Initially I thought that I would be in Moscow for almost a week, and I had visions of criss-crossing the city to visit the monolithic industrial facilities leftover from the age of command economies. I hadn't counted on travel and time zone changes. Despite leaving Calgary early on Monday afternoon, Vassily and I did not touch down in Moscow until Tuesday evening. It was a bit of a shock to my wife and I when he knocked on our door, town car waiting at the curb, to ferry me away. I explained his presence away as one of the perks of my new position, though I guess I really ought to have expected his appearance. Moscow was a long ways away, and there wasn't much to stop me from disappearing somewhere halfway in between, even though such a thing was far, far from my mind. But with our layover in Frankfurt, Vassily would make sure that I arrived when and where I was supposed, and I thought to myself, he would also help prevent me from getting lost. The last thing I wanted was to have travelled all the way there and then end up missing Gregorii because I had wandered down the wrong street, so part of me was thankful for Vassily's company.
There was an email waiting for me on my phone when we checked into the airport lounge in Frankfurt. Vassily ordered a beer as I logged onto the complimentary wi-fi to find that someone had finally bid on my grandparents dolls and trains. I contacted my cousin Samuel, hoping that it would be easier for him to travel to Vancouver from the logging camps to organize the packing and shipping. I felt hesitant to reveal how much the collections were netting. On the otherside of the world, Samuel was ecstatic at the news. One look at my Russian companion however was more than enough to quash any such feelings I might have had. I should have felt an immense relief instead I felt numb all over.
Vassily shepherded me through the Moscow airport upon touchdown. With only a few days on the itinerary, I had packed light again, allowing us to skip the baggage claim area and head straight for the passenger pickup area where Gregorii's car was waiting. Inside the sleek Mercedes town car, Vassily informed me that rain was expected for later tomorrow, clouds were already gathering in the greying skies. I went over the elements of my plan. Instead of investment money, I would offer Gregorii purchase orders, made by the Mother Corp. I would use my new position to requistion the goods. The only problem was that I still could not remember what it was that Gregorii and I had talked about investing in. I wanted to have more of a plan, so I could appear more confident in my approach. My online research into Eco-Muscovy Ltd. revealed a diverse group of holdings, from wind-powered electricity generation, to industrial utility meters, and even recycled kitchenware.
Sooner than expected we were at the hotel, an imposing edifice reminiscent of something out of a Bond film. Vassily whisked me inside while a doorman retrieved my bag from the trunk. I stood in the marble clad lobby, staring at the dark wood trimmed fixtures and paintings of historic Russian personages, a sense of the unreal gathering around me.
Vassily took a key from the desk clerk and then spoke to the porter, who nodded and headed towards the service elevator. "Alexei will take your bag to your room. Gregorii has one of the private dining rooms booked to welcome you. Come."
Escorted down the hall by the desk clerk, we emerged at a small conference breakout room lined with linen tables. Along one wall, a full assortment of appetizers was arranged around an elaborate large silver vessel. My initial thought was that Gregorii had somehow arranged for the Champions League trophy to be present at our meeting, but I quickly remembered the smooth rounded shape of the trophy looked very little like the object I was staring at. The thing on the table was a cross between a fountain and a cauldron, with no obvious handles, just many thin arms. It reminded me of some of the art deco-inspired espresso machines I had seen in Italy.
"This is a samovar," Vassily laughed, picking up a cup and saucer from the table and giving it to me. He took another for himself and pressed down on one of the arms, releasing a spigot to allow a flow of coppery liquid to fill his cup. "For tea."
I followed suit with my cup, adding to the saucer one of the finger sandwiches laid out delicately on a plate before. Vassily picked up a bowl of stir sticks and offered me one to me. I was surprised to see a clump of sugar crystals at the bottom. Vassily smiled and brought the bowl to a nearby table. He sat down and placed the sugar lump between his teeth and sucked back on the tea. "Russian tea is very strong. Tradition is to hold the sugar in your teeth like this," he made the sucking motion again, "to sweeten the taste."
