Pravles Redneckoff 🇷🇺 Z

Saturday, August 31st, 2019, 15:55

Lisa's apartment complex, Vorgartenstraße 204, 2nd district of Vienna

Timur drives in a red rented Mercedes-Benz C-Class Cabriolet to the entrance of the apartment complex. He wears new trousers, a black T-shirt, and a jacket. The entire staff of the pizzeria assured he looks terrific.

In the trunk of the car is a thermal bag with the borscht pizza, a bottle of "Novyi Svet" champagne, and two glasses. On the back seat, there is a bouquet of red roses and a folder with the Ukraine files.

Lisa comes out of the building and takes the passenger seat. The door closes with a muted, but confident thunk.

"Good afternoon, Timur," She says.

"Hello!" Timur says. "Happy to see you."

"Ditto," Lisa says. "You've got great style."

She strokes her hand gently over the lapels of his jacket. Her eyes glisten.

"Do you want to go upstairs, to my place?" Lisa says.

This can't be true, Timur thinks. She isn't the kind of woman to surrender that easily. I must have misheard.

"I thought it may be good for you to get into the open sometimes," Timur says. "There is a big lovely world outside. I want to show it to you."

"Alright," Lisa says.

She rarely made the first move with men. She had no regrets, but what stood out was Timur's rejection. If it's a one-night stand he wanted, he would have jumped at the opportunity.

She said nothing about the car, Timur thinks. One strike against me.

Lisa takes out her purse and puts on red lipstick. She thoroughly distributes it over her lips, highlighting the little grooves. She turns to Timur and puckers her lips.

"Does that look right?" Lisa says. "No blots or something?"

"No, they are perfect," Timur says.

"Are you sure?" Lisa says. "Take a good look."

She moves closer and slightly separates her lips.

She isn't herself today, Timur thinks. Maybe all that studying got into her head. Let's not depart from our plan.

"Do you think this shade suits me?" Lisa says.

Her lips are as red as this car, Timur thinks. It's only a rental. Maybe that's what she's hinting at.

Lisa gently bites her lower lip. Their faces are now only inches apart.

That's probably one of her sponge-worthiness tests, Timur thinks. Whether or not I will do the obvious.

"How about we go to the garden districts?" Timur says. "I want to show you the better parts of Vienna."

"Sure," Lisa says.

She nods, fastens her seat belt, and leans back in the seat. She plays with her hair and gives an almost imperceptible smirk.

They drive down Handelskai past the Millenium Tower and take a highway around Friedrich-Engels-Platz. From there it goes over a bridge over Danube canal, with the decaying high-rise of the Austrian Press Agency on one side and the office park of the "Kronen Zeitung" tabloid.

They drive past Karl-Marx-Hof, a long building, about five stories high. There are little windows resembling firing slits. The lower parts of the building are painted in red, the upper ones in light yellow. Arched passages lead into the inner courtyard.

"I like how they built this fortress masquerading as an apartment complex," Timur says. "It's like the Lefties are quietly waiting for their moment to seize power."

"And they still haven't renamed it," Lisa says.

They drive further down the Sieveringer Straße.

"They say that Beethoven used to hang out with his homies in some tavern around here," Timur says.

"Homies?" Lisa says. "You aren't a fan of rap, are you?"

"I can't deny, there is some wisdom in Eminem's songs," Timur says.

"What kind of wisdom?" Lisa says.

"If you have to do something really difficult, and you struggle, there is nothing better than 'Lose yourself' to keep you from giving up," Timur says. "That's wisdom in action."

"Maybe I will try it with my thesis," Lisa says.

"What's your favorite music?" Timur says.

"Old Soviet stuff," Lisa says. "Vysotskyi, Vizbor, Rosenbaum. But Visotskyi above all."

"I don't know," Timur says. "These guys were pampered by the easy life back then."

"That's precisely why I like them," Lisa says. "Sometimes I want to escape into a world of stability. Where you don't feel like you are living on a volcano that can erupt at any time. Do you know what I mean?"

