Café Boris

Dmitri stirred his coffee and turned the pages of the Luhansk Ekspres, waiting for an article that caught his attention. He’d been waiting for ten years, the paper had never ceased to bore him in the decade he had lived there.

The year he had spent in England as a student, however, every edition of the local paper had an eye-catchingly insane headline and story. The cat that had solved a murder, the man who wrote a novel in his shed and the man who pretended to be the pope in order to defraud an elderly catholic woman of her life savings. In Luhansk there were no such stories, any robber here would simply have held a gun to the old woman’s head, no need for dressing up. The cat would have been shot before he could solve the case and as for writing in sheds, most sheds in Luhansk were used for hiding contraband or strangers, or for secret trysts or drinking binges, there was no space in any Luhansk shed for a would-be-novelist.

He reached the obituary section without having spotted a single word of interest. He suddenly stopped turning the pages, however, when he saw his own name, Dmitri Stodnik, died, aged 43, following a sudden illness. It gave his correct address, together with details of a funeral service the following week.

Normally Dmitri would suspect a prank, a friend mocking his great age, but he had read an article a few days previously in Sevodnya, about a serious of murders where the name and details of the victim had been published in the local paper on the day the victim was killed. The journalist had speculated that it was a method informing the hitman who he was to kill, though Dmitri had thought this a ridiculous idea, as the hitman would have know way of knowing which regional paper to check or which of the many obits was the intended victim. No, it was clearly done to frighten the victim, or maybe simply to show off to fellow gangster.

Dmitri tried to think who he might have offended sufficiently to warrant his own murder, but there was nobody he could name. He may have offended someone without knowing, perhaps by hitting on a girl the gangster had his eye on, or maybe an old rival from school or work was revenging some petty misdeed from twenty years’ previously. In Ukraine today you never knew who was killing you or why.

He didn’t doubt that he would be killed, though. The article had cited over a hundred instances, these were not people that published idle threats.

He had to run. He had friends in Kiev he could stay with. But he would need to get back to his apartment, for his passport, papers and the stash of money he kept for just such an emergency.

Except the killer would almost certainly be waiting for him.

He looked around the café, for a friend who might help him. In the kitchen Boris was arguing with Stephan, his chef. “Why you spend so much money on food,” he said, “You are wasting good food on my customers, they don’t have taste, they are like animals, you could feed them on grass. Instead you throw away my profits on free-range meat, fresh asparagus. Honestly, look at these people, they don’t care what they eat.”

At the table next to me two elderly men were eagerly discussing Dynamo Luhansk’s new signing and the team’s chances in the forthcoming season. No use, they were too old, besides, Dmitri never trusted football fans. To his left sat a couple, young, tourists, American, discussing the sights they would see in Luhansk. Ah, the crazy optimism of youth – there are no sights, he wanted to tell them, you should leave, go to a city like Kiev, Moscow, where there are things to do.

In the corner to men in leather coats were conducting a deal of some kind, conversing in whispers and passing each other pieces of paper. No use – they’d run away if he approached them, they had their own concerns.

Which left – another couple speaking in English, not American though, and with a book on the table written in Russian – multi-lingual, definitely not American then. They were discussing their trip to Kiev. He listened for a while, from which it became clear they were departing imminently and, a rare piece of fortune, that they were driving. He could ask for a lift, no need to risk the train or bus stations, where the gang might be looking for him.

Before going over he looked for a copy of the Sevodnya. There was a pile of old papers on the counter and Sevodnya was the third paper from the top. It was even open at the page, probably from when he had read it a few days’ previously.

He walked over to the couple, introduced himself in Russian, and presented the couple with a copy of the Sevodnya article and his own obituary in the Ekspres.

The couple seemed to be delighted by his story. “This sort of thing never happens in England,” the man said, as if nothing could be more jolly than reading of your own imminent death. “We’d be delighted to drive you to Kiev. It’ll make a great story won’t it Sandra (he said addressing his partner) – I write for a newspaper in England,” he explained to Dmitri.

“That is kind, so very kind,” Dmitri said. “But I have a further favour to ask. You see I need to retrieve my passport and some money from my flat, but I am afraid to go there, in case the hitman is waiting.”

The Englishman seemed excited by the prospect. “Be careful,” said Sandra. “Yes, be careful,” said Dmitri, “if he is there you will need to explain your presence or he might kill you. Pretend to be my landlord, knock on the door asking for rent then let yourself in with these keys. Do you speak Ukranian? It doesn’t matter if not, most landlords are Russian.”

“I have some Ukranian,” the man answered in Ukranian, “it is not so good as my Russian.”

“That is fine, convincing, there are many Russian landlords who only have a few words of Ukranian. Your Russian is good, that’s what matters, you don’t sound English when you speak Russian.

Dmitri drew the man a map showing how to get from the café to his flat and the man left, making arrangements to meet Dmitri and Sandra outside the cafe.

The Englishman was excited by the challenge, by the stories he would get to tell, by the article he would write. As he climbed the stairs to the flat, however, the reality of the situation hit him. There may well be a hitman waiting behind the door, he realised, a ruthless killer who had murdered a hundred people already, or who worked for the gang responsible for a hundred such deaths. Also, maybe the man in the café was not as innocent as he seemed, maybe there were drugs or debts involved, maybe by entering the man’s flat he would be seen to be taking responsibility for any debts or misdeeds done. What had he let himself in for?

He didn’t turn back however. Outside of number 39 he knocked heavily as instructed and, in his deepest voice, said “Dmitri, it is me, your landlord. I have come for the rent.” He knocked again and repeated himself, in Ukranian this time.

Hearing no answer he opened the door with the keys, jangling them loudly and taking his time, so that if there was a hitman inside he would have time to hide. “It is only me Dmitri,” he shouted to the empty flat, “just come for my rent.”

He listened intently and had just concluded that he was alone and relaxed somewhat, when suddenly there was an enormous fart from the adjoining room. There was no mistaking it’s nature or its origins. Suddenly he felt very afraid, the killer was waiting for Dmitri, is waiting for Dmitri, he almost certainly has his gun drawn and is making a judgement about whether or not to kill me. He refused to show his fear however. “I know you’re here Dmitri, I recognise your farts anywhere. Why are you hiding? Is it a girl? Don’t mind me Dmitri, you pay your rent you bring home who you like. I’ll help myself to the money – is it in the usual place.”

The Englishman felt proud of his ad-libbed response. He found the passport and money in the draw in the writing desk just as Dmitri had said. “I am going now,” he said, “you can open the door and let the fart out, it must be getting unpleasant in there.”

Once out of the door he sprinted down the stairs and hurried back to the café. Sandra was waiting with Dmitri in the car and they sped to Kiev laughing all the way at the farting hitman. Dmitri was so busy laughing that he didn’t pause to think what he would do when he reached Kiev, how he would go about starting his new life. Now was not the time to worry, or think, now was simply the time to laugh.