The train rocked gently back and forth in an almost rhythmic and, Borisevich thought, almost sexual motion that made him drowsy. He recalled the signs at the ticket agents' windows almost metaphorically and symbolically calling forward the Heroes of the Soviet Union, the Heroes of the Russian Federation, The Heroes of Socialist Labor, the Heroine-Mothers, and the Defenders of Leningrad while, again symbolically, casting out the shirkers and wreckers - perhaps even the kulaks - who wallowed content in the ignorant belief that the first-come-first-serve way of doing things was, truly, the best. He smiled quietly to himself, and then dozed off.
Borisevich had introduced the "Welcome to Russia - Have a Cupcake" campaign first tested at the border crossing at Pytalovo, an hour southwest of Pskov on the border with Estonia, where, as written in Borisevich's report to his superiors proposing such a campaign, "borderguards of the female persuasion, dressed in traditional peasant regalia, will hand out cupcakes to passengers entering the Russian Federation with their documents in order." The citation to be presented to him along with the Gold Star of a Hero of the Russian Federation and printed in the government's Rossisskaya gazeta, read that
"Senior Sergeant Grigory Borisovich Borisevich of the Border Forces of the Russian Federation (Pskov Oblast, Northwestern Border region), took independent initiative without fear of the consequences or punishments which such initiative might incur in a collective and uninspired society such as ours, and devised the 'Welcome to Russia - Have a Cupcake' campaign, a campaign which has been widely successful in enhancing the image and esteem of the Russian Federation abroad to those not blessed by God to be Russian. Captain Ivanov is therefore, by order of the President of the Russian Federation, awarded the Title of Hero of the Russian Federation (posthumously)."
There were, of course, a few errors in the citation.
The campaign was enthusiastically adopted by all border-crossing posts, although the "traditional peasant regalia" was replaced, by the order of the President of the Russian Federation, with French-maid outfits. Crossings into Mongolia, according to unconfirmed reports, substituted goats-cheese and biscuits for the cupcakes but kept the standard "Have a Cupcake" slogan. The Taliban militia in Kabul adopted a campaign based on the Borisevich model, altering it slightly to meet local conditions: "Welcome to Afghanistan - Have a Kalashnikov."
It had, in fact, been Borisevich's mother who baked the first batch of cupcakes, which were handed out on the train from Riga to St. Petersburg, entering at 20:34 on 12 June, 1995. She sat quiet and emotionless beside him on the train now, as she often did when he was around. They were chocolate with white frosting shaped like Lenin's head, and still warm when handed out, although they ran out of cupcakes before getting to the third class cars. Once the campaign was official accepted on a trial basis at Pytalovo, Mrs. Borisevich and her daughter baked the cupcakes, making sure there were enough even for the third class cars. She was even invited to the Great Baltic Cupcake Festival in Vilnius, Lithuania but was denied an entry visa when she replied to the Lithuania consular official's question "Who was Vytautas the Great?' with the admittedly rude answer: "Some asshole." (What relevance this bore to the Great Baltic Cupcake Festival has never fully been determined and the Lithuanian Consulate-General in St. Petersburg would not discuss the matter except to say that "The consular official in question has finished his tour of duty in Russia and has been reassigned elsewhere. This reassignment was in the normal course of duties and was not in response to complaints from Mrs. Borisevich or other, disgruntled Russians who were - legally - denied entry visas into the Republic of Lithuania. The Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Lithuania and the Head of the Foreign Service support fully the work of consular officials in embassies and consulates throughout the world and do not feel a need to revise the interview process of visa applicants at this time.")
Mrs. Borisevich had to be content with a booth in the Great October Socialist Bake-off, sponsored by the Communist Party in St. Petersburg and held at the Manezh on St. Isaac's Square to raise money for local communist party candidates to the Duma. After that, she sold her recipe to the Krupskaya Candy Company in St. Petersburg and retired to her small apartment on Oktyabrskaya Street in Pskov, where her son visited her when on leave. It was the Krupskaya Candy Company which began mass-production of the cupcakes for the Border Forces when the "Have a Cupcake" campaign was put into effect throughout Russia. Mrs. Borisevich had to settle for a minor mention in the recipe "as baked by Borisevich A. R.," and a meager pension as she had sold the cupcake rights to the Krupskaya Candy Company outright and had not made any provisions to receive royalties.
