The Boy from Reactor 4 - By Orest Stelmach Page 0,30
the door.
“What can you do?” he said as he fired it up. “Accidents happen.”
CHAPTER 24
VARVARA, THE DECORATIVE black pig with golden earrings, welcomed guests to Varenichnaya No. 1 from atop its podium near the entrance. In the dining hall, old wall clocks hung beside lace curtains. They mixed with porcelain knick-knacks to give the restaurant the feel of a pristine rural kitchen within a Ukrainian antique shop.
Nadia sank her teeth into a varenik sautéed in butter and bacon and filled with farmer’s cheese. As the oversized ravioli melted in her mouth, her eyes watered.
Anton Medved, the taxi driver, grinned from across the table. “They have twenty-one flavors. When you told me you were a fiend for vareniky—hey, why are you crying?”
“It’s so good,” Nadia said after swallowing. She glanced around the restaurant, still amazed she was here, in her parents’ homeland. “My best memories from childhood are the food my mother used to make. No one screamed or yelled or…Everyone was happy when they had a varenik in their mouth.”
A little after 9:00, the casual restaurant was filled with an eclectic mix of people. Regardless of age or demographic, they were all well dressed.
“The average annual salary in Kyiv is three thousand US,” Anton said, “but a Ukrainian will still put on his best clothes when he goes out for any reason.”
“I noticed,” Nadia said. “Even the criminals dress well.”
Anton stopped dipping his blueberry varenik in sour cream and raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”
Nadia told him about her incident with the supposed drug dealer and police. She pretended Specter was a Good Samaritan who had helped her escape.
“I’m so sorry you went through that,” Anton said. “You’re from the States. You have police that protect people.”
“And what, you don’t?”
Anton sighed. “You know what the slang word for ‘police’ is in Ukraine?”
Nadia shook her head
“Musor. You know what musor is?”
Nadia shook her head again.
“Musor is ‘rubbish.’ That is the reputation of law enforcement in Ukraine. But hey, this is Kyiv, and in Kyiv, we have a saying: things will get better. In the meantime, you have to take care of yourself while you are here. Remember, Ukrainians are the greatest con artists in the world.”
Nadia had a flash of her uncle Damian. “What? Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s true. Ukraine itself has been conned for the last one thousand years. In 988 AD, Genghis Khan’s grandson, Batu, broke a treaty and decimated Kyiv. In the next five centuries, the Liths and the Poles took turns exploiting the countryside. The Russian Black Hundreds killed anyone who wasn’t Tsarist, and the Soviets brokered a truce and then tried to wipe all trace of our culture off the face of the earth. That is why Ukrainians are the world heavyweight champions of the long con. They’ve had more than ten centuries of training.”
Nadia and Anton continued chatting about all things Ukrainian. For Nadia, it was another surreal moment: a casual meal and conversation in her parents’ native language with an actual native. When they finished their vareniky and beer, they split the bill.
“How is your jet lag?” Anton said as they walked to his car at ten fifteen. “Would you like to go to a club? An underground music club? My friend Radek is playing tonight. He has a great thrashabilly-psychobilly band. It’s called F in Mathematics.”
Nadia’s brain was floating in a fog. “No, thank you. I think I’ve had enough psychobilly for one day. Maybe another night.”
“How about dessert? You must have some Kyivan dessert. You like chocolate, Nadia?”
The magic word stifled her protestations.
Fifteen minutes later, they were seated at the mahogany bar in Café Éclair. Light jazz music played in the background. The air smelled of rich cocoa.
“I love this place. Look, the candles are made from chocolate,” Anton said. “Imported from Belgium.”
The menu featured sixty-five different desserts, including enough mousses and meringues to satisfy all the monarchs of France. Nadia ordered a decaf cappuccino and a petite slice of tiramisu cheesecake. Anton asked for a double espresso.
“Besides your cousins in Bila Tserkva,” Nadia said, “you have family?”
“My parents died when I was young. I was married for two years, but my wife died in ’05. She was an intellectual from Lviv. She helped run the Pora youth group that built the grassroots support for Revolution Orange, when we overturned the fraudulent presidential election.” He paused until Nadia nodded, showing she knew about it. “How about you?”
“I have a mother and a brother. My father’s dead. And I was married, too, but