Mortal Happiness: Chapter Three

From his makeshift seat in the cargo hold Jones felt the slow, banking movement as the aircraft circled. He wondered vaguely where he was - probably some small, military airport in some God-forsaken nowhere in the great vastness of Russia. He still had two days to get to Rostov and that was all that mattered.

Closing his eyes he imagined the landscape below him. It would be flat, not just because there was an airstrip but because Russia always seemed flat to him. Endless lines of trees that spread into a perfectly horizontal distance filled with more trees.

He thought of the first time he’d visited Kossov’s family dacha, he and Heriot. They’d travelled there by military helicopter, courtesy of Marshall Kossov. Two twenty year olds alone behind the already threadbare Iron Curtain, vibrating from the swooping ride and the echo of cocaine furtively inhaled before takeoff.

The place was more than three hundred snow-covered miles north-east of Moscow and the closer they got, the more Jones had felt he was leaving the real world and entering some Slavic fable. Circling over the dacha they’d both looked excitedly out of the window to where Ivan Kossov stood beside the landing pad, arms and legs spread wide in welcome, ignoring the snow hurled up by the rotor blades. Jones had thought his friend looked like a character from Pushkin or Turgenev; one of the heroic types who come to a dramatic, but inevitably tragic, end. Glancing at Heriot he’d seen the other’s eyes fix on the man below and felt something in that moment which even now, nearly half a lifetime later, it would be hard to name.

That night the three of them had celebrated their reunion in style.

The descent continued. Jones squeezed his nostrils and blew hard to dispel the building pressure in his ears and wondered whether pleasure always declined proportionately with youth and looks. He didn’t actually remember when he had last had ‘fun’ and tried to decide if that was important or not. Perhaps it was just that if he compared ‘now’ with ‘then’, ‘now’ inevitably came up short. That first night in Russia was glued firmly into the pages of memory. He thought he would probably remember it into old age, if he lived that long.

They had started drinking the minute their feet touched the ground. At sunset all three ran out into the snow, naked except for boots. Despite being icy cold, utterly pissed and very hungry he had seen how the dying sun touched everything, so that the trees looked like flaming torches and the great sea of snow was turned to blood. He tried to say these things to Kossov and Heriot but his face and lips were stiff with cold and his brain had refused to function.

Inside, by the log fire that took up half a wall, his skin had crawled painfully as warmth hit it. Kossov seemed untouched, unaffected.

‘Nothing, and I mean nothing, produced within the borders of this, the world’s largest country, has been more vital to our continued existence than vodka.’

Glancing from the drunkenly grandiose Kossov he caught Heriot’s eye and they’d both burst out laughing.

‘What?’ Sweat trickled down Kossov’s flushed neck and chest. ‘Why are you laughing? It’s completely true.’ Above the vast stone fireplace his father’s military commendations flickered in the changing light.

Heriot said, ‘You’re declaiming, Ivan. You’re lying mostly naked on a dead bear and declaiming. You can’t possibly expect to be taken seriously.’

Undeterred Kossov yelled, ‘The fires that burnt Moscow were lit with it and Napoleon defeated for lack of it, w …whatever historians say about our Russian winter.’ Spread-eagled on the bearskin rug, Kossov brandished a bottle in each hand. ‘From stone jugs, earthenware bottles, leather mugs and ch…chilled crystal, vodka has slid down the collective Russian throat, or should I s…say the Russian collective throat, faster than water for generations. And now …’ he leapt up, surprisingly steady on his feet, ‘I toast you both - my English friends. Welcome to my homeland. Welcome to Russia!’

‘I’m not bloody English’ he’d roared, ‘I’m Welsh! Welsh you hear, and … and a bit American.’

‘Hush, dear,’ Heriot had said, ‘no need to tell everyone your shameful secret.’

Later, Heriot produced his supply, ‘Choose your gear,’ he said and cooked up. A speedball for Kossov; a straight for Jones who’d fallen in love with heroin during a year of International Media Studies at Harvard and declared that nothing - not even the finest Russian vodka – could, or ever would, compare.

Later still, his skin crawling and humming, Jones had stumbled into the deep, crackling snow and vomited. He had an vivid memory of a full moon and a clear sky and Heriot holding his head as he retched hot violence onto the pristine surface of the world.

In the morning he’d woken to a mouthful of coarse hair. The bearskin stank and so did he. The fire was only embers, but someone had thrown a heavy velvet covering over him. In the next room his friends lay in each others arms, Heriot’s long hair dark against the pillows. As he’d opened the door Kossov slept on, but Heriot’s eyes opened. Seeing Jones he’d smiled and held out a hand.

The landing gear groaned its way out and the braking system roared into life as the plane prepared for its final descent. He opened his eyes, but for a few seconds saw only a vast wooden bed.

Jones leant against a wall in the operations room of the headquarters of the North Caucasus Military District and lit a cigarette. He’d given up paying attention to the No Smoking rules in North America and Britain. At least here in Russia no one cared how quickly you killed yourself.

Friendship with Kossov had taught him a few things about this country, not least the odour of quality. The vodka on Colonel Boris Timofeev’s desk reached his nose from halfway across the room, a scent as rich and sharp as earth.

