It was in the army where Marc Dalby acquired a taste for Russians. The bulbous stubs of a lurid red sausage, deep-fried in oil, had cauterised the taste of the mess food ladled out to the conscripts. He would have been happy to eat them all day, but the South African Defence Force kept the opportunity to a minimum: a weekend pass every four weeks was when he could look forward to the Russians.
“Why are they called Russians?” wrote his parents in response to their question about his diet. He could answer this: it was the only thing the corporal in charge of his squad had taught them. “Those Russians are red like the commie Reds we’re fighting. Make sure you shoot them or eat them.”
That was a long time ago, it seemed. Since those days both countries had taken directions neither had anticipated – and were now in the midst of managing such changes. As the millennium approached, the new freedoms gained after the demise of the previous regimes meant that he was now welcome in the land long seen by the apartheid state as public enemy number one. His passport counted for something again, no longer restricting his travel to the handful of countries which did not see him as a pariah. Were this not so, his work in food journalism would have been limited to local fare, but with travel to exotic lands now possible, the horizon had opened. When Russia came up, his editor had rather liked his, “I’ve eaten so many of them!” as a motivation for his being the one for the assignment: to experience Russian cuisine.
Winter though was a drawback. The magazine budget did not stretch far enough to afford the flights and accommodation at other times of the year; nor was there the possibility of travelling beyond the confines of Moscow. Marc would have to make something happen with a limited experience; hopefully he would not have to use too much creative licence, he thought as he looked out of the taxi window at the dense trees which filtered the low light of winter. He had not expected too much in the way of scenery en route to the hotel, another low-budget choice, but he was in Russia, where he had never thought he’d be, and that was far bigger than a hotel room.
As it turned out, Hotel Eduard had some ambition. Unlike the notorious Rossiya, that monumental battery block of six thousand rooms which frightened even the rats and cockroaches away, the approach of the millennium had given impetus to the drive towards welcoming the anticipated tourists. “WE WILL MAKE YOU COFFEE EVERY MORNING” was a change from the “DO NOT DISTURB” he was used to. He hoped the enthusiasm knew that even coffee was not welcome at certain hours of the morning.
Marc was not one to regret his actions. He had stuck his neck out to secure this assignment, knowing that the Moscow winter would provide its challenges in sourcing what he felt would be a real experience of the country’s cuisine. He knew, too, that Russia was grappling with the move from its communist past into a capitalist present: prosperity was limited to very few and poverty stalked those less streetwise. But there were positives: he had never been in snow, for instance, and so, as he left the hotel on his first walk as a tourist, he felt invigorated by the cold white beauty of the snow-laden landscape. He loved the silence it brought; there was a gravitas about the great trees bearing their loads of snow. If only the Soviets had left it to these denizens of the city to impart that dignity instead of the massifs of Stalinesque architecture seeking to impose their brick and mortar upon passers-by.
As he approached Red Square, these stolid shapes were forgotten as the beautiful bulbs and globes of those landmark churches displayed their colourful array. Complementing their shapes, a carousel of hot-air balloons whirled, parents and children laughing the cold away. Tinny Christmas music played along with their whoops; vendors, babushkas and all, roamed the smallish crowd and a Yeltsin look-alike moved around, careful not to wander too far from his upturned ushanka. Of food-sellers Marc could see little evidence: he wondered whether Red Square was too hallowed a ground for such to ply their wares and, as he was hungry, moved off toward the far end where he could see most people were entering. Careful not to lose his bearing from his known landmark, he wandered up and down a couple of streets: there were some suspiciously bright and empty food outlets but nothing which took his interest. At the end of an alleyway, though, he saw a sign “Kolbasa” not that that meant anything to him, but the unmistakable sausages it bore as a coat of arms made that irrelevant.
Behind the Kolbasa counter worked men with beanies. Marc was used to seeing the transparent shower caps of hygiene wear, but here beanies were simply worn for warmth. Not that it seemed needed: the sausages spat and sizzled, clouds of aroma spicing the air. The beanies dropped back to their work and Marc looked around. Most of the décor came from print magazines, laminated sport images mainly, held in place with pins and tape; a few Christmas baubles hung around. Décor was obviously not important: the signs above the counter took Marc’s eyes.
He had never seen so many types of sausage. Nor such a display: what the proprietor could do with a sausage shape was what a magician could do to a balloon. None of it was in English: the colours, shapes and texture of the varieties needed no translation. Ironically, the sausage which had inspired his journey was nowhere to be seen. “Footlong Russians”, sold in his home town, were not on the menu, nor were the flaccid fingers of potato chip, fried in oil and then slaked with vinegar and embedded with salt.