I sipped the tea once without the sugar and it was incredibly bitter, with a mossy, almost peaty after-taste, like scotch. I did my best to hold the sugar as Vassily did, and proceeded to make a horrible slurping sound that I was afraid echoed throughout the room and back out to the front desk. Vassily laughed. I tried again, but did no better and contented myself simply to stir the remainder of the sugar into the tea. We had a few of the pastries and cakes and then Vassily motioned back towards the door, where a porter beckoned. He took a final, long, drag from his cup and then placed it back on the table.
"Rooms are ready. Let us go. A shower and a shave, as they say," he winked, "Then we meet Mr. Gregorii for proper dinner and talking business."
Vassily and I had adjoining rooms. I felt like I was back in Vancouver and my cousin Jaxon was preparing to bunk with me in the Space. Except this time, there really was concern that I was a flight risk, though heavens only knew where I might be go. I felt certain that the hotel was likely being watched and any attempt to flee out the front doors would only result in physical violence. The room itself was immaculate. I sat on the soft bed, undressing and laying out my clothes for my meeting with Gregorii. I brought the black suit I bought for my Nonno's funeral. I thought it fitting, since I had not ruled out my own funeral as being one of the evening's possible outcomes. There was fine wood desk and chair in one corner, and a sign on the minibar claiming the tiny bottles of alcohol were complimentary. I took one with me into the bathroom, although I was so blown away by the bathroom that I left it sitting on the counter. The general hotel decor, and the room itself, was all brass, gold and wood pre-WWI Belle Epoque Beaux Arts inspired, but my bathroom was a rectilinear modern masterpiece of black granite and white stone. The shower head must have had a diameter on ten or twelve inches and I spent a long time sitting under it's refreshing deluge trying to consider what I would say to Gregorii. I was certain that anyone who could access my passport information to arrange for visas, probably had other information about me as well. He knew I didn't have any investment money. The question was, why was I here at all then. There was no reason to bring me back, especially after I ignored his early overtures. There had been no mention of the incident in the parking lot, which police could have written off as a simple bar room fight. I didn't think the muscle twins killed the man. Plus he had a knife, so there was always a claim of self-defense as well. I told myself not to panic. Strong and silent, Geoff had said of the suit. I really hoped it would work for me tonight.
Vassily was knocking by the time I left the washroom. Hastily, I threw on my pants and answered the door. Vassily saw me and laughed. "Are you done making pretty? Should I come back in an hour?"I looked at him as I quickly buttoned my shirt. "You'd really come back in an hour?"
He sat on the bed, legs slightly spread. He leaned back on his hands, causing his jacket to open, exposing a new gun sitting in a shoulder holster that hadn't been there on the airplane. It must have been waiting for him in his room. He looked at me, deadpan serious, "No."
I tried to laugh and tie my tie, but was too far from the mirror and too nervous to get the length right. Vassily rolled his eyes and stood up. He picked out another tie from my suitcase and moved around behind me. "Hold still," he said, grabbing my arms and quickly tying my hands behind my back. I think my heart rate doubled as he came to stand in front of me. "I said, hold still." He put his hands on my shoulders and then flipped up the collar on my shirt. He quickly untied and then retied my tie to the right length, pulling loose the tie holding my hands together and throwing it back on the bed in one fluid motion as he walked to the door. "Are you done making pretty? Let's go."The car ride to the restaurant was quiet. Vassily didn't say much, other than to point out a few key landmarks, as if I was a tourist. The restaurant was small, intimate with delicate tables surrounded by comfortable chairs. The first course was waiting for us when we arrived, as was the wine. Gregorii made small talk, asking about my flight and the hotel, as well as what I thought about Russian tea. Vassily earned a chuckle by relating my experience with the sugar crystals, and promptly offered to fill my wine glass, while Gregorii ran down the itinerary for tomorrow. The soccer games was slated to start at 20:00, but Gregorii recommended that we attempt to arrive at the stadium early. A car would be sent by mid-lunch. The wait staff appeared and disappeared on cue, bringing and removing dishes as necessary. It appeared, to all intents and purposes, like we were the only ones in the restaurant. Gregorii, Vassily, myself, and Gregorii's two giant nephews; one seated on either side of me.
"When are we going to the factory?" I asked, noting that my flight left the day after tomorrow.
