Café Boris and the mewing menace

With the threat of war hanging over the country, the tourist trade in Luhansk, sparse at the best of times, disappeared overnight, like the promises of a new government the day after they are elected.

Inside Café Boris life was quiet. Deprived of tourists to mock and argue with, Boris sad broodily, twirling a spoon in his hands, as if waiting to see if the end of the world had arrived

Even the local paper’s obituary column reflected the dark mood that hung over the nation. That day’s Café Boris obituary was somehow different from the hundreds that preceded it:

‘Vitaly Paruby Died, helping defend Café Boris from oppression. As a result of the bravery of Vitaly and many other heroes, Café Boris remains unvanquished, a stronghold that the nation can be proud of.’

Vitaly was Dmitri’s friend. They had studied at the same university, before he became a teacher, when he still had hopes of making his fame and fortune as a writer. Vitaly had died, really died unlike those mentioned in the obits that preceded him, not on the battlements of Café Boris, but in Independence Square in Kiev, shot by a government sniper in the last days of that particular corrupt regime.

Somehow Boris knew. When Dmitri arrived at the café that day the Ekspres was open at the obituary page, a candle lighted beside it. As Dmitri sat, Boris plonked a glass of vodka on the table. “To your friend,” he said, nodding to the paper and raising his own glass as a toast.

“To Vitaly,” Dmitri said. Viktor was right, he thought to himself, there is more to Boris than a bad-tempered café owner with a spoon fixation. How could Boris know about my connection to Vitaly? I haven’t seen him for ten years, we barely speak. To know that I knew him, you would have to have access to my records, security files, files that we were told were destroyed when the communist regime fell, pictures of me and Vitaly on a student demo perhaps. And why would Boris need access to my files, so that he can be ready with a glass of vodka when I need it?”

A little while later Viktor arrived, Dmitri’s friend, the local police Inspector. The café was still quiet, a few locals, brave or lonely enough to face the last surge of winter weather.

Viktor remained standing in the doorway and remained standing in such a way that it was apparent he wished to make an announcement.
“You are not to leave the café,” he said, “There is a curfew. Everyone must stay where they are. The streets are not safe. There are tigers on the loose.”

“What nonsense is this?” said Dmitri, angrily. “Another curfew, and with the same pathetic excuse. Tigers. In Luhansk! It’s like I’m a character trapped in a book by an idiot author who can only ever regurgitate the same stupid ideas. What would tigers be doing in a freezing cold city like this?”

“Why are you using the same stupid excuse?” Boris added. “Other police forces are skilled at coming up with diverse stupid excuses. How can you be so lacking in imagination. There are no tigers in Luhansk. Believe me, I would know. I would be the first person the tigers told if they were coming to town.”

To add to the foray, Olyana stomped in from the kitchen. “You are not making me spend another night here, not with these men. People will start to talk. I am a married woman. I should be sleeping at home, in my marital bed, wondering where my husband is, like any good wife.”

“Gentlemen, ladies,” Viktor said patiently. “This time I am in earnest. The tigers are real, I have seen them, they are roaming the streets. You are not safe outside.”

“Where from? There’s not even a zoo in Luhansk, where were they staying, the Grand Hotel?”

“The Russians have released fifty tigers into the city. It is to keep the people inside, living in fear. They are doing the same in all Ukrainian towns within a hundred miles of the border.”

“Tigers? Why would the Russians send tigers?” Boris bellowed, “Why not send tanks and troops? What, did they replace their army with a circus?”

“Because a tank would be an invasion, a tiger is just a cat. There will be no reprisals for a few wandering tigers.” To Olyana, Viktor said, “You must remain here. There is little chance your husband will return tonight, there is nobody on the streets. It is safe here, and I will personally ensure that your reputation and integrity are honoured.”

Before the implications of the announcement had had time to properly register, a second visitor appeared. There, staring into the café window like a child into a sweet shop, stood one of the tigers, its teeth sharpened into a smile, it’s fur glowing orange under the amber illumination of the nearby streetlight.

Boris charged out of the door, brandishing a whole, unplucked chicken, he had somehow found time to acquire, and a spoon, which he held handle-facing to the tiger.
“Here kitty,” he purred to the beast, “I’ve brought a nice chicken for your supper.”