The Soviet Comeback by Jamie Smith (best ereader for academics TXT) 📕

particularly severe pothole, it slowed to a stop next to him. He noticed that the bumper was held on by duct tape and there was a significant dent in the driver’s door. A man, perhaps in his sixties, with crooked teeth, a patched hat and a leathery brown face that could only belong to one who spent most of his time outdoors, peered out at him, a smile on his face.

“Éla tha se páo egò?” the man asked.

Nikita’s Greek was very limited, but after his intense studying of the phrasebook Mrs Shapova had given him, he vaguely understood the offer of a lift.

“Entáxei,” he replied in acceptance, relieved to get out of the beating sun and cautiously climbing into the passenger side of the cab.

The islander nodded benignly to him, before throwing the truck into gear and pulling away with a screech of the engine. The road ahead was barely visible through the thick dust on the windows but the driver navigated his way confidently, like a man who had a lifelong affinity with the roads of this small speck of land on the eastern edge of the Mediterranean.

The truck’s cab was sparse and well worn, the seatbelt long since disintegrated. Groaning its way to the top of a hill, the truck reached the peak and treated them to a stunning view of the old port town of Skyros and the blazing azure of the bay glinting in the rising heat.

The driver caught Nikita’s wide eyes admiring the view, and he laughed. He pinched his thumb and index finger and kissed them like a French chef celebrating a fine meal, before opening his hand to the view.

Nikita smiled in spite of himself. “It’s a beautiful island,” Nikita said loudly in an effort to be heard over the indignant engine and the grinding of the suspension taking on the bumpy track.

“Yes, very beautiful,” responded the man in heavily accented and stunted English, clearly delighted to see Nikita sharing his love of the view. He offered Nikita a cigarette, which was refused, before lighting one of his own, the pungent smell filling the cab. Nikita would have suspected they were strong Turkish cigarettes if he didn’t know better than to think any Greek man would be seen smoking a Turkish product.

Ten minutes later they had bumped their way down to the harbour and the truck ground to a halt in another screech of unhappy brakes. Nikita, spluttering slightly at the heavy smoke in the vehicle, cranked down the window a crack to let in some fresh air before turning to thank the driver, who was offering his hand. He shook it, feeling the smooth, beaten leatheriness of his hand.

“Welcome to Skyros; I am Giorgos,” he said, again trying to get his old Greek mouth around the English words, but seeming to Nikita to have more familiarity with them than he let on.

“Thank you for the ride,” replied Nikita. “Martins, Nathan Martins.”

Giorgos’ crinkled eyes twinkled, and he nodded at Nikita. “Adío, Nathan.”

“Adío.”

Nikita climbed out of the truck, and watched as it pulled away, thick smoke still snaking out through a crack in the window. He took a deep breath, feeling relaxed from his interaction with a normal person. Aside from his brief visit to his family, he could not remember the last time he had spent any time with someone who was neither KGB nor politician. He realised he missed it, although it was such a long time ago now, he could scarcely remember exactly what it was that he missed. The more he considered it, the more he realised he was missing something he had never had. It was more the missing of an innate human need than any real personal experience.

He strode down a ramp to the seafront, past the first of many seafood restaurants, making his way towards the town centre and its smattering of gaudy shops hocking tourist tat, before making his way into the heart of the port town.

The narrow, paved streets were all bordered by the same whitewashed buildings with blue shutters, creating a feeling of sunshine, space and beauty.

Finding his feet taking him down Serakonta Street, he paused outside a small shop in a narrow road heading inland. The shop window was full of small wooden carvings, with everything from masks to bowls and earrings, mainly carved from pale brown olive wood.

But it was none of those that had caught his eye. Almost obscured by a particularly ugly attempt at a giraffe was a small carving of a dog. However, it was carved in an unusual black wood, and was not just any dog; it was unmistakably a Black Russian Terrier.

Nikita was stunned by the piece, not only to see a carving in a wood that was unvarnished but somehow as black as him, but also of the Russian military dog, a dog he had come to know well during his training with Denisov. He stood there transfixed by the piece, and became momentarily oblivious to his surroundings.

He pushed open the small door, and stooped to enter. The shop was empty except for a young woman behind the counter, idly flicking through a magazine.

She did not so much as look up as he entered, and he suddenly felt awkward about announcing his presence. He couldn’t see her face as it was obscured by the book, but he could see a tumbling mass of brown curls exploding out from behind the words Vogue Magazine.

He began wandering about the shop, inspecting the various carvings largely hewn from olive wood. He was avoiding the Black Russian dog; for some reason he felt awkward about going straight to it, although he could almost feel its presence and was slowly working his way towards it. He was very nearly there when the woman’s voice behind him said, “What is it you are looking for?” in an accent he struggled