"Tonight," Gregorii said, "I thought it best if we went there straight from the restaurant. That way you can think about things and you have a chance to ask questions or negotiate details before you leave while we are at the soccer game."
The factory, a renovated warehouse used to stockpile British tea imports during the nineteenth century, was on the outskirts of town, a long ride through the dark Moscow night. Despite being well-after midnight, a skeleton crew was present, overseeing the assembly line machinery. Gregorii led me around the facility and I went through my standard questions about production methods, supply, inventory, cash flow, etc. Gregorii was quick with answers, but whereas other companies I was sent to investigate were eager to offer audited financial statements to back up their claims, Gregorii merely responded to my inquiries about paperwork with the evasive explanation that the books were not kept on the premises. In one of the conference rooms overlooking the produciton line, there was a model of the solar film assembled. Gregorii walked me through the key differences between his film and a traditional solar panel. Aside from cheaper production methods, the film was more malleable, allowing for greater flexibility in placement. "So," Gregorii exhaled slowly, "what are you thinking about our proposal?"
"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully, "the technical specs for your product seem comparable to those I've seen for other kinds of solar devices. If you really can produce it at such low costs, then I think you've got the potential for a real winner on your hands."
"You will invest then? Currently we are struggling to keep our costs in check. The price point I mentioned is what we can offer if the factory is functioning at full capacity," he put a hand on my shoulder. "The problem we are having is keeping the factory operating at such a level. This is a critical time for Russia. We want to show the world that we are country capable of running a modern business environment. But many people, like you, still think of us as - how did you say? The home of gangsters and commissars. It is hard to sell to foreigners but we are also having difficulty convincing the Russian people that our solar film is a good choice to use. They seem to think that the famous Russian winter is not so friendly a solar environment."
"Gregorii," I sighed, "I would love to invest. Unfortunately, I must admit that I no longer have any capital on hand at the moment. Fluctuations in the market have temporarily made my funds illiquid." Gregorii and the twins frowned. "However, I will certainly speak highly of your company to others I know, as well as keeping Eco-Muscovy in mind once I find myself in better times."Everyone took a step closer and I suddenly felt crowded by the four giant Russians. I moved back out of the room onto the metal gangplank. It was a bad decision, and they surrounded me. Vassily reached forward and put a hand on my shoulder. I looked over the edge and watched the machines at work thirty to forty feet below.
"We know all about your financial situation," Gregorii said calmly. "We know you are in no position to do anything. These illiquid assets that you speak of, we know they do not exist. It is your company I am interested in, but I do not appreciate your attempted deception, and certainly expect you to speak highly of us when you return. More to the point however, I expect you to write a recommendation to your company endorsing our solar film. The order from your company will be quite large. It will allow my facility to produce at capacity, marking a first for a Russian solar company. The publicity will be enough to encourage more Russians to buy our product."
I nodded, remembering how easily the twins picked up their parking lot assailant in Las Vegas.
"Good," Gregorii clapped. "To do otherwise would be unwise, I think. Vassily will provide you with proper numbers and information upon your return." He looked at his watch, "It is late. Tomorrow will be a long day. Let us go."
It was a silent drive back to the hotel. I emptied the hotel mini-bar before falling asleep.
The morning of the match, people were everywhere. The night before, as we drove around town from the hotel to the restaurant and to the factory and then back again, the streets were oddly quiet, despite the fact that tens of thousands of soccer fans were pouring into the city from the airport, bus depots and train stations. Apparently savvy travelers had been landing in Riga, the capital of nearby Latvia, and then arriving by train and bus throughout the night to arrive in time for the match. At any rate, I awoke and looked out the window to see the streets flecked with people in red and blue jerseys. The hotel lobby bustled with activity as match day tourists were congregating even here. I was very tired from the night before, and looked around for Vassily to see what was the plan for breakfast. Along the way, I kept an eye out for an espresso or cappuccino. My head was still foggy from the jet lag, tea, wine, and all those little bottles. The Luzhniki Stadium, formerly the Central Lenin Stadium, and now properly the Grand Sports Arena of the Luzhniki Complex, was built on a finger of land just outside the city centre, in front of the beginnings of the massive blocks of Soviet apartment buildings routinely associated with drab communist architecture. It was surrounded on three sides by the river, and was actually part of a much larger athletic park used for the 1982 Olympics, though the stadium itself was still much older, having hosted the World Ice Hockey Championships in 1957. It had recently been renovated, to demonstrate it's usefulness as a potential showpiece in Russia's bid for the 2018 World Cup. Gregorii was quite keen to fill me on these exciting details, though his demeanor grew dim as he solemnly talked about the deaths of spectators at a soccer match in the 1980s.
