Czars, Captains, Dogs, and Thieves

By L. Lou Wiley

Kathy Robbins, a struggling single middle-aged real estate broker takes an introductory Russian language class with her college aged son in order to help him with his academics. Just as Kathy is getting seduced by the history and romance of all things Russian, her former, much younger, troubled boyfriend Jesse re-enters her life and soon she has a decision to make: remain the course of a lonely existence and unfulfilling career or take a bold and risky chance to save the man she once loved. Encouraged by the valor and strength of the Czarinas and the spirited people of Russia, Kathy makes her decision and steps deep in the land of Russia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Apr 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642370744

Book preview

This novel is a work of fiction based on true stories and real events and was drawn on a variety of sources including published materials and documentaries. For dramatic and narrative purposes, the novel contains fictionalized scenes, composite and representative characters and dialog, and time compression. The views and opinions expressed in the novel are those of the characters only and do not necessarily reflect or represent the views and opinions held by the individuals on which those characters are based.

Czars, Captains, Dogs, and Thieves:

Discovering the Spirit of Russia

Published by Gatekeeper Press

2167 Stringtown Rd, Suite 109

Columbus, OH 43123

www.GatekeeperPress.com

Copyright © 2018 by L. Lou Wiley

All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

ISBN: 9781642370737

eISBN: 9781642370744

Printed in the United States of America

For my Dad

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1: The Dogs of Moscow

Chapter 2: Начало, The Beginning

Chapter 3: Sin and Ink

Chapter 4: The Zero-Point Field

Chapter 5: The Second and the Best Catherine

Chapter 6: Empty

Chapter 7: Tears of the Sun

Chapter 8: Mister Maria

Chapter 9: 900 Days

Chapter 10: The Family Tree

Chapter 11: Star Men

Chapter 12: Vinny Sugar

Chapter 13: The Russian Spirit

Chapter 14: The Moth

Chapter 15: War and Peace

Chapter 16: Finals

Chapter 17: The Poppy Elixir

Chapter 18: The Seven-Day Journey

Chapter 19: Kat’s Deal

Chapter 20: The Game of Risk

Appendix: 101 Russian Notables

References

Preface

T

his novel was

born from my experience attending an introductory Russian language class a few years back at a local junior college. What started as a whim taking a night class with my son turned into a joyous weekly exploration of the tastes, sounds, and history of the world’s largest country. Each week students presented some aspect of Russian culture, whether it be food, music, literature, or a famous Russian person. The reports were mesmerizing; it was if I was transported to an undiscovered planet and was taken on a time machine where I stepped off here and there and met brave leaders, war heroes, and some very smart dogs.

I was slowly falling in love with Russia as the semester progressed.

This new adventure was a welcome respite from my life, which consisted of caring for my disabled ex-husband, helping my sons through college, running a small business, gathering a multitude of rejection emails from Hollywood and publishing gatekeepers and dealing with my young boyfriend and his heroin addiction.

It was when I retold the Russian stories to friends and family and saw their enthusiasm that I decided to retell these stories in a narrative fashion in order to share this rich culture and history with others. I wrote in first person in order to maintain the same drama and depth as when I retold the stories to my small circle. Rather than have unrelated chapters, I developed the protagonist, Kathy, who you will see bears some resemblance to my life, and wove her life’s struggles into the narrative to achieve structure and flow.

Taking the class helped me understand people from another country I previously knew nothing about. These folks had strife, peak experiences, and love—just like me, just like you. I realized that language can help us know a culture, but it can also conspire to separate us. As Oscar Wilde said, to define is to limit. The words American, Russian, or Chinese, for that matter, limit and divide. My goal in writing this book, although quite lofty, is to unify. We are all on this blue planet together, and we had better learn how to get along before we perish from the ignorance that I am separate from you.

