My Third Day at the Gallery of Navicular Artis

It’s 3:30 in the afternoon and I haven’t eaten since breakfast, which consisted of two boiled eggs, a cold, sliced-up tomato, two halves of black bread, and a glass of orange juice. I had to get to the gallery by 3:00 so I headed for the metro directly after class. On the way I stopped by a bookstore to see if they had the Ozhigov portable Russian dictionary, my latest love-object. I need this dictionary like Gollum needs his ring––a body-spirit, psycho-pathological, atomic yen for five-hundred pages of supple genius which, I imagine, pines for me from between those glossy, mahogany-tinted covers. Besides, how’s a man supposed to learn Russian if he doesn’t have the finest portable Russian-Russian dictionary with him all times right there in a holster beside his faithful Katzner (the best English-Russian dictionary for students)? See, if you use Katzner exclusively, you’re not gleaning novel Russian words and phrases, definitive phraseology used to clarify abstract and everyday concepts alike. Am I supposed to breathe this language in?

When I realized they didn’t have a copy I had a sudden urge to call in an airstrike.

I arrived at the gallery late. Fifteen minutes––not bad for Russia. It could have been ten minutes, but I ducked into a grocery store to grab a snack. I bought yogurt and a plastic container of what looked like potato salad. ‘Salad olivier’ they call it, a French import which resembles potato salad with hard-boiled eggs and lots of mayonnaise. This one had chicken in it, and a sticker that told me it was ‘New!’. I usually don’t buy food with that label but I was in a hurry and I didn’t understand the labels on the other products.

I’ve been in the gallery an hour now and we’ve had two visitors, a couple who came in asking for Gleb, one of the curators. The man had shoulder-length, dirty-blonde hair and a crowded, toothy smile and he handed me a cell phone with a woman on the other end speaking faster than the announcer at the Kentucky Derby. Something about brochures and students and the verb ‘to bring.’ I said yes to all her demands then handed the phone back to the man. God, I hope she doesn’t expect me to do anything for her; it’s not in my job description to leave this room. What did she want anyways? Normally I’d be in a panic, thinking I’d set some terrible set of events in motion, but I can’t think of any plausibly threatening combination of the words ‘brochures,' ‘students’, and ‘to bring.' Is it really possible that the students are bringing pain, destruction or Linkin’ Park to me because I’m carrying brochures for the gallery? Maybe they’re looking to trade for brochures?

Now my stomach is growling again. I’ll have to suck it up and finish the olivier and wait for the students to show up. If they bring me some food I’ll give them all the brochures they want.