Even though it was still hours before the match, our car was little more than crawling along the Komsomol'skiy Prospekt, through what appeared to be a university district, and leading up to the stadium grounds. Gregorii pointed out the many museums and delicate churches dominating the area, their steeples visible every now and then between the trees or rooftops of buildings. Eventually, the streets became so crowded with pedestrians, that the driver was forced to pull off to a side street and let us out. We made the rest of the way on foot, the increasingly carnival-like atmosphere almost taking my mind off the twin ogres walking beside me.
After crossing a major thoroughfare, we entered the park proper, a lush green space with trees and sculptures of people poised in what I assumed were traditional Russian outdoor activities. Gregorii again pointed out the different landmarks, such as the swimming pool, the Olympic offices, and a part of the park that hosted field events in the summer but was flooded in the winter to serve as an outdoor skating rink. The view of the park from the other side of the river, he said, was beautiful, owing to the many lights shining up into the trees and dotting the stadium. We followed the crowd through the park. Things started to slow down as we neared the stadium, and passing through the main ticket gate, with all the people and extra security for the match, was like cuing up in a passport line at the airport. Gregorii and his nephews looked unperturbed by the extensive uniformed presence searching for illicit beverages and presumably weapons or throwable objects. I was surprised at how easily they consented to the pat downs and metal wands. It probably took close to half an hour, merely to cross the fifty feet in front of the entrance and onto the stadium concourse. Once we were in, we followed Vassily who had been delegated to watch for signs leading to our seats in the lower bowl. Little stalls and kiosks filled the concourse, selling posters, programs, jerseys, flags, scarves and more. People were lined up everywhere and now that we were in the stadium, Gregorii's nephews had opened their jackets to reveal Chelsea jerseys and matching scarves. I briefly thought about buying a Manchester United scarf until I realized that I hadn't bothered to change any of my money and it reminded me, despite all the excitement of the match, just how precarious my position was here.Despite my nerves, I was astonished at how good a view of the field the seats had. I mentioned as much to Gregorii, who merely smiled and patted me on the back. The players, trotting around on the field in various warm-up activities, were clearly recognizable, no longer the little moving dots they appeared as on my television screen. Interspersed between the security personnel lining the edge of the field, were groups of small children laughing, cheering, clapping, and pointing to their favourite players. After some time, the players disappeared back into the tunnel leading to the their respective locker rooms, while stadium staff rushed onto to the field to prepare for the opening ceremonies.
Gregorii picked this moment to lean casually over to me, "I am glad you are enjoying the view and hope that we see a good game today. I want to make sure that there are no hard feelings from last night. You understand, I am a businessman, and based on our last conversation in Las Vegas, I made certain preparations and incurred certain costs that it now behooves me to recoup. I'm sorry to hear about your current financial situation, but I am sure that our strategy will serve both of our interests."
I nodded as it was clear to me that Gregorii's strategy did nothing to advance my career, especially if his solar film turned out to be a bust upon my recommendation. I needed some way to shield myself from any direct association with Eco-Muscovy directly; some way to find plausible deniability in case things went poorly.
He continued talking, injecting a series of forced chuckles between his sentences, "But let's not talk business! We are at a sporting event! Let us be sporting to each other. The last time you and I sat down to watch Chelsea, we had a little sporting wager, no? Perhaps you would like to do the same this time? Give me a chance to win back my money?"
I looked at him, "Gregorii, I would love to, but you know I have no money."
