Fiction｜Canadian Spy

a submission for the STSC Symposium: Bus

Hello,

I wrote this short story as a birthday present to my friend Yura, and he graciously allowed me to publish it. I translated it to English, which allowed me to relive it again. It is mostly a joke but also a memoir, which makes it especially dear to my heart.

Canadian Spy

To Yura

It was quite a long time ago—we were in seventh grade, a bunch of Russian-speaking teens living in Israel. We used to travel to school in a different city on the same regular route bus—a long, red one, number 274. At the crack of dawn, around six in the morning, the bus would swallow us up one by one at our stops, still sleepy and bleary-eyed, and spit us out at the school. I was the first to get on the bus at the very start of the route, and often had the freedom to choose my seat. Our favorites were right by the entrance: while the rest of the seats were arranged in rows, facing each other’s backs, the first eight—four on each side—were set up in a square, facing each other, perfect for a group to sit and chat comfortably. There were four of us: my best friend Yura would get on the bus second, then we would be joined by Pasha, who was a great guy until he started listening to "Iron Maiden", and Alex was the last to hop onto the bus. Most of the journey, however, was spent with just Yura and me. Of course, we couldn't guarantee that all four of us would get seats together—we were traveling during peak hours, the bus quickly filled up, and no one cared about our seating preferences. Therefore, one or even two corners of our merry square were often occupied by strangers.

Naturally, they often became the subjects of our discussions. Without any hesitation, we would laugh at them, and since the same people often ended up on the bus, we also made up biographies for them, told jokes and stories about them. There were several reasons for our boldness. First, we were bored. Second, we were annoyed that the seats meant for our friends were already taken. And third, we spoke Russian in a Hebrew-speaking country and, with childlike naivety, assumed that most of our subjects of mockery didn't understand us. We were quite surprised one day when a tall, long-haired man, whom we had nicknamed Viggo, the Scourge of Carpathia, irritably pointed out that his real name was Valentin Mikhailovich.

One of our frequent unwanted neighbors we nicknamed the Canadian Spy. His age and occupation were ambiguous. Regardless of the weather or the bus's air conditioning, he was always dressed in a buttoned-up winter jacket and a hat, almost like a ushanka. His face always wore the same lost, surprised expression, his eyes were empty, and the tip of his tongue poked out of his tightly closed mouth. He always clutched an old plastic bag from a supermarket, containing an indistinct bundle of rags. Our jokes began with suggestions that he must be cold, then evolved to the idea that he was frostbitten—hence his backstory. A story about a simple Israeli guy recruited by the Canadian secret services, who had to endure grueling training at the most northern Canadian secret bases. About his battles with polar bears and friendships with Eskimos. About how he returned to Israel and engaged in espionage, traveling back and forth on bus number 274. About his pain and loneliness, and the constant, gnawing cold he had caught like a virus somewhere beyond the Arctic Circle, which no forty-degree heat could ever cure. We weren't mean—at least not too mean. But we were bored and wanted to entertain each other. In these stories about the Canadian Spy sitting opposite us, my friendship with Yura grew and strengthened.

This went on for a couple of years, the joke grew old, and the Spy appeared on the bus less frequently, eventually disappearing altogether. I never knew if he spoke Russian, understood anything we said, or even realized we were laughing at him. It would have been hard not to notice, as we hardly hid our emotions. When we finished school, Yura suddenly moved to Canada himself, emigrating with his parents. We wrote to each other at first, but soon stopped and lost touch.

I wouldn't have recalled this story if it weren't for an incident that happened a few days ago. I was on my way to work by bus, freezing to the bone because the air conditioning vent above me was broken. I was sitting in a continuous stream of icy air. It was early morning, and I sat there dazed, all huddled up and frozen into the seat. A group of schoolkids sitting opposite me were chatting loudly and giggling, and at some point, I realized I was the butt of their jokes. Listening in, I even made out what they were calling me. I won't repeat it here. I didn't do the Viggo, the Scourge of Carpathia—I just rode to my stop and got off without looking back.

That same evening, I decided to write down this story—just for the sake of it, for no one in particular, and with no moral lesson to it. I had typed the first couple of sentences when suddenly I heard the doorbell ring. I stood up to answer. Standing on the doorstep were two people. They were dressed in red uniforms with gold buttons and trousers with stripes down the sides. One of them wore a wide-brimmed flat hat on his head. The other was holding a similar hat in his hands. Their boots were polished to a shine.

"It's time," said one of them in Russian with a slight Manitoban accent, and I recognized that voice.

O Canada!
Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all of us command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
From far and wide,
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

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This story was translated and published for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Each month, STSC members share something around a set theme. This cycle, the theme was “Bus”. 

If you are a writer, you might consider joining us.

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I have also finished translating my novel to English, and now I really need beta-readers. So if you’re up for it, send me an email at me@asimonov.me. Beta-reading will include, well, reading the novel plus answering a quick questionnaire, which is mostly multiple-choice questions and will probably take you 5–10 minutes. I might also ask you some follow-up questions afterwards.

The novel is called “A Grain of Salt”. On the one hand, it is a novel about scientific discovery, beliefs, and truth, and how to merge them into a coherent world picture. On the other hand, it is a novel about ghosts and a little bit about Israel. On the third hand (oh, no!), it is a novel about loss. A dishonest marketologist might call it “Ghostbusters meets Harry Potter” but it is much less commercial than either.

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Best,

K.