Say it in Russian

  SAY IT IN RUSSIAN

  Copyright 2013 Kenneth Eade

  Adapted from the Screenplay of the award winning motion picture:

  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QW9U4hA0YWw

  CHAPTER 1

  It was a time of turmoil, a time of danger. But no wealth ever comes without risk. This was Russia in the 90’s and if you wanted to be a big fish, you had to swallow up the little ones. But, as in the ocean, there was always someone bigger, greedier, and more dangerous.

  Raf padded on the packed powder in a swift jog through the crystal covered forest just a few kilometers from the bustling megopolis of Moscow. Back there, it was 1930’s Chicago, the Wild West. Here, he was at peace. Here, he could get away from the oxhrana who stood guard over him and followed his every move, as if he was in prison himself. Here, he could think.

  What to do, what to do, he thought to himself, panting like a steam driven locomotive. His legs were on auto pilot as he strained to organize his thoughts. In the post-Soviet world of Russia, someone in Raf’s position could never let his guard down. There were the “haves” and the “have-nots”. Raf was a have, but empires could crumble just as easily as they were made in these days. Most important was to be stronger, faster, and to know when to make your move.

  The light grows brighter until it's a barely perceptible image of white and grey particles swirling over a white background, mutating into a storm front. The trail curves right, veering off into the woods. A light snowfall brisks Raf’s uncovered face. The particles increase in volume and intensity. He is now running head on into a curtain of white.

  The flurry finally slows considerably. Moving at a comfortable pace, he glances up, checks his location. Wisps of white cut across a cold gray sky. Suddenly, the crack from a high-powered rifle rings out...stopping Raf dead in his tracks. He listens intently as the shot echoes away in the woods taking the wind with it, leaving only silence.

  Raf’s eyes -- a piercing cobalt blue, alert, focused, intense. He's on the move again and there's a real urgency to his pace this time.

  CRACK! A second shot rings out, this time closer and louder. He dives to the ground, and lies completely still. Silence, broken only by the rustling of the wind in the trees.

  Realizing he has not been hit, he feels both confusion and relief. He attempts to stand. Something strikes him hard from behind and the lights go out. He instantly collapses back to the ground.

  Dazed, Raf commands his body to rise and face his attacker. A boot lands hard on his shoulder, pressing him again to the ground. Its owner, Anton Krylov, trains his grey and chilling eyes on Raf’s and cracks a smile. Four armed thugs with necks as thick as tree trunks, flacked like military special ops, close the circle, their AK-47’s trained on Raf. Raf attempts to rise to meet his attacker, who forces him back down and looks him defiantly in the eye, as he lights up a cigarette, shaking out the match.

  Krylov was not a chief in the scheme of things. He was not an ex-Communist leader or anything of the sort. He started as a driver, and worked his way up. Now he was the right hand man of Oleg Razhin, Raf’s rival. Razhin was as ambitious as he was dangerous, which made him even more dangerous. In fact, he was so dangerous that it was too much of a risk to partner with him, so Raf had to think of another way to separate himself from Oleg. He had him put in prison.

  “You’re not afraid?” Anton grins, the smoke seeping from his lips.

  “Oh, I’m afraid. Just not surprised.” Anton blows out a thin stream of smoke and steam, his smile turning to stone. “How is Oleg?” Raf quirps, defiantly, shaking off the powder as Krylov allows him to stand.

  “I thought you knew. He's in a cell three meters square. Not even his attorney can see him, thanks to you. They feed him garbage. Do you think your new friends in the military police could make his life easier?” Raf looks to the side without turning his head; no escape.

  “No. That's not their job. He just didn't see…”

  “See what?”

  “Our way of doing things.”

  “Zacroy roat!” (Shut up!) Anton screams, enraged, and backhands Raf across the mouth. “A plan is in the works to change his current situation. At the appropriate time you will be expected to comply. After all, you wouldn't want to miss your own wedding, would you?” Raf stares Krylov down, suppressing his rage.

  “My greatest mistake was not putting you behind bars when I had the chance.”

  Krylov punches Raf again, who wipes the blood from his mouth, as if he was finishing his lunch with a fine linen napkin. “He has been patient. Silent. One stroke of your pen and he is free. He asked you as a brother… now he must insist.”

  “So, it’s come to this, has it? Tell Oleg that that all these years I meant him no harm… It's not that simple...”

  Krylov offers a thin, sly smile. “We have friends here in Moscow, and in Paris, who will be watching to ensure compliance. You should know far better than most what the consequences of even the slightest hesitation will carry, and not just for you.” Raf’s expression turns to stone. He stares at Krylov, who chucks his cigarette and backs off into the shadows, disappearing with his circle of thugs.

  Raf emerges from the woods and walks along a deserted road. He hasn't traveled far when he comes to a set of magnificently tooled twin iron gates. The gates shift slightly, magically opening. Raf walks through, entering the grounds of a Grand Estate, nestled beside the Moskva River. On his left, stands a small guard shack. A couple of uniformed guards step out, eager to greet him. He waves them away, and enters the mansion.

