The Foreign Service Journal, January 2012

Exactly three years and 11 months into my tour, Bicycle Man added sound. “Dobre utra!” he yelled across the square — a month before my de- parture, but better late than never. It was as if he knew I was leaving, and this was his hearty farewell. By our fourth year in Kyiv, my vo- cabulary had increased and our long- term presence had apparently made me less threatening. The wife of a local vegetable vendor, whom I dubbed “Mama,” began greeting me with a warm smile, letting me in on all the neighborhood gossip and relentlessly complaining about her husband (“Papa”) and adult children. I only caught about every fifth word, but it was wonderful to be let into the conversation. And as a woman, I understood exactly what she meant even without knowing most of the words she used. There were many other folks in our neighborhood, from all walks of life, who also gave us ‘the look’ for years before determining that we were ‘okay’ and finally ac- knowledging us when we said hello. It felt like a real ac- complishment! The value of our hard-won acceptance became appar- ent one cold wintry night in our fourth year, when our cat turned up missing yet again. We guessed that she had fallen off the balcony, as she was prone to do, and imme- diately headed down to street level to look for her. It was already inky dark at six in the evening, and the tempera- ture was hovering at around 10 below zero. My first stop was the flower shop. The two ladies who worked there and I had bonded during the many occa- sions they had helped me locate my ever-falling cat. “Bozhe moi!” the older one said, shaking her head, and they both followed me out into the cold night. While they headed off toward the back of the build- ing, I started in the other direction. After a moment of hesitation, I decided to check with the goombahs and prostitutes in the casino next to the flower shop. None of the regulars were outside, so I had no choice but to enter this forbidding place for the first time. Film Noir, Ukrainian-Style The casino was exactly as I had imagined it would be: dark, choked with acrid cigarette smoke and filled with zombies hunched over video poker consoles. As the door shut behind me, everyone stopped playing, turned and stared at me with large, hollow eyes. The only thing missing from this movie set was Ray Liotta — and then he showed up. Emerging from behind some sort of curtain, and clad in a black- leather jacket, cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth, “Ray” squinted at me as he shrugged an unspoken “What do you want?” “Uhhh …my little cat,” I fumbled in Russian, making a small rectangle in the air with my hands, “I don’t know where she is. Have you seen her?” It was all I could say without using one of a plethora of nasty Russian case end- ings. I had never felt so silly. The zombies still weren’t moving. Ray stood there ex- pressionless and said, “No.” Okay! Good enough for me! I quickly turned to leave, but before I could put my hand on the door, he added through his cigarette-gripping lips, “You’re the American from upstairs.” It wasn’t exactly a question—more like an accusation. “Uh, yes.” I turned back to him and smiled, then thought: “Geesus — why am I smiling? What’s there to smile about?” “No,” he said, again, still squinting, “I haven’t seen your stupid cat.” With that he disappeared back into the dark- ness and the patrons returned to their grimy terminals. While someone who has never lived in Eastern Europe might not see this short exchange as a major break- through, it spoke volumes to me. It meant that he knew who I was and thought enough of me to engage me in what was a lengthy conversation for the leather-jacket crowd — who, I assumed, didn’t usually say much, even when they were about to kill somebody. I was touched by his concern. It’s Just a Cat! I then made my way to my most valuable contacts, Mama and Papa, who saw everything that went on in the “hood.” As I approached their kiosk, Mama, bundled up and stepping in place to keep warm, saw my distress and asked what was wrong. I told her the cat had fallen off the balcony and was missing again. “Poor kitty,” she tsk-tsked, grabbing my hand and pet- J A N U A R Y 2 0 1 2 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 29 F OCUS Perhaps I should not have been surprised that it took three years just to get a wave from a neighbor, let alone a greeting.