Smashed in the USSR: Fear, Loathing and Vodka on the Steppes

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The phone rings late on Sunday evening. A man’s voice speaks in Russian. He introduces himself as Slava, a friend of Ivan Petrov’s.

“I’m with the police at Ivan’s flat,” the voice falters. “He died this morning. We found your number in his book. The police want to know if you will interpret for us.”

Ivan is dead. The words sound strange. Like a lie.

Constable Astwood’s careful English voice explains that there will be a post mortem. Automatically, in words that come from somewhere beyond my conscious mind, I relay the information to Slava in Russian.

Slava reassures me that Ivan died in his sleep.

“Was he drinking again?”

Another pause. “He was.”

Constable Astwood is back on the line. “There is one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“I notice the deceased had a lot of books. Is there anyone who might take them? If not, the council will only burn them.”

I struggle to absorb this kindness. “Yes, yes of course. I’ll arrange it. Tomorrow. Thank you.”

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