Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Dennis had made this stop, I think, as a concession to my pleas for a tour of the zone's
“nice spots.” Nikolai killed the engine and we got out of the car and walked across the
deserted road to the north side of the bridge. The river stretched away toward the power
plant, a miniature in the distance. Dennis and Nikolai lit cigarettes and we leaned on the
guardrail, staring out at the view. The wide, coffee-colored water of the river, gently irides-
cent with shafts of warm sunlight, rippled against a border of marshy grass and tall reeds.
Beyond the tiny shapes of the cooling tower and reactor buildings, a forest of grumbling
thunderheads retreated over the horizon. Peace descended again on the zone. The official
part of the tour was over.
At headquarters, Dennis and I ate quickly and in good style. The dining room was air-
conditioned (the remote control for the AC looked a lot like my radiation detector), the
table was covered with an embroidered tablecloth, and the meal was multicourse, with
plates of meats and cheese and vegetables (not local). For the first time, Dennis took off
his sunglasses. He seemed uneasy with his eyes exposed to the light, and we sat stiffly at
the table, trading snippets of conversation. Maybe he was worried about missing the start
of the soccer game. As soon as I told him he didn't have to wait, he excused himself and
headed upstairs.
The game had started by the time I joined him. What I had hoped would be a raucous
gathering of soccer-crazed zone workers was actually a small, somber party of five people:
only Dennis, Nikolai, a pair of tired, middle-aged secretaries from the Chernobyl authority
office, and me. We were well provisioned, at least, with a generous spread of vodka,
cognac, cola, and some kind of pickled fish. The game was scoreless into the second half,
but we found moments to toast: a good save here, a near miss there. We would hold our
glasses up, wait for a few words in Ukrainian from Dennis or Nikolai, and then drink. The
secretaries glared at me meaningfully before each slug of vodka: the spirit of inclusion, I
chose to think.
Finally Ukraine scored on a dubious penalty kick. The remaining minutes ticked away,
and the game ended 1-0. Ukraine would be advancing to the next round. Nikolai pounded
on the table in celebration while Dennis poured out another round. He looked me in the
eye, our glasses raised.
“To victory,” he said.
