Operation White Birch – Part 3
A natural development after Part 1 and 2
Before we go, I want to assure all of you dear readers, old and new subscribers that what I write is 100% a fruit of my imagination. AI has almost killed off my day job – and not only mine –, so let's all keep it out of here, please.
In case you missed them, read Part 1 and Part 2 below:
I'd rushed or, more precisely, bobbled into Baranov's office for a matter of great importance and urgency, or so they'd warned me, where I found him slumped on his chair, with a we-are-not-amused look on his face.
He should have visited a lady that afternoon, with the intent to bring her a precious object, and be entertained as a token of gratitude. “But the motherfuckers, I mean, the distinguished comrades, have decided at the last minute to call a meeting here, where we are to going to discuss the how-to for an exploratory study regarding the blueprint behind the implementation of a plan for the organisation of something big in Leningrad that could possibly involve your presence in the near future, although right now you don't have to know what that is, since we ourselves don't have a fucking clue. Forget I ever mentioned Leningrad, by the way.”
“I had to order drinks, cigars, and zakuski for the meeting, so who knows when it will be over, certainly not before we'll have murdered all the food and alcohol. The plan? What about it? Ah no, I can tell you right now, nobody's going to come up with a plan. We'll cobble something together a couple of days before launching that big thing in Leningrad…Damn it, no one's going to Leningrad, and there's definitely no big thing coming either. You didn't hear a peep from me.”
“Long story short, I don't get to visit the lady, have to attend this stupid sausage party/tedious meeting with the higher-ups, besides, there's a chance I could be sent to Len…some place I loathe. I'm a very unhappy bunny right now, I need cheering up. Strip up then, baby, and give me some sugar. We've got five minutes, chop-chop!”
He stood up, came over to me and started to undo his belt. A snowstorm was forecast for that night and I was wearing thermal underwear, one light sweater, two heavy sweaters, ski trousers, thick socks, galoshes, a puffer jacket, a shapka hat with a long scarf and a shawl thrown in for good measure, tightly wrapped around my neck and head with the help of the other girls in our dorm for International Women of Mystery, before I dared to venture outside.
A deluge of thoughts flooded my mind: “If I get out of this garb, I'll never get in again in…what? Two minutes at most, and what if someone comes in? He'll get away with it – boys will be boys, what a stud! – whereas I'll get saddled with the ‘neighbourhood bicycle’ nickname forever. And you don't have to say you love me, hell no, or put a ring on it but a little respect wouldn't go amiss, you big fat plonker.”
I straightened up, put on my most committed fanatical expression on my face, looked him in the eye and said: “I'd like to kiss ya, but I just washed my hair.”1
“Huh?”
“Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, we cannot let our guard down! My mission is to bring this tea caddy to the lady in town, no matter what happens, and time is of the essence! Your driver awaits. What if the enemy strikes down in the middle of our decadent embraces? Remember what the poet says: ‘Keep in step with the Revolution! Tireless, the enemy is on the watch.’”2
“Huh?”
“It's my time of the month.”
“Huh?”
We heard a knock on the door, and Baranov's attendant came in carrying a service cart, with a cornucopia of strong, heady drinks from both sides of the Iron Curtain.
He remained unflappable, while Baranov nonchalantly buttoned up his trousers, but raised a telling eyebrow, noticing me, all bundled up in an oversize woollen chastity belt.
“Your car's ready, sir. Shall I let your guests in?”
Operation White Birch – Part 4 will land in your email inboxes on June 28th.
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I was itching to use this legendary sentence, uttered by one of my favorite gals, Bette Davis, in the 1932 movie The Cabin in the Cotton. Listen to her mischievous, flirtatious, absolutely classy delivery here.
From Aleksandr Blok's controversial poem The Twelve.
“I straightened up, put on my most committed fanatical expression on my face, looked him in the eye and said: “I'd like to kiss ya, but I just washed my hair.” So funny! Great story, Portia!
“But the motherfuckers, I mean, the distinguished comrades, have decided at the last minute to call a meeting here, where we are to going to discuss the how-to for an exploratory study regarding the blueprint behind the implementation of a plan for the organisation of something big in Leningrad that could possibly involve your presence in the near future, although right now you don't have to know what that is, since we ourselves don't have a fucking clue. Forget I ever mentioned Leningrad, by the way.” Deliciously funny writing, Portia!