Today it actually works. A lean young man indeed ambles over and offers me some very weak gashish (which in a moment of drunkenly misplaced generosity I will roll into a joint for himself in his apartment later on).
Despite one incisor missing, he doesn't actually seem that sleazy, so, what the hell, when he asks me to go for a drink with him I tag along to his regular bar (that sort of was my plan in the first place, meeting people, wasn't it? -I remind myself).
The drink turns into a couple more, sidelining an embarrassingly dictionary-oriented conversation -my dictionary is really a better friend than any human being could be at this point, making communication beyond the exchanging of memorised formulas of politeness possible at all. Really, I don't much mind talking ungrammatical insignificant shit, as I'm still very much in the early stage of the language learning process and I don't yet suffer from what I have come to term the "self-mutilation syndrome".
Afflicted by this, the language learning individual undergoes stages of utterly frustrating, though blatantly self-inflicted (for having put oneself into the situation in the first place) sensations of severe speech impediment, not far from ensuing complete desparation. Basically, forcing oneself to speak in foreign tongues can have the same effect as having ones actually tangible tongue cut out altogether: these drastic restraints on one's communication skills come with a horrible feeling of inadequacy for ones psychological need for commensurate expression of one's oh so animated inner world (alas, without the physically painful and bloody bit!).
Anyway, so we continue our random palaver -mine staccato, his frighteningly cataract-like- till his friends come round. The three drinks so far turn into another few and at the end of the afternoon in that backstreet bar, everyone -me very much included- is by this time in much of a state.
The plan seems to be that we all go out together later on, so in my advanced hammered condition it only seems natural I go back to my gashish dealing new acquaintance's house, not to miss the appointment-and, I muse to myself, it must be save, it's only six o'clock- you never get raped at that time of day, surely.
So now, home with Misha, sipping more of that canned gin and tonic which seems to be their REAL national drink, not that spurned vodka, keeping up an hour and a half of more stilted, painfully bilateral conversation. Even alcohol doesn't necessarily loosen my tongue.And finally I only have enough vocabulary for so long before it will relievingly be drained to its last drop and I can abandon myself to being passively showered in rapids of relentless Russian, from which after another hour -in which I am under the vague impression he might or might not be going on about some Ukrainian pop-star his little brother might or might not be in love with-, I finally glean that he is approaching the usual core issues now, as I believe to grasp that a) -nothing new to me -he wants to have sex with me (these russians have ways of NEVER making physical advances, but always more or less politely trying to TALK (out of all possibilities!) you into it (much in contrast to that other great aitchless race, the French, whose general approach seems to be to just get you and themselves drunk and then throw themselves into your bed completely unasked for), even the "bad boy" ones (or those who would like to see themselves as "bad boy"-types like this one)
b) he offers me 2000 dollars if I have sex with him
c) he is a professional and very succesful pimp and 2000 dollars are nothing to him.
I, of course, am not naive enough to believe any of the above propositions-except the first one evidently ( all too evidently! ->and at this point I contentedly check my make up-slanting my face into profile, eyes a-clack for my hand mirror). Being a pimp is just any young Russian lads idea of being cool and succesful or something.
The best tactic I decide, will be affecting ignorance of what he is talking about -always a good way out of sticky situations- and just continue a sometimes vague, sometimes vigorous nod, as if I was assuming he was talking about rising plum pudding prices.
His endless babble -obviously quite impossibly leading anywhere- is given an abrupt end with the striking of the midnight hour, which is promptly noticed, despite its only soundlessly manifesting itself by the morphing of reticent digital ciphers on the ubiquitous mobile phone(from the sahara to siberia, whether they work or not, they're there before you are)) -and which means we have to drive out for our appointment with the other guys.
So half an hour later, there we are in the Russian variation of the familiar situation of five people crammed into the back of a van, smoking many a joint, with me having to beg them to please, speak ?bolshe medlyennoye? (slower, pashaulsta!) everytime I am directly adressed and at all other times just assume a knowing facial expression, -which turns out to be a rather dumb constant smile, as thus facilitated by all the alcohol- rather than actually try to follow the conversation.
Our little excursion takes us seemingly deep into the woods, down a road which is more bumps than path, which actually likens the experience to that of some desultory funfair ride -everyone's bursts of laughter included.
We pass people next to orange campfires and when we finally get out of the vehicle, airs of distant house music are carried over to us, probably coming from a boom box. As the girls start peeling out of their clothes and the guys do alike, the plan and purpose of this whole undertaking, now somewhat belatedly, but still in time, takes an abrupt unfolding before the eyes of my mind. I'm stoned remember, every thought seems to weigh a ton.
I, too, strip down to my underwear, and tip toe my way over the pine-needle covered ground to the softly dropping, earthy riverbank with the water lapping warmly up to our feet.
With Pasha, the blond guy with the beret, having already abandoned to the splashing medium (the beret in return being abandoned amidst the pile of cast off jeans and T-shirt for the occasion), and Misha (hesitating to call him "my Misha" for the distinction), the other Misha -the driver-, and Alex affectedly finishing their cigarettes, the two girls perform their squeamish girly ritual of taking step after step all too slowly, probably affirming the water's disagreable coldness in these squealing bursts of ever-incomprehensible Russian to each other.
Finally we are all in it, and in between dipping my head in the fresh black depths softly tingling on my stoner's skin, I take notice of the prettiness of the trees on both sides of the riverbank, outlined in stark silhouettes before the blue not black and only scarcely starred northern late night sky, and the moon rolling out its straight but fuzzy edged yellow carpet as on all waters.
While rubbing dry in the van, preparing for our way back, everyone, druggedly, melts into a couple of minutes of jellylike mirth at a certain remark I- as is absolutely needless to reiterate but here it goes: did not understand.
I suppose, I'm having fun anyway, though.