  An historical landmark, once used as a summer palace, it is now the home for one of Russia’s new nobles-the ex-Communist party leaders like Raf, who feasted on the spoils of the Soviet machine at the expense of the working class who built it and for whom it was built for. They owed nothing except a thin allegiance to Yeltsin, a drunk and impotent President, whose only political claim to fame was to stagger up onto a tank and declare his power at the end of a brief and ineffectual coup. After settling in, every ex-Communist like Raf declared themselves a “Democrat” and, in return for a few thousand dollars at an “auction,” each of them purchased their billion dollar fortune from the corrupt Yeltsin government. Billions of dollars, more than one could spend in a lifetime, rained down on them as they tooled around in their Bentleys and Mercedes through the streets of Moscow. But whomever could not be bought fought back, so you had to make sure your Bentley or Mercedes was bullet proof, and surrounded by guards and off duty police, carrying AK-47’s. Moscow was not a pretty place in the 90’s. If you played this game, you could be only one of two things-rich-or dead.

  Raf enters the forbearing structure through the servant’s entrance. The walls of the main hall are draped with floor-to-ceiling silk tapestries and magnificent paintings depicting Russian history, like an art museum.

  Victor, an elderly Butler in his 70's, humbly scurries in to his master, who has several noticeable bruises from his altercation in the woods. “Natalia, has she come down for breakfast yet?” barks Raf.

  “No, she sent word she wanted to wait for you….what happened?”

  “It’s nothing. Tell her I will be up shortly.”

  “Horosho.” (“All right.”)

  Raf disappears down a long corridor, into the library, where Nikolai Petrenko, Raf’s young advisor, is in a heated argument on the phone. The door opens. Nikolai turns to see Raf enter the room and instantly notices the scrapes and bruises on Raf's face and neck.

  “Davai, paka,” Nikolai says as he slams the phone down. “What in God’s name…”

  Nikolai looks with concern at his boss. Nikolai may not have been the best choice as Raf’s first lieutenant, but he took orders well and was as loyal as a dog. But that always gave Raf cau
se to have doubts. Nikolai was young and ambitious. Those were two things that could be dangerous in combination, so Raf didn’t let him too close.

  Raf, as silent as a Priest hearing confession, walks over to his desk, pulls the top off a decanter of vodka and pours himself a drink. Slamming it down, he instantly pours another, swallows, exhaling abruptly.

  “You think I don’t know what’s going on?” Nikolai said. Raf says and reveals nothing. “Raf, stop trying to fight these barbarians on your own. Reach out to your friends in the government.”

  “I have no friends in the government. Only business partners.” Raf pulls a cigarette from a pack on his desk, lights it as he walks to the window, peering out. Think, I need to think…

  CHAPTER 2

  A cleaned up, more presentable Raf enters the elegant bedroom. Natalia, 27 years old and blonde as she was born, sits on the bed, sobbing, holding a furry lump buried in her ample chest. She looks up at Raf with big, innocent child’s eyes. Natalia was a “Russian Doll, beautiful as a model, whose job was to look pretty and do as she was told. In return, she had a closet of shoes, a designer outfit for every occasion, with matching logo purses and shoes, and a crown jewels’ collection of fine diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and other baubles. She had Kelly’s and Birken’s in every possible color and leather, and of course, all of her luggage and accessories were Louis Vitton. Raf adored her.

  “Darling, thank God you’re back! It’s tragic!” Raf's eyes impatiently dart toward the window, then back to the girl, smiling.

  “Natashka, what’s the matter?

  She opens her arms, tearfully. She's holding a little miniature white poodle.

  “My sweet Kolya’s caught cold. He sneezed…twice. What can we do?”

  Raf looks very severe. He strokes the bundle of fur in her arms. “You're right to be concerned.” He moves closer to her. She sees the bruises on his face, and tenderly touches them.

  “Darling, what happened?

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “We must warm things up.” He embraces her, their lips meet. Raf gently moves the dog off to the side and falls against Natalia, his own face buried in her breasts.

  CHAPTER 3

  At the immense dining table, Raf cracks the shell of a perfectly done three minute boiled egg. An elderly maid pours tea to a very sexually happy Natalia.

  “Oh, darling, I feel so happy I could burst,” she exclaims.

  “Me too.”

  “Darling, I wanted to talk to you about my dress.”

  “Natasha, just have Victor take you into town and there you’ll find the best dress in Moscow.”

  “But darling, that’s what I wanted to tell you. I already took care of that. It’s a surprise! I just can’t wait till the dress is finished. I must go to Paris immediately for the final fittings. Jacqueline says there’s no other way.” Raf’s expression darkens as she bubbles on, “Did you know that Jacqueline’s favorite dress shop in Paris will soon have a branch in Moscow…”

  “You’ve been speaking to Jacqueline?”

  Raf’s expression has evolved from the initial happiness, to seriousness, and is now approaching anger. All his planning, all the steps he took for security, they’ve all been destroyed for the sake of a stupid wedding dress.

  “I decided to do something useful--hurry along the final fittings. I’ll only be a week. Now, don’t pout, moy horoshi, you want me to be beautiful, don’t you?” She leans over and kisses his neck.

