Eight Pieces of Empire Read Online Free PDF

had been a joke.
    “Spasibo,” I said, standing. “Thanks.”
    “But before you go, there is someone who wants to meet you.”
    THE AMERICAN IMAGE of Soviet KGB officers was reinforced by dozens of late-Communist-period B films made by, of course, Americans. Usually, the pristine Yanqui is snapped off the streets of the USSR and flung into the Gulag as if it’s just for sport. The physical appearance of the KGB man was a constant as well: KGB men were almost invariably portrayed as sadistic, shabbily dressed, and paranoid, and as projecting zero humanity, whether feigned or otherwise.
    In reality, most Russians knew the MO of the chekist , especially middle- and higher-ranking ones, to have been different, at least in the post-Stalin era, when there was less bloodletting. A solid career in the KGB was among the more prestigious Soviet occupations, like it or not.
    AN ATHLETIC-LOOKING MAN of about fifty years of age entered the room and strode toward me with hand outstretched to clasp mine.
    He was gracious, almost glib, and introduced himself as “Valery,” though I have no idea if that was his real name. He acted like a stage actor emoting at a theater-in-the-parks summer fest, where you had to belt out every consonant and vowel. He wore a black leather jacket of high quality, a stereotypical KGB getup.
    “Tak!” exclaimed my new friend, uncorking the bottle of export cognac and pouring us out two shots; Scar-face Shchemyakin hovered in the background, timidly following along with the ritual.
    The first toast was to my arrival in the USSR. The second was a throwaway about the druzhba narodov , a standard trope about the supposed “friendship among nations” of the USSR, or in this case between the USSR and the USA. After some more chitchat about the need for international understanding and other gracious goo, Valery poured a third toast and dedicated it to “our work.” This seemed odd,but I downed it anyway and was preparing to make my own when Valery put down his ryumochka , or shot glass, and looked straight into my eyes.
    “So,” he asked, without a hint of a blink of his steely eyes, but with a face still glowingly warm and smiling. “Who sent you?”
    “Sent me?”
    “Yes.” He grinned. “What is the purpose of your visit?”
    I must have looked dumb. I didn’t know what Valery was talking about and said so.
    “I have no purpose,” I responded, using the Russian “U menya net tseli” and sounding far too existential. Valery rolled his eyes slightly, and Shchemyakin’s pasted-on grin started to fade.
    “I mean, I’ve come to improve my Russian. To see friends.”
    “And why is it you’ve chosen to study Russian?”
    I’d heard this question dozens of times, from Americans as often as Russians. Many Russians assumed there was something innately dubious and possibly nefarious about foreigners wanting to learn the language of Pushkin. Many Americans, by contrast, automatically assumed students of Russian to be Commie sympathizers or wannabe spies for the CIA, thus reinforcing the Soviet assumption.
    “But Russian is a beautiful language,” I said.
    “But there are many beautiful languages,” countered Valery. “What about Italian? What about French or German?”
    Then for some reason Lenin popped into my head, specifically a flashback from the monument at Finland Station, where I had seen off Nina Nikolaevna.
    “But look at Lenin—he knew so many languages …,” I said.
    Valery rolled his eyes again and poured us another cognac.
    “Yes, languages are important,” he reflected.
    “But tell me,” he said after a slight pause. “It must be quite uncomfortable for you to live in that communal apartment. I mean, to my knowledge Americans aren’t used to such conditions.”
    I replied that I found the experience interesting, and that, at any rate,I had no money for anything more luxurious. I was a student, in other words. I had saved up for the airfare while working as a waiter and