SIBERIA BOUND
Chasing the American Dream on Russia's Wild Frontier |
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Single Page Format No contract? I bit my tongue.
Sasha, still grinning, ripped the paper lengthwise in two, then ripped the two halves into quarters, then into eighths. He disposed of the ribbons of paper into his case. He then extended his hand to the man. As I watched Sasha’s smile transform into a sober, sincere gaze, I realized why a paper contract wasn’t necessary. This handshake was the contract. I felt drunk with emotion. In two days, we had sold six tons of chocolate and borrowed twenty thousand dollars without a single lawyer charging two hundred dollars an hour to put words on paper to protect us from any and every eventuality. Even better, there would be no lawyers to siphon thousands of dollars from us when an unforeseen eventuality did occur and a dispute arose, a dispute that only lawyers profited from.
The man extended his hand to me. I grabbed it and tried to look him straight in the eyes but couldn’t help stealing a glance over his shoulder at Lenin. He looked different. The great Bolshevik’s eyes no longer seemed fixed sternly on the future, but mournfully on the past. We were conducting the most blatant act of capitalism, paying for the use of other people’s money, under the nose of the man who tried to eradicate capitalism. It was sacrilege, and it felt good, like sinning should.
Sasha pulled a bottle of vodka from his seemingly bottomless briefcase. His briefcase held all the essentials for Siberian business: a stack of his business cards, leather holders for other people’s cards, envelopes with crisp dollars, bundles of worn rubles, several company seals, and a bottle of vodka. Sasha’s briefcase was like Batman’s utility belt. It wasn’t the primary source of his strength, but he could always count on it to get him out of difficult situations.
The red-faced man pulled three shot glasses from his desk drawer. We were soon holding up our full glasses as Sasha toasted to success. We clicked glasses, tossed the vodka back, and chased them with nothing but pained expressions. If the handshake was the contract, then these shots of vodka were the signatures.
Out in the empty hallway lit by only one flickering fluorescent light, Sasha held his right hand up like a traffic cop.
“What?” I asked.
With his left hand he grabbed my right wrist and lifted it up. He grinned and tried to give me a high-five. There was no triumphant slap, only a weak thud as his hand hit my shirtsleeve.
“Come on. One more try,” he insisted.