“You will call me, Sir! You will call him Sir and him Sir!” the senior officer pointed to each one of his colleagues, in turn, to make it clear that my near attack on them and my lack of respect was weighing quickly on their patience.
“We have shown you our documents, we now demand to see yours,” was the command from the detective.
I produced my passport and visa from my jacket hanging in the corner and waited silently for their verdict.
“American citizen, student visa, registered in Nizhniy Novgorod,” he spoke to his colleagues so it was clear who and what I was.
“What are you studying, young man?” the questions were short and exact.
“History and Linguistics, sir,” I found my polite voice as the adrenaline was subsiding.
“Do you have proof of this?” he asked again quickly with suspicion.
I found my student card in my book bag and handed it over calmly.
“Seems to be in order,” was his commentary as he handed the documents to his partners for a confirmation of his conclusion.
“Do you usually greet people at your door with a knife?” there was an inference in his question.
“I apologize. My babushka has been harassed yesterday by hooligans. I thought they had come back to rob the place now that it’s getting dark,” I said demurely.
“Did you report this to the local police,” he asked dryly without any intended irony.
“No, sir. I was not here to witness anything. She only told me about it and asked me to stay home tonight in case there were further problems. I was cooking in the kitchen when the bell rang,” I lied.
“You know that I could arrest you right now for assaulting a police officer?” he was trying to scare me, and it was working
“As I said, I did not know you were police officers. None of you are in uniform. I could not see any markings. I stopped when your colleague identified himself,” I replied humbly.
The other two detectives were looking around my room as I was held captive to the questioning of the lead officer. I was conscious of them while not looking away from the interrogator. Luckily, I had sealed the letter to my mother and put it in my school bag and my notes on Mr. P were in the same bag zipped up by the door, not on my desk where the police were looking. On the head of my bed was a novel by Maxim Gorkiy with a bookmark somewhere in the middle pages. A large Russian-English dictionary was open on my table with last week’s translation work next to it. In my window sill were a few English books I had brought with me from the States. There was a growing stack of The Economist magazines in the corner of the table with highlights around every article about Russia’s transition economy and mixed with that my printed articles from the American library. My shortwave radio and cassette player stood quietly next to the wall with a Russian group in the breach. It looked like the room of a studious student.
“You do not drink? You do not smoke?” the third officer inquired with a scowl on his face.
I looked sheepishly at the questioning officer and gave no answer.
The questions and answers went back and forth like a tennis match.
“Where in the city do your attend lectures?”
“Linguistics school on Minin Street, History department, Minin Square and Literature on Gagarin Street in the foreign students’ division.”
“Who are you advisors there?”
“Mrs. Valentina Petrovna, Lyudmilla Daskova and Dean Karamzin and sometimes Professor Strelyenko.”
“Do you study there every day?”
“Most days, yes sir.”
“Do you have contact with other foreigners in the city?”
“Mostly just the other students from other countries each week, sir.”
“You are not involved with other foreign businesses in the city?”
“I am acquainted with a business man from America who my university advisor introduced me to. We share dinner every other week when he is not traveling.”
“Why do you not live in the dormitories with other students?”
“Honestly, because I want to learn Russian, not speak English with other foreign students.”
“Do you rent this room?”
“Yes, for twenty dollars per month.”
“We are here looking for the owner of this apartment, your landlord. Do you know where he lives?”
“No sir, I have only met him once in January. He doesn’t even come for his rent money. You can see that I have put three twenty-dollar bills in an envelope in my cupboard with his name on it. There, just open that door.”
The second detective opened the cabinet door and found the envelope with the rent money in it from February, March, and April. It wasn’t May yet. He counted the bills and nodded to his boss.
“Its the only money I keep in the apartment. I called him February and told him he is free to pick up his money anytime he is in the neighborhood. I don’t have a telephone in this apartment so I said he could just use his keys to come in and find the money when he needed it even when I am at lectures or the library,” I explained.
“Your landlord is sought on charges of tax evasion. We need to know where to find him,” the detective demanded from me.
“I only have his telephone number. I can give that to you if you wish,” I offered helpfully.
“Yes, please.”
I reached into my bookshelf to find my address book and showed the officer the number scratched into the front cover. He took it from me and noted the number in his own notebook and then continued to look through my contacts. The addresses were from all over Russia; Moscow, Voronezh, Kazan, Ryzan, Samara and a number from Kyiv as well as a Byelorussian from Brest. I waited for his further questions.
“You have many friends in Russia. Have you traveled to all these places?”
“No sir, we all met on a river cruise last summer. We send letters and photographs to each other,” I answered truthfully.
“Please remember that you are not authorized to travel without permission from the police outside this province. Do not leave Nizhniy Novgorod without informing the police. If we are not able to find you, you could be arrested when you return and be fined and then deported. Is that clear?” he threatened.
“Yes, sir!”
With that, the lead detective gave a nod to his colleagues and they filed to the hallway and out the door. I closed it behind them and latched every latch without bidding them good evening. I went to my bed and nearly passed out, shaking and cold. Babushka stayed in her room for the rest of the evening but Raiya knocked softly on my door after fifteen minutes, took a seat at my table and started to ask even more questions than the police did, “That was horrible with all that shouting! Was nobody in uniform?”
I was laying on my bed with my arm over my eyes. I shook my head in the negative, not raising it from the pillow.
“The law says that if a plain clothes detective comes to the door they must have a uniformed officer with them. You were completely right to push them out! Did they ask you for any money?” she asked.
I shook my head again.
“What did they want?” she wouldn’t stop.
They wanted Roman, my landlord.
“Roman has never lived here. His aunt died and left this apartment to him,” Raiya revealed.
On this news, I sat up and looked at Raiya, “Say that again, please?”
“It’s true. Roman, he’s a dirty snake. He never lived here. His old aunt, who he never took care of died last year in February and the apartment has been closed up since then. He never registered the apartment in his name nor ever lived here. He just rents it out illegally,” she embellished.
“Well, there you have the argument for tax evasion…,” I dropped my head back on the pillow.
“Did you read their police identifications?” Raiya insisted.