The Orangutan Pit

Stray dogs are everywhere in Russia but especially in Sochi. The Black Sea air means they never have to hide from the cold, only from occasional wind and rain. A pack of them, led by a skinny bitch with stretched-out nipples, followed us as we walked along the beach where it was already dark. 

The skinny bitch jumped up, her paws landing against a girl’s back. 

«Убить её бутылкой» said one of the boys. They were all holding beer bottles, and there were plenty of discarded ones on the ground too. But the girl refused and pretended to act horrified. Kill a dog with a beer bottle?

It would be another one of those stories that we wouldn’t tell our families when we returned from our semester abroad; our collection of such stories was mounting by the day. 

The sea and the sky were black, save for the winking lights on a cruise ship moored out in the distance. Gently, the waves rolled in, washing over the glossy black pebbles that blanketed the beach. Just hours earlier, we swam and sunbathed while women walked up and down the beach, selling grapes and ice cream and квас. 

What a change this place was from Moscow, where the sidewalks were covered in wet, unraked leaves. In Sochi, scarlet flowers dotted the patchy grass while cypress trees and spiky dwarf palmettos guarded the uneven pavers. Mid-Century hotels showed every decade of their age. 

“I’m bored,” Anthony complained as he sucked down the last of his beer and tossed the empty bottle in with the rest of the detritus. None of us said anything. He was taking the getting-drunk-in-Russia thing a bit too far, staggering around, picking fights and breathing hot air into all the girls’ ears. 

He was a moron, too. His grandfather had emigrated from Russia to the United States, and he wanted everyone to know that he had a Russian soul. But instead of using the word душа, he constantly told people that he had a Русский душ, leaving Muscovites bewildered as to why this drunk American kid was so proud of his Russian shower. 

Usually, we ignored him until he wandered off on his own. But that night, for some reason, we followed him. The bar he trudged into was just off the beach, at the far end of the promenade, beyond the reach of the colored lights. We trailed behind him as he climbed a wooden staircase that swayed under our weight. Empty beer, wine and vodka bottles lined the railing at the top of the landing. 

The bar was smokey and reeked of piss. There was hardly any light, save for a glaring white lamp above a fenced-in pit that contained a stained mattress and an agitated orange ape. A man in a gray sport coat sat on a stool next to the pit, his hands folded, scowling. The light reflected off of his balding scalp. 

We traded glances as Anthony walked up to the man and handed him a 50-ruble note and opened a small gate. As Anthony walked into the pit, other men crowded around and put down ruble notes of their own. They bellowed slurred words of encouragement as Anthony dropped into a fight stance, chin tucked, hands outstretched and groping for a takedown grip. 

The orangutan screeched, baring its sharp fangs, and leaped from the mattress, a cyclonic orange blur. The orangutan wrapped a hairy arm around Anthony’s throat and squeezed. Anthony’s face reddened and his eyes bulged as he clawed at the primate’s forearm. His eyes rolled back, flashing white as his lips became two lifeless blue earthworms. 

“He’s going to suffocate,” shouted one of our boys, the terror of the moment forcing him to forget his Russian and speak English instead. He turned to the sport coat man. “You have to stop this.” 

The man in the sport coat raised his eyes slowly and fixed his gaze on each of us, one by one, as if he were sizing us up, calculating just how much power this little group of Americans in overpriced clothes had. His dark eyes hid under two thick black eyebrows that met in the center of his forehead. In the pit, Anthony kicked his legs, desperately searching for a foothold in the dirty cedar shavings. His jaw dropped as he gasped for air, the sound like fabric ripping at the seams. 

Finally, the sport coat man clicked his tongue, and the orangutan released its grip on Anthony. He reached a furry hand into the pocket of the man’s blazer and pulled out an orange. The orangutan retreated to a corner of the pit, away from the light, where just the outline of his limbs was visible in the shadows. The creature bit into the orange, the citrus scent cutting through the stench. 

At the bar, men laughed as Anthony stumbled out of the pit and counted out several more ruble notes to pay off his loss. A man with missing teeth snatched them and thanked Anthony with a slap on the back. Anthony had tiny red spots all around his eyes, and a violet bar across his throat. On his way out of the bar, he pushed a few of the empty bottles off of the railing and vanished into the night. 

We went back to the beach and didn’t talk about what had happened in the bar. 

The next day, we hiked the foothills of the Caucasus mountains near the city of Krasnaya Polyana where it was cold and foggy. Our clothes were covered in mud. We missed the beach. 

