Have Glove, Will Travel_ Adventures of a Baseball Vagabond - Bill Lee [42]
Whatever his profession, he did not appreciate my laughing off his question. He kneed his table aside and bulled forward, so angry the chef could have fried pierogies on his forehead. We met for a dueling rant at the center of the restaurant. This is the stupid way many men respond when they think someone has challenged their manhood in front of a beautiful woman. Even while I reveled in telling him off, a part of me knew I was making an utter fool of myself.
We stood nose to nose, so close the waiters could not wedge between us. His breath stank of vodka and garlic. I noticed escargot drippings on his lapel. His hair appeared to be dyed with shoe polish. An old man trying to hide his age from his much younger date, he could not back off. When he jabbed his finger into my chest, the Clint Eastwood in me grew incensed. “Put that down,” I yelled, “or I’ll bite it off, you no-good son of a bitch. Point at me again, I’ll come back to Moscow in my BMW and drive it straight up your ass.”
So much for my diplomatic skills. Luckily for détente, the man’s girlfriend intervened. She whispered something soothing in his ear, and they immediately turned to leave. I never should have let it get that far, right? Sorry, there is this immature side to me, the eternal frat boy who cannot resist getting in one last dig. But give me some credit. As the couple stopped at the coat check, I did stop myself from asking Mr. Mercedes if he would translate pussy-whipped into Russian for us.
After we finished eating, Tom Nickerson suggested we visit Lenin’s mausoleum for the midnight changing of the guard. To my surprise, the Russians had not buried their former leader in a cemetery. His corpse rests in plain sight under glass in Red Square. Lenin wears a peaceful, near saintly look on his face, but his remains have lain in state for over sixty years and his leathery skin has taken on the greenish tinge of Gumby.
The four soldiers guarding the display case gave the appearance of crackerjack troops: khaki greatcoats, gleaming brown calf-length military boots, crimson epaulets with gold braid, and squared-off red caps bearing the black hammer and sickle insignia. Each bore a rifle. Their show began when the bells in a nearby tower tolled midnight. Four relief guards appeared out of the mist, marching in lockstep across Red Square. As they came within a few yards of Lenin’s body, the guards on duty stepped forward to join their comrades in an intricate drill of turns, shuffles, and stops. Their choreography flowed so smoothly, the eight soldiers exchanged places without any of us detecting how they did it.
Watching them march through their paces gave me an idea. Russia desperately needed capital investment; its economy was teetering on the brink of implosion. I wanted to buy Lenin’s body, ship it to New York City with the display case, and make it the centerpiece of a disco. We could call the club Lenin’s Tomb. Guards would stand point around the corpse just as they did in Red Square, only they would be go-go girls in hammer-and-sickle thongs and pasties. I imagined Lenin spinning in his grave over the idea. But that could be one of the club’s prime attractions, provided we could time his rotation to a hip-hop beat.
I had just finished explaining my concept to Terwillinger when a teammate nudged me from behind. “We have to get out of here,” he said.
“In a minute . . .”
“No. Now. I just shit on the Kremlin Wall.”
“Jesus, you’re kidding. Where?”
“Right behind the blue spruces,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away, “while you two watched the guards change. I figured the crowd wouldn’t pay any attention to me.”
Our friend’s act did not represent a political protest of any kind. He just had to go and there was a shortage of public latrines in Moscow. Anyone who has experienced that situation could understand why he did it. Anyone, that is, but the armed Kremlin guards stomping our way from