Cafe Boris and the Aid Convoy

Viktor’s day began early. Sergei collected him at just after 4.00 a.m. and drove him from his flat, on the outskirts of Luhansk, to the Russian border.

 

Viktor was taking part in the protest to keep out the Russian ‘aid lorries’, a fleet of trucks and military vehicles that the Russians claimed contained aid, although in reality this ‘aid’ was wearing military uniforms and carrying guns.

 

“Why are you joining the protests Sergei?” Viktor asked, “I’ve never known you to show an interest in politics.”

 

“I’m not joining the protestors Viktor, I’m selling to them. Look,” He took out a faded-looking T-Shirt.

 

“Live Aid – that was a 1980s British fundraising concert – why are you selling thirty year old T-shirts? You have misunderstood the nature of the protest I think.”

 

“I’ve rebranded them, Viktor. Look.”

 

Sergei pointed and Viktor saw the ‘rebranding’. With red pen Sergei had written the word ‘without’ between the words ‘Live’ and ‘Aid’.

 

“’Live Without Aid’ Victor, it’s what the protestors want, to keep the Russian aid lorries out. This is contemporary fashion, political streetwear.”

 

“People won’t buy these,” Viktor said, “they’re not fools. It’s just old junk.”

 

“We’ll see, Viktor,” Sergei said, “we’ll see. You, you’re a writer, me, I’m a businessman. We’ll see who’s right.”

 

The journey to the border was uncomplicated. There were a couple of Ukrainian army checkpoints, but they were mostly waving through traffic heading eastwards, keen not to hinder the anti-Russian protestors. Viktor noticed, however, that the car’s registration number was scanned, as were all of those passing through, assumedly so that any known trouble-makers could be identified and stopped. Viktor wondered, though, what would happen if the numbers were sold on, by some unscrupulous soldier. The Russians would throw at information like this.

 

They arrived at the border before dawn, yet already there were several hundred protestors spread out across the border. A Russian-speaking Ukrainian with a clip-board seemed to be in charge, and he gave Viktor a banner to hold which said ‘No aid, no invasion’ in Russian.

 

The man inspected Sergei’s merchandise and gave him permission to sell the T-shirts to the protestors, though not before Sergei had worked his magic and sold him the first one.

 

Viktor spent the whole day on the barricades, marching up and down the small section allocated to him. At lunchtime Sergei came over with some bread, garlic sausage and a bottle of vodka.

 

“You shouldn’t be drinking,” Viktor said, “you have a long drive back.”

 

“Not for hours yet, don’t worry about such things. We’ve the world’s third biggest army sitting in their ‘aid conveys’ less than a mile away, if I’m going to die young it won’t be from a small glass of vodka at lunchtime.”

 

“You don’t have a glass, Sergei. You’re drinking from the bottle. And it’s not a small bottle.”

 

Sergei laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Viktor asked.

 

“You have to admire the Russians. They line up troops and tanks on our border and ask if they can come in with some ‘aid’. It’s a see-through lie, an honest lie. The West, they’re just as dishonest, but they’re tricksier, they actually send aid, but they send it to the places they want people to move to, away from the villages they’ve given away to their allies, and they send it to their people to distribute. They don’t need to send tanks, troops, ‘aid-vehicles’, just by allocation of food they decide who governs. They are clever, Viktor, not like the Russians. The Russians are like us, total fools.”

 

You have a cynical view of aid, Sergei.”

 

“I have eyes and ears, Viktor. Look across Africa, every bag of aid has a bandit or warlord sitting on it, calling himself the President or Commander, using bags of food to buy power. How does that help anyone? Read the T-shirt Viktor – ‘Live Without Aid’.”

 

Viktor spent another four hours on the border, before Sergei came to collect him at 5.00 pm, as agreed, when a smaller night-shift would take over the protest.

 

“How have you got on?” Viktor asked.

“Sold out,” Sergei replied, matter-of-factly. “I’ve spent the last hour on the phone to my friends in the pro-Russian camp closing another deal.”

 

“Sergei, I thought I knew you, thought you were just a low-down money-grabber. But this – selling to both sides!”

 

“Not selling arms though, Viktor. Not selling anything useful, I am fleecing both sides, not helping them. I am of no help to anybody, I am a good capitalist.”

 

They drove back in near silence, Viktor exhausted by his long day manning the border, Sergei too wrapped up in his next venture, doubtless counting out the profits in his mind. The journey was straightforward, in spite of the fleet of traffic leaving the border, again such checkpoints as there were waved them through without pause.

 

“Drop me anywhere in town, I’ll walk to Café Boris”, Viktor said when they arrived back in Luhansk. “I’m owed a meal and I want to catch up on gossip.”

 

 

“Will you help me load the car before you set off?”

  

 

“Load the car? Ah, yes. Your business venture. So what are you selling to the pro-Russian protestors.”

 

“I’m selling Russian flags. They’re desperate for them, offering me a fortune.”

 

“But these aren’t Russian flags,” Viktor said, as Sergei passed him the first bundle of merchandise. “These are French flags. Look.”

 

“Ah, but the protestors don’t know that. They’re the same colours, a similar pattern, close enough to fool the protestors. Most of them are only on the march because the Russians throw roubles at them, they’ll wave anything, their wives knickers if they were paid enough.”

 

“But you could get in trouble Sergei. These pro-Russians, they hate the West, they hate France, if they realise they’ve been sold French flags, they could get violent, they could think it a serious insult.”

“Relax Viktor. Even if they realise they aren’t Russian flags, they’ll never work out they’re French. Nobody knows the colour of the French flag.”

 

“I suppose so. You’re lucky France never wins anything at the Olympics.”

“Not at the Olympics, not at the winter Olympics, not at football, France doesn’t even win at boules.”

 

“Yes, I suppose, the only flag France ever gets to fly is the white flag of surrender.”

 

“Exactly,” said Sergei, “everyone assumes the French flag is white. Hey, did you know that the French army training is the longest training in the world.”

 

“Really”, said Viktor, “how come?”

 

“Because all of the recruits have to learn the words for “I surrender” in every language.”

 

“What, even those languages spoken only by villages of ten or twelve people in the Congo.”

“Ten or twelve men with spears, Viktor, that is more than enough to conquer the might of the French army.”

 

The two men laughed. They might, at a push, be considered on the pro-European side of their country’s divide, but never could they be considered pro-French.

 

“I must be off,” Viktor said, when they’d finished loading the car. “You be careful Sergei, these Russian patriots, they can be dangerous.”

 

“I’m a Russian, Viktor, you can check my passport.”

 

“You’re also Ukrainian, Sergei, check your other passport. So be careful, yes?”

 

As Viktor walked away he thought once more of their number plate being scanned at the checkpoint. Of Sergei’s number plate being scanned. Just one corrupt soldier, that was all it would take, and the Russian aid convoy would have the names and addresses of every protestor. Including Sergei’s.