As he sat and ate, he noted how those behind the counter were well acquainted with foreigners and understood the orders easily. As they stood and discussed with their compatriots what they would order, he heard wűrst, bangers, wieners, kazy, wors, frankfurters… . How ubiquitous was the simple sausage: of meats it seemed the most economical and liked, not only to the Russians but also to many of the outside world.
“Tell me,” Marc asked the proprietor of the shop as he came to pay the roubles, “are sausages the favourite food of the Russians?” The man’s face firmed. “That, sir, is what it once was, should be, but now…” he paused, “things are not good for the Russian and the sausage.”
“But if they eat here, they will not think so,” replied Marc. “It is too good.”
“Thank you,” Kolya smiled, “but this is because I make kolbasa as it should be made.” He stopped. “But things are not as they should be now. Sausage is dangerous,” he added.
“You mean the meat is bad meat?” Marc knew that sausage carried the potential of botulism, but in Russia he had not heard of this.
“Listen, my comrade, I give you the name of someone who will tell you why. Tell him Kolya sent you.” He took out his phone. “His name, Mr Barashenkov,…here is his number.” Marc tapped in it, paid for the meal and left.
As he worked his way back to the Eduard, he realised that the photos of the Geyser Fountains he had seen had been from summertime; he preferred now the cascades of frozen water suspended and glinting in the late afternoon sun. A similar change of state would be required for his article: the tourist trade had not kicked up sufficiently, he realised, for there to be a buzz about the restaurants. He reckoned that nothing he would experience in his limited stay would go beyond a generic taste of Russia – and that he was not going to settle for. He would take the course Kolya had suggested.
Kolya’s name eased the tension in Barashenkov’s voice. “Kolya said you must speak to me about Russian sausage?” he said. “What you want to know?” he asked. Marc’s tack was simple: he wanted to write about the Russians’ national dish – he thought this was its kolbasa. He was met with silence.
“Listen, my friend, you are saying the impossible. Kolbasa is no longer the national dish… it is a national disaster!”
Had he not eaten at Kolya’s place, his article might have ended there. “But,” he replied, “I have never eaten better sausage than at Kolya’s Kolbasa. Many people were there too. How can you say this?”
“Ah,” Mr Barashenkov’s voice had regained some of its calm, “there’s a good reason for that. Perhaps we should meet and you will learn why,” he added. “It’s a difficult story.”
Barashenkov had not wanted to meet in his office. “You know where the Cherkizovsky Market is? Ask at your hotel – everyone in Russia can tell you. But,” he continued, “ask them to give you directions to the opening to Aisle B. Tomorrow at ten, then, we meet.”
It was fortunate that the directions had been specific; Cherkizovsky Market would otherwise have been the last place Marc ever entered, never to leave its vast and mesmerising labyrinth of passages. It was a shopping maw of noise, smell and bad taste. Situated on land that had once belonged to the State University, it had been transformed into the complete opposite of state planning. Its sprawling hangars of goods were said to clothe half of Russia. If this were true, the other half were there clothing them. Migrants of every diaspora sold wares that spilt over and across aisles or rose in towers below the half-barrel roofing. As he looked down the rows he felt like a battery chicken, but that was preferable to the conditions in which those who worked there were living: alongside the market, set down in snow and ice, stood old rusty ship’s containers into which the vendors would disappear. Some had had windows cut from the steel, but most were massive metal blocks.
As the aisles were alphabetised in Cyrillic and Roman, Marc found his way easily to the mouth of B, where he stood beneath a construction of brassiéres that ascended to a height that defied gravity. How that lilac number would be brought down for a buyer he would like to have seen – perhaps trapeze artists were employed for the task. He wondered why Mr Barashenkov had chosen this venue: if the man wanted to get away quickly, it would be ideal, but he did not have the impression that Mr Barashenkov was suspicious.
Identifying him was not difficult: he was one of the few Russian-looking individuals around, especially those with eyes searching for a face; Marc, likewise, posed no difficulty.
“Mr Dalby, pleasure to know,” he announced, extending a hand. “We meet to talk. Please follow me.” Marc needed to, or risk becoming lost forever in the labyrinth of dodgy merchandise. Mr Barashenkov moved briskly to a coffee shop near the entry to another aisle, pulled up a chair and indicated for Marc to sit. “I order, yes,” he said. “A coffee?”