  “So, you phoned Paris and you told her…you told her the date of our wedding,” said Raf, trying to suppress his anger, holding back the flood.

  “She can’t come, she’s a dear, but it’s always work with her…work, work, work…”

  Raf throws his napkin down angrily as he shoots up from the table, Natalia recoiling with shock.

  “Didn’t I tell you that the date was something not to be mentioned to anyone? Not to friends, not to family. That I and only I would contract the guests at the right time?”

  “Don’t be angry, katyonoc. Its only Jacqueline…Jacqueline’s so sweet, I knew she was the right person to go to about my dress. I want all our friends to die when they see it…”

  Exiting angrily, Raf storms past her. “You shouldn't have called. I told you not to.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Paris, the city of lights, its magnificent glittering Eiffel Tower, the golden dome of the Invalides, the majestic Alexander III bridge, the impressive Place de la Concorde, with its obelisk and fountains, and the adjacent Jardin de Tuileries. Behind the Place is rue de Mondovi, a street of elegant townhomes, inhabited by expatriated royalty.

  On the rue de Mondovi is an elaborate townhouse in the classic Parisian style. Elegant suited men escort their diamond-encrusted ladies through the huge front doors, where they're greeted by the staff. This palatial townhouse reeks of money but manages to retain its old world elegance with its magnificent architecture and turn of the century ambiance.

  The party is in full swing. Andrew Lambert, a successful 30-something American divorce lawyer, blends smoothly into the crowd of foreign dignitaries, businessmen and minor mid-east nobility. Andrew didn’t consider himself to be shy or anti-social. On the contrary, he could party with the best of them. But he was by no means a social butterfly. He was very choosy about whom he chose to hang out with.

  Andrew strolled amiably among the glitter, through the throngs of designer clad women and cigar smoking men, casually snagging a glass of champagne and a canapé from one of the passing waiters while maneuvering through the crowd. Looking up, he recognizes his hostess, Jacqueline Derossy, descending a grand staircase. Jaqueline was classically beautiful, handsomely dressed, and a rare combination of elegance, grace, style and wit. Jacqueline is in the company of an interesting woman. Andrew is intrigued.

  The woman Jacqueline is with is absolutely stunning, 30’s, silky hair and a refined, classic face. There's a smoky kind of sensuousness about her. There's something else about her that's captured Andrew's attention. It's the way she moves. A gracefulness when she walks, as if she's floating. Andrew is hypnotized by the girl's illusion of beauty. The two women have reached the bottom of the stairs, but, before he can approach them, a fat and animated man approaches the ladies, greeting them with a flourish. At that exact moment, the woman glances up, sees Andrew staring at her. There's a frank moment of mutual interest. Then the crowd shifts, blocking their view of each other. When the people clear Andrew sees Jacqueline wearing a huge smile, heading his way. Unfortunately she's alone-the mystery woman has vanished.

  “Andrew, I’m so happy you made it. What can I get you-anything at all for my guardian angel?”

  “Now Jacqueline...”

  “Oh, don’t worry, dear. I’m not going to embarrass you-wouldn’t dream of it! Well, maybe just a little.” They walk toward an elaborate buffet of caviar, petites-fours and a bar with a collection that would rival the best restaurant in town. “Oh My! I still can’t believe you saved me from that horrible purse snatcher at the airport. You mustn’t feel like a stranger.”

  Just days earlier, Andrew had arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport. As he was getting into his taxi and closing the door, he heard a woman screaming. A fraction of a second later, a man came barreling down the road toward him with a woman’s purse flying from his shoulder.

  “Stop him!” the woman yelled. Andrew flew open the door. The startled purse snatcher smashed into it and both he and the purse flew over the door, landing on the hard concrete. Andrew tackled the man, just as airport police and Jacqueline arrived. Welcome to Paris.

  “It’s not my country. So, of course I’m going to come to a party where it’s strangers across the board.”

  “We’re not strangers anymore. In fact, I gave you a name.”

  “Actually, my mother already did that…what name?”

  “Out of the Blue. “Out of The Blue. Because you came from nowhere to get my purse back from that thief at the airport.”
r />   “Well, it was a nice purse and I’m Superman.

  Jacqueline laughs, “You don't even know what it looked like.” Andrew laughs. To their right, a tall Spanish Bullfighter waves his imaginary cape theatrically, impressing an adoring American girl at his feet. The Bullfighter pantomimes a bull coming at him like a freight train. It seems his evening was off to a good start with possibly a promising end.

  “Come, let me introduce you to my little Russian friend,” said Jacqueline, as she ushered Andrew over to the girl from the staircase. Daria is young, but wise beyond her years. Not really beautiful, but projects an air of beauty. She holds the past of generations to her heart as if their stories were her own, while at the same time longing to return to the past of her own childhood. Gregarious, but a loner, ambitious and artistic, with a passion for the dance and performing.

  “Daria, guess who this is,” said Jacqueline. It’s that mystery woman again, thought Andrew. And now she was standing face to face with him.