Red Ticket: Without a Bike
“You are Hell’s Angel without bike,” he said.
This weekend in Red Ticket, Robin finally runs into Lyosha, and she mistakes his insult for a compliment.
If you need to catch up, go back and read chapters 1, 2-3, 4-5, 6, 7, 8-9, 10-11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, and 27.
Chapter 28: Without a Bike
by Robin Whetstone
The day I dreaded arrived. I was in the bar section of the Irish House Bar and Supermarket, eating a ham sandwich and drinking a Bitburger and working on an article. I looked up and there he was, sitting at the bar sharing a drink with a very pretty blonde woman who, even though it was only noon, was dressed in what looked like a green silk ball gown. Lyosha.
I knew we were eventually going to see each other. Muscovites called their city “the big village,” and it was true. There were only so many places you could go. The Irish House, where Lyosha and I had first met, was as good a place as any to have whatever confrontation we were about to have. I got up and walked over to the bar.
“Hello,” I said to him and to the woman he was sitting with. I smiled at them and they smiled back.
“You are Hell’s Angel without bike,” he said.
I was delighted. This confirmed everything about me that I hoped was true. “Aw, Lyosha,” I said.
“I do not mean this as compliment,” he said gently.
“Hello,” they said. There was no rancor in Lyosha’s tone or expression. He seemed happy to see me. “You owe some money for the last phone bill.”
We made arrangements to meet the next night so I could give him the money; we smiled and nodded and said goodbye. I went back to my table and worked on my article and my sandwich. He and his friend finished their drinks and left. That was it.
The next night we met at Rosie O’Grady’s, which had opened again. We sat across from each other at a table and talked.
“What will you do?” he asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I love writing for the Guardian. They gave me a feature article about the constitutional crisis. I’m still thinking about going to Chechnya. I could write an article about what’s going on there.”
“I have friends who can take you to Chechnya,” he said.
I was offended. A major source of argument between us had been the articles I was writing: who they required me to talk to and where they required me to go. “I am worried about you,” he would say. “I am afraid you will get hurt.”
I glared at him. “Now you’re so eager to send me off to Chechnya? I’ll surely be killed.”
“Robin,” he said. “You are…” he looked at the floor, as if what I was might be down there. “You are…” He gave up, and we both sat there, listening to the jukebox play.
“You are Hell’s Angel without bike,” he said.
I was delighted. This confirmed everything about me that I hoped was true. “Aw, Lyosha,” I said.
“I do not mean this as compliment,” he said gently.
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