Coffee was quick in arriving: everything here seemed to happen at a frenetic pace. Nevertheless, even though he had heard that Russians got quickly to the point, Barashenkov’s opening words: “Russia has seen two revolutions this twentieth century…” surprised him. “In 1917,” he continued, “we have the Bolsheviks; in this decade we have the capitalists.” He motioned to the market around them. “Both bring with them good and bad, but for kolbasa both have been bad.” Where this was going Marc could not tell: Barashenkov was, though, not in the mood to stop. “Listen, before the Bolsheviks, everyone eats kolbasa, good kolbasa – ‘full of flesh’ – its meaning, some say, from the Jewish language. Even the poor ate doktorskaya, the healthy sausage with much meat. Stalin, he wants it as a national dish,” he added, “so he sends a man to America to see how to make it more quickly. This man, he comes back: he wants every worker to have kolbasa sandwich for breakfast…he even want someone to write a novel about kolbasa.” Mr Barashenkov laughed tightly. “Then all goes wrong.”
“The war?” Marc leaned closer.
“No, bad management, bad collectivisation, starving animals, bad crops… but worst,” his voice rose angrily, “a change in the national recipe. In 1974…” he glowered at his cup, “they use additives: sawdust, some say even toilet paper – you know what the people call the sausage?” Marc shook his head. “Sobachya radost – the dog’s paradise – and this they sell!” Barashenkov paused, then leaned towards Marc. “What is long and green and smells of kolbasa?” Another shake of the head. “A crowded Moscow train! No, my friend, the sausage becomes so bad you must boil it before you cook it.”
Mr Barashenkov’s sombre expression disturbed Marc. He had come here with the hopes of learning the great story of Russian kolbasa, but would leave with the sorry story of Soviet sausage, not something his editor would want. But another fact bothered him. “If,” he began, “kolbasa is so bad now, why did Kolya’s taste so good? And there were many in the shop who were liking it as much as me,” he added.
“Because he get his sausage from me!” shot back Mr Barashenkov. “I rebuild kolbasa, I make kolbasa great again, make it the proper way. And,” he paused, “Kolya sends you to me for a reason.” He looked hard at Marc.
“Why?” Marc was becoming confused. Did they know something he didn’t?
“Because I need someone who is a foreigner and who understands kolbasa. I have told you about it, yes, you like the food, yes, and you like Russia.” So emphatic was Barashenkov that Marc could not disagree even if he had wanted to.
“So how can I help you?”
“Is simple. You must just do as I tell you and all is well,” replied Barashenkov who seemed quite confident now that Marc would go along with whatever was planned. Marc, however, was not about to become part of some shady scheme and find himself an authority on Russia’s prison food. “Mr Barashenkov, I need to know what is going on,” he said, and waited.
“Yes, I tell you.” He paused then leaned forward again. “Kolbasa becomes so bad since twenty years ago that the factory where the most is made now, it goes broken – people not paid, animals not good enough.” He looked around him, the continued. “You have heard of Russian Mafia?” Marc had. “They buy the factory: they not like sausage, they do nothing to make it better, they do other things there…”
“Like what?”
“Hide money they make from the bad things they do…drugs, arms smuggling… people too,” he added. “But now they want to get rid of the factory, close it down.”
“But would this not help you?” asked Marc. “You have less competition for your sausage, even if it was bad competition.”
“No, my friend, the problem is not that there will be less competition, but less kolbasa. Do you know that, with that factory’s machines I can make enough sausage to feed Russia again – the biggest machines in Russia are there – and they want to send them to the scrapyard. No, it must not be!”
Mr Barashenkov had turned almost as red as a Russian, thought Marc. To him the solution was obvious. “Why don’t you buy it then?”
“Ah, my friend, you do not know our new laws for business – no other country would have them,” he sighed. “If they send them for scrap, they do not have to pay the moneys they owe, but if they sell the machines they must use the moneys to pay debts.” He looked at Marc. “You know these men, they not like to pay anyone, only like to get paid.” Barashenkov looked around. “But now, Kolya sends you, and I make a plan.”
Nearly twenty kilometres from Red Square Marc found himself standing at the largest garbage dump in Europe. The high fences of the svalka stretched as far as the eye could see, but even more eye stretching was the height of the dumps of waste, some rising as much as a hundred metres from the freezing grey slush at their base. Within these waste mountains some people had made their homes, caves dug out of the compacted garbage, furnished with bits and pieces scavenged from the dump’s offerings. Beneath the hundreds and hundreds of gulls which swooped, shrieked and tore at bits they could wrest from the piles above, Marc could see children playing in the slush.
