The Knower
The Post Soviet cult of conspiratorial scoop and longing for proximity to power
“I was told by some people in the know that this is one of the most ‘listened to’ places,” a man said in a hushed tone, leaning toward the center of the table conspiratorially. A hint of an amused smile peeked through in the left cheekbone.
“Lol, the paintings in this bar alcove are really something! Boy, check it out. Does it say ‘Blow-...Job?’”
“Yeah, well, you’ve seen the clientele here.”
“Hah! So they—the proprietors, that is—are poking fun and ain’t even tryna hide it!”
Once we walk out of the alcove, we’ll see a dimly lit bar with post-Art Deco heritage, and dark bimbos wearing perfume—some elegantly and some crudely—drenched in the fragrances gifted by the Gulf Sheikhs.
There are men as well, though much fewer.
The bar isn’t necessarily expensive, but it’s always upper-class. The staff are well trained to treat everyone but their target audience poorly, yet when it comes to serving their main clientele, they are sure to rub them the right way.
Minsk hosts several such lairs.
I see you are interested, but you want to check if it’s on the list.
We’d have to ask our friend from the alcove.
And he’ll say, “Yes.”
But never directly. The reply will start with a second-long stare, a “funny-you-should-mention-that...” or, should he consider you untrustworthy, smoothly segue into a completely unrelated topic, making you forget your original intent.
If you observe him carefully, you’ll see some performative elements in his posture, tone, and facial expression. They are planted deliberately to be recognized by a truly refined person.
He yearns to be registered as the one who knows, the one with access that even the elect lack.
Can his knowledge be trusted?
Only believed.
The believers are initiated and then obliged to perform ritual, which they gladly do. Should one abandon the cult, he will learn to suspect less. Trust more.
Trust our friend when he directs your attention to a black Mercedes with tinted windows and says, “the guy behind the wheel used to do business with Sheiman.”
Don’t ask for follow-up. He’ll elaborate of his own accord. And if he doesn’t...
What value does this add?
A weird flex up your sleeve the conspiracy-hungry friends would eat up—but beyond that?
Somebody’s beginning to perform ritual...
Do we really have to go to another bar like that?
Same bimbos—different hue: glam bimbos, hyper bimbos, bimbo stoics...
And the men: dudes from the Caucasus, instead of the Gulf boys. Maybe even Belarusians?
Let’s go to a hookah bar instead.
This one overlooks Pobediteley Avenue. Great spot: not too posh, spacious, the interior is a slight step away from the generic loft style. Good.
You and I are watching the cars drive by. I see a Mercedes with familiar license plates. I look around, making sure you notice. I gesture for you to lean in, and as my body moves toward you, my eyes shift to the side explicitly. Simultaneously, I wobble my index finger, subtly pointing in the same direction as my eyes. You see that I want you to see that I don’t want others to see what I’m seeing.
And I want you to see this gesture.
“The guy behind the wheel used to do business with Sheiman.”
“Okay.”
“Hold on, do you know who Sheiman is?”
My eyes pop out of their sockets; my face intrudes into your personal space, but you don’t back away—you keep eye contact. You resist the urge to sit back and respond:
“I do.”
My forehead shifts downwards, eyes lose the manic shape and I retract into my seat.
My lips slightly curl inwards and the corners pull them downwards—the not-bad face? or more like the alright-then-I-did-my-part face.
“Alright then.”