to the gate.
Yarko was remembering the various pieces of advice he had been given, as well as the strange mission that he had chosen for himself. Fresh worries crowded into his head. Treasure hunting in the basement of someone’s home now seemed like a totally ridiculous idea. In any case, he’d need help. But how would he find a friend who would agree to such a task? Who could he trust in this land where wolves lived among the sheep in the same flock? The current police force was composed of many of the same communists who had served previous masters. The streets were filled with thieves of every stripe. For an American dollar or two they would perform any service, or they could simply kill you. Maybe in a church he could find some honest people, but certainly not of the kind who would agree to the risky adventure that he had in mind. This could certainly be some adventure.
Yarko reviewed the details of the challenge. He needed to locate a certain house. He had to enter its basement. And by some old furnace or stove he had to dig up a treasure that had been buried there a half-century ago. Then he had to get whatever the treasure was to a safe place. Somehow, he would have to do this under the nose of the very people who would be living in that home today. It was unlikely anyone would agree to this challenge without demanding a piece of the action.
He still didn’t know what this family treasure could be. His father had explained to him that his grandparents were teachers. Long before the war they also had a little bookstore. Nobody got rich in that kind of business. So the family treasure could consist of nothing but photographs, documents, perhaps a little jewellery – things that could not be safely taken with them, but could also not be left behind. And then there was his grandfather’s precious ancient find mentioned in the letter. In his imagination, Yarko was Ali Baba, and as for the forty thieves, they certainly would never be hard to find in the streets of Lviv. “Both sheep and wolves,” he mumbled under his breath. “I’m sure we’ll have wolves in sheep’s clothing. Those I’ll have to watch out for.”
Pushing these thoughts from his mind, Yarko looked about him to find the last of the passengers slowly filing up the aisle to the exit at the front of the plane. He snapped to his feet and grabbed his knapsack from the overhead storage bin. He caught up to the last passengers as they filed through the exit door. Leaving the plane, he heard a fragment of the conversation of the captain and his crew. He couldn’t understand a word of the Russian they were speaking. The badge on their tunics showed a yellow trident lying on its side, looking like a falcon in flight.
Yarko climbed down the stairway and onto the wet tarmac, bracing himself against the cold wind and rain as he hurried towards the doorway of a grey, colourless building. Only then did he notice that on both sides of him stood soldiers wearing the green uniforms of Ukraine’s border troops. Neither their uniforms nor their comical oversized officers’ caps had changed since the days of Gorbachev. For Yarko, these hats and uniforms symbolized the bloodthirsty Empire that was no more. Yet here, in a free and independent Ukraine, its troops still wore the hideous dress of their former masters.
Without realizing it, Yarko broke a sarcastic smile at the thought of the very incongruity of it all. A nearby trooper smiled back with such a bright smile of welcome that now Yarko felt totally embarrassed. Well and truly red-faced, he quickly entered the building.
Now that, he thought to himself as the doors closed behind him, that was surely a sheep in wolf’s clothing!
And again that crooked sarcastic smile creased his face as he hurried to the baggage collection area. The passengers were packed into a small area, waiting for any sign that their baggage would be arriving. The wait became a little uncomfortable for Yarko. Something was surely not right. Yet the locals seemed quite content to wait patiently for what seemed like an eternity.
Patience is a virtue, thought Yarko, but this country no longer has time for such patience. The world is passing it by, he knew. In fact, the world seemed quite prepared to forget about Ukraine completely.
Yarko knew that in seven days he would be leaving this flock of sheep and taking the train through Hungary to Austria. He was bored already. After several more minutes of waiting, he saw airport staff carrying the baggage, one suitcase at a time, to the waiting room. It was after watching nearly everybody’s luggage get carried in that he finally spotted his suitcase, then his duffel bag, and finally his dismantled mountain bike wrapped in a dozen layers of cellophane.
Knapsack on one shoulder, duffel bag on the other, his bike under his right arm, and dragging the suitcase with his left, he felt like a biblical donkey as he made his way through to customs.
To his surprise, he cleared customs with ease, answering the official’s questions in a mixture of both English and Ukrainian. His next task was organizing some inexpensive transport to the Hotel Ukrayina, near the centre of Lviv. Taxi pimps, opportunists who brokered taxi transport, jumped him, offering him a ride in a choice of ancient Skoda or dilapidated Lada for a mere $40 – American dollars, of course. Almost tempted to accept, he thought better of it after learning that bus fare was under a dollar. The buses were tall Mercedes vans called marshrootka, from the French term marche-route. Two hryvnias, or about fifty cents, was the going price, but the driver balked at Yarko’s extra luggage. Prepared for such eventualities, Yarko slipped his chauffeur five dollars to assist with his load. This was more than enough to secure enthusiastic assistance. Yarko didn’t realize it at the time, but the tip amounted to a half-day’s pay for the driver.
“Hotel Ukrayina, if you please,” said Yarko in studied Ukrainian.
“I’ll stop right in front of it.”
Sitting comfortably in the marshrootka, Yarko complimented himself on his newfound ability to negotiate in this foreign land. The wad of American dollars in his pocket appeared to be an effective social lubricant for getting over those rough spots. The rain was still falling, so the view through the van’s window fell short of that promised in travel brochures. Pot-holed roads and grey concrete apartment buildings looked even more sombre when streaked with wet stains in the rain. Metal surfaces that had been painted over a dozen times still bled rust. Military trucks repainted in garish colours appeared to have been recently pressed into performing civilian duties. The automotive landscape in this part of the country appeared, for the most part, to be a throwback to the seventies. There were very few recognizable models. He recognized Ladas and the old four-wheel-drive Nevas – once known as Cossaks in Canada – but it would take him a few days to learn to spot Ukrainian Tavrias, Russian Volgas, Czech Skodas, and the Korean Daewoos that populated the roads. Yarko closed his eyes and caught another snooze.
The driver woke him as the marshrootka pulled in front of the Hotel Ukrayina. Again Yarko found himself outside in the rain, burdened like a mule, looking at a yellowish four-storey building that clearly had seen better times. Run-down areas of Vancouver also had hotels such as these; only there, they’d be surrounded by drunks and addicts. Here the sidewalk was empty. On the street level of this building was a store, the Smerichka, or Fir Tree. The store window display was sparse. The room windows above displayed the occasional crack, and one was boarded up. It attracted attention like a black eye on a passer-by’s face. Yarko shivered both from the cold rain and the thought of actually staying in this building. He entered the lobby and after paying by credit card, was directed to the second floor.
The second-floor hallway was presided over by a seriously overweight middle-aged matron at a desk station by the elevator. She babbled something in Russian about his passport. Yarko had been warned about the leftover Soviet practice of holding passports hostage, and absolutely refused to comply. After several minutes of argument, where he learned to use English as a trump card, he registered himself in her book and went to his room.
There was no water in his washroom. Instead of a refreshing stream, the taps issued an ominous hiss. There was no point contacting the front desk. Yarko had been warned that Lviv, having been founded as a fortress on high ground, was located on a divide; as a result, water supply was a constant problem. Yarko knew that in an hour or two, certainly by the next day, the water would be turned back on.
To cheer himself, he busied himself assembling his bike. He had no doubt that an aluminum-framed, fully suspended, twenty-four-speed mountain bike was just what he would need to explore his grandparents’ hometown. Designed