"Come now, let us make a wager," He put a hand on my thigh and I suddenly felt Vassily's weight leaning against my shoulder. "I understand your financial position, and you must not think me some kind of Russian mobster, to put this business deal to you without offering you some kind of compensation or commission. We all hope for those days to be behind us, and so for arranging these contracts on our behalf, I would offer you a commission of fifty thousand dollars per million dollars worth of sales that you generate. You would act as a kind of sales agent on behalf of my company."
"I see - and one million dollars worth of film would, in your estimation, represent a suitable trial-sized quantity of solar film?" I asked, somewhat numbly.
"Why yes, I think it would suit your company's initial purposes adequately, and I have every confidence that you will be able to arrange such a contract," Gregorii smiled. "So you see Allan, you do have some money to place a friendly wager on the outcome of today's match, and what could be more sporting? I see that your man, Hargreaves is set to play, so we have our two sides represented. What say you?"
"I guess," I tried to hide the sinking feeling I had in my stomach. "If you're willing to see me the money until the contracts are signed, I'll take that wager. Last time we bet, what? A thousand dollars?"
Gregorii laughed as the crowd roared it's approval at the on-pitch activities, "Yes, yes, a thousand dollars, but my dear Allan, it was a thousand dollars for a game in England that meant nothing to either team. It seems hardly fitting that if we risked a thousand dollars on such a small game that we would wager the same on a game that would decide who would be the Champions of Europe."
I sighed, a vision of where this was headed forming in my mind, "I suppose so. How much were you thinking then?"
"Let us say, fifty thousand dollars. Should Manchester win, I will pay you your fifty thousand dollars in commission. Should Chelsea win, you will owe me fifty thousand dollars in expenses.""Wait," I said, even though I understood exactly what was happening. I just wanted to hear Gregorii say it out loud. "Are you suggesting that even if I get my company to accept the contracts with Eco-Muscovy, the only way I collect the fifty thousand dollar commission is if Manchester United win?"
"You understand perfectly," Gregorii clapped, accepting two beers from his nephew and passing one towards me before taking a long pull from his own. "It will make everything more sporting, no?"
"What if Chelsea loses and my company refuses to accept my purchase request?"
He frowned and raised his glass in toast, "Let us not think such dark thoughts. The game is about to start, let us drink to the idea of a great game ahead of us."
We all raised are glasses in salute, as did a few neighbouring spectators, and the Russians all took long pulls from their drinks. Afterwards I stood up and announced that I had to go to the bathroom. Everyone shuffled awkwardly to allow me to pass and I walked the concourse thinking of all the things that Gregorii might do if I failed to deliver on the contracts. Given the terms of our wager, it seemed the only thing I had to worry about was failing to convince the Mother Corp. to follow up on the purchase recommendation. Gladys had expressed some reluctance to deal directly with foreign companies, so I didn't know exactly what I could tell them that would entice them to buy the solar film from Eco-Muscovy. I was pretty sure I could convince them to try out the film, since we had been experimenting with solar panels in one of the other pilot projects I was involved in with the local utility company. Perhaps I could present this as an extension of that, but convincing them to take the risk on from a foreign company seemed high unlikely. I needed some kind of front organization. Inside the washroom, I had an idea.
I called Zahir.
"Zahir, it's Allan," I whispered.
"Hi Allan," he answered cheerfully. "Why are you whispering? Where are you? It sounds like you're in a metal closet?"
"Nevermind. Zahir, what was it you said your new company does?"
"We're working on developing new environmental office cleaning technology."
"Do you actually have a product?"
"Well...like I said the last time we talked, we're working on it, but we're still a few months away from anything marketable."
"Ok. Listen," I said, "I'm with some people here and they're looking for someone to license their product in Canada. I can authorise my company to buy these products from an official Canadian distributor. I just need someone to act as a middleman. Interested?"
"Where are you?"
"Russia."
"Seriously?" he laughed, "What are you doing there?"
"It's a long story. I'll tell you about it when I get back. I'll send you the story, but listen, don't go telling the rest of the family about this. This is just something between us for now, ok?"
"Well, I'm still not sure I can convince my partners to do that, we're not really set up to act as a distributor - we're a manufacturing company. There'd be paperwork involved."
"Don't worry about the paperwork, we can take care of that."
"Tell me again why you need a Canadian distributor?"