"Tell me about it," Timur says. "I remember since my birth what it feels like to die during the New Year's Eve of 1994 at the Minutka square."

"You were a little child back then," Lisa says. "How can you remember?"

"True. And I wasn't there when it happened. It's a weird thing," Timur says. "Somehow I feel the pain of my people stronger than those lived through it."

"By your people you mean the Chechens?" Lisa says. "Or the Russians?"

"Both," Timur says. "They both were dragged into that useless war like a bunch of blind cats."

Timur grips the steering wheel tightly. His knuckles turn white. Lisa touches his shoulder. They drive down the lower end of Sieveringer Straße.

"See that building there?" Timur says.

"The hotel?" Lisa says.

"Yes," Timur says. "You know what it's called among the Viennese?"

"No," Lisa says.

"Divorce Haven," Timur says.

"Why?" Lisa says.

"You can stay there for, like, months," Timur says. "When someone gets divorced and kicked out of their flat, they move here."

"Divorce Haven isn't really creative," Lisa says. "I could come up with dozens of better names."

"Like what?" Timur says.

"Like Split-Stay Hub," Lisa says. "Or Breakup Bungalow. Or Separation Sanctuary, although the abbreviation isn't that great."

Lisa continues to invent names for the hotel as they drive further down the Sieveringer Straße, past old low-rise buildings. It's one of the places in Vienna that was spared from the claws of brutalism afficionados.

"What's that?" Lisa says.

She points at a wooden structure. There is a wooden stand with a large barrel sitting on it. Above that barrel is a long timber beam that extends out to one side. Towards the end of the extended beam, another beam of wood shaped like a corkscrew runs through it. That beam extends down and rests on a large stone.

"An old wine press," Timur says. "Do you want to take a closer look?"

"Sure," Lisa says.

They park the car and walk to the wine press. Lisa touches the wood.

"This thing is probably hundred years old," Lisa says.

"Could be older," Timur says.

"The people who built it have been dead for centuries," Lisa says. "And the results of their work are still standing."

"I think we can leave greater marks than a wine press," Timur says. "Despite everything."

"Like what?" Lisa says.

"Your thesis," Timur says.

Lisa laughs.

"You really think it can be a seminal work?" Lisa says.

"It could be a start," Timur says.

"I think it lacks in originality," Lisa says. "But thanks for the compliment. What about you? What kind of mark do you want to leave behind?"

"Definitely not a wine press," Timur says. "A house, maybe? Couple of healthy kids from the right woman?"

"You are not interested in adventures?" Lisa says. "Or travel?"

"That's something our parents could have done," Timur says. "Nowadays, building a decent life is adventure enough."

They go back to the car and drive uphill on Agnesgasse. They reach the peak of the hill and descend. To the right are the hillside vineyards. Workers in blue pants are harvesting grapes and putting them in green wheelbarrows and plastic buckets.

At the bottom of the hill, they drive down the Rathstraße, a street that used to be part of a village. The smell of burning firewood and the sound of dogs barking in backyards make you feel it still is.

Most of the houses on this part of the street are taverns. Pedestrians are walking on the roadway clad in traditional Austrian clothing, dirndl and leather pants (Lederhose). There are food stalls selling pastries, beer tents next to a band is playing folk music. Timur drives extra-carefully.

"That must be the Neustift Fair," Timur says. "They are celebrating some religious holiday."

Four men carry a round piece of wood to which an object remotely resembling a crown is attached. It is adorned with gold and silver walnuts, flowers, and ribbons.

"Should we stop?" Timur says. "Dive into the Austrian traditions?"

"What do you think, Timur?" Lisa says.

"I don't know," Timur says. "Maybe you want to buy yourself a dirndl."

"Should I wear a cowbell, too?" Lisa says. "You know, I'm a future lawyer, not a future dairy maid."

"You don't look like a dairy maid–" Timur says.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lisa says. "Boobs not big enough? You like big, hanging cow-tits?"

"Ahem–" Timur says.

"We can arrange that, honey," Lisa says. "There are all sorts of contraptions–the Wonderbra, adhesive tape and whatnot."