Being a former scientist, I researched cutting-edge work in quantum physics for answers to the question of how we are one. Science, however, cannot as yet answer this question as the quantum level has very strange and unpredictable phenomena. One of the oddities that physicists have found is that consciousness impacts the outcome of an experiment; it’s what Einstein called spooky physics. Other scientists postulate that consciousness doesn’t reside in the brain but in a field we all share and can tap into at any time. It was this idea of using consciousness to manipulate a desired outcome that Jesse explains in the story based on the physics of the zero-point field; that is, what you envision materializes. I believe it is this shared field of consciousness where unity resides, and if we put our effort of love toward one another, we can effect change.

In the end I got a B in the class. I can say a few phrases and can read and understand a great deal more. But the big takeaway from the class is that the media may portray others as our enemy but it is up to each of us to discover and understand the Truth: We are all connected, and the cohesive force that binds us is consciousness and love.

Note: Visit my website www.Llouwiley.com if you wish to view images of the people and places mentioned in the novel.

Chapter 1

The Dogs of Moscow

M

y name? It

does not matter. I am a banker, but I’ve been a seller of gloves, a daughter, a patron of the arts, drunk at 9 a.m., and sober for far too long. I have shoveled snow for a smoke, danced topless to the morning sun, and walked the Stations of the Cross in silent reverie. I cry for the injustice of the poor and covet money. I am educated, yet I want to believe there is more to the human existence than rubles and taxation.

I miss my mother.

But, if you insist, my name is Lena and today, in our year of the Lord 2001, on a spectacularly frigid night, on a busy commuter train, I witnessed a murder. This heinous crime happened at Moscow’s Medeleyevskaya station right on the beautifully tiled platform next to the modern art under the iron chandeliers that line the arched ceilings like the Sistine Chapel. The perpetrator was a twenty-two-year-old female wearing a blue fur coat, a miniskirt, and long black boots. Her mink hat bobbed with every sway of her practiced swiveled hips. Her name was Yulia something or other. I heard she was a model, which might explain her pompous air, but she had a small dog, a terrier; perhaps she carried it to appear human. They say your dog represents you; doesn’t the word terrier derive from the word terror? But it is always with hindsight that these clues manifest. If only we had the means to reach into the future and decipher this evidence; then we could perhaps prevent evils such as theft, war, and murder.

On that horrific night, she placed her small, yipping dog on Malchik. No one knows why. Do murderers have reasons? Malchik, meaning little boy in Russian, voiced his irritation but she cared not. After the second time Malchik expressed his annoyance, the murderess, with the swiftness of a mother’s hand to the face of an insurgent child, retrieved a knife from her purse, and stabbed Malchik repeatedly until he lay dead, gathering cold from the marble floor while expelling his life’s warmth; the physics of entropy at work.

I cried.

The uproar across Moscow overshadowed any differences between artists and politicians as our beloved Malchik, a friend to many and a mainstay at the busy metro station, had been senselessly murdered. We united against the killer. It was front page news. The murderess became the object of scorn, and the twelve million people of Moscow, my countrymen, wanted justice. There were death threats. Her modeling career abruptly ended. She was arrested, tried, and sent to prison with a mandatory one-year psychiatric treatment included in the sentencing. If there were a grave for this assassin, and I suspect there will never be such a monument, I would spit on it.

Since the murder the former model with the deadly knife has never been heard of again. There are rumors she was taken care of in prison. Loyal, loving Malchik, however, will never be forgotten. A bronze statue was erected at Medeleyevskaya station several years after the slaying in honor of Moscow’s most famous dog, Malchik. Every day now, instead of tossing a bit of sandwich and seeing a happy tail wag, I rub the nose of Malchik’s statue in honor of my lost friend.

We have over thirty-five thousand stray dogs in Moscow. You might say we have a dog problem with overpopulation of strays, but we don’t believe in killing our animals because they don’t have a home. It is not perfect, but it is our way; it is organic, free, and unpredictable—exactly the definition of life. We accept the dogs as they live amongst us out in the sunshine, on the streets, under the trees in the park, and yes, in the metro.

