Two Passports
Posted by Erich Shelton on Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Under: Short Stories
This is a little bit of an experiment! I have been told recently that I should write some of my memoirs of my life. My first immediate comment was, "Who would be interested in my ilfe?" Well, I have written two short stories and am placing one of them out here. If you think I should write more, please let me know. I have lived an exciting life and enjoy the thought of others reliving some of my experiences with me. So, if you read this and think I should write more, please send me a note. I am eager for your thoughts.
His sneer is something directly out of a film. In fact, I often feel a spectator whenever I am in his office. This certainly isn’t my first visit, but each time I am summoned here I get a slightly uneasy feel in the pit of my stomach. I notice the oversized image of Islam Karimov, the president, which hangs proudly against the dark cherry paneling on my right. If only I could go straighten it on the wall I might be able to concentrate on what he was ranting about. Behind the captain’s desk is a hodge-podge of photographs in mix-and-match frames. The captain was surprisingly handsome in his younger days. You would never know it now as he has put on at least 50 pounds and has salt and pepper thinning grey hair. His uniform, though neatly pressed is at least 2 sizes too small for him. I don’t think I have ever seen him clean shaven. It often looks like he just returned from a long night of too much vodka. I know he drinks quite heavily as I have often smelled it on him. Is this look he is giving me now something all KGB officers practice before joining? As I sit there my mind drifts further and I imagine a room full of KGB men and women, all looking into hand-held mirrors. Their eyes are slightly squinted. One corner of each mouth twists upward while the rest of their lips clench tightly closed. I can see them single-file walking back and forth in a row, clacking their heels. Did they all practice the quick turn-around and that glare of disgust that my host so often does? His shoulders pushed back and firm made him look more severe. I had heard the “tsk-tsk” and snapping of their tongues so often that it comes across slightly humourous. Unconsciously a smile forms.
“Why you laugh? Is this one thing funny?” he attempts in broken English. Most of the time he speaks Uzbek, but sometimes he tries to speak English, mostly I think as an attempt to make himself appear smarter than he really is. I compose myself and motion a silent ‘no.’ Tohir-jon and another young officer near the doorway stare in my direction and say something in Russian to the captain. They know I don’t speak Russian and therefore this always unnerves me a little. What lies are they telling? What untold charges are being made up?
It mystifies me that after the collapse of the former Soviet regime and the expulsion of the KGB that these native Uzbeks would steer the vehicle with more fierceness and recklessness than their predecessors. Sure, they were not called the KGB, or Kuh Guh Buh. They changed their name. But everyone still refers to them as such. They want control of every movement. They still bug homes and follow your every move. Everybody lives in fear, unable to speak openly or honestly about their lives. Nothing has changed…only the drivers.
Again, the same questions come. Over and over we go with the same information. Why am I here? How do I know the British ambassador in Tashkent? Who am I? Where have I been? Who did I speak with? Who do I know at the American Embassy? What was I doing in Margilan? What work am I doing? Who gives me money? Who are these other foreigners? Who do I know in Andijon? Why do I have two passports? The last question seems to be the most interesting to them.
With each round I become more weary. I tell them the same thing repeatedly. Maybe this really is a spy film and I am an uninformed actor playing the part. Again, my mind drifts as I think of being stretched on the rack or having hot wax dripped on my genitals. Perhaps they will use the old Chinese water torture I had seen in an ancient film. Hopefully they won’t touch my fingernails. That would be real torture. I wonder if they will swap me out on a foggy night with a real spy from former Soviet days. It will undoubtedly be on a bridge. I will be stuffed into the back of a black Lada and told that I will have to leave my daughter and wife there. She will meet up with me when I arrive in London. Maybe they are going to torture them as well. What will happen to our house? Belle, our dog?
Thankfully reality persists and I am startled by the slam of the door. Nobody is left in the room but the young Uzbek, who routinely follows me. I have often seen him at the airport, or in the market in Margilan. I’ve seen him in the bathhouse. I’m pretty sure I even saw him in Tashkent, eight hours away by the mountain pass. Tohir speaks the best English of them all. He sits beside me in the grey straight backed chair with the ripped cushion. His smile under other circumstances would appear friendly. The light hits his one gold tooth in front and distracts my attention.
“Erkin-jon, (my name in Uzbek) pay no attention to Nodir-aka,” his right hand now on my left knee. “He is always so angry. He means so little harm. If you tell me why you have American and British passport, I will speak to him and he will let you go home. Would you like some tea?” Again, his gold tooth catches my eye. He places the cup of green tea in my hand. “Bread?” In exasperation I repeat myself. Hoping for something different, his smile slowly turns sour and slinging the leftover tea from his cup into the corner, he puts the cup on the low table, stands and turns away. “Stupid British,” he mumbles, shaking his head, as he walks out of the room.
Fifteen or twenty minutes pass as I sit alone, waiting.