“Every place in Russia has it mafia,” commented Barashenkov, looking out across the vast wasteland. “These people you see here are surviving by picking out things to be sold for recycling.” He looked at Marc. “But they have to give it all to the garbage mafia. They pay them almost nothing, or give them bad vodka – the mafia get more than ten times for it.”
“But can’t these people sell it somewhere else?” asked Marc.
“And get buried in the dump?” Barashenkov looked at him fiercely. “No, my friend, here life is cheaper than that garbage – people disappear into it,” were his final words on the subject. Marc was pleased he had Barashenkov with him: the looks from the security patrols were long and hard, as if he was being measured up. Barashenkov, however, was about to move on. “I go now,” he said. “Is better that way, but I am back here later, after all is done,” he added. “I have contact with a man who works here. He will watch and tell me when to come fetch you.”
Marc had hardly the most crack support team, he thought, as he stood and wriggled his toes in the hope of bringing some warmth to his feet, but Barashenkov had assured him the plan would work: all he had to do was be the foreigner – which was not difficult. He gazed over the dump; by now he had become inured to the stench, but not the sight of men women and children climbing the cliffs of waste, bending, picking, then tossing an item to the slush below. He averted his eyes to the road on which he had been told would come the small convoy of trucks which was his interest. He hoped his wait would not be long.
It wasn’t. The grey, dilapidated vehicles were unmistakably those which bore all the valuable assets of the defunct factory; he could see cold steel glinting in the dim light. Marc readied himself.
As the first truck reached the gate, a man at the office, probably Barashenkov’s contact, moved out to halt the progress. This was his cue. Conspicuous in the suit, tie and dark coat Barashenkov had provided him, he strode towards the driver’s cab. He had been told that the man would understand enough English for the negotiation to succeed. He did, however, greet the driver in the words Barashenkov had taught him, then continued in English. “Mr Kochevoy told me to meet you,” he said, “I have come to Russia to buy all the metal and machinery in your trucks.” He pointed to the other vehicles backed up behind the first. “He does not want it to become scrap; I now buy it, you understand?” If the driver did, he gave no indication. “You want to phone?” Marc continued. “You want to speak to Kochevoy?”
The driver’s quick uptake of the offer seemed to Marc to show less of suspicion than a need to be assured that all was in order. Marc knew the call would succeed: Barashenkov had his own contacts, one of whom could divert mobile calls from the number dialled to another. He knew, too, the call would be short, the briefest of affirmatives to the question.
The driver dropped his phone back into his pocket: if he had any suspicions, he was not showing them. Marc gave him the map with directions to the destination, a warehouse in an industrial area; the generous packet of money which accompanied it would do no harm to the prospects of the goods’ arrival.
Now it was Marc’s turn to call. He did, relieved when Barashenkov replied immediately. “It’s working,” he said, “the trucks have left to the warehouse.”
“Good.” Barashenkov’s voice was also full of relief. “I fetch you now.” Which Marc thought just as well as he saw one of the massive front-end loaders carrying what looked like a body sprawled across its teeth. Whether it was dead or one of the denizens of the dump hitching a lift was not something he would care to investigate.
Marc paid one more visit to Kolya’s Kolbasa. He made no reference to the past, just sat, enjoyed the warmth, the sausage of his choice and Raf coffee, a novelty for him and for most Russians apparently, its cream, vanilla sugar and espresso whipped together simultaneously into a liquid melange which Kolya insisted he try. “It’s new on the menu,” he said. What menu, thought Marc. It did, however, provide Marc with one new taste experience of Russia, not exactly of the order of his original assignment, but that was now irrelevant, he hoped.
He was still hoping this when the editor called him in to discuss the article he had come back with. “So,” Ruan began, “this was your experience of Russian cuisine?”
“Yes, that’s right.” He waited.
“I see you didn’t eat any Russians,” Ruan said, “but they may have eaten you if you had stuck around.” He looked at Marc. “I want to publish this, very much so – I hope you feel safe about it if I do.”
“Go ahead, please,” Marc replied. “I didn’t go all that way for nothing.” “Great. We’ll do this and,” he stopped, “I have just heard of what’s called fresh markets in China. Fancy a trip out East?”
