A circuit board of oil derricks strung together the coastline and desert, while farther out to sea, massive oil platforms were connected to one another by slivers of pipeline and, in some places, maritime roads upon which tanker-trucks left vapor trails of yellow exhaust.
We descended rapidly into this apocalypse. Apparently I had misjudged not only the borders of the sea but the depth of the local sky, which collapsed before our advance, as if estimating correctly that another planeload of money had arrived from Europe and that dollar bills and euros would soon fall like snowflakes upon the ruling class.
As the plane touched down, the yokels in economy clapped in typical third-world fashion, cheering our safe arrival, while we in first chose to keep our hands in our laps. We taxied past a billboard. Three stylish teenagers, a redheaded beauty, an Asian beauty, and a young black man in dreadlocks (a feminine beauty in his own right), critically regarded us with their handsome, expressionless eyes. THE UNITED COLORS OF BENETTON WELCOME YOU TO SVANI CITY, the billboard read.
In keeping with the progressive theme, the arrivals terminal was newly built to resemble a post-Mongolian yurt made of tinted glass, corrugated steel, and the occasional exposed pipe—the kind of generic design favored by mineral-rich nations teetering between Eastern exotica and Western anonymity. Inside, we found a cool, open metallic shed layered with the smells of perfume counters and stores dispensing freshly baked baguettes along with the most cultured of yogurts, the small flags of the world’s countries and the oversize flag of Microsoft Windows NT limply hanging from the rafters to remind us that we were all global citizens who loved to travel and compute.
But the Absurdi citizens were not yet accustomed to the new world order. Despite the trappings of modernity around them, they rushed toward Passport Control, shouting in their incomprehensible local tongue and hitting one another with their Century 21 bags. Alyosha-Bob had a multiple-entry Absurdi visa that entitled him to join an expedited lane, while Timofey and I stood in an endless queue for foreigners, waiting to get our visa photos taken.
Help was on the way. A group of fat men in blue shirts and brick-sized epaulets on their shoulders were soon circling around me, eyeing my bulk with warm Southern eyes. Just so you know, I’m an
I sadly held up my Russian passport. “No, no,” the fatty laughed. “I mean by
I saw what he was after. “Jew,” I said, patting my nose.
The photographer put his hand to his heart. “I am very honored,” he said. “The Jewish people have a long and peaceful history in our land. They are our brothers, and whoever is their enemy is our enemy also. When you are in Absurdsvani, my mother will be your mother, my wife your sister, and you will always find water in my well to drink.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said.
“A Jew shouldn’t have to wait in line to have his picture taken. Let me do it for you right away. Smile, mister!”
“Please get my manservant, too,” I said.
“Smile, manservant!”
Timofey sighed and crossed himself. I was handed two small photos. “Remember what I said about my mother being your mother?” the photographer asked. “Well, sadly,
I had already prepared several US$100 bills for this kind of eventuality, one of which I handed to the photographer. “Now we must go to the line for the visa application blank,” the photographer said. “Oh, look! A colleague of mine wants to speak to you.”
An even larger man with a frilly mustache and a riot of bad teeth waddled over to me. “We must be related,” he said, patting my belly. “Tell me, who are you by nationality?”
I explained. He put his hand to his heart and told me that the Jewish people had a long and peaceful history in Absurdistan and that any enemy of mine was also an enemy of his, while his mother was my mother and his wife my sister. There was also water from his well to drink. “Why should a Jew have to wait in line for a visa application blank?” he wondered. “Here! Take one!”
“You are very kind,” I said.
“You are very Jewish. In the best possible sense.” Then I was told that my sister (his wife, that is) suffered from gastritis and an engorged pudendum. The US$200 I gave him would go a long way toward her medical care. “And now you must go to the processing line. But look! A colleague of mine would like to help you out.”
An older fat man, the skin around his eyes turned into pure leather from a lifetime’s sleep apnea, came over to me and made the sounds of a steam engine. It took me a while to figure out that he was trying to communicate with me in the Russian tongue. I caught on to the part about water from his well to drink and that a Jew shouldn’t have to wait in the processing line. “Let me help you fill this out,” the man puffed, taking out a pen and unfurling the fearsome four-page visa application. “Last name.”
“Vainberg,” I said. “Written just like it sounds. Veh… ah… eee…”
“I know how to write,” the older man said. “Given name.”
I told him. He wrote it down, then looked over his handiwork. He squinted carefully at the combination of “Vainberg” and “Mikhail.” He looked at my body type and my soft red lips. “Are you the son of Boris Vainberg?” he asked.
“Boris Vainberg, deceased,” I said, my eyes watering dutifully. “He was blown up by a land mine on the Palace Bridge. We have a videotape and everything.”
The old man whistled to his colleagues. “It’s Boris Vainberg’s son!” he shouted. “It’s Little Misha!”
“Little Misha!” his colleagues shouted back. “Hurrah!” They stopped extracting money from dazed foreigners and waddled over to me, sandals slapping against fake marble. One of them kissed my hand and pressed it to his own heart.
“He has his father’s face.”
“Definitely has those big lips.”
“Massive forehead, too. Thinks about everything, this one.”
“Typical Vainberg.”
“What are you doing here, Little Misha?” I was asked. “Did you come for the oil?”
“Why else would he come here? For the scenery?”
“To be honest—” I started to say.
“You know, Little Misha, your father once sold an eight-hundred-kilogram screw to KBR! He was some sort of subcontractor. He took them for five million! Ha ha.”
“What’s KBR?” I asked.
“Kellogg, Brown and Root,” my new companions said in unison, shocked that I wasn’t aware of such an institution. “The subsidiary of Halliburton.”
“Oh,” I said. But my curled upper lip betrayed my ignorance.
“The American oil-services company,” I was told. “Halliburton’s KBR unit runs half the country.”
“And my father cheated them?” I asked brightly.
“And how! He really Jewed them up!”
“My father was a great man,” I half said and half sighed. “But I’m not here for the oil.”
“Little Misha doesn’t want his father’s business.”
“He’s a sophisticate and a melancholic.”
“That’s right,” I said. “How do you guys know that?”
“We’re people of the Orient. We know everything. And what we don’t know, we can sense.”
“Are you going to buy Belgian citizenship from Jean-Michel Lefevre at the Belgian consulate? Are you going to be a Belgian, Little Misha?”
I looked around apprehensively, wishing Alyosha-Bob were around to guide me. “Maybe,” I said.
“Smart man. It’s no fun to have a Russian passport.”
