#21 | November 6-19, 1997  

by Mark Ames

"You Americans are stupid. I hate you and your country."

I heard it but didn't pay attention: my head was pounding, and I'd barely slept.

"You dirty Americans," he continued. "I hate you. You have no culture and no history."

If he's talking to me, he's got a point. I smelled like shit after a night of downing gin and tonics, chasing a pair of giraffes around a Kursk disco, then passing out in my clothes. I hadn't showered, and worst of all, I'd been stuck on the overnight train with the most noisome collection of black earth peasants the world has ever known. The pungent odor of cheesy feet and cheap tobacco billowed out of every compartment, sticking to my clothes.

"You are a stupid country, America is." This hangover apparition sounded realer and realer-and it spoke good English too.

I was walking on the platform at Kursky Vokzal, heading back home with my mentor, Dr. John Dolan, while this voice hassled me.

"What's going on?" I mumbled.

The professor nervously laughed. "Uh, I think this guy's a nationalist nut. Let's hurry."

"No! I am no nationalist nut!" the nut screeched.

I turned to get a good look. He was dressed like a Swede in his green and brown patterned sweater, wire-rimmed glasses and fresh haircut, wife-in-arm. Hardly your typical, pasty nationalist nut.

"Russia is a great country," he said, fighting to control his anger.

"I agree," I honestly replied.

"I hope we throw all you dirty Yankees out of Russia."

"What a great idea," I said. "Throw everyone out. Then Russia will be an economic powerhouse." I understood that I might get into a fistfight. It would be ugly: rolling on the slushy platform, slugging it out with some middle-aged Russian couple... booting the husband and wife into human kasha... it might not be very honorable, but it's better than getting purse-whipped to death.

"No, just throw dirty Americans out. Not Europeans. Only Americans. I hate you all."

Now it was getting downright embarrassing. Dr. Dolan fled the scene, leaving me alone. People were staring, including the militsia.

"America is the stupidest country on earth."

"Yeah, I guess that's why we won the cold war," I said. "If we were a little smarter, we might have wound up like you."

His wife cringed and grabbed his arm.

"I hope we throw you dirty Yankees out!" he screeched.

"So do I!" I said.

The nationalist turned back to me with a look of puzzled horror, but his wife pulled him away, melting into the crowd.

"What was wrong with that asshole?!" I asked.

"Uh, Mark, don't you remember..." Dr. Dolan slapped his head and squinted nervously.

"Remember what?"

"Like, uh, all those things you were saying on the train? I think we should get out of here quick before they arrest us." He wasn't joking. He picked up his pace, powerwalking towards the metro. Then he snapped: "That guy understood what you were saying. Everything!"

"Oh. Oops."

Now that I think about it, yeah, I was pretty bad on the train. Like when the sort-of-youngish conductor woman walked by, and I'd say straight to her face, "I bet you've fucked so many passengers in your day that you lost count fifteen years ago." She didn't understand me-she smiled dumbly, two front teeth missing. "It's true, isn't it? You can't even remember the last guy you boned." Dr. Dolan yelped nervously, which only egged me on. "You know the Georgian joke about why Russians have patronymics-so the mothers can remember who the father of their child is. This conductor here has probably squatted out a few rats whose patronymics are 'ya-ne-znayuvich' or 'ya-ne-vspomnyuvich.' Think about it. All a guy has to do is barge into her compartment with a bottle of vodka, and within seconds her panties are hanging from the curtain rod."

Eesh. I guess the middle-aged nationalist heard every word. He was probably a decent, polite man with kind feelings towards Americans before I arrived. It would be hard to explain that it was all affectionate humor on my part. It would be harder to explain the long episode with the three-year-old girl. She came out to play with us in the corridor, sitting on my lap. I held her on my knee and said, in English, "Ah, let me guess what you're going to be when you grow up... h'm... a slut? A prostitute? An amoral money-grubber? Can you say 'slut'?" Little Katya smiled and giggled, and I giggled back.

Dr. Dolan backed away at the time, panting nervously. "Uh, I don't know, Mark. This is where my nihilism ends."

"Come on, she doesn't understand yet, do you?" I bounced the little peasant girl on my knee while her grandmother-who stank like a slaughterhouse-smiled at me. "Let me guess, Katya. You lost your virginity in the maternity ward, didn't you? Dragged one of the orderlies into your crib. Couldn't hold out a few years for a horny old foreigner like myself, huh?"

It's true, I was a real bastard. Four straight hours of this, laughing at my own jokes. What a card! A quip-o-matic! And that old nut probably sat in his compartment, hearing every word, wringing his hands, plotting his revenge, too cowardly to break a bottle over my head. Instead, he cringed, complaining bitterly to his wife, plotting and plotting... he practiced those pathetic nationalist lines in English, for hours, to impress upon me how intelligent he, a Russian, was in comparison to me, the vulgar American imperialist... and the worst part was, I agreed with most of what he had to say. His poor wife...

He'd have never understood if I told him that it was all done out of love. That my sick jokes proved more than sentimental words my affection for Russia. "Kill Your Idols"-that was Sonic Youth's motto. A good motto. But I could never explain it. So I've tried making up for it. I tried being a good nationalist. I went to the Gamaun demonstration that was supposed to take place at the Chisty Prudy metro station last Tuesday at 4:00. I was the only sucker who showed. Then I published a piece in Limonka. Let's see, what else? Well, here, this column is sort of my confession to the Truth Commission. I know, I'm leaving a lot out. Even I can't print most of the things I said on that train ride. Take it from me, it was bad. That poor old bastard had every right to attack me. I should be more careful.