Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
'Australia! HARGH!' He threw back his head and let out a half-strangled
snarling snort. He lowered his head towards mine. His bloodshot eyes held me
transfixed.
'You are a foreigner,' he growled, laying the facts slowly and deliberately on
the table. 'You have no documents and you have a strong accent, a strong
southern
accent.' I trembled as he paused, eyes gleaming, moving in for the kill. 'YOU ARE
A CHECHEN TERRORIST!'
He yelled this last at such close range that my face was plastered with flecks of
spittle. He's fucking crazy, I thought, desperately trying to think of something that
would keep him from patriotically ripping my head off.
'I'm just a boy,' I began to beg, feebly, with my lower lip trembling. But just
as I was about to break down completely, the door opened and another policeman
stepped in through a ray of golden sunshine. I was saved.
This guy was just as big and burly as his partner, but he wore a kinder expres-
sion. He looked at me briefly, taking in the spag in my hair and the tears in my
eyes, then wrinkled his nose thoughtfully - probably trying to sniff the air and see
whether he'd come in time to save me from letting go in my pants. He looked at
my executioner, standing now and puffed up like a strutting peacock, then back at
me.
'Boris?' he asked slowly.
'HE'S A TERRORIST!' The reply was still thunderous but less certain. My sa-
viour looked back at me, eyebrows raised. 'Are you a terrorist?' he asked. I shook
my head, unable to speak. 'Right,' he decided. 'Boris, I think you'd better go do
your round of the station. I'll handle this one from here.'
The new policeman had a much firmer grip on reality. He was aware that Stalin
had been dead these past forty-five years, and was also aware that the
KGB
was an
obsolete institution. He even believed that I was from Australia (by some amazing
coincidence I happened to have a few Aussie coins in my pocket to add credibil-
ity). But let me know, nonetheless, that I was in pretty serious trouble.
I had not a scrap of ID and worse, didn't know Sergei's surname, his phone
number or his address. I watched as the policeman filled out the necessary forms,
made a phone call then placed me in a tiny lockup in the corner of the room while
he catalogued my personal belongings. I'd just been to the bank and he sheafed
through notes that were probably the equal of two months of his salary. He seemed
more resigned than jealous, however, and we chatted amicably through the bars un-
til a van came to take me away.
