Gowdy minced
no words in his call for full disclosure. “Someone needs to get everyone in a
room and say, from the time you saw ‘Dr. Zhivago’ until the moment you drank
vodka with a guy named Boris, you list every single contact with Russia.”
Pretty
hard to misunderstand that kind of demand.
Now, I
consider myself a loyal American and a patriot, and in this stressful time I
think I should, like all good Americans, come clean about my association with
Russians. So here’s my confession: A long time ago in Chapel Hill—a town of
known leftist tendencies that US Senator Jesse Helms once said could function
as the North Carolina state zoo if you put a fence around it—I had contact with
Russians. And in that spirit of full disclosure that Representative Gowdy is
demanding, I’d like to tell everything I can recall about those contacts.
It was the
summer of 1977. I’d signed up for a summer school course at Carolina. I had a good
friend from Raleigh, a brilliant linguist who was fluent in Russian, German and
Polish and could probably make himself understood in at least half a dozen
other languages. He was good friends with some Soviet (as we called them in
those days) exchange students.
He was
especially good friends with a guy who I remember only as Evgeni—or, as he may
have spelled it in Cryillic, Евгений. Evgeni
was, until Vladimir Putin came along, the image that popped into my head when
anybody mentioned Russians.
I’ve
learned over the years that it’s generally not a good thing to think of groups
of people in stereotypes. It can get you into trouble in lots of ways. And yet,
Evgeni pretty much perfectly fit the American stereotype of a Russian. He was
big, blond, loud, and backslapping friendly with a booming voice that could
have been heard by Sarah Palin on the other side of the Bering Strait. And he
could drink all the residents of any small rural American county under the
table.
I don’t remember
the first time I met Evgeni, but it may have been when I bumped into my friend
and him on Franklin Street. During my introduction, my friend probably said
something to Evgeni in Russian that sounded something like this: “Das vidanya.
Spragelly meestslamy mas y telly joo davastli.” And then a huge grin spread
across Evgeni’s face and he extended a hand the size of a bear’s paw and
wrapped his fingers several times around my hand as he shook it.
I saw
Evgeni regularly, always in the company of my friend. One day, my friend asked
me to spend a Friday night with Evgeni. I think he had a date and he didn’t
want Evgeni tagging along. Evgeni knew very little English at this point, and I
knew no Russian. But what the hell, I was game. I figured with enough beer,
everything would be OK.
And it
was. We hit many Franklin Street watering holes that night, and downed many beers, and
exchanged no intelligible language that I recall. But alcohol, in the hands of
open-minded and imaginative imbibers, can erase language barriers and be a
remarkable facilitator of communications. We made ourselves understood with
gestures, backslaps, facial expressions and noises. And when all else failed,
we ordered another round. By the end of the evening, we were drinking buddies
even though we had not exchanged a single coherent sentence.
As the
summer progressed, Evgeni’s English improved, as did his ability to calculate
American prices in terms of his Soviet background. I recall him asking the
price in American dollars of something he wanted. Someone told him. He was
silent for a few moments as he mentally converted the cost in US currency to
the Soviet economy. He became wide-eyed when he’d finished the calculation.
“Is two cheekens!” he exclaimed in disbelief.
I had
another memorable encounter with Evgeni later that summer. This time I was
stumping down Franklin Street with a cast that covered my left leg from my foot to just below my knee. How I got that cast is an anecdote that makes a
great story, but it’s a story that I’m not ready to publicly disclose. I will
say this, however: It involved excessive alcohol on a Friday night, misplaced
youthful exuberance, and one of the worst decisions I've ever made. Still, no laws were broken, no property
was damaged, no cops were involved and no one except me was injured. I never received a bill for my visit to the emergency room at North Carolina Memorial Hospital, so I assume it was covered by my student health insurance.
Anyway, I
was somewhere near the Varsity Theater when I heard this booming voice above
the Franklin Street traffic noise. It was speaking Russian. I have no idea what
was being said, but it sounded like “Vee lee! Vu dees eu da!” I think I must
have looked skyward, because my friend said afterwards that I looked like I’d
heard the voice of God calling to me.
It was, of
course, my drinking buddy Evgeni, and he was concerned about the cast on my
leg. I don’t remember much else about that encounter. I’m sure my friend
explained to Evgeni what had happened to me and he thought it was hilarious and
slapped me on the back.
I saw
Evgeni occasionally during the next year or so. I remember parties with other
Soviet exchange students. I remember these guys downing tumblers of vodka like
it was ice water, and feats of strength and loud conversations, mostly in
Russian. I never picked up any of that language, so I have no idea what they
were talking about. But since the conversations seemed to involve calls for
more vodka and challenges to arm-wrestling, I don’t think anything subversive
was being said.
That’s all
I recall of Evgeni. I think he left Chapel Hill sometime in the late ‘70s, and
I haven’t heard from him since. So this concludes my debriefing of my Russian
contacts.
A final
note to Representative Gowdy. I also saw Dr. Zhivago. A long time ago in
Charlotte. With a couple of friends. I’m still good friends with that guy
from Raleigh, and he still speaks Russian fluently. And sometimes I use Russian vodka for my vodka martinis. That's all my Pусский contacts, I swear.