Nodir-aka returns, crashing the door closed behind him. Clack…clack…clack, his heels strike the dingy green linoleum tiles. He walks behind the large maple desk and sits, never taking his eyes off me. “You must tell us when you leave Ferghana, when you will return and where you are going,” comes the final threat again. There are a few words in Uzbek which I don’t quite understand. Perhaps he mingled them with Russian, which was often the case. He hesitantly hands me my American and British passports and keeps his glare on me.
I quickly place them into my pocket in case he changes his mind. Then comes nothing but silence. After a few minutes, which seem much longer, I ask if I may go. “Go,” is his only reply. His face is now red and swollen.
I grab my chapan and wrap it closely around my body. I turn and walk towards the door, with my hat in my right hand, not daring to look back. I gently close the door behind me, waiting for the click of the handle and look right down the wide hallway. My uncontrollable heavy sigh is the only noise I hear in this darkened passage as I begin my exit. There are black-and-white images of KGB officers lining the hallways, with dates beneath their names. It feels as if all of their eyes are on me, but I know this is only my paranoia. In the centre of this hallway is a large medallion with Russian inscriptions which I cannot make out. One hallway, turn right– another hallway, turn left and finally I see some light. Before I leave I have to sign out and walk through that heavy steel door.
There is a lady who barely looks up at me, her Atlas silk dress glimmers by the sunlight coming in her window. Her scarf, which clashes with her dress, is tied neatly around her hair. She pushes the clipboard in my direction with a grunt and goes back to her work. It is then that I notice her sullen face, the black outline around her lips, the blue eye shadow, and her one thick eyebrow created with the help of an eyebrow pencil. I try to make light conversation but am ignored. “Rahmat,” (thank you) but still no reply.
I walk out into the bright sun and squint as it stings my eyes. I put on my warm fur hat and adjust it, making sure I have it on the correct way. Through the dusty courtyard I walk, towards the high metal rusted gates and past the guards on my right. One of them stops me and demands to see my paperwork. He’s young. These are often the worst ones. They love the power of their badges. I only show the British passport and tuck it back into my chapan. Satisfied, he lets me through.
There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell them when I leave town, I whisper silently, as I walk home to my family. Two passports, indeed. I can’t remember how the KGB ever saw the American passport. Oh well, just another day.
His sneer is something directly out of a film. In fact, I often feel a spectator whenever I am in his office. This certainly isn’t my first visit, but each time I am summoned here I get a slightly uneasy feel in the pit of my stomach. I notice the oversized image of Islam Karimov, the president, which hangs proudly against the dark cherry paneling on my right. If only I could go straighten it on the wall I might be able to concentrate on what he was ranting about. Behind the captain’s desk is a hodge-podge of photographs in mix-and-match frames. The captain was surprisingly handsome in his younger days. You would never know it now as he has put on at least 50 pounds and has salt and pepper thinning grey hair. His uniform, though neatly pressed is at least 2 sizes too small for him. I don’t think I have ever seen him clean shaven. It often looks like he just returned from a long night of too much vodka. I know he drinks quite heavily as I have often smelled it on him. Is this look he is giving me now something all KGB officers practice before joining? As I sit there my mind drifts further and I imagine a room full of KGB men and women, all looking into hand-held mirrors. Their eyes are slightly squinted. One corner of each mouth twists upward while the rest of their lips clench tightly closed. I can see them single-file walking back and forth in a row, clacking their heels. Did they all practice the quick turn-around and that glare of disgust that my host so often does? His shoulders pushed back and firm made him look more severe. I had heard the “tsk-tsk” and snapping of their tongues so often that it comes across slightly humourous. Unconsciously a smile forms.
“Why you laugh? Is this one thing funny?” he attempts in broken English. Most of the time he speaks Uzbek, but sometimes he tries to speak English, mostly I think as an attempt to make himself appear smarter than he really is. I compose myself and motion a silent ‘no.’ Tohir-jon and another young officer near the doorway stare in my direction and say something in Russian to the captain. They know I don’t speak Russian and therefore this always unnerves me a little. What lies are they telling? What untold charges are being made up?
It mystifies me that after the collapse of the former Soviet regime and the expulsion of the KGB that these native Uzbeks would steer the vehicle with more fierceness and recklessness than their predecessors. Sure, they were not called the KGB, or Kuh Guh Buh. They changed their name. But everyone still refers to them as such. They want control of every movement. They still bug homes and follow your every move. Everybody lives in fear, unable to speak openly or honestly about their lives. Nothing has changed…only the drivers.
Again, the same questions come. Over and over we go with the same information. Why am I here? How do I know the British ambassador in Tashkent? Who am I? Where have I been? Who did I speak with? Who do I know at the American Embassy? What was I doing in Margilan? What work am I doing? Who gives me money? Who are these other foreigners? Who do I know in Andijon? Why do I have two passports? The last question seems to be the most interesting to them.