"My company prefers doing business that way - they seem to think that there's less risk involved if there's another player on the team, to share the risk as it were."
"Well, I'm not sure how I feel about that. Is this on the up and up?"
I shrugged, "Zahir, it sounds like we're talking about millions of dollars here."
His voice changed, "Really?"
"Think about this as a way to get the extra funding for your development cycle. Plus, it'd be an excellent opportunity to establish your company in the field. Once your own product is ready, I can recommend my company purchase some of your cleaner."
"This is legit?" Zahir asked again.
"As legit as anything else, I guess. Are you in?"
"Alright. We'll wrangle out the details when I see you? Next week?"
"Yes."
"Ok, then I'm in."
"Thanks. You're a lifesaver," I said and hung up. I was so excited I almost ran all the way back to our seats, trying to avoid knocking over other spectators.
The Champions League theme song was just finishing and the players were breaking into their formations in anticipation of the opening kickoff. With Zahir onboard, I could present the product as something his company was field testing. Vassily and Gregorii were whispering to each other, but the twins were riveted, awaiting the first movement of the ball. The opening minutes were exciting, as the ball travelled back and forth along the length of the pitch, both sides attempting to establish control of the game and pacing. From where we sat I could see the Chelsea coach standing, frowning, occassionally waving his arms at his players. The Manchester United coach, by contrast, was sitting stoic and composed. He had led his team to these Finals less than ten years ago, while the Chelsea coach had arrived with the team once the season was already underway. It was a miracle that Chelsea had somehow managed to make it to this, their first ever European Final.
Both teams were evenly matched and struggled to push the other around. Suddenly, around twenty minutes in, there was a massive collision between two players. All I saw was a cluster of activity and the referee running towards the commotion. Upon standing, Paul Scholes' the Manchester midfielder's face was awash with blood. The referee immediately issued yellow cards to each player and both team benches exploded in a flurry of protest. The game struggled to return to form in the aftermath of the scuffle with the play wandering around the field. At the Chelsea end, Manchester United defender Wes Brown tossed a lazy ball to the Scholes, the bloodied midfielder, who held the ball at his feet while Brown ran into the open. A light pass from Scholes allowed Brown to move around the edge of the forty-yard box, causing all of the Chelsea defenders to drift towards the two active Manchester players. Brown fired a high cross to the other side of the field where a waiting Cristiano Ronaldo launched himself into the air and headed the ball into the net. The crowd roared to life, cheering and clapping, stomping their feet. Manchester United supporters burst into song and the stadium was alive to the tune of "Glory, Glory, Man United." The twins were cursing loudly in Russian and Vassily was on his feet yelling something at the players. Even Gregorii winced in pain as they brought the ball back to the centre circle. I let out a deep sigh of relief. While the game was a long way from being over, the early lead, combined with the constant flow of beer, did much to help calm my nerves.
Chelsea struck back almost immediately. A fierce shot from forward Didier Drogba was redirected by Manchester United defender Rio Ferdinand. Goalkeeper Edwin van der Sar barely managed to keep the ball from crossing into the back of the net. Enlivened by their near brush, Manchester United rushed forward on the counterattack, hemming Chelsea in at every corner. Chelsea rocked under the pressure as the Red Devils had several good chances to score. The Blues were forced to rely heavily on their lanky goalie Petr Cech and the forceful presence of their captain and chief defender John Terry. As the first half wound towards it's close, and the rain began to fall, Chelsea appeared to stumble into a bit of luck. People around us were already standing and making their way to the concourse when Chelsea midfielder Michael Essien fired a fairly routine shot into the Manchester United area, but it took two awkward bounces off of a pair of defenders and fell to the highly charismatic Frank Lampard, who had little else to do but put a boot onto the ball. Edwin van der Sar, lost his footing and slipped on the wet grass while trying to change directions, allowing the ball to roll past him into the net. The crowd exploded. Vassily and the twins were hugging each other, and it was clear from the volume of the noise that the home crowd had adopted Chelsea as their own.
Halftime was painful to endure. There was no way the game could end in a tie. Chelsea's late goal had brought us back to square one. Manchester's dictation of play in the first half almost had me believing that I might be able to leave Moscow alive, albeit owing my livelihood to a Russian mobster. Now everything was up in the air again, and as the clock ticked towards the start of the second half, I felt my stomach rising in my throat.