Anthony didn’t come. His roommate said he had come back to the room just before four in the morning, still smelling like the orangutan’s musk, a reek so like human B.O. that the roommate couldn’t tell where the ape ended and Anthony’s refusal to shower began. Anthony stripped off his clothes and stuffed them into a plastic bag which he crammed into his suitcase. He flopped onto the bed without getting under the covers, his naked ass fully on display. That morning, Anthony refused to wake up. 

After our hike, we crowded around a long wooden table and ate blini drenched in honey. On the way back to Sochi, we dozed on the bus as the sun vanished from the sky. Over the radio, we heard a news bulletin that said Britney Spears had married one of her backup dancers. 

Back at the hotel, we took hot showers and changed into clean clothes. We wandered back down to the beach and found Anthony sitting alone with his shoes off, the water lapping at his toes. He was sucking on a beer bottle. The red dots around his eyes had faded, but the purple bruise across his windpipe was still there.

Someone asked why he didn’t come to Krasnaya Polyana with us. He turned and looked at us, his eyes glazed, like he’d been drinking all day. 

«Я убил обезьяну бутылкой.»

We traded glances, almost more surprised by his correct grammar than his confession. Then he switched to English and told us how he waited outside all night until the bar emptied out, then he crept back in and smashed the orangutan’s skull with a vodka bottle. 

We backed away. We left him sitting there alone and he said nothing. Someone suggested ice cream, and we turned and headed for the seaside cafe that sold ice cream with Turkish figs. 

We spoke English, breaking our pledge to speak only Russian for the entire semester. Did he really do that? Did he actually sneak back in and kill the orangutan with no one seeing him? Did they really leave the ape alone in there, by itself, all night? Was the door unlocked even though the place was closed? If he really killed the orangutan, what did he do with the body? Is that why he stuffed his clothes in a bag when he got back to the room? 

As the waitress bought us sparkling water and heaps of ice cream, we came to a consensus: Anthony was lying about killing the ape. It just didn’t add up, and he’d already proved himself to be a world-class bullshitter. But we wouldn’t put it past him to try. 

“Something’s not right with him. I mean, he’s a jerk, but it’s more than that. Ever since we got here, to Russia, he’s been finding trouble in dark corners,” said one of the girls. 

We all nodded, and that was the last we discussed it. 

Two days later, we left Sochi and its fluttering palm fronds behind. We landed in Moscow where the tree branches were bare and the air was crisp. The candy-striped domes on St. Basil’s Cathedral looked faded and dingy under the overcast skies. 

On Monday, Anthony was late for class. Professor Grigorevna was in the middle of a lecture about Repin’s paintings when he shuffled into the room, reeking of vodka, and flopped into a chair, his body quivering like a sack full of pudding. 

That afternoon, the professors convened with the program director, and Anthony was kicked out. The program director scheduled a meeting with all of us at her office so that we could discuss it. 

The office was two stops away from the university on the green line. As we descended the steep escalator into the metro station, a dog rode along with us. He looked at us with wet blue eyes as the gust of air coming up from below ruffled his black and white fur. 

A girl reached into her bag and tossed a cookie into the dog’s mouth. He wagged his tail and raised his paw, hoping for more. 

As the escalator reached the bottom, somebody said: “He killed the monkey.” 

Author’s note: This story is based on some of the experiences I had while studying abroad in Russia in 2004. Our cohort of Middlebury School in Russia students did take a group trip to Sochi where there were many stray dogs. A classmate did suggest beating one to death with a beer bottle. One of the students in the program told everyone who would listen that he had a “Russian shower,” and drank so much he got kicked out of the program. I also remember seeing a monkey on a leash. 

The orangutan pit comes from a story that my great-uncle Max told me. While serving in the Navy in the 1950s, Max was stationed in Guam where there was a bar with an orangutan pit. His buddies placed bets while he went into the pit to wrestle the orangutan, and it nearly choked him to death. He told me this was one of the worst days of his life. Even though Max’s story takes place in a different time and place from The Orangutan Pit, I can easily picture this kind of thing happening in today’s Russia. (See: A Russian soldier’s recent -- and unexplained -- attempt to steal a raccoon from a Ukrainian zoo.)

On a personal note, I’ll be taking a little break next week for the Thanksgiving holiday. I am exceedingly grateful to everyone who subscribes to this newsletter and hope that you will continue on this journey with me. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you!