With each round I become more weary. I tell them the same thing repeatedly. Maybe this really is a spy film and I am an uninformed actor playing the part. Again, my mind drifts as I think of being stretched on the rack or having hot wax dripped on my genitals. Perhaps they will use the old Chinese water torture I had seen in an ancient film. Hopefully they won’t touch my fingernails. That would be real torture. I wonder if they will swap me out on a foggy night with a real spy from former Soviet days. It will undoubtedly be on a bridge. I will be stuffed into the back of a black Lada and told that I will have to leave my daughter and wife there. She will meet up with me when I arrive in London. Maybe they are going to torture them as well. What will happen to our house? Belle, our dog?
Thankfully reality persists and I am startled by the slam of the door. Nobody is left in the room but the young Uzbek, who routinely follows me. I have often seen him at the airport, or in the market in Margilan. I’ve seen him in the bathhouse. I’m pretty sure I even saw him in Tashkent, eight hours away by the mountain pass. Tohir speaks the best English of them all. He sits beside me in the grey straight backed chair with the ripped cushion. His smile under other circumstances would appear friendly. The light hits his one gold tooth in front and distracts my attention.
“Erkin-jon, (my name in Uzbek) pay no attention to Nodir-aka,” his right hand now on my left knee. “He is always so angry. He means so little harm. If you tell me why you have American and British passport, I will speak to him and he will let you go home. Would you like some tea?” Again, his gold tooth catches my eye. He places the cup of green tea in my hand. “Bread?” In exasperation I repeat myself. Hoping for something different, his smile slowly turns sour and slinging the leftover tea from his cup into the corner, he puts the cup on the low table, stands and turns away. “Stupid British,” he mumbles, shaking his head, as he walks out of the room.
Fifteen or twenty minutes pass as I sit alone, waiting.
Nodir-aka returns, crashing the door closed behind him. Clack…clack…clack, his heels strike the dingy green linoleum tiles. He walks behind the large maple desk and sits, never taking his eyes off me. “You must tell us when you leave Ferghana, when you will return and where you are going,” comes the final threat again. There are a few words in Uzbek which I don’t quite understand. Perhaps he mingled them with Russian, which was often the case. He hesitantly hands me my American and British passports and keeps his glare on me.
I quickly place them into my pocket in case he changes his mind. Then comes nothing but silence. After a few minutes, which seem much longer, I ask if I may go. “Go,” is his only reply. His face is now red and swollen.
I grab my chapan and wrap it closely around my body. I turn and walk towards the door, with my hat in my right hand, not daring to look back. I gently close the door behind me, waiting for the click of the handle and look right down the wide hallway. My uncontrollable heavy sigh is the only noise I hear in this darkened passage as I begin my exit. There are black-and-white images of KGB officers lining the hallways, with dates beneath their names. It feels as if all of their eyes are on me, but I know this is only my paranoia. In the centre of this hallway is a large medallion with Russian inscriptions which I cannot make out. One hallway, turn right– another hallway, turn left and finally I see some light. Before I leave I have to sign out and walk through that heavy steel door.
There is a lady who barely looks up at me, her Atlas silk dress glimmers by the sunlight coming in her window. Her scarf, which clashes with her dress, is tied neatly around her hair. She pushes the clipboard in my direction with a grunt and goes back to her work. It is then that I notice her sullen face, the black outline around her lips, the blue eye shadow, and her one thick eyebrow created with the help of an eyebrow pencil. I try to make light conversation but am ignored. “Rahmat,” (thank you) but still no reply.
I walk out into the bright sun and squint as it stings my eyes. I put on my warm fur hat and adjust it, making sure I have it on the correct way. Through the dusty courtyard I walk, towards the high metal rusted gates and past the guards on my right. One of them stops me and demands to see my paperwork. He’s young. These are often the worst ones. They love the power of their badges. I only show the British passport and tuck it back into my chapan. Satisfied, he lets me through.
There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell them when I leave town, I whisper silently, as I walk home to my family. Two passports, indeed. I can’t remember how the KGB ever saw the American passport. Oh well, just another day.
In : Short Stories
Tags: uzbekistan
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I currently teach graphic design and illustration at the University of Southern Indiana. I really love teaching and the challenges which this provides me. It not only keeps me young, but forces me to be that ongoing learner; sometimes referred to as a life-long learner. This goal of continuing to learn as finally brought me back to the role as a student as well. Some years ago I started and MFA, but due to an automobile accident was unable to complete it.
I have just been accepted as a student at the Academy of Art University in San Francisco and will finally be able to work on the MFA. The great thing is I can continue working at USI and will visit the AAU in the summer. The rest of the time I am able to take my courses online.
Like technology and life, it is constantly changing and evolving. What a joy to be part of it all!
