Russian Mafia

I had a brand new experience last night.

Many of you may know I wear glasses. Once I tried going without them and I tripped on a flat sidewalk. It’s that bad. But last night, I wanted to show off my style and cast off my specs for a couple hours. I took my hubby’s arm and we went to a bar in town called Chicago. It’s supposed to be an “American” style bar with live music, Tex-Mex menu, and abundant seating.

We joined our house guest, a student who is studying Russian, and my husband’s co-worker, Bob, at a large table surrounded by couches. Honestly, at that moment, the evening did not seem promising.

Then many of Bob’s Russian friends started arriving. They were warm and friendly and each of them spoke English well enough to make small talk. Once the visiting was over, the sun began to set (making my vision ever so much worse) and there we were in the dark and the man at the head of the table, Ivan (pronounced EE-vahn), says with a thick accent, “Eeet eez time to play…MAHHFEEEA.”

Then he looked at us. “You know theez game?”

We didn’t, but our house guest explained it and we smiled and went along.
So here’s the idea: There are three members of the Mafia, one doctor, and the rest are citizens (grazhdanin). Each person draws from a hat a piece of paper which holds their identity. Then you go around the table explaining why you are not Mafia. Of course even the Mafia says they are not Mafia. Then everybody votes on who they think are Mafia. It can be explanations like “he moved his eyebrow when somebody looked at him.” Or, my favorite, “Sasha is always Mafia so he must be mafia now.”

My explanation: “I am not Mafia because I am bad liar. If I am Mafia, I would giggle.” This drew out a few giggles from our companions.

When people vote that you are Mafia, you die. Obviously not really, but it means you’re out of the game. Sometimes the doctor can bring you back to life, but if the Mafia finds out who the doctor is, they kill him too. It was extremely fun.

After the game, poor Nadezhda wanted to play again because she died first. And sure enough, Sasha was Mafia and he is 12 for 12. I guess statistics can go against you even with paper scraps drawn from a hat.

Then she asked about our work. I simply explained, in slow clear English, I don’t have job. I stay home with our четыре дети (cheteeri dyeti-four children). This was when I was glad I didn’t wear the glasses. The entire table began to ooh and aah that I must, in fact, be a good liar because that is impossible, "I don’t have body that has four children." I was flattered to say the least.

They asked about how long we’ve been married and about our preconceived ideas about Moscow. I told them about my son who thinks Russian women are beautiful.

Then Sergei, who had been seated next to me all evening without saying a word, spoke perfectly, “Your son, he can take Russian woman. But do not leave your girls. Russian men are bad.” This was said slightly humorously, and slightly not.

We talked about translations, people’s work, and Moscow in general. Some of them said they want to see New York City. I said, “New York City is not all of America.” Ivan said very slowly, “yeez. But there are those who say Moscow is not Russia.” That was not the first time I had heard that.

Right before we left, I got up the nerve to find my way to the restroom. I walked slowly, barely able to see anything and found the door marked ‘Ladies’ in English. I laughed when I got inside. All over the walls were pin-ups of American magazines from the prohibition era (again--bar named Chicago). I laughed out loud.

I am so happy here in my host country and yet pieces of America through Russian lenses make me feel even more welcome. I was glad I took off my lenses to see these warm, wonderful people who make up Russia. And look out! The Mafia could be anyone.