The crumbling outskirts of Odessa were sliding past by early evening. The highway had widened into six or more lanes, an asphalt ribbon traversing an immense valley of unhealthy scrub forest interspersed with half collapsed warehouses, abandoned factories and fields of tangled metal. Attention grabbing billboards appeared randomly, extolling a better life with the products they touted. There was one of the smiling former prime-minister, Yuliya Tymoshenko, lovingly cradling a seedling. It was disturbingly out of place in the post apocalyptic landscape.
Dmitri, scheming for a way to continue the flow of American dollars, declared we would dine together in Odessa. Having a feeling it would be my treat, I suggested the food fair at a downtown mall I’d frequented before.
He insisted on a table in the deserted smoking section.
“We don’t smoke.”
“So what, there’s nobody here.” Dmitri plunked down his tray and pulled up a chair. “Blyad, I need a cigarette and some fresh air.” He shoved his chair back, got up and walked away.
Anna jabbed me with an elbow.
“Ouch, what?”
She pointed at the cigarettes and lighter Dmitri left on his food tray.
A few minutes later he was back, examining the cell phone he’d said only worked in Kiev. “We need to find a place to stay tonight. And I think you are going a lot further than Odessa. Out of the country, probably.”
“What do you mean, ‘We need to find a place?’” I ignored the part about where we were going.
“Da, you do not expect me to drive all the way back to Kiev tonight. In the dark, all alone, so tired. It is one day each way. You buy me food. You rent me a room.”
“I do?”
“Da, and not out of the three hundred you owe me, understand?” He stabbed at a Tater Tot with a plastic fork. “Do not worry about it. I know an excellent cheap hotel near here. It will not cost many of your precious dollars.”
Long after we had finished eating, Dmitri was nursing his third or forth diet Coke, Anna was complaining, and I wanted to go, but Dmitri insisted on, “Just a few more minutes. After all I have done for you, you can’t let me finish my drink in peace?”
“Fine, whatever.”
Finally, a wiry old man in a leather cape and tall riding boots sauntered in. He was casting his gaze around the empty eating area as though it were occupied by a Roman legion on a dinner break. Until, that is, he spotted an empty seat. What luck, it just happened to be at the next table. He opened a notebook, stared at us and started taking notes. The strange man’s blatant eavesdropping annoyed the hell out of me. About to launch into him with some snide remark, I noticed that his notebook was full of navigational calculations. Beside him was a neatly folded maritime map of the port of Odessa.
“I do hope we aren’t crowding you.” A snide comment is a terrible thing to waste.
“Not at all. I’m doing calculations for a cargo delivery.” He paused, “I’m Captain Alexi Laddin, ship’s captain, at your service. I do my best planning here, around people. It is so lonely, you must understand, on those long ocean crossings.”
“A ship’s captain. Really?” I shot Dmitri a sideways glance.
“Absolutely. I am from Rotterdam. I will be taking a freighter back to Germany soon.”
That he made a point of saying he was from Rotterdam but taking a ship to Germany didn’t make sense. Nonetheless, what were the chances of running into a ship’s captain just when we needed one? Serendipity certainly seemed to be on our side all of a sudden.
“Are you going to stop in Rotterdam or go all the way to Germany?” I asked.
“No stops. Going all the way to Rotterdam.”
Hearing me geographically trip up the old man, Dmitri parachuted into the conversation. They spoke in rapid-fire Ukrainian, wrapping up when Dmitri had a sudden hankering for another cardboard skiff of Tater Tots. He demanded money and headed for the counter. Speaking comically pompous Russian, Captain Laddin informed me that Dmitri, our business partner, had told him of our need for discreet, safe passage out of Ukraine. The good Captain, Alexi Laddin, then deigned to meet with us the following day outside his office building.
Dmitri’s “excellent, cheap hotel” must have been condemned. Once upon a time it had been an ornate nineteenth century building of several stories and grand staircases. Now it was a neglected ruin with holes in the walls, torn rugs, and naked bulbs dangling on wires. Dmitri insisted on carrying all the bags, including the Roots Canada backpack with my money and the Pelican case of film.
The front desk wasn’t staffed at the time. Dmitri bellowed down dark and musty corridors. “Hey, how about some service here!
“Are you sure this place is open?” The carpet squished. I was afraid to look down.
“Shut up, you know nothing!”
“I know we’re not staying here! I’ll pay you the three hundred and give you something for a room. Then, we’re done.” I reached for the backpack.
“Ach, ti suka — you bitch. I can turn you over to the police right now.” He backed away with the pack. “You are obviously criminals. You owe me. I’m your business partner now. The only way you two are getting out of Ukraine is by doing things my way.”
“Alright, alright… I understand.” I said, trying for an escape ruse. “But we need to talk in private, in the car. Away from prying ears.” It got us out of the seedy hotel and back into the car. I proposed that a criminal enterprise such as ours would be far more successful at a luxury hotel. “The kind of place you see in the movies. You know, where the truly powerful criminal connections and high rollers hang out.”
Dmitri thought for a moment and agreed.
Odessa’s version of Park Avenue, Prymorsky Boulevard, provided a brightly lit hotel with doormen standing at the ready. “Pull over. That’s the kind of high class place we’re looking for.”
“Da, of course.” Dmitri pulled a brusque u-turn and came to a spasmodic stop in front of the hotel.
“Classy driving.”
“It shows them we mean business.” Dmitri said.
“It shows them we’re assholes. It’s obvious, you don’t know your way around a place like this. Wait in the car while I get us some rooms.”
“The girl stays with me,” He was suddenly defensive, “I have your bags and your money.”
A doorman, dressed vaguely like a Beefeater minus the tall fur hat, started toward the car. I jumped out to intercept him.
Taking a chance on his knowing English, I growled, “Stay away from the car. Call security.” I didn’t make eye contact, passing by him on my way to the entrance.
The frail elderly man changed direction and beat me to the hotel’s leaded crystal doors. “Welcome to the Windsor Arms Hotel. How may I be of assistance?” His English was impeccable.
The regal lobby enveloped me in a world of civility I had almost forgotten existed. The doorman listened to me explain the situation then smiled thoughtfully. Holding his pointy chin with a white gloved hand and tapping his nose with his index finger, he said, “Let me see what I can do.”
A couple of well-dressed, largish young men showed up seconds after the doorman picked up an antique desk phone. He briefed them, then told me to wait inside while the three of them headed out. Moments later, Anna walked into the lobby looking dazed.
The doorman followed with our bags. “As you can see, there was no trouble at all. I shall take payment to the driver now. I believe he requested it in American dollars.”