Into a basement bar not far from the barricades of revolutionary Kyiv, now world famous for its continuing political unrest, an elfin oddity in drab and distinctly military apparel has stepped.
His face is beaming but the eyes are as yet uncertain, careful to survey tonight’s crowd. No worries, as the usual collection of idiotic alcoholics with whom he discretely keeps company on the odd night out are not present or at least visible.
“Wait a second: Isn’t that The Ferret,” asks one man incredulously to himself. He’s seated uncomfortably amongst the place’s newly installed lounge furniture. The place used to be stacked with wooden stools and benches, already relics of a different, more benign revolution.
The fresh-faced soldier of fortune kind of ambles into the thick of the place, giving every reasonable expectation of having a revolver tucked behind the lapel of his tunic. No, I get it, that’s the Napoleon pose!
His wife is trailing at a safe distance, unassuming to the point of embarrassment. Was it she that picked out that outfit for him, spotting it at a garage sale and then stowing it away in the attic for just such an historical moment?
What are those beady eyes searching for, by the way – an empty seat, a foreign correspondent just arrived on the scene, or maybe a gullible Eurocrat groping for the city’s pulse and eager to probe the revolution’s “frontlines.” Wouldn’t soldier boy just like to pigeonhole one of the above for a well-rehearsed round of intelligence sharing, punctuated by strategically aimed name-dropping and a healthy layer of shameless self-promotion?
“I’m sure that’s The Ferret. Why, look at him!” the man says to his companion, who by all appearances could give a damn.
“I smell a rat?” the man’s companion hums. “But what do you want me to do – bash his head in with a hammer… Ha, ha, ha?”
The man leers more intensely at Field Marshal von Elfwich, who upon closer inspection really resembles a rodent. He doesn’t have a neck, you see. And his facial features look funny against the dough-white face on the front of his head, which tapers off from a formless torso and then meaningless legs.
But then there’s still that uniform, or whatever you call it. And doesn’t he know it, standing there like he just walked into a tent of generals, bustling adjutants and a stiff-haired and grubby corporal just for effect?
Who does he think he’s fooling, anyway? “I should get up and punch him in the gut,” the man thinks.
“Go ahead, it’s no skin off my nose,” his companion on the L-shaped lounge couch seems to respond – in fact, however, this second man has given little to no notice to the uniformed rat, now sniffing for danger, probing for something to gnaw on or nibble when nobody’s looking.
“So, you’ve put on a Halloween costume to impress the collection of idiot alcoholics whose company you seek in moments of leisure,” thinks the man, almost raising his body on his hands in defiance.
And surely the intent – that is to say, the intended impression that you hope to make is that of a war-hardened revolutionary stepping into a nearby basement bar – or, better yet – a subterranean watering hole that has miraculously been spared continual shelling, although Kyiv has at this point only seen Molotov cocktails, tear gas and stun grenades…
“Go on, punch him one if it will make you feel better,” that very same couch companion seems to say – all gruff and rough and full of life’s experience, to include recent events. But the imposter-cum-house pest isn’t put off by his presence. He’s banking all on that uniform.
His drab clad corpus – tightly packed into general issue green – is anything but comfortable. But he’s able to wiggle around socially, enough in fact to now face the man on the lounge couch. There’s just a fleeting moment of would-be embarrassment, or so it seems to the man. But who knows? No one else seems to notice. Just like no one is questioning how a rat – with his wife no less – would get dressed up like a German field marshal or other to go out for a beer at a basement bar and presumably be perceived as a genuine combatant or at least a military advisor (yeah, that must be it – he’s trying to look like an advisor) when in fact there is no actual war in progress and those who are taking part in the violence are much dirtier and don’t have money to spend in basement bars anyway.
“I can’t crack him – I’m telling you I cannot do it,” the man’s companion, now blabbering into his mobile phone above the hubbub of other drinking patrons, might have said.
What’s this? That khaki-clad rodent is making an approach to the man’s table. He wasn’t standing far away as it was, but now he’s sort of leaning in for a handshake. What nerve? Isn’t his wife going to stop him? What about all the assorted losers on hand – many of whom during the daytime practice the upright behavior of Ukraine’s proud North American Diaspora? Surely one of them will intervene to slap him on the back, stick their nose in his face or at least make a bawdy attempt to divert his attention from across the bar.
No, it’s not happening. And worst of all, the man has now gotten the distinct impression that the rat, or The Ferret, as he’s known in Kyiv’s expatriate circles and the confines of certain Internet publications, seems perfectly aware of the advantage (for that’s the only way one can refer to it) that he now holds over the man.
You see, the rat, whose resume of dirty tricks and endless lying would otherwise make him a well-deserving candidate for an ass-kicking in even the most cordial of venues, somehow senses the power of his uniform.
“Why, it’s nothing more than a Halloween costume,” the man reminds himself.
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, March 6, 2014