The Mingrelian Read Online Free PDF Page A

platforms. A light flashed briefly ahead and to his right. He walked toward it.
    “Salam.” A voice in the night directed his attention to a small building across the tracks.
    “Ey,” Vusal said, taking care not to trip.
    Baksheesh, the petty bribery of public officials, is an accepted practice in Central Asia. Vusal hooked up non-metered lines to the electric grid all the time, but this one needed three-phase power. At first he’d declined, but his boss had suggested that he talk with the man again. That meant the bribe went higher than just himself, and the amount was a great deal of money, so he agreed, with several stipulations.
    He was the head lineman for the power department in nearby Lankaran, and he’d seen the results of botched jobs: electrocutions, fires, explosions. He didn’t need any of that. He’d insisted that he see what they were hooking up and check all the connections himself. If it were done right, and he seriously doubted it would be, he would climb the pole and connect it to the power grid. This was no small deal, because he’d have to cut power for 15 minutes to everything south of Lankaran to the Iranian border. Somebody was bound to complain. He was on first call this night and had a cover story prepared.
    “It’s here,” the voice said in Azeri.
    Vusal approached, and they stepped into a small corrugated metal building and closed the door. It looked abandoned, but Vusal could smell petroleum, hot metal and solder; oilfield smells he remembered from childhood. A light came on.
    The building had been a pump house on the Tabriz to Baku oil pipeline built during the time when Azerbaijan was part of the Soviet Union. Vusal knew there had been a 0.5-meter pipeline paralleling the railroad, but it was long ago shut down. Now he was looking at a brand new Chinese-made oilfield pump, as big as a small car, partially buried in a concrete casement that had once housed a rusted old Russian made pump. It was welded into the roughly 18-inch-diameter pipe, and it had been done right.
    “Oh,” Vusal said, as the impact of what this meant sunk in.
    “Yes,” the man said, smiling.
    Vusal climbed down into the casement and examined the connection. It was a sophisticated four-wire connection with all new copper wire of adequate size. He followed the wire to a conduit at the side of the building. Stepping outside he could see the conduit had been buried.
    “Over here,” the man said. He walked to the side of the tracks and flicked the light on the conduit as it snaked between the ties to come out on the other side. It was buried all the way to the pole.
    “I was up at Kargalan yesterday,” the man said casually as they walked toward the pole.
    “My son lives there,” Vusal said without thinking.
    “Yes,” the man said.
    Vusal’s heart leaped to his throat.
    “Little Vusala and her sister Samira were playing in the yard. Such lovely girls.”
    “You know my son?”
    “We’ve not met.” The man paused, they were at the pole. “Well, here we are. Is everything to your satisfaction?”
    “Yes,” Vusal said, beginning to shake.
    “Vusal, relax. I’m going to give you a great deal of money tonight. We are friends, are we not?”
    “Yes, of course,” Vusal said.
    There was a coil of wire at the base of the pole. He returned to his truck and got his spiked lineman’s boots and tools and returned to the pole. He attached the wire to the base, climbed the pole, flipped the breaker, attached the new wire to the power grid and turned the power back on. It took a bit longer than 15 minutes because his hands were shaking. He attached the wire to the rail side of the pole, away from the road and picked up the scraps of wire and insulation.
    “Good friend, here’s the money we agreed upon, and some more for your fine family,” the man said, handing Vusal the equivalent of a year’s wages.
    Vusal felt a little better. They turned to walk back to the truck.
    The man put his arm around Vusol’s