The resumption of the game did little to improve my spirits. The cups of beer were replaced by the warmth of Russian tea, but Chelsea's quick play left me cold. Manchester United appeared off-balanced and still shocked by Lampard's first half injury-time goal. The Blues used their momentum to press and with every surging attack, I felt the contents of my stomach do likewise. There were moments when Manchester rallied and inflicted a couple of lashing plays that only the brilliance of Petr Cech managed to keep from turning into goals. Still, the best chances of the second half came from striking Chelsea players like the commanding German midfielder Michael Ballack and the sensational Didier Drogba whose long range volleys, under pressure from the solid Manchester defenders Rio Ferdinand and my own fellow countryman Owen Hargreaves, failed to find the mark.
The rain continued to fall, with patches of water starting to surface on the pitch. In the stands, we were huddling closer as the night wore on and the temperature fell. Hot cups of tea were ubiquitous at this point, as was adding vodka for extra warmth. My stomach lurched with every Chelsea attack while my head swooned with every Manchester counter. At the 77th minute of play, I saw that Manchester was going to take off bloodied midfielder Paul Scholes in exchange for speedy winger Ryan Giggs. Memories of his electrifying end-to-end run to score the game winning goal in extra-time against Arsenal, sending Manchester United to the FA Cup finals in 1999 set my heart racing. Sure enough, less than ten minutes later the entire stadium screamed out loud, half in delight, half in agony, as the Manchester attack caught Cech out of position and Giggs' ball was barely blocked away by John Terry.
Regulation time ended a few moments later and barely anyone in the crowd moved from their seats during the five minute interval before the start of the two halves of extra-time. I could barely watch. As the game resumed, I looked around for a clock; it was so dark and cold I felt surely we were approaching midnight. The players however, showed no signs of slowing down. If anything they appeared more energized than ever. In the past, I had observed teams playing a tentative and conservative style in the extra-time, as if they were waiting for the on-set of the penalty kicks. Tonight however, both teams came roaring off the benches like punch-drunk fighters looking to win with a knockout punch. Despite the flurry of activity at both ends of the field, the first and only real chance in the first half came from Manchester United, as once again, Petr Cech found himself on the wrong side of the field as the ball fell easily to Ryan Giggs, but once again, Giggs was denied as his ball was headed off the line by a diving John Terry. As Terry picked himself out of the mud, I was sure I was not alone in yelling out vodka-infused curses at the Chelsea defenseman.
During the second half, players on both sides started experiencing bouts of cramp and although the game appeared ready to ebb, it was exactly at that moment that passions bubbled over into a violent scuffle involving all twenty-two players on the field. At the time, no one had any real idea what had happened. Squinting through the rain, all we could see was the referee issuing star Chelsea striker Didier Drogba a red card and the prolific Ivory Coast goalscorer walking sullenly off the field. Afterwards, we found out that apparently Manchester United striker Carlos Tevez had played the ball unsportingly forward after Chelsea had stopped play to treat players for cramp. Enraged, Drogba had slapped Tevez, prompting the ensuing melee. The affair seemed to knock both teams off their focus and the clock ticked ultimately towards midnight and penalty kicks.
Technically, the sending off of Drogba benefited Manchester United in the penalty kicks, however it gave me no comfort to watch the players huddle and then move to their positions. The thought that my fate was now tied to the muddy white penalty spot was too much to think about. The first two kickers for both sides scored easily on their attempts when the unthinkable happened. Cristiano Ronaldo, scorer of the games opening goal, Portugal's prized crown prince of soccer, fluffed his ball and Petr Cech easily picked it off the ground before it ever reached the goal line. Frank Lampard, himself having drawn Chelsea level earlier in the game, casually put his own ball in the back of the net, giving the Blues their first, and most important, lead of the game. I felt light-headed. Gregorii and Vassily eached gripped my shoulders and pointed to the field. The twins were yelling something in my face. In my mind, the game was over, but I tried to focus on what was happening. I looked up in time to see former Calgarian Owen Hargreaves take his position and launch the ball into the net. I cheered half-heartedly although my Russian companions cheered and clapped on my behalf. As Petr Cech rolled the ball back to the penalty spot and traded places with Manchester keeper Edwin van der Sar, I knew the game was over and so did the Chelsea players. Ashley Cole scored and Nani responded for Manchester United, but Chelsea still had one player left to break the deadlock. My whole body felt numb as John Terry, the man who had single-handedly denied Manchester United two game-winning goals, placed the ball and readied himself in the rain. He took a step forward and I felt the weight of the world crashing in on me. Then everything burst into noise and people were on their feet.
