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Hell if I know why in 2025 I suddenly felt like going to Russia, especially considering the whole political circus, sanctions, the endless news about a “new Iron Curtain,” and the fact that, judging by what we’re fed on TV, any American here had to be either a spy or an idiot. But I, Jason Miller, stood my ground: ‘No, I’ll go and see it with my own eyes.’
The flight was hell: seven hours to Istanbul, then almost another five to Moscow, where I was greeted by heavy air and the tired faces of border guards. I was sure they’d be staring at me like I had “CIA” stamped on my forehead, but instead the woman checking my documents just raised one eyebrow, smirked, and asked if I had brought cash.
I nodded, trying to look relaxed, though inside everything was crawling: ‘Goddamn it, Jason, what the hell are you even doing here?’ The woman at the border shoved the passport back, said curtly:
— Welcome, — and pushed my suitcase aside.
Two days later I already realized Moscow wasn’t for me. Crowds, grayness, people always rushing somewhere, and I, on the contrary, wanted the “real Russia.” And somehow I ended up in some godforsaken village near Tver, with a name I still can’t pronounce right, something like “Krivopuzovo.” I stayed in a log house I rented from a guy named Semyon. That place looked like it had stepped straight out of a Soviet movie: timber walls, creaky floorboards, checkered curtains, and the smell of old wood soaked deep into the walls.
— Here, come in, — Semyon said, shoving open the massive door with his shoulder. It opened with a sound that could’ve been a baby crying. Inside it was exactly how I expected Russian backwoods to be: a low ceiling, a smoke-blackened stove, carpets with deer on the walls, and wooden benches that clearly remembered Brezhnev. The coziness was peculiar, let’s say: at once like a museum and like grandma’s cluttered storeroom.
I set down my suitcase and was just about to ask about the internet, when I realized it would sound here like asking for heated toilet paper, but I asked anyway. Semyon, in his shirt lost somewhere between centuries, gave me exactly the look I had imagined. Like I was an idiot.
— We barely even have cell service here, — he chuckled and waved his hand. — The TV picks up two channels, and only if you fix the antenna on the birch.
I smiled, but inside I sank. Well, Jason, welcome to the Stone Age.
And then my eyes caught on a massive mirror by the wall. For some reason it was covered with a faded bedsheet. I’d heard of that kind of thing but never knew the point of the “tradition.” Absentmindedly, I pointed a finger in that direction:
— And why is that, uh… covered up?
Semyon glanced over, snorted:
— Ah, the mirror. Yeah, it’s old, bad. My grandma used to say: “Don’t stare into it too long, or you won’t recognize yourself.” So I covered it.
He said it as casually as if he were talking about a leaky bucket, not about something mystical.
— Well then, rest up, — the host muttered and walked out, leaving me alone.
I dropped my suitcase by the bed and sat there for a while, just listening to the silence. Outside, the treetops rustled, a board creaked somewhere, and in my head the thought kept spinning, more and more insistent: ‘What if I take that sheet off?..’
Honestly, I knew it was idiotic. In movies, this is the point where the audience screams: “Don’t do it, you dumbass!” But in real life, sitting out in the sticks, with a light buzz from Semyon’s moonshine, you just get up and reach out your hand to that forbidden thing.
I yanked the sheet down...