CHAPTER 10. EVERYTHING TURNS YELLOW AROUND, SUMMER DEPARTS — WE’LL WEATHER THIS UNPLEASANTNESS

Once they cancelled everything and buried him in 2014 materials, asking him to conclude who Crimea and Donbass belonged to. In reply, he demanded documents for the place where he was currently held before answering. The next day they showed him papers proving the building and grounds belonged to the Presidential Administration. Per their deal, he then answered the question.

“Remember the ancient statue of a boy removing a splinter from his foot? In modern life, the same happens when poorly planed boards are nailed during bathhouse repairs—you can get a splinter that’s hard to remove without help,” he began with an allegory.

“Crimea, populated by military retirees from all over the union, was such a splinter of the Russian world in Ukraine’s body. Luzhkov fretted over it but didn’t dare extract it from a neighbor’s delicate spot. Ukraine tried to ignore it—nothing could be done. And when Ukraine fell ill, the neighbor came, applied general anesthesia with a frying pan blow to the head, and took Crimea, claiming it lay incorrectly. Now, in his opinion, Crimea lies correctly, but no one else thinks so—because normal people don’t act that way. When living in quarrels with the whole world grows tiresome, apologies and compensation will be necessary,” he developed the Crimean theme.

“Donbass lay normally in Ukraine, but here they decided to turn it into a slow-festering splinter for Ukraine. Only now this splinter is in our own delicate spot—because it’s on our balance sheet. The rotting cult of armed violence there is infecting us too. This needs urgent treatment, but it’s dragging on endlessly so that neighbors won’t join the North Atlantic alliance without us. It’s so simple: stop the cash flow and withdraw the fighters. Much easier than Crimea. Now it’s my turn to ask,” he concluded.

“Very well,” she replied.

“During interrogation I realized I don’t know what you do for work, and I have no papers on my own employment,” he said.

“I’m an advisor in the President’s administration. You’re not working yet, but a good position awaits you—I’m preparing you for it. An unofficial post as a double. Well paid. Once you start, I can devote myself to charity. I’m thinking of overseeing healthcare in prisons. What do you think?”

“I think they’ll label you a foreign agent. Speaking of which—you wouldn’t happen to be one? From the start I had a feeling you might be an American spy,” he said.

“It’s unfair to ask several questions at once,” she replied, hinting it was now her turn.

“What’s the biggest thing you’d like to do for Russia?” she asked to probe his ambitions.

“In the song class I looked for flaws to pick at. There was an old hit about a soccer goalkeeper with the border zone behind him. In reality, the ball wouldn’t be an invading enemy, but a fugitive. The Soviet border service was like prison guards. Now it’s enough for the toad to sit on the pipe while dissenters are pushed out instead. When it finally dawns on them that people are the new oil, more profitable than the old kind, they’ll lock the border again to squeeze every drop from whoever’s left.”

“I want to change the rules of the game. Right now it’s zero-sum—any gain is someone else’s loss. I want the poor not to grow poorer when the rich grow richer. Then Russians will take pride in their country, compatriots will return, and foreigners will seek citizenship and contribute. With the best immigrants selected, the population will grow, the land will be settled, and we’ll surpass your America in everything but national debt,” he built a logical chain to needle her.