Timofeev wore the uniform of a much smaller man. Flesh bulged from his collar under a round shaved head that exited his shoulders like a grapefruit. Only his small, bright eyes moved rapidly, following junior officers as they scurried in response to seventies-style terrestrial phones.

Jones had smoked three cigarettes by the time an officer detached himself from the cluster around the main desk.

‘Colonel Timofeev asks why you are standing like this in his office.’

Like what? Jones wondered, but before he could respond, Timofeev pointed at him then crooked the finger. For a moment the room ceased to hum and every face turned. Jones pushed himself off the wall and followed the officer.

‘Mr. Michael Jones.’ Timofeev said. ‘We know you are there. Of course we do - because if you were a Chechen suicide terrorist I could be dead. Ha ha!’ He extended a pudgy, powerful hand, his head moving stiffly in the absence of a neck.

Surprised by the humour Jones said, ‘It’s good of you to speak with me Colonel - particularly when you have so many urgent matters to deal with.’ Speaking Russian felt unfamiliar; though his mouth automatically reshaped itself to remembered sounds the connections in his brain were flabby from lack of use.

Timofeev held up a hand. ‘When a respected superior asks something from me it is for me to give what he asks. I do not do this for you, but for Marshall Dmitri Kossov.’

‘Of course.’

‘So,’ the Colonel pointed to a chair and Jones sat facing him across the desk, ‘what can we do for you?’

‘I think you will find the Marshall’s letter very clear.’

‘It is. So what can we do for you?’

One by one Jones reeled off the items from Kossov’s list.

Timofeev’s head shook as far as it could. ‘Sadly, most of what you ask for we do not have. This is not the United States.’ Another chuckle and rush of vodka fumes. ‘Some film you may find, winter clothing we can certainly give you, but not, I think, a charger for your communications generator.’

There was an acid discernment in the other man’s eyes, which made Jones feel oddly cheerful. His instincts were proving right: he was not going to be given an easy ride here, whatever his contacts. Marshall Kossov would have to wait for his reports after all.

‘But what we can give you,’ the Colonel continued, ‘and you must not refuse, is the assistance of one of our men.’

Jones was about to open his mouth when Timofeev waved a hand. Someone left the room.

‘No need to thank me Mr Jones. Lieutenant Never wishes to improve his English and we wish that he should.’

Jones nodded reluctantly. What had he imagined? That he could lose himself in chaos unnoticed? Now he would be saddled with some scrawny, red-faced youth from Siberia wanting to practice his irregular verbs.

‘Is there anything else?’ Timofeev looked brusque.

‘Can you discuss the operation Colonel? Some background would be useful.’

The man laughed, a genuine, amused sound and swallowed a mouthful of vodka, showing the glass to Jones who shook his head.

‘I heard that you English do not have the stomach …’

He said, ‘I’m British.’

‘That’s what I said.’ Timofeev belched, ‘So, you want to know about our operation. I thought you journalists knew everything.’

‘I wish that were true.’

‘In the Caucasus things are very complex, Mr. Jones, very complex indeed.’

Jones nodded, wondering if he should expect a geopolitical lecture.

Russia, Timofeev explained, had many enemies and like the West was a victim of terrorists. Russia also had the unenviable task of helping to maintain the fragile peace between many of her neighbours.

Jones nodded again.

The Colonel leant back in his chair, until the legs creaked and groaned. ‘The question here is: what is the most effective way to keep the peace and prevent regional instability or terrorism at the same time? This is the purpose of our operation, Mr Jones. This is what we intend to find out. Our Russian peacekeepers are attacked by insurgents and common criminals every day. So, we must ask ourselves if there is a peace to keep, for example, between Georgia and some of her neighbours? If there is no peace it follows, logically, that our men cannot be peacekeepers and they must be permitted to defend themselves.’ Timofeev beamed, ‘Simple, isn’t it?’

The question was rhetorical. The whole thing sounded like the man was reading from a political brochure and nothing so far surprised Jones, except perhaps Timofeev’s frankness.

‘You expect the units leaving tonight to be exposed to attack?’

‘Where terrorists are involved, and they are, who can say what will happen? If we are attacked we must protect ourselves. You are not a nervous man I hope, Mr Jones?’ The Colonel glanced down at Jones’ documents. ‘The Marshall writes that you are a reporter of great experience, personal courage and discretion … so I will let you into a secret.’ He dropped his voice and said in a loud, theatrical whisper, ‘Where you are going, they fight over nuts.’

‘Nuts?’

‘Hazelnuts. In Svaneti, a most difficult border region, they have paramilitaries with fairytale names … names like, ‘The Woods Men.’ He turned to an aide, ‘Those nut-thieves in Svaneti? What do they call themselves?’

‘The Forest Brotherhood, sir.’

‘Right.’ He looked back at Jones. ‘This Brotherhood, these friendly bandits who are, no doubt, all related to each other - because incest is always worst where the roads are bad and they are particularly bad in Svaneti – these bandits steal whole crops of hazelnuts from their neighbours; it seems nuts are a valuable commodity. Maybe if you have no nuts of your own you must steal other men’s … ha ha!’

