“Present.”
I peeked into my bag, which contained a box of mints, a map of the city, and a bottle. Could it be vodka? The thought turned my stomach. The only time I’d ever drunk vodka was at a family reunion for Bj?rnar’s family in ?stfold. They didn’t serve any alcohol until well into the evening, and when it finally came, there was only cognac or vodka to choose between. The last thing I remembered was Bj?rnar throwing up into a plastic bag containing a copy of Dante’s Inferno and a Sony Sports Walkman, while I threw up all over the bed in the guest room at his aunt’s house.
“Peripheral neuropathy,” I whispered to a miffed Peter as we walked to the restaurant ten minutes later.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a fairly widespread problem in Russia, because of the high rate of vodka consumption. It damages the peripheral nervous system and people can lose sensation in their hands or feet.”
“Sounds about right.”
“I don’t like Ivan.”
“Me, either.”
“But we probably should have brought him a gift,” I said. “Maybe we could pay for his meal at the restaurant?”
“I don’t care,” said Peter. “My head is cold. My urban bowler was specially designed for cold weather.”
And it was cold out, no doubt about it. The snowflakes continued to fall from the sky, and there was hardly anyone out and about. Just us. A group of people who didn’t actually know each other and didn’t want to get to know each other, either, but who had to be together because some PR adviser had come up with words like internationalization.
Innovation.
Synergy.
Cold.
Death.
Luckily the restaurant was surprisingly warm and cozy. It was situated in multiple rooms that you entered via hallways and little doorways in what appeared to be a converted apartment or maybe even multiple apartments that had been combined. We sat down at a low coffee table, the kind you would have found in most homes in the seventies, which was surrounded by a big sofa with matching armchairs to further emphasize the hominess.
“What a nice place,” I told Ivan.
He nodded noncommittally.
“Irina chose it.”
That was when I realized the young woman who had been standing motionless next to the dumbwaiter was with us.
“Hi,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Ingrid.”
She laid her hand limply in mine.
“Irina,” she said.
“Are you a philosophy professor as well?”
“No.”
“What are you working on?”
“Aesthetics.”
“Oh, I see. What kind of aesthetics?”
“Regular aesthetics.”
“Literary studies?”
“No.”
“Art?”
“No.”
Menus were passed around, and Peter took the opportunity to order something to drink.
“Let’s celebrate our arrival with a pint,” he said. “Perhaps someone could recommend a good Russian beer?”
“There are no good Russian beers,” said Irina. “We have no tradition of that.”
“But there must be some good Russian beer?”
“No.”
“All right.” He flipped a little aimlessly through the menu. “Then I’ll have a McEwan’s. What about you guys?”
“I’ll take a McEwan’s as well,” I said.
“What about you, Ivan Abarnikovitch?” asked Irina.
I saw Ingvill give Irina a sharp look.
“I’m not drinking,” Ivan said. “I have to drive.”
“Can’t you take the subway home?” I asked. “I read that Saint Petersburg has a really extensive subway system.”
“I can’t take the subway,” Ivan said, “because I have to drive you guys around early tomorrow morning. So I can’t take the metro, can’t drink.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I see.”
Ivan gave me a look that indicated he strongly doubted that I understood anything at all, but didn’t say anything.
We moved on to our menus.
“A lot of things on here look good,” I said.
Irina snickered.
“There is no good Russian food,” she said. “We have no tradition of that.”
“But maybe you could recommend something, anyway?” Peter said. “I, too, come from a country not known for its food culture, but it still has its bright spots here and there.” He was already on his third beer and looked reasonably satisfied.
“No.”
“What about you, Ivan Abarnikonovitch?” Ingvill asked.
“Abarnikovitch,” Irina corrected.
“I can recommend the mushroom soup,” said Ivan.
“Are you going to order that?” Ingvill asked.
“No.”
“What are you going to get?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
He lurched into a lengthy explanation in Russian to Irina and gestured for her to explain the gist to us.
“Ivan Abarnikovitch says that he is following strict diet that requires that he not eat anything after six p.m. on weekdays.”
“Doctor’s orders,” Peter said with a wink.
“No.”
“Does the diet require you to eat some particular kind of food?” I asked.
“No.”
“Just that you not eat after six p.m.?”
He seemed annoyed and waved his hands around even more and said a bunch of stuff in Russian to Irina.
“Ivan Abarnikovitch says that he is done talking about his diet.”
“Oh.”
I bent over my menu again and ordered borscht and red-beet salad. Ingvill chose a dish called pelmeni, while Ivan sat sipping from his water glass.
“What are you going to have, Peter?”
“I’d really like to let our hostess decide.”
“Irina?”
“Right.”
Irina looked confused.
“You just order what you want.”
“But surely there’s some specialty that you would recommend? Something I must try?”
“It depends on what you like.”
“But I want you to—”