Chapter 9: Kostroma, Gas Station
They crossed through Ivanovo a little after 09:00 without much trouble. Ivanovans were still getting their breakfast and packing their baskets for their country outings. But up the road, Kostroma was wide awake and headed for the dachas, and the Russians were driving like Russians. Lane markers, when they existed, won no attention. Potholes yawned, and cars and trucks swerved as freely to miss them and each other as did one motorcycle with two helmeted riders and a big ryukzak.
At the first stop amidst Kostroma’s heavy traffic, Rudy realized he might be the only foreigner driving in the entire city. And he had no metal walls to protect him from the Ladas and gruzovyki, the big trucks that somehow amidst the shortages and chaos found goods to haul. The cars around him surged, and he surged ahead with them, determined to drive as madly as those around him, the only sure way, it seemed, to survive.
He’d have loved to stop and look around the city. Monasteries with their onion domes whizzed by. He saw some heavily wooded streets and wanted to disappear down them, shut off the engine and walk through the quieter neighborhoods. The wide Volga invited them down to the shore. But he and Ksenia had agreed last night that stopping in Kostroma would likely mean they’d forget time, stay until sunset, never get to Galich.
Fortunately, adrenaline kept him moving. Right now, amid the dust and horns, he wanted to go go go. He wanted to race to the other side, through this urban minefield that lay between him and the vast steppe.
Ksenia navigated for him smartly. She held on tight, shouted levo! or prava!, patted his ribs with the corresponding hand, and carefully avoided any other distraction. The gruzovyki came close, and he charged ahead, getting out and around the big trucks, not letting them box him in to a situation where he could not see what was coming. He found some complicated rhythm, felt the vibe of the other drivers, simultaneously his nemeses and his guides, signaling with their own swerves and surges where to dodge and squeeze. From just before the Volga they caught every green light and cruised nonstop to the north edge of the city. The traffic hardly thinned: Kostromans were thronging out of the city to their dachas, with cars piled with bags, baskets, rakes, and fishing poles.
And at the edge of the city, where the traffic finally offered a little breathing room, they found a benzin station with no line at the pumps. Rudy spotted the sign, spotted the open pumps, and swooped in.
Ksenia jumped off the moment Rudy’s boots touched the ground. Other cars were coming, and she wanted to beat them to the attendant. “How much do we need?” she asked.
Rudy twisted off the gas cap and peered in. “Half tank… two — uh, eight liters?”
There was no sign, but Ksenia did some calculation. “We must pay first. Hand me a hundred, and I’ll pay the attendant.” Rudy pulled the rubles from his pocket and handed two fifties to her. “Don’t touch the pump. They get angry if you do. Wait until I’m back.” She strode to the shack on the lot, nestled amidst a row of four trucks, two of which appeared operational. The door stood propped open—the morning was warming up, especially here on the dark pavement of the station. Ksenia stepped inside, but Rudy could still see her. She rolled off her helmet and spoke to someone hidden behind the grimy window. Over the noise of the highway, Rudy couldn’t make out her words, but he heard the pitch of her voice go higher than normal. She tilted her head and ran a hand over her snug braids. Rubles changed hands, and Ksenia slinked out the door, then hurried across the lot. She handed Rudy back one of his fifties.
A car had pulled up behind them. The driver, a fierce block of a man who filled the driver’s seat, honked. “Don’t stop here on the way back,” Ksenia said, taking the nozzle and handing it to Rudy. “The man’s a pig. Me, he gives a bargain. You, he’ll charge triple.”
The fuel dribbled from the nozzle in fits and starts. From under the rim of his helmet, he watched a potbellied man, a stomach on toothpicks in blue pants and a striped, straining t-shirt, peer from the shack door. Ksenia shuffled out of the ryukzak and made a show of bending over it to fiddle with the straps. Then she stretched her legs. The driver behind them continued to honk every half-minute.
The pump clanked to a halt. “Hey,” Rudy said. “It’s not full yet.”
“Best not to argue,” Ksenia said, putting her helmet and the pack back on. “I’ve given the pig more than he deserves.” One more honk from behind. “We can get bread in Sudislavl. There’s a park beyond. Less than an hour. Good place for lunch. Let’s go.”