his list of exchange rates. It seemed I could get about 12 EEK, whatever they were, to the U.S. dollar. I didn't know if that was good or not, just that Duracell batteries were taped up at just a couple of EEKs each, so either it was the bargain of the century or they were duds. I didn't want to show that I had money, so I went and sat on a garbage can behind the kiosk, got a warm $100 dollar bill out of my sock and replaced the boot pretty quickly.
Once he'd carried out about five different checks to make sure it wasn't counterfeit, including smelling it, the old guy was very happy indeed with his hard currency, and so was I with my new EEK wedge. I left the refugee camp behind and headed further up Puskini, toward a traffic circle which, according to the map in my head, led to the road I wanted.
The only buildings that looked at all inviting were near the traffic circle. Flashing neon signs told me these were 'komfort baars.'
Music blared from loudspeakers rigged up outside. Originally, I supposed, they'd been ordinary bars or shops, but their windows were painted out now. It didn't need much imagination to work out what was on offer the other side of the emulsion, but for the benefit of anyone in doubt, there were pictures of women and Cyrillic stenciling, no doubt defining exactly what was meant by 'komfort.' The best picture of all was on a blue window, showing the Statue of Liberty with Marilyn Monroe's face, pulling up her robe to reveal an ace of spades between her legs. Underneath, in English, it read, 'America. Fuck it here.' I wasn't too sure what it all meant, but the Russians who had parked all the trucks along the road obviously didn't have any trouble reading the menu.
I'd just stopped by the traffic circle to check which road I wanted next when two white Suzuki Vitaras with flashing red-and blue light bars screeched to a halt outside Marilyn's.
Three guys piled out of each, dressed exactly the same as the SWAT team at Tallinn station, but with a different logo. Theirs was also sewn on the back of their bomber jackets. I couldn't make out the wording from this distance, just that it was all in red and in the sort of typeface used on surf wear Pulling out smaller billy clubs than the lot at the station, they piled into the bar.
I stepped into a doorway to watch, taking one of the rolls from my shopping bag. Pulling the bread apart, I threw in a few slices of cheese and a handful of chips and watched as a very tired-looking green Lada police car turned up and parked near the Vitaras. Two fur-hatted figures inside didn't get out. I stamped my feet to keep them warm.
The Vitaras were showroom clean and had a phone number and logo emblazoned on the side and what looked like the letters 'DTTS.' The police car was falling to pieces and looked as if the insignia on the side had been hand-painted.
For the next few minutes nothing much happened. A stream of vehicles negotiated the traffic circle and I ate my roll, along with a few more chips. A few of the passing cars were quite new-Audis, VWs, and even a Mere-but not many. The popularity battle was really between rusted-out Sierras and Ladas.
I was still putting the finishing touches to my second cheese roll when the black teams emerged from the bar, dragging out three guys between the six of them. All three were in suits, with blood pouring down their faces onto their white shirts, while their smart shoes got scraped along the ice. They were thrown into the back of the Vitaras and then given the good news with billy clubs. The doors were closed and one of the team, noticing the police car, just waved them away. None of the passers-by even bothered to glance at what was going on; it was hard to tell whether they were too scared or just couldn't be bothered.
The police headlights came back on and off they drove, exhaust pipe rattling, toward the border-crossing parking lot.
The Vitaras and their crews also left, and I finished the roll as I crossed the traffic circle and turned right, toward the river. The address that Liv had given me was on this road, which was known simply as Viru. Still wondering what the three guys had done to cause Marilyn such offence, I started attacking the last roll and the remaining cheese and chips. Like I didn't have my own stuff to worry about.
31
Viru wasn't any more uplifting than the rest of town, just gray, miserable blocks of housing, more black snow and more un cared-for roads. Then, bizarrely, just up ahead was a burned-out bumper car, its metal frame and long conducting rod charred and twisted. God only knows how it had got there.
The only thing moving was a posse of five or six dogs, creating a haze of steam above their bodies as they skulked around, sniffing at stuff on the ground then pissing on it. I didn't even feel bad as I dropped my plastic bag, along with the chips and cheese wrappers. When in Rome Now and again a patched-up Sierra clattered past on the cobblestones, its occupants looking at me as if I was mad to be walking in this neighborhood. They were probably right, if the sulfur fumes I was inhaling were anything to go by. There was obviously another environmentally friendly factory near by.
Slipping my hands deeper into my pockets and my head deeper inside my collar, I tried to adopt the same miserable body language as everyone else. Thinking about what I'd seen at the 'komfort baar,' I decided not to tangle with private-enterprise security if I could help it. The State police looked a softer option.
Viru started to bend to the right, and straight ahead I could see the icy riverbank, five or six hundred yards away. That was Russia.
As I neared the bend I could see into the gorge, with the river Narva about 200 yards below. Following it around, the road bridge was about 400 yards away. Cars were lining up to leave Estonia, with foot traffic moving in both directions, carrying suitcases, shopping bags, and all sorts. The checkpoint on the Russian side had barriers across the road and guards checking papers.
If the numbering on the map was correct, Number 18 Viru would soon be on my right, a little past the bend and facing the river.
It wasn't an apartment building as I'd been expecting, but a large old house that was now a baar. At least, that was what the sign said, in white but unlit neon lettering above a rotten wooden door. Big patches of rendering were missing from the front of the building, exposing the red clay brick underneath. It was three stories high, and looked really out of place among the uniform concrete blocks surrounding it on three sides. Most of the upper windows were covered by internal wooden shutters; there were no curtains to be seen. There was another neon sign, also not illuminated, of a man leaning over a pool table with a cigarette in his mouth and a glass of beer on the side.
According to the sign next to it saying '8-22,' it should have been open. Trying the door handle, I found that it wasn't.
Four cars were parked outside. There was a brand-new, shiny red Audi, and two Jeep Cherokees that had seen better days, both dark blue and with Russian plates. The fourth vehicle, however, was in the worst state of any I'd seen in Estonia, apart from the bumper car. It was a red Lada that had been hand-painted and had to belong to a teenager.
There were domestic music speakers clamped on the back shelf, from which wires hung like spaghetti. Very cool, especially the pile of old newspapers on the back seat.
I looked through the grime-covered ground-floor windows. There were no lights on and no sounds. Walking round to the other side, facing the river, I could see a light shining on the third floor, just a single bulb. It was like finding life on Mars.
Back at the wooden door I hit the intercom button near the baar sign.
The building might be in as shit state as Tom's, but the intercom was in better condition. There was no way of telling if it was working, though, so I tried again, this time for longer. There was static and crackling, and a gruff male voice, half aggressive, half bored, quizzed me. I didn't know what the fuck he was on about. I said, 'Konstantin.
I want to see Konstantin.'
I heard the Russian or Estonian equivalent of, 'Eh, what?' then there was more gabbing from him and voices shouting in the background.
When he came back to me it was with something that obviously translated as, 'Fuck off, big nose.' The static ceased; I'd been given the brushoff.
I buzzed again, working on the theory that if he got pissed enough he might come down to the door to fill me in. At least then I had a chance of making some progress. There was more shouting, which I didn't understand; I got the gist but carried on regardless.
'Konstantin? Konstantin?'