John Terry had slipped in the mud. His ball wobbled harmlessly away.
I looked around. Gregorii, Vassily and the twins were in agony, yelling empty oaths into the air. The game moved into sudden death. The first team to fail to equalize would lose. The Brazilian Anderson opened this second round of scoring for Manchester, while Didier Drogba's fellow countryman Solomon Kalou responded for the Blues. Ryan Giggs added another for the Red Devils and I felt a spring of hope for the first time since Frank Lampard scored in the first half as I watched Nicolas Anelka walk to the spot. Anelka's track record was poor, and as I had seen him do on many other big game occasions, he calmly and coolly kicked the ball right into the waiting hands of Edwin van der Sar. The Manchester United players burst from the sidelines hugging and cheering each other. The crowd exploded in song. They had won. I had won. I felt like I was floating in air. The medal presentation was a blur, as was the slow progress down the stairs and out of the stadium. In my mind, all I could see was John Terry falling and my spirit lifting.
The streets were wet and slippery after the hours of rain, but the crowd didn't seem to mind. It allowed itself to be carried along, following the streams of cigerettes and garbage floating down the sidestreets after the match. There was a wildness about the night, now that the game was over. Many of the people on my side of the room were still singing, periodically earning a rebuke from another group passing somewhere behind it. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but many of the men and older boys stumbled out of the pubs and swung care-freely from the street lamps in their replica jerseys. The puffy jester hats, so common on the boulevard during the lead up to the game, had disappeared with the onset of the rain. The street itself was dark, lit more by the headlights of motor scooters and road flares than street lamps. I barely recognized it as the same road. I emerged from the stadium onto a narrow alley, but the crowd swept me up back to the main boulevard. Store windows I had meant to grace with a second look hours earlier were now covered by thick iron shutters.
I felt happier and more alive than I could remember being for a long, long time. The rain felt refreshing and I wanted to sing along with the crowd, but contented myself with the occasional shout or yell. My companions were more subdued, though Gregorii kept smiling, clapping me on the shoulder every few minutes as he shepherded me down the street and periodically offered me more vodka. His nephews followed at our sides, creating a little pocket of space in the dense crowd. Somewhere they had a car waiting to take me back to the airport.
Now, we were seated in the car and I felt the warmth emanating from the heated seats. Gregorii seemed non-plussed about the loss, neither by Chelsea or of the wager. The promise of a business entry into Canada had warmed him on the chilly walk back to the car. Now, en route to the airport, he sang snippets of songs, and congratulated me on my winning."Your Canadian did you good tonight! You should be proud. Canada is a great place to live. One day, maybe I will go there too - lovely to visit, I went once, long ago, on business."
"Really? Whereabouts?"
"Vassily has cousins that moved to Montreal at the end of the 1980s, but they now live in Vancouver. Vancouver is much better to live in they say. Less cold, better beaches. I found Vancouver to be more open to new business, but Montreal reminded me more of home."
I laughed, "I can see that. What do Vassily's cousins do?"
"They are involved in real estate development. You know, make old houses go away and then put new houses in their place for more money. Vancouver has lots of old houses no one wants to live in. Sometimes they become very hard to sell. Vassily's cousins know what to do with such houses."
I laughed again, grimly this time, "I know what you mean. I have family in Vancouver too. We have an old house we wish could just go away."
Gregorii frowned. "Yes, people have much money tied up in old houses that could be put to better uses, such as investing in companies with promising new technologies, no? Vassily's cousins know how such things are done."
I looked across the seat at Vassily, who nodded sternly. Looking back at Gregorii, we shook hands.
