1-2-3-4-5-6.
When I entered that, an alarm started going off, which caused everyone to turn around. I desperately entered more numbers, until a door opened at the other end of the room and a large woman with a fluffy perm pushed me out of the way, unplugged the machine, and then plugged it in again.
“Never enter random numbers,” she scolded and disappeared back to where she’d come from.
“I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do,” I called after her. “I can’t read Russian!”
“Birthday,” another man in a black leather jacket, who had just entered the room to the accompaniment of the hysterical alarm, informed me. Trembling, I entered the six numbers in question and in response received a ticket on which it said “113.” A moment later it was magically my turn, even though there were at least fifteen Russians slurping coffee while they waited in the randomly placed plastic chairs all over the room.
Meanwhile, my sense of accomplishment was dampened by the man behind the window who exhibited zero interest in acknowledging the physical manifestation of number 113. Instead, he sat gesturing to a young man in a glossy mafia suit, whom I’d seen smoking out on the front walkway ten minutes earlier. The two were clearly disagreeing about something. Mafia Suit explained something at length, while my guy alternated between frenetically shaking his head and resting it in his hands.
I thought two things. The first was that Mafia Suit was basically crocodile food. My guy’s black hair came from a bottle and he was definitely from the Soviet era, while Mafia Suit looked like he was born in the nineties and probably didn’t even know there was a pit of crocodiles waiting under the floor. He was likely under the impression that the world he’d been born into was full of perestroika and possibility.
The second was that their disagreement might soon boil over onto me. Even though I didn’t want the visa—like, at all—I also knew that coming back empty-handed would instantly demote me to teaching preschool. Plus, I estimated the chances that I, too, was standing over a trapdoor to be well over 50 percent, so Mafia Suit and I would probably end up being crocodile food together.
Thus, I was ready with my biggest smile and my most positive vibrations when Mafia Suit stomped off in frustration and Hair Dye slowly turned toward number 113.
“Hi!” I hollered into the speaker in my most chipper voice, waving to the window. “Privyet!”
Hair Dye showed no sign of having seen or heard me, but used a weary hand motion to indicate that any paperwork should be placed in the metal compartment. I obediently inserted my passport, certificate of valid travel insurance, the invitation letter issued by Saint Petersburg State University, and my fully filled-out application form and barely managed to yank my fingers free before he pulled the compartment back to his side of the window with a sharp metallic bang.
I regretted not having followed my doctor’s admonitions to eat better: more meat, more vegetables, more of everything. It was probably my inadequate diet that was making me feel so light-headed and weird. Sometimes the dizziness followed me into my dreams.
“Five days,” I suddenly heard the speaker announce in a crackling bark.
It startled me.
“Excuse me?”
“The visa takes five days. One, two, three, four, five.”
“That won’t work. I’m leaving in five days. One, two, three—”
He cut me short with a shrug.
“But I read about something online called an expedited visa. That’s what I want.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Yes, there is. It says so right here.”
I pulled out the printout I’d brought with me.
“See, right here? If I pay six hundred kroner, I can get it same day. It says so right here. This is from your Web page.”
With an irritated look, he held up his hand: five fingers.
“But the expedited visa—”
“Doesn’t exist!”
“I have money. See? Six hundred kroner in cash. Just like it says online.”
I held up my bills and smiled hopefully.
“You decide?”
“No. But online it—”
He slammed his fist down on his desk so hard that everything on it bounced into the air.
“MOSCOW decides! Not the Internet!”
“But—”
Clang!
The metal drawer popped out containing a receipt. Then Hair Dye moved his finger to a red button on the left side of his desk. He pushed it hard and I closed my eyes and held my breath, waiting for the trapdoor to the crocodile pit to open. Instead, the man in the black leather jacket tapped on my shoulder and shook his head as if to say nothing could be done.
“You’re not in Norway now,” Leather Jacket said. “Now in Russia.”
“Right,” I said, proceeding slowly toward the exit, but Hair Dye stopped me, barking something in Russian while thumping one hand on his bulletproof glass and indicating with the other hand that I was an idiot.
“Take the receipt to the cashier,” Leather Jacket explained.
I peered around looking for anything that might resemble a cash register and eventually chose the window with the most Post-It notes on the glass, where the brusque lady handed me a new receipt.
“I don’t want a visa,” I said, waving the receipt. “Can I get my passport back instead?”
“Five days.”
“But I don’t want to go to Russia! I’ve changed my mind.”
“Five days,” she repeated, shaking her head to indicate that I would indeed be going. “You go.”
A gesture that was repeated by the chair of the department when I told her about my problems.