Lisa contours her breasts with her hands. Timur notices.

"Damn," Timur says.

He brings the car to a stop a few meters in front of an old man wearing a Tyrolean hat with a boar bristle. He raises his stick and talks with his hands. They drive further.

"Your grace is endangering the traffic safety," Timur says. "I almost ran over that old coot."

"Killer boobs," Lisa says.

"They are killer, indeed," Timur says.

They drive past an old wine tavern with a wreath of fir hanging over the entrance. There is a sign that reads ausg'steckt is' which means that this year's wine is ready for tasting. The meaty scent wafting from the tavern indicates that Stelzen, roasted ham hocks, are being cooked inside.

They go up the Höhenstraße, which is surrounded by trees with yellowing and reddening foliage. The smells of pine and oak fuse with those of wildflowers into a medley as sweet as dreams of peace during war.

The road twists and turns like a serpentine ribbon. It coils around the grassy hills. Each bend brings them closer to the summit. The leaves rustle in the breeze. The refrains of the song thrush blend with the melodies of blackbirds and nuthatches.

They make a stop at the Cobenzl on the side of the street next to a vineyard. They get outside. From there the entire city of Vienna is visible. Timur looks far away.

"What's the matter?" Lisa says.

"Someone told me that if you squint hard enough, you can see Bratislava from here," Timur says.

"I don't care much for Slovakia," Lisa says. "Neither fish nor fowl. Neither East, nor truly West."

Lisa gets back into the car. Timur takes out the pizza and champagne out of the trunk.

She isn't herself, Timur thinks. Giving her alcohol is like feeding a wildfire with dry kindling. He ponders for a couple of seconds.

One glass won't make her crazy, Timur thinks. And I can protect her if it does.

He brings the champagne bottle and the glasses to the front seat and pours champagne into them. Lisa takes one glass.

"I got a surprise for you," Timur says. "Granted, it's an experiment. I am not sure you will like it. But here it is – a borscht pizza."

Timur opens the box with the pizza. It is still warm. There is the deep red of the beets, the green of sautéed cabbage and fresh dill intermingled with the white of sour cream. It smells after onions and garlic.

"A what?" Lisa says.

She laughs.

"If borscht was a pizza, it may look like this," Timur says.

They both take a bite.

"It tastes better than I expected," Lisa says.

"Glad you like it," Timur says. "Are you overwhelmed with patriotic feelings?"

"What do you mean?" Lisa says.

"Russians say borscht is Russian, Ukrainians say it's Ukrainian–" Timur says.

"Only the crazies in Western Ukraine, like L'vov and Ivano-Frankovsk," Lisa says. "I'm from Nikolaev. We've got bigger problems to fret about than the origins of soup."

Lisa's phone rings. She picks up and talks with someone for about five minutes, then hangs up.

"Can I have more of that champagne?" Lisa says with a steely voice.

Timur pours champagne into her glass. She drinks it in one gulp. Timur looks at her with a dazed stare.

"You don't have anything stronger than that, do you?" Lisa says.

"Everything alright?" Timur says.

"Is this about the pizza?" Lisa says. "Or about our date?"

"About that phone call," Timur says.

Lisa raises her shoulders slightly and fidgets with the champagne glass.

"Kind of," Lisa says. "It's my mother. I'd rather not talk about it."

She thinks for a couple of moments, then looks at Timur.

"Alright," Timur says. "Do you want to go to the city center?"

"No, let's drive home," Lisa says. "I need to work later."

"Sure," Timur says.

He starts the engine.

"Sorry for being such a buzzkill," Lisa says.

"No need to apologize," Timur says. "I'm here to solve your problems."

She doesn't answer.

When the drive down the winding road, Lisa notices a little yellow house on the side of a hill. It is surrounded by woods and oversees the city beneath it.

Its inhabitants probably live above the worries and sorrows of people like us, figuratively and literally, Lisa thinks. They have life all sorted out. Most importantly, they have a home that is sanctuary, not a battlefield.

Borscht pizza didn't work either, Timur thinks. Two strikes against me.