The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
books—a photograph that he could not bear to look at and desperately
hoped he would not have to use, and a padded velvet bag that fit into a hidden
pocket in his suitcase. He reviewed the name and address of the man he
was to meet, as well as the terms of the exchange. Trading two musical instruments
for a human life seemed odd and cruel, but then, as he had been
reminded, he was not a military man. If all went well, he would be on a train
back to Moscow in two days, at his carrel in a week, and installed in a prominent
position at the Ministry of Culture by the time he finished his junior
thesis next June.
after a full breakfast of poached eggs, black bread, salted kasha,
and tea, Kulin and Kravchuk climbed back in the car and headed north. “So,
Comrade Engineer . . .”
“Please, Kravchuk, if it’s just us, call me Yuri. I’m not a military man.”
“But you did your service?”
“I did. In Dushanbe, in fact, though in three years there, I never did come
up to the Ferghana region.”
“If you say so, Com— Yuri. Me, I’m just a muzhik from Kharkiv,” he said,
puffing out his chest with a firm but self-deprecating giggle. “Give me flat
land and black soil any day. So I hear you met the colonel yesterday.”
“Yes. Very polite.”
“Polite,” said Kravchuk incredulously. “If you get on his right side. He’s
a strange one. But he’s a Balt, you know, so a little . . .” He fluttered his
open hand, palm down. A little unbalanced? A little crazy? A little homosexual?
Kulin cleared his throat. “How long have you been here?”
“What is it now—September twenty-fifth, 1979? So that’s eleven months,
two weeks, and three days. If you’re counting.” He laughed heartily and
belched. “Anyway, my friend works as a general’s typist and says that they’re
going to be moving us into Afghanistan soon. An invitation by our socialist
brethren, the general says.”
Kulin winced: riding around like an emperor here was one thing, but as
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