“Yes, I like boring at this point!” I agreed.
On Wednesday, I wore a bright orange rain jacket to protect me from a rainy day and to make sure that everybody who wanted to follow me could spot me a mile away. I went to all my lectures that day and walked between the lectures via Pokrovka, stopping along the way to purchase lavash, waiting in line with the ‘British Knight’ four people behind me in the line at the hole in the wall. I bought a bottle of Pepsi from a café and sat and drank it in the sun as the clouds started to dissipate around lunch time. I stopped and chatted up some girls I knew well. I could see that my shadow was getting very bored and was starting to lose interest in my movements.
After my literature lecture with Professor Dashkova, I went back to the Telephone and Telegraph building on Gorkiy Square and scheduled a telephone call home to the United States. It was the very early morning at my parents’ home. I woke them up with some alarm and went on to tell them that I was just having a very difficult time in Nizhniy and was thinking about coming home in a week or two. My father sounded more concerned than I had hoped to make him. I tried to reassure him it was just a matter of being tired and a bit lonely, maybe some culture fatigue, but nothing to worry about. I put on some false emotion for those who were listening to my call. I hoped that my parents would go back to sleep and forget I even called, but I had to go on record with the FSB as actively planning to leave soon and this was the best way to make it public knowledge.
After I finished upsetting my parents at four in the morning I stepped outside to the bank of public telephones on the porch of the Post Office and called Yulia’s home. This time she picked up the phone.
“Hi, it’s Peter!” I announced in Russian this time.
“Where are you?” Yulia seemed taken aback. I always spoke English with her on the phone.
“I’m on Pokrovka. Just finished speaking with my parents in America.” I was speaking loudly.
“Are they alright? Why would you call them in the middle of the night there?” she was very puzzled.
“Listen, I need to come by and pick up my plane ticket from you. I need to schedule my flight to the USA for the summer break.” I continued to be as obvious as possible.
“I thought we would go on the trip together, remember?” she was getting worried at this point.
“Can I come by on my way home for tea and get my ticket, please?” I continued with my story line.
“Yes, of course. We can talk when you are here. See you soon,” and she hung up the telephone.
As I got on the bus at Gorkiy Square to head across the Oka to the Zarechnaya district, I noticed that the ‘British Knight’ didn’t get on the bus with me. Instead, he stepped into a car, one I didn’t recognize and they drove off in another direction down Gorkiy street and out of sight. Perhaps they figured that I can’t do any harm at home since I didn’t have a telephone in my apartment and nobody of any consequence lives on that side of the city.
After I dragged myself to the top of the five flights of stairs to Yulia’s door, I paused a moment to catch my breath. I debated for a split second whether I should tell her everything that was going on. It has been almost six weeks since I had actually told the truth about anything I was up to. Our discussions had only been light, based on fairy-tales about the coming summer cruise, last summer and her graduating from her college in June. I had revealed nothing about my conversations with Del, my work with Misha, the interview with Mr. P, the people following me, the FSB. I decided it was all too much to put on her. I knocked on the steel door. Gung, gung, gung.
“What’s going on? Are you okay? Why are you calling your parents on a Wednesday in the middle of the night? Why do you need your place ticket? Are you ill?” Yulia peppered me with questions as we sat in the living room.
“Well I, uhhh, I am, uhhhh, I don’t know. I think I’m in some trouble and I don’t know what to do,” I blurted out.
“Is it at the university? Did you have a conflict with a professor or that old witch Valentina Petrovna?” she scowled when she said Valentina’s name.
“Yes, yes, and yes and then some more,” I nodded deliberately but not explaining any further.
“Well, at least we have the holidays coming up and you can take a two-week break. The weather is supposed to be really nice next week! Would you like to go to Moscow with me and mama? We are going to visit my aunt for a few days. The Victory parade in Moscow is always the best. And do you remember the fireworks from last year in Moscow? They don’t do them any better anyplace else.” She thankfully forgot about my troubles, or perhaps didn’t really want to hear about it. Ignorance can be bliss.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t have the needed permission to leave Nizhniy Novgorod. I still have to ask for a travel visa for our voyage in July.” I told the truth but had no intention of staying through July. I was ready to get out as quickly as I could without looking like I was running.
“OK, but what about this plane ticket for the summer?” I thought we agreed to do the cruise again this summer,” she put on a sad face.
“Of course, we’ll do the cruise, but after that I will go home for a month. After being away for seven months, my parents said that they would like to see me for a bit before the fall term begins. My father said he would buy me a new round-trip ticket if I came home in August,” I lied. My fibs seemed to satisfy Yulia and she happily went to retrieve my money belt from her bedroom. I unzipped it to see the ticket jacket and a stack of twenty and fifty-dollar bills.
“I’ll go apply for a travel visa tomorrow for July and August so we’re ready to sail the Volga again,” I smiled.
Yulia served some tea and biscuits and we chatted further about something that I cannot remember as all I could think about was escape, and how to avoid looking like I was trying to be clandestine at the same time. It was a fine balancing act that drained me mentally and emotionally.
When I arrived home that evening to my apartment, I left the drapes wide open and sat at my desk with books open and a pen in my hand. I had the look of a studious academic but I was scribbling in a stream of consciousness all my fear and worries, all the possibilities and variables I could anticipate during my secret retreat; first to Moscow, then the airport and if I could make past the passport control, maybe I could make it home.
As I thought and wrote in my shorthand I obsessed on one thing that could be a hang-up. Even if I made it past the customs agents and boarded the aircraft, I would be flying on a Russian registered aircraft which could be forced to surrender me before the doors closed, or even return to the gate after being cleared for takeoff. A foreign registered aircraft, perhaps from Switzerland or France would not have to hand me over at the last minute to any border patrol. Once on board a foreign registered aircraft, it would be almost as if I was in their embassy. Upon arrival in Zurich or Paris, I could claim some sort of asylum or protection while they considered any request to send me back. The thought also crossed my mind that perhaps, if I could make it to Moscow, maybe on an overnight train when everybody would think I was sleeping, perhaps I could appeal for protection at the US embassy there. Maybe they would be watching for me boarding any trains in the next few days. I was probably already on a watch list. I thought deeply and carefully about how my next steps and went to soak my worried body in a hot bathtub. Tomorrow I would go about my normal business and act as if I was not suspicious nor aware of any of the people watching and following me. I would act completely normal.
The doubts and fears swirled in a mess of fear and adrenaline. The slightest noise would have sent me sprinting. I drifted off to sleep in a whirl of intrigue and insecurity feeling that I would soon be swallowed up by a world that would not stop for me to catch my breath. I felt that I would simply be stamped out. Then, almost suddenly, I realized I was dreaming and felt my tension dissolve into sleep.