Ramses Campbell stood by the frost-bitten window and looked at a dark figure shambling in the unlit part of the alley. It walked like a dead man, which had just crawled out of the grave and was learning to walk again. It hit against a lady who was walking her dog. The woman flailed her arms. The figure fell down on the icy path. Ramses cringed looking at this scene. He could see now that the shambling figure was a man. The woman sawed the air with her hand, and Ramses was sure she was shouting at the man, but he could hear nothing through the soundproof window glass of his room in the Arkaim Hotel.
The woman walked away in a hurry, dragging her dog on a leash. The man lay on the ground for a while and then struggled to stand up. He leaned over and picked up something from the ground. He stepped into the cone of streetlight, and Ramses saw that it was a drunkard clutching a bottle. The man took a gulp, threw the bottle into a snowbank and walked away.
Ramses shook his head in disapproval. He was a tall African American with huge biceps bulging under his gray T-shirt. His long black hair, which fell on his shoulders, was in dreadlocks.
It began snowing.
“Damn snow,” Ramses said with sadness, watching the snowflakes slowly waltzing outside the window glass. Snow always makes Californians, which Ramses was, unhappy.
His view opened on a busy tree-lined street and a huge LED screen on the corner. It flashed advertisements for cell phones, lingerie, and movies and highlighted the latest news about Chelyabinsk City.
He heard the kettle whistling. He killed the fire under it and poured himself a large cup of coffee. Drinking coffee was the second thing he usually did in a foreign country to battle the jet lag. The first thing was to catch a good sleep right after arrival at the hotel. Which he had already done.
The third thing to do would be to soak a little in a foamy bathtub, and he would enjoy doing it right now, but there was a bang on the door.
Ramses glanced at his watch. 6:00 p.m.
Punctual as death, he thought.
“Open up, old dog,” a male voice said behind the closed door. “Time to rise and shine!”
Ramses took a sip of the hot brew, sauntered to the door and opened it. A fifty-something bespectacled man of medium height was standing there. Steve Clayton, his business partner, and best friend. His room was opposite Ramses’s across the hallway.
“Hey, Steve,” Ramses said. “I ain’t old yet. I’m twenty years younger than you.”
Steve smiled. “Ready for the party, you young big black fight fish?” he said. Steve was not a racist. It was just his way of showing affection – the more you got closer to him, the more he insulted you. Five years living in New York might have influenced him.
“Oh, just leave me alone, Steve,” Ramses said, stepping aside and letting Steve come in. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“What do you mean?” Steve said. “Are you nuts? Everyone’s waiting for us. We have to celebrate the launch of our martial arts seminars in Russia.”
Ramses slumped into a chair. Had another sip from his cup. “Coffee?”
“Er, no, thanks.”
“I know this is all important, Steve. But look at this, man,” Ramses said, pointing at the window. “The snow.”
Steve followed his glance and made a “Doc” Brown stunned look on his face.
“We’re in Russia, pal.” Steve smiled. “In the dead of fucking winter. What did you expect? Beach bunnies and surf dudes playing volleyball under the hot sun?”
“You grew up in Chicago,” Ramses said, sipping his coffee. “Then you moved to the Big Apple. You won’t get it.”
Steve came up to the window and looked at the falling snow.
“No harm in a little bit of snow and frost for your brown Californian ass,” he said. “Will put more energy into you. Next time you will complain you’re missing burritos? Come on! We’re in a hurry! Let’s not keep the tough Russian guys waiting.”
