and had taken over a year. It had started in Novosibirsk in Siberia, where he'd been working at a government company called Vector. He'd been there for eleven years but had lost his job when the institution was downsized.
Luckily he'd saved a few rubles before being terminated, and by a combination of plane, train, and accommodating truck drivers, he'd made his way to Moscow.
In Moscow, disaster struck. Because of the sensitive nature of his previous job, the FSB (the successor to the KGB) was notified when he applied for an international passport. Yuri was arrested and thrown into Lefortovo Prison. After a number of months, he managed to get out of prison by agreeing to work at another government facility in Zagorsk.
The problem was that they didn't pay him, at least not in money. He was given vodka and toilet paper in lieu of cash.
Fleeing in the dead of night on the evening prior to a midwinter holiday, he walked and hitchhiked the thousand miles to Tallinn, Estonia.
It was a terrible trip, full of setbacks, illnesses, injury, near starvation, and unimaginable cold. It was the type of hardship that the armies of Napoleon and Hitler had experienced with disastrous results.
Although the Estonians were less than friendly to him as an ethnic Russian, and some Estonian youths had beaten him up one night, Yuri was able to earn enough money to buy fake papers that got him a job on a freighter plying the Baltic. In Sweden he jumped ship and applied for refugee status.
Sweden questioned the validity of his being a refugee but permitted him to stay temporarily. He was allowed to work at menial jobs to earn enough money to book a flight to Toronto and then to New York. When he finally arrived on U. S. soil, he bent down like the Pope and kissed the ground.
There were many times during the long, desperate quest to get to New York that Yuri was tempted to give up. But he didn't. Throughout the whole ordeal he was driven by the promise of America, freedom, riches, and the good life.
A sneer spread across Yuri's face. Some good life it turned out to be!
It was more like a cruel joke. He was driving a cab twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day just to survive. Taxes, rent, food, and health care for himself and the fat wife he'd had to marry for a green card were all killing him.
