As we pull into Irkutsk, I notice that the view around the station is mainly comprised of miserable concrete buildings and a car park full of men waiting expectantly for our arrival, just like in UB. There is a barely perceptible hum in the air, a feeling that this place is infinitely more threatening than Mongolia. Most of the Russian men are younger and somehow that makes them more dangerous to us. All of them are either smoking or chewing on matchsticks, staring us up and down, and I stare back at them and try to decide which of them looks the least likely to rape and kill us.
One of them catches my eye and comes ambling over towards us. He is wearing a shiny pair of tracksuit bottoms and a grey T-shirt, the sleeves rolled to display his sculpted biceps. He spits a chewed matchstick onto the floor and leans forwards, ready to pick up our bags.
‘You have hotel? I know good hotel,’ he says, grinning. ‘Or maybe tour? You want to go to lake? Tell me what you want and I can do it.’ He pauses, sensing our reluctance. Carrie hasn’t spoken to me since we woke this morning, and after last night’s carry-on, I have no idea what she is thinking.
‘We need to go to the Rachmaninoff Hotel,’ she says, offering him a piece of paper.
‘OK, good,’ the man says, lifting both of our bags as if they are full of feathers. They are both at least 20kg each, despite my backpack being half the size of Carrie’s proper backpacker’s rucksack. ‘I am Ivan,’ he says. ‘I am at your service, and I am not so terrible.’ He does a little bow and I burst out laughing. Eventually, Carrie laughs too, and she leans over and squeezes my arm as we climb into the back of the car – which, I’m glad to see is a Lada. It’s good to find out that they do actually drive their own brand of cars, despite them having a slightly dubious reputation back home.
He starts the engine, then leans over and rummages in the glovebox. Then he turns round to us and offers a business card between two fingers. ‘In case you need my services again.’ I take it, without really thinking, and he winks at me. Carrie looks out of her window.
We’re clipping our seatbelts in as he releases the handbrake and shrieks across the car park, causing us both to flop forwards then back.
‘Oi…’ Carrie starts, but he just turns on the radio and drowns us out with loud, heavy techno.
I look across at Carrie, but she has her eyes shut tight.
As we leave the area around the station and enter the main body of the city, I stare out of the windows at the dirty, grey communist-era architecture, mixed with the over-the-top fancy structures that are peppered throughout. We pass through street upon street of blocky high-rises, and we pause at traffic lights at an impressive gold-painted church with a huge statue of Lenin outside.
I’d only planned to look up Moscow in the guidebook, but after Carrie did her disappearing act last night, I had little else to do, so now I know that there is little for us to do here. We should’ve stopped at Ulan-Ude, and gone to Lake Baikal – from what Rory and Martin had told us, there were many things we could’ve done there – but on the other hand, it’s probably just as well we didn’t go anywhere near water. Besides, Carrie planned to come to the city instead, wanting to see the wooden houses and learn more about the Decembrists, but with us barely speaking, I’m not sure what we’re actually going to do for the next couple of days. I just hope the hotel is nice, and that the food here is better than in Mongolia – which really shouldn’t be much of a stretch.
The car slows, and Ivan points out of his window.
‘This hotel,’ he says. ‘Hotel Irkut. Very nice hotel.’
Carrie sits up straight. ‘No. We’re going to the Rachmaninoff. I showed you.’ She leans forwards and tries to pick up the piece of paper that the driver has tossed onto the passenger seat.
‘No problem,’ he says, ‘I cancel this one for you. I take you to best hotel in Irkutsk. Best food. Caviar. Anything you like, ladies.’ He stops the car and gestures again at the hotel to his left. A man in a dark suit is standing outside, and he starts to walk towards us.
‘No,’ Carrie says, more forcefully now. ‘Take us to the Rachmaninoff Hotel.’
The suited man approaches the car, and Ivan winds down the window and starts talking to him in rapid-fire Russian.
Carrie leans over to me and whispers: ‘I’ve read about this. It’s a scam. They have an arrangement with this place, and they’ll take our money but then the other place will get all shitty and they’ll try to throw us out and make us pay for both.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Exactly. I’m not falling for it.’ The suited man steps away from the car and Ivan closes the window. Carrie leans over the seat. ‘Take us to the Rachmaninoff Hotel. Now.’ Her voice is hard, full of venom. I am terrified, but I stay flat back against the seat, and try not to give any indication of how scared I am. Once again, I am impressed with how she handles things. I’d thought I knew what I was doing before I met her, and yet she continues to surprise me.
Ivan sits still for a moment. The suited man shakes his head, just a fraction, but enough to indicate that we’re possibly going to get our way.
‘Now,’ Carrie says again.
Ivan blows out a stream of what I assume are Russian expletives, then he jams the key into the ignition and throws the car into reverse. He hangs back over the seat, causing Carrie to bounce back towards me, and then he reverses down the middle of the road at full speed.
My heart is hammering now, and I’m far too scared to turn around, convinced that at any moment we are going to crash full-on into a car coming the other way – the correct way – down the street. Carrie is holding onto the handle above the door with one hand, and she grabs mine with her other and we both squeeze tight, bracing for impact.
But just as I think we’re going to crash and die, the car slows, and swerves and then he’s driving the correct way again, down another street, still far too fast. Then he slams on the brakes and points out of his window again.
‘Rachmaninoff Hotel,’ he says. ‘Shithole.’
I glance out at the dull grey block with a faded red canopy over the door. There’s a dingy-looking alleyway running along the side, and I dread to think what might be down there. There’s no doorman at this place. We might’ve made a mistake, after all.
‘Are you sure this is the Rachmaninoff Hotel?’ Carrie says, grabbing the piece of paper.
I lean over to read it, and it does indeed have the correct name on it. But I’ve done this before, in much nicer cities than this – sometimes there are hotels with the same name. Sometimes one is much nicer than the other. Naming it after a famous composer doesn’t mean it has to be nice, obviously.
‘I try to tell you,’ he says. ‘I not rip you off.’
Carrie sighs. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Maybe you were right. But I’ve booked this place and I know the price, and they’re expecting us, so…’ She glances over at me, giving me an uncertain smile. ‘Are you OK here, V? Should we go back?’
I take another look at the miserable place that we’ve apparently decided to spend our time in, and then I make a stupid, ridiculous mistake. ‘I reckon we should go with this one, Carrie. You chose it. I bet it’s lovely inside. That other place was probably all front.’
Ivan catches my eye in the rear-view mirror, and shakes his head sadly. He mutters something in Russian, and then opens the car door and climbs out. He disappears around the back and lifts our rucksacks out of the boot, then walks silently over to the hotel, and up the three steps to the front door.
‘I hope we’re not being mental,’ Carrie says.
‘How bad can it be? It’s all just part of our adventure.’
‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘Also … I’m sorry, V. I was a total dick on the train. Can we just forget it?’
I’m about to tell her that I’d already forgiven her, when Ivan appears back down the steps.
‘One thousand rubles,’ he says.
Carrie hands over the note she has taken from her purse, folded up in her hand, ready. Knowing how much it should be. Yet again, not letting us be ripped off.
The hotel will be fine. The main thing is, we’re together.