Soap, Deodorant, and Travel Agents
Moon over Berlin, Sun over Santorini — B2C10
“Don’t worry about it,” Juliette yawned as she poured herself a mug of midnight black liquid from the pot on the stove. “I’m a tea drinker too. Or at least my parents are. I’ll get us some real tea leaves after work today.”
She pulled her robe tight and sat down across the room from the guys. By the time a detailed (and to Ian, all but incomprehensible) conversation about tea varieties finished, Mark emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of soapy air, towel wrapped around his waist.
“Morning,” he mumbled, reaching for the coffee pot. “You guys are up early.”
Ian and Dima’s answers overlapped. “He woke me up,” and “I couldn’t sleep,” fought for the same air.
“Just as well,” Mark said. “You can get an early start.”
“Remember,” Juliette added. “We only have three weeks.”
“I can’t learn English in three weeks!” Dima objected. “Impossible!”
Ian read the panic in his friend’s face and tried to calm him. “Of course not. We know that. You just need some basics. Enough to follow simple instructions without looking suspicious. Trust us. We know what we’re doing.”
Juliette carried her mug to the counter. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ve been listening to English for months. Besides, you already learned basic French. You know how to study languages. It’s not that hard.”
Dima rolled his eyes. Ian thought he looked skeptical and stubborn at the same time.
“Let’s get some light in here,” Juliette fussed, striding past the futon to pull the curtains open. “Dima, careful now. Don’t stand too close to the window. Especially when you’re here alone.” Cheerful sunlight flooded the apartment.
“Come on, Mark,” she said, “We’re running late.” She followed her boyfriend into the bedroom as Ian examined Dima in the stronger light. He didn’t like how red his friend’s eyes seemed or how purple the bags underneath them looked.
He spoke softly. “You sure you slept OK?”
Dima sounded stubborn again. “Of course. I told you.”
“Hungry?”
Ian laughed at the raised eyebrow and smile his question drew. He felt a little relieved. “OK, stupid question! You want to shower first? I’ll run down to the Kneipe and get brötchen and eggs.” He walked to the bathroom door and motioned. “Come on. I’ll show you how it works. There’s a dial on the nozzle.”
“That’s OK,” Dima answered, getting up and walking over. “I had a bath Friday afternoon. I’m fine.”
Ian’s thoughts took a quick spin. He knew Russian culture was different, but this surprised him. He turned around inside the door frame as Dima stripped off his funny undershirt and pushed past, fuzzy armpits just inches from Ian’s nose.
“Just show me where the soap and rags are? I’ll have a good wash.” He turned on the tap at the sink. “And the tooth powder? I brought my toothbrush but I don’t have any powder.”
“Um, Dima? Listen… We do things a little differently here. I mean, if you’re going to pass for an American…” Ian felt himself blush. He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Nor was he sure that the Russian word for “ripe” would translate right in these circumstances.
Dima glanced at him calmly. He laughed and replied cheerfully. “You want me to take a shower? No problem. I will be good decadent American capitalist.”
As Ian adjusted the knobs and demonstrated the hand-held water jet, he brought up another topic. “I don’t know the Russian word for it, but we Americans use this stuff called deodorant. I’ll show you later.”
“That’s right,” Mark said into his phone as he leaned back, feet up on his desk. “I haven’t decided when yet. Just curious about the details. He glanced around the office, making sure everyone everyone was still at lunch. He lowered his voice. “So if I escort a group through the Soviet Sector on the Duty Train, what paperwork do I need, exactly?”
He swung his feet around, sat up, and started taking notes. A minute later, he interrupted. “Oh, really? I didn’t know that. Wow! How thorough are they?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course I mean the Russians. I mean, do they physically count heads? Do they enter the train? … Oh, I see… Yes, quite… No, no reason. I’ve just never done this before. I don’t want any surprises.”
He hung up a moment later, stared thoughtfully into space, then folded up the paper in front of him and slipped it into his pocket.
Juliette strolled down the Ku-damm enjoying the afternoon sun. Her heels clicked as heads turned to take in the scene she made. She stepped into a travel agency, the third one she’d visited that day, and walked up to the counter.
Explaining what she needed took longer than she liked. Her German was getting a lot better, but real conversations were still difficult. She thought about that while the clerk ran around finding brochures. She wondered if they were asking too much of Dima. She, Mark, and Ian were talented linguists. She reminded herself that they’d been selected for their positions because learning languages came easily to them. Maybe she was wrong about how much Dima could absorb right away.
The clerk returned with a stack of slick pamphlets. Before Juliette slipped them into her handbag, she noticed they all seemed to be written in German, French, and English. Good, everybody could sit around after dinner and look them over.
If she wasn’t so worried, this vacation would be really fun to plan. She wondered if any of them would enjoy it. She wondered if they’d even make it out of Germany.
Bill sat in the Flight office, typing. His day shift counterpart was still working the S&W Center. Bill often came in an hour or two before an afternoon watch — just to keep up with his admin chores.
The phone beside him jangled. Too loudly. He swore and rubbed his temples while he picked up the receiver. He’d only just managed to stop feeling completely hungover.
“Marienfelde Ops Floor. Master Sergeant Richards speaking. May I help you?” A high pitched voice pierced his ear. He held the phone a few inches from his head, rolling his eyes. “No,” he said. “Airman Andrews isn’t here right now. I don’t expect him until 1500 at the earliest. Can I help you? I’m his direct supervisor’s boss.”
He listened for a minute longer, then began to frown. “Hang on, ma’am. Let me quick check something.”
Keeping his phone cradled between cheek and shoulder, he wheeled his chair a few feet and started rifling through a file cabinet. He didn’t remember Andrews requesting leave, and he couldn’t find a request form anywhere. Something wasn’t right.
“Excuse me,” he said into the receiver. “Could you repeat that? Who did you say he was traveling with again?” The answer brought his headache back to its full, pounding glory. Something was very seriously not right.
“Ian,” he muttered after he hung up. “This had better be good, son. You’ve got some serious explaining to do.”
