The man with the book sighed. “Welcome to Moscow. I’m Pierre Bezukhov.” He held out his shaking hand. “There’s a war going on.” He paused. “You’re Alexander, huh? Like our Tsar.”
“Tsar?” Alexander asked. “Isn’t Catherine the Great still empress?” Pierre looked puzzled. “You’re lying.” He said. “Either that or wherever you came from must be incredibly backward. The year is 1812 and Napoleon is nearing Moscow closer and closer every day.”
Alexander’s head spun with the shock. First of all, he found himself in a bar in Russia and then it turned out to be forty years in the future. How did he not notice that before? The men were not wearing wigs of any sort and their coats and breeches looked a good deal different from what he’d seen in St. Croix or what he had expected to see in New York. There was something in the way they talked and carried themselves that also differed from anything Alexander had seen.
“I don’t know where I am,” Alexander told Pierre. “I don’t even know how I got here. I was on a boat to New York and there was this big storm in the Caribbean that blew our ship off course and I fell into the water… only to get here. And I suddenly realize I’m not wet. And I’m standing here. I guess it must have taken me into the future.”
Pierre nodded. “Caribbean, eh? So that’s where you’re from. English colonies, I presume.” Alexander nodded. “We were bound for New York. But then as storm came and I was pulled into the water. I guess it must have brought me here.”
“You’re not drunk?” He asked. “I’ve never been,” Alexander replied. Pierre held Alexander’s hands in his larger, hairier ones. “You’re not shaking either.” Several heads turned around to stare.
“Kto ti?” a man asked drowsily. “Ya ne vi ponimayet,” muttered another man. “I suggest you get out of here, son,” Pierre grumbled. “I should too. This is no place for an idealistic young man like you. Come with me.”
Alexander nodded slowly. “Will most people here understand me?” He asked.
Pierre sighed deeply. “This is a world where people reject their heritage. They don’t want to be Russian, like the peasants who eke out a living tied to the land. They’re forced to work for the landlords who get all the crops they harvest…”
“That’s unbelievable! Why do they do that?” Pierre shook his head. “I was like you once,” he muttered to himself. “But that’s the way it’s always been. We never had a renaissance here. But no one has the heart to change things here….” “So will they understand me?” Alexander asked again.
Pierre nodded. “Sadly, most people here have rejected their heritage and most speak English and French to seem advanced. Even though we’re so far behind. Ignore the glitter, Mr… Hamilton, this world is broken.”
“Tsar?” Alexander asked. “Isn’t Catherine the Great still empress?”
Pierre looked puzzled.
“You’re lying.” He said. “Either that or wherever you came from must be incredibly backward. The year is 1812 and Napoleon is nearing Moscow closer and closer every day.”
Alexander’s head spun with the shock. First of all, he found himself in a bar in Russia and then it turned out to be forty years in the future. How did he not notice that before? The men were not wearing wigs of any sort and their coats and breeches looked a good deal different from what he’d seen in St. Croix or what he had expected to see in New York. There was something in the way they talked and carried themselves that also differed from anything Alexander had seen.
“I don’t know where I am,” Alexander told Pierre. “I don’t even know how I got here. I was on a boat to New York and there was this big storm in the Caribbean that blew our ship off course and I fell into the water… only to get here. And I suddenly realize I’m not wet. And I’m standing here. I guess it must have taken me into the future.”
Pierre nodded. “Caribbean, eh? So that’s where you’re from