Some of the younger officers around Timofeev’s desk laughed too. Jones gave a diplomatic grin.

Suddenly serious, Timofeev said, ‘The Georgians are surrounded by potential enemies in what they claim is their own land. They are unable to save themselves because they have no money, none at all. Also, they are very bad soldiers. Despite free military advice,’ there was a rustle among the officers around the table as Timofeev emphasised the word ‘advice’, ‘ … from the United States, and from your own country, Mr. Jones, despite all this advice, Georgians are still very bad soldiers, even worse than we Russians have become.’ He sighed as he said this and all the men around him looked down at the dusty floor.

Jones glanced up at the rapt faces of the younger officers as the Colonel continued to play to his audience. ‘Georgians are proud and ungrateful, forever asking us for help to expel terrorists while resenting and undermining our efforts to do so and simultaneously persecuting those within their borders who are Russia’s friends.’ He shrugged and lifted both hands, palms up. ‘What is to be done with such a country?’ Without waiting for a reply he continued, briskly ‘So, now we must save their nuts, whether they like it or not.’

He shuffled the papers together on his desk and carefully returned Jones’s documents to their envelope. ‘As I said, the Caucasus is a difficult place, an expensive place. We know what you Westerners say about our peacekeeping, “keeping a piece of this, a piece of that”.’ He handed Jones the envelope. ‘We will leave Georgia next month, next year - some Russian soldiers dead, some Georgian soldiers dead, many innocent dead - and come home. That,’ he drained his glass, ‘is life.’

A captain appeared with a youngish man wearing glasses and a soft cap on hair to the collar. The captain nudged the new arrival who removed his cap and straightened slightly.

Standing suddenly, Timofeev said, ‘Lieutenant Never will be like a - how do you say? A shadow, Mr. Jones; except that you will go where he goes, not the other way … ha! He will translate if necessary and explain what is good and what is not. I’m sure that you know enough of us to understand me.’ Timofeev spoke fast to Never, dismissed him, then extended a pale, pudgy hand with a stony grip. ‘Make the most of whatever it is you expect from this Mr Jones. One way or another it will not last long.’

It was early evening and already dusk when Jones escaped Timofeev, feeling he’d been told everything and nothing. The man was a master of persiflage. He hoped Marshall Kossov knew what he was doing. Ivan’s plan had seemed simple: get to X, join up with Y and you’ll get what we need at Z. Now simplicity seemed like naïveté. He considered the Colonel’s parting shot and for the first time since his talk with Kossov considered his personal expectations. He reminded himself that he wanted great images and sharp stories on peacekeeping in the world’s ‘forgotten’ regions.

He tensed his shoulders a few times then relaxed and lit a cigarette. On one level he felt strangely unconcerned, almost weightless, as if his destination and what lay between here and there were already out of his hands. Walking along narrow pathways between prefabricated huts he inhaled deeply, glad of a moment’s solitude, unconcerned with where his feet were taking him.

Emerging suddenly into a vast open space he realised that this base was the largest military establishment he’d ever seen. There was just enough light to see the outline of tanks crouched in endless, sombre rows on the far side of the space. Truck after truck passed through the fuelling bays then joined the lines stretching across the parade ground. Despite the activity there was an air of half-emptiness, of something half-used. Probably only a shadow of its Cold War self Jones thought. Looking at the elderly grey-green vehicles lining up behind each other in a haze of dust and artificial light he wondered how this base had looked during the height of the Cold War. Alive, he decided. It would have looked utterly alive.

Everything ends, he thought; even those things that seem likely to go on for ever.

Behind a shed he found a crate and sat down closing his eyes. Tiredness swept over him heavy and sudden. His body relaxed almost instantly, limbs weighted and distanced from his brain.

He was falling, twitching and almost on the edge of fear when a voice said loudly in English and very close, ‘Is there anything you would like to know?’

Jones leapt to his feet, biting his tongue as he struggled to regain control of his body. ‘What?’

‘I asked, what would you like to know?’

The lieutenant, the shadow.

‘Uh, nothing, nothing right now,’ he said, tasting metal.

‘You’re wondering what’s happening, and considering questions to ask yourself and others. You can ask me, my English is as good as your Russian.’ Never sounded businesslike as he swept fair hair from bespectacled eyes.

Jones blinked, feeling in his pocket for cigarettes, ‘Look, lieutenant …’

‘My name is Alexei.’

‘OK, Alexei. I’m not used to having someone around when I’m working. Know what I mean? I like to find things out for myself.’

‘An empiricist,’ the other man said.

‘What?’

‘Empiricism. Commendable, but a waste of time in the circumstances.’

‘What circumstances?’

‘We leave this place in less than four hours and in that time I must find you film, clothing and transportation with my unit.’ He ticked the items off on his fingers. ‘Your co-operation would be useful. You may of course prefer to stay here when the unit leaves and ask your questions at leisure.’ Never dug his hands into his pockets and lifted his shoulders in an extended shrug. Then he grinned, showing large, uneven teeth. After a moment Jones nodded and together they retraced their steps.