Across from Borisevich sat his immediate superior: Captain Dmitri Sergeivich Ivanov, a large, burly, red-faced man with prematurely white hair. He had started out in government as a sniper with the KGB in Afghanistan. It was said he could hit a man in the eye at 500yards in a blinding snowstorm with a 5 knot crosswind to boot. In his youth he'd made some money threatening to snipe local kids if they didn't give him 5 rubles, and he was rumored to have sniped a local party official's wife so that the party official could take up with another woman, though some say that didn't really happen and the party official simply took up with the other woman and remained married to his, admittedly boorish, wife.
Ivanov was transferred out of the Spetsnaz, the KGB's special forces detachment, after a botched mission in Afghanistan. While exactly which botched mission has never been officially disclosed by Soviet or Russian officials, but he was rumored to have been assigned to guard the front door of the presidential palace in Kabul in late December 1979 while his superior entered from the back and shot the president. When someone stepped out on the front steps, Ivanov promptly shot him. It was his superior. Despite vehement protests that he was under orders to shoot anyone stepping out of the front door, and that, therefore, he had merely been carrying out his mission directives when he plugged his comrade officer, he was transferred to the Borderguards, then a branch of the KGB. As far as can be known, he worked honestly and diligently and made his way up through the ranks of the borderguards to a position as commanding officer of the border crossing point at Pytalovo, but there were some rumors that he had really done so by threatening to snipe his superiors or their immediate family if he was not promoted.
Next to Ivanov sat General Foma Arkhipovich Gerissimov, Head of the Northwest Region of the Border Forces of the Russian Federation. He had made his way up through the ranks by smuggling blue jeans and packs of Marlboros into the Soviet Union, before you could buy them for obscene prices in stores in Moscow and St. Petersburg. Now he spent his days sitting in his posh office in St. Petersburg, drinking vodka and smoking Havanas. To give the semblance of work, he would occasionally shout at his subordinates to finish the reports he'd asked for on the smuggling of nuclear components or narcotics through the Northwest region, reports he'd never in fact assigned them. His evenings were spend in "wine, women, and song," though admittedly he didn't sing much and substituted vodka for the wine. His wife, an ugly old babushka with a face bunched up like a fist, was content with the nice apartment and the dacha outside town and cared little for her husbands other "pursuits."
They were met at Moscow's Leningrad Station (the name had not been changed, though there is no longer a Leningrad to go to) by an obscure functionary sent by General Popov, the commander of the Border Forces of the Russian Federation. The obscure functionary helped them with their bags, showed them to the car, took them to the hotel, and saw to it that they were settled in comfortably. He then asked if they wanted any prostitutes. General Gerissimov at first said yes, but thought better of it and decided to turn in early so he would be fresh and presentable when he met the President the next day.
They were woken early the next morning by the same obscure functionary who saw to it that they had breakfast: kasha, eggs with toast, and tea, and then they all piled into a waiting limousine: Borisevich, his mother, General Gerissimov, a cute, little blonde the General had managed to pick up in the lobby while waiting for the car, a member of the Presidential Security Detachment who'd been assigned to them during their visit to the Kremlin, Captain Ivanov, and the obscure functionary. The limousine made its way down the broad avenues of downtown Moscow - the Third Rome, the Big Potato- past the Arbat, past the statues of Pushkin and Yuri Dolgoruki - the city's founder - and into Red Square. It then turned in at the entrance for VIPs and dignitaries, among whom Borisevich was counted, at least for today. After a brief security check, mostly involving questions about the blonde, they were allowed to proceed to the Great Kremlin Palace and were shown to St. George's Hall. There they were given caviar and butter on toast with a squeeze of lemon, small glasses of vodka, glasses of champagne from Russia's Black Sea Coast, small sandwiches with sausage and cheese, potato salad with peas and carrots and onions, and tea. They were told the President would be arriving shortly.
And shortly he did, making his entrance in grand fashion, accompanied by a bevy of security personnel, personal aides, photographers, spin-doctors, a personal secretary, the Presidential Press Spokesman, General Popov - head of the Border Forces of the Russian Federation - a major carrying a briefcase containing the nuclear go-codes, The President's personal physician, his wife, and his personal biographer. He smiled broadly and swayed from side to side, the way the St. Louis Arch is designed to do in a strong wind. He gave them all a big bearhug, though Mrs. Borisevich had to be revived with smelling salts afterwards, and it was feared for a time that she might have suffered a broken rib. Then he breathed in to their faces a breath thick with spirit, which, suffice it to say, was not the spirit of the living God. General Gerissimov had to be revived with smelling salts afterwards.