Dr. Andrey Poyarkov has studied the dogs of Moscow for over thirty years and found some interesting facts about our beloved canines. Dogs are smart, but the dogs of Moscow must be brilliant to survive the harsh climate and limited food. The pack often sends out young pups to beg for food, knowing they will always melt the heart of the animal lovers of Russia. Some of the dogs have developed a tactic to startle the food right out of a person’s hands with a loud bark; the stealthy canines then snatch the booty before it even hits the ground. Most of the dogs learn the traffic signals and know that a green light means it is safe to cross the street. But most impressive, a small number of the dogs, about thirty or so, have learned the complex web of the Moscow underground with over 196 stations measuring over 203 miles long. These super-geniuses wait for particular trains, hop on, and ride with the humans to their desired destination. Malchik was one such special dog, and I’m proud of the respect we have shown him in his departure from this world.

People say many things about our country. Some true, some debatable. But if the greatness of a nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated, as Mahatma Gandhi said, then I think we are doing very well, dear Russia.

Chapter 2

Начало, The Beginning

T

he lights go

on and I’m smiling. Who ever heard of the dogs of Russia? So fascinating! I look over at my son. His head is on the desk, and all I see is a mop of blond hair. He’s asleep. I take my notebook and smack him on the thigh, hoping the professor doesn’t notice. He wakes with a frown and slowly raises his head like a bear coming out of hibernation. Instantly I’m mad and try to hide a tidal wave of emotion and thoughts that flood my frontal lobe: If he slowed down on the pot smoking, if he quit the internet gaming till 3 a.m., if he didn’t quit tennis... But then I soften. Maybe it’s the depression. He’s just trying to feel better. But he doesn’t exercise. I’ve told him that’s what works! He doesn’t listen. Maybe it’s my fault; I was too lenient as a mother. How is he going to get through the class? Doesn’t he realize I’m just here to help him pass because he needs these five units to transfer to a University of California? For God’s sake, I already have a college degree and I’m just taking this class to help him!

"Horashow!" says Professor Klara Petrovna with a smile, then writes Xорошо on the whiteboard. I don’t know what that means, but she’s said it a few times already so I’m guessing it’s something you say all the time like all right or perhaps great! I decide to look it up in the textbook while some smart-ass, young, skinny thing with really short shorts and heavy eyeliner spats off in Russian to the teacher. I eye my son Ryan who, without saying anything, screams in my mind, I hate her, I hate this class, you’re not going to make it any better, I want to leave. I try and smile against the slow drip of knowledge that a mother can help her son learn to tie his shoes but can’t persuade him to love college even if she takes a night class at the local junior college with him for academic help and encouragement. I realize that this mother son learning endeavor probably isn’t going to work and I’m interrupted by this irritating chatter in another language outside my thought zone. I’m wondering why a girl and her three partners in crime, obviously fluent, are taking Russian, and a slow burn festers. Maybe I should to go Russia and take English 101 so I can up my GPA. So there! You with the glittery pink T-shirt and need-no-bra tits and the boys who only like you for your sleazy, bubblegum-painted lips.

I glance at Ryan and I worry. Funny how you can point your irritation at someone else so as not to let the truth invade your consciousness.

Professor Petrovna is somewhere in the vicinity of my age as evidenced by the shimmer of silver at the root hairs and the restraint shown to the rude chatter at the back of the class. She strains to reach the pull cord of the overhead projector, and her ecru slip peeks out from the hem of her conservative dress. I wonder about the last time I wore a slip and I think I was twelve; it just seems so formal, so not Pleasant Hill California, a quiet suburb of the Bay Area. She straightens her dress over her short, squat form and turns around to face the class. A tall, stern man of about thirty walks up to help her. She thanks him profusely. On the projector screen is a map of the metro in Moscow. Class, class! She demands attention, and the chatter of Russian-speaking youngsters simmers to a murmur.

Moscow’s metro looks like a spiderweb, and it seems impossible for a human to decipher and learn in short fashion, let alone a dog. It makes our Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) system look like it was designed by a simpleton. What follows are a few photos of the interior of the stations, and they are stunning! Some are baroque styled with high-arched ceilings, marble columns, stained glass, and oil paintings decorating