European Russia
A moment later I heard what sounded like a tractor in the
distance. There was still some light left outside though it was
already ten in the evening. The engine noise grew louder and
louder. It seemed to be charging down on me. Had I been
careless enough to erect my tent in a danger zone? Moscow
was so close. The tractor pulled up just short of the tent.
Had the time come, at last, for me to use the knife I always
kept under my pillow? My hand gripping the knife was
sticky with sweat.
“Drug! Drug!!”
(Friend? What friend? Don’t try that one on me.)
I readied myself for the assault. Silently unzipping the tent
inner, I opened the flap, then swiftly unzipped the flysheet.
No one there, no threatening faces, only a bottle of vodka
looking back at me. Come on, guys, enough is enough. I’m
tired. Being greeted by Russian farmers like this, though, I
could hardly refuse. Well, why not, I thought in celebration
of my puncture! So the three of us, the drunk Sergei, the
sober ex-sailor Sergei and I polished off two bottles. It got
later and later, but they showed no signs of going home, so I
took a group photo of the three of us, and promised that I
would send them copies. The two Sergeis at last got the
message, and got up to go.
(from "Against the Wind" - Poolbeg Press)
