Someday, when I do not live in Moscow any more these are the things I will remember. The madness of petty acts, the miniature trespasses that bring Russian blood to a boil. Twelve years in, I am gravely mistaken about how easy it is to offend here. I am still wrapping my head around the logic of graft and unspoken rules.
On the way to the film lab, I pass a popular street with outdoor cafes. There are always tourists here, and since the FIFA games, a special brand of militia roams these walkways. Their shirts even have English letters embroidered on them, saying "Tourist Police." There are young men and women in great, lumpy costumes - nameless cartoon characters, a donkey, a pirate, a mouse. The shiny suits hide their faces, as they wave their hands for tourists to come and take a picture with them, maybe palm a few rubles. The characters are all forced smiles, just as the country has been for a few weeks. I see two police men approach the donkey. A few words are exchanged. The headpiece comes off, a young man's scruffy face is underneath - sweaty and tired from the afternoon sun. He is escorted away, and another stuffed character takes his place. I do not even have the energy to imagine why one street performer can remain, and another is told to move on. His head sags. I do imagine that he has a family to support, or a dream of a motorcycle he wants to buy - and this costume was his golden ticket, now just a sweaty reminder of where he has been dreaming.
Later that day, I go to buy cheese and olives. There is only one elevator, going up and down in this new shopping center. An older woman stands in front of me, sighing as we wait for the doors to slide open. All at once, a young woman and two men step in front of us. They are not teenagers, older than that - cackling laughs, jabbing at the screens of their phones they lean against the elevator doors. The older woman says something. One of the young men replies, speaking over her. Her eyebrow rises, and she calls them filthy pigs. The elevator doors open and all of us shuffle inside. The young woman joins in, hurling insults at the old woman. Their language is as foul as prison-talk from an unknown tv show. It all happens within a few square feet, a wildfire from a spark in a handful of seconds as if all of them were barely containing their rages for hours. The straw, the camel's back and me just trying to buy something nice for a Saturday night dinner. Somehow the ride ends a few floors later. I stride out into the market, as if there was no air left after their bile and anger filled the tiny space.
A few days later I am back at the film lab, to pickup my negatives. I look down the street, and sure enough the donkey is back at work. I ask myself if it is the same young man inside that costume, or someone else. Maybe it doesn't even matter.
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