Сергей, or How I Lost My Kalmyks

I texted Нарик before we went to Джао Да two nights ago, hoping for a reunion with the Kalmyks. You already know what happened…They didn’t come. I’m used to all kinds of rejections, so seriously, nothing more than a cosmetic dent on my self-worth. Maybe some other time he’ll reply. Maybe not.

Definitely not.

I was still daydreaming, lying on Stephen’s floor staring at the ceiling, when my stream was split by the very ringtone I so carefully selected to represent me. I let it linger before ответ-ing. I didn’t recognize the number. I should’ve let it linger forever.
The voice on the other side spoke a stern and manly Russian; my hope of it being any one of my friends quickly vaporized. He was deliberately avoiding answering my questions while trying to find out who I am. All I could find out about him is that his is Sergei (Сергей). After digging out of me equally useless facts such as my name and where I’m from, we switched to English and proceeded to have the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had with a total stranger over the phone in a foreign country overrun by mafias.

Сергей: Would you like to meet Russian girls?
Я: (Oh god I’m being randomly accosted by a pimp) Um…No…
Сергей: Do you know who Madia is?
Я: Who? How do you spell that?
Сергей: Madia. М-а-д-я.
Я: Um…No, I don’t know who he or she is. (Ok, good, this is obviously just a wrong number.)
Сергей: She is my wife. Did you SMS her something about Chinese?
Я: (Ok, bad.) No! (Wait…Oh shit…Better switch to Russian) Oi…ой…ой…I think this is a big mistake. I messaged my friend, but he…HE…didn’t reply, and I thought he didn’t want to answer me. (Nervously) Haha, now I know why.
Сергей: Where do you live?
Я: (Ohjesusmotheroffuckingchristgodalmighty!) No, I’m not going to tell you where I live!
Сергей: Why not?
Я: Isn’t this weird to you? You think I’m going to tell you where I live, given the situation??? (Thoughts of big beefy Mafia types leaving my bloodied remains in the grime-blackened snow…It snowed last night!!! At least the international insurance will be put to good use.)
Сергей: I think this is funny.
Я: Yeah, me too. (No, I don’t. This is fucked UP.) Well, I’m really sorry, Сергей, and sorry to your wife, too. But this is just a mistake.
Сергей: Ok, goodbye.
(Strained laughter all around)
Я: Goodbye. (Went to bathroom to change my underwear)

So here’s our assessment, please feel free to comment with your own. Laura thought he sounded like a nice guy and that I should’ve just told him what he wanted to know, that I’m a student here and blah blah blah…Sorry, Laura, but your honesty (and my numerical illiteracy) left your wallet $4 lighter outside Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, for which I’ll never forgive myself. [Editor’s note: Laura has since retracted her advice after hearing the recount of the entire conversation.] Now, either the wife was completed perplexed/amused by my SMS and then asked her husband to call me to find out wtf, or I’ve just unwittingly enzymed another incident of domestic abuse in this alcohol-infested land. Thanks Нарик, the blood would be on your hands, too. What’s so hard about giving people your correct phone number???
Maybe this will be my last post, who knows. But barring the long fingers of Сергей’s wrath reaching my throat, I’d say the only confirmed loss in this incident is any way of meeting my beloved Kalmyks again. At least I’ll still be around to cry about it.