The President then spoke a few, inarticulate words, stumbled around the stage and embarrassed the audience by apparently loosing track of where he was and making gooing noises and fart-sounds with his armpits, supposedly to entertain his grandson who was not present. Ah, the personification of Russia and all her majesty and dignity! After that, the President's Press Spokesman stood up and tried to salvage what presidential dignity remained but, despite his noblest efforts, did not do a convincing job and most remained embarrassed and somewhat turned off by the President's behavior. General Gerissimov then stood up and said a few more inarticulate words, as the smelling-salt had not worn off. It is believed they may have had something to do with the importance of the Border Forces in the defense of the Russian Federation and how Borisevich was a model to the Border Forces, though none of this is for certain.
Then the major carrying the briefcase with the nuclear codes stood up and said a few words. Apparently this was the idea of one of the presidential aides, who hoped to salvage the badly floundering ceremony. The major was remarkably articulate and well-versed in history and literature, quoting Pushkin and Lermontov as he spoke of the heroes of the past and "Russia's bright future with heroes like Borisevich." He mentioned "Borisevich's bold contributions to Russia's history," and spoke about Russia's greatness and how "her sons, like Borisevich, would lead Russia into the next millennium." It was all a crock of shit, but the Russians really dig that nationalism stuff and simply ate it up. They applauded him fanatically for a few moments. The major than politely thanked everyone for coming and for hearing his words, then, still clutching the briefcase he was charged to protect - perhaps with his life - he quietly sat back down near the President.
The President then staggered down off the stage and almost plowed into the first row where Borisevich, his mother, General Gerissimov, Captain Ivanov, the Obscure Functionary, and the cute blonde were sitting. General Popov and a pack of aides followed with horror, one clutching the purple velvet pillow with the Gold Star of a Hero of the Russian Federation, another carrying extra medals, in case the President dropped or broke any, as he had done when presenting a medal to a cosmonaut recently. (The cosmonaut had to go home empty-handed and have a new medal shipped to him by Fed Ex.) With a broad, proud smile, the President pinned the bright gold star with its white, blue, and red ribbon on Captain Ivanov's chest and solemnly said: "I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." Then, when informed by a whispering aide that it was, in fact, Senior Sergeant Borisevich who was to receive the award and not Captain Ivanov, he quickly pinned one on Borisevich's chest too. He then awarded the aide a gold star as well, and, in a sudden flurry of activity surprising for a man of his build and state of intoxication, he then proceeded to - before anyone with more sense could stop him- pin gold stars on General Popov, Borisevich's mother, a member of the Presidential Security Detachment, an official Kremlin photographer, and two journalists for the daily newspapers Sankt-Peterburgskie Vedomosti and Kommersant Daily who had been assigned to cover the myriad of largely uninteresting Kremlin ceremonies such as visits by Central Asian heads of states, the presentation of awards, and meetings between the President, the Prime Minister, and the Cabinet.
Borisevich had been too over-awed by the ceremony to realize it had been cheapened by the fact that eight others had also been made Heroes of the Russian Federation by virtue of the fact that they had simply been within arms-reach of the President when he was handing out the medals. He stood, wide-eyed and gaping mouth, perhaps even drooling a bit as the President was whisked away among his bevy of security personnel and his entourage or cortege or retinue or whatever the hell the official word for it was. This, most likely, was to avoid any further compromising or embarrassing situations, which might arise due to the unfortunately unpredictable nature of the man who was, more than anyone else could be, the personification of the nation.
Borisevich and his superior officers, the cute blonde, and his mother were then brusquely whisked out of the Kremlin and driven to the train station to catch the evening train back to Pskov. General Gerissimov was put on the train to St. Petersburg, and the blonde was lost somewhere in the crowds at Leningrad station. The obscure functionary kissed them all three times on the cheek and then returned to the Kremlin with the member of the Presidential Security Detachment in the limousine. It was sort of a pathetic denouement, but these rites of passage often are. As the train departed it rocked back and forth in a rhythmic, almost sexual motion that made Borisevich drowsy. He dosed off, still wearing the Gold Star of a Hero of the Russian Federation, which had been pinned to his chest (and the chests of eight others that day) by the President of the Russian Federation himself.
