“You’re from the Czech Republic, right? How much do you earn?”
A stocky guy with a receding chin has his priorities straight. I’m barely in the passenger seat before I’m being asked a question.
“Well, that depends on how busy you are right now,” I reply evasively. “The average salary in Uzbekistan is around two hundred dollars, right?”
There are only two types of dating questions. One concerns age and presence/absence of a spouse and children, and the other concerns the amount of the paycheck. I have rehearsed answers to both types in many languages. “I have a husband” is my most used phrase ever, and I could write a dictionary on it (well, a very crappy dictionary on one phrase, and a purely false one at that). The chubby dude with the light brown sparse stubble and swollen pink hands on the steering wheel even managed to manage both types of questions in the opening few minutes.
“Yeah, two hundred, three hundred, three hundred and fifty in Uzbekistan. Dollars. In Germany, one thousand five hundred. And in America, five thousand dollars. Would you have a job for me in the Czech Republic?”
“Yeah,” I say (author’s overhead note – here I leave space in advance for objections of various kinds, on a scale from polite to less polite, regarding immigrants stealing our jobs: ), “there are jobs. Lots of people from Uzbekistan work in Prague as drivers and also in car manufacturing. But the pay is not much.”
“I see. I’ve just got a green card. I’m leaving in two days. To America.”
“What?” I can’t believe my imperfect Uzbek. “You’re serving yourself a grünkarte, huh?”
“No, I got it.” He says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m going in two days, on the seventh. To America. Five thousand dollars. In America.” He smiles proudly. Well, I don’t see what you’d do in the Czech Republic. If you have a green card. Yeah, kid, I wish you’d go for the American dream. Five thousand bucks a month, you can’t get that in Uzbekistan.
“Where are you going? Which city?”
“I don’t know yet. I have a friend there. He’ll help me find a job somewhere. There’s an awful lot of people from our town here.” pointing absently at the random houses passing by.
“Do you have a husband?” he follows up smoothly.
I show the ring on my hand and use my favorite phrase, “Mende erim bor,” which instantly transforms me from a cheap sex object into a respectable elderly lady. I love it. Not so much today. It doesn’t work today.
“Oh. Well, shall we be friends?”
“Well what about you, do you have a wife and kids?” I decide to turn the conversation around, rather offensively.
“Yeah, I do. Four kids.”
“Well, are they coming with you, to America? Or is the green card just for one person?”
“Nah, the green card is for the whole family. But I don’t want them there. I have enough of them.” He looks disgusted, and indicates with his right thumb a sharp cut under his chin, from the inside out, which is probably meant to indicate that it’s gone beyond a tolerable level. However, when you want to show that you’re going to cut the ram, the gesture isn’t much different. In fact, it’s exactly the same. With a disgusted look on his face, he goes on to add a second gesture, moving both hands with his palms like bowls downwards, which I suppose I hope doesn’t mean that his wife has her tits pulled up to below her belly. I decided not to go into the meaning of these gestures too much for the sake of argument, one shouldn’t ask questions one doesn’t want to know the answer to. I’m sure he meant that his wife’s hair is waist-length and very difficult to comb.
“I’m going there alone. And I’ll be sending money. They still need some money. I don’t need money.”
“Well, how are you going to do that when you’re in America and your wife and kids are here?” I wonder aloud.
“I’ll find a wife there. And I’ll have two wives. One here in Uzbekistan and one in America.” He counts out the list of his future wives on the fingers of his right hand, grinning happily like a first grader before the reward for his first report card.
I burst out laughing. “Well, I don’t think that’s going to work, two wives at the same time.” I retort sharply and also slightly offended.
“It won’t work, will it?” He frowns. But only for a few seconds. “I’ll have two wives.” He laughs all over again, this time slightly guiltily, but quite guilelessly enthusiastic. “And five thousand dollars.” Happiness radiates from him. And who am I to play the moralist here? “Okay.” I reply. “Okay.” People are supposed to be happy. And this guy at least has a goal in life.
“So, are we gonna be friends? You and me?”
I buried my chance of a lifetime to have a rich, américa groom in a big way.
“We will. Stop right there. Bye.”
And I dug my backpack and ass, smelling indiscriminately like a stable full of dirty Kyrgyz horses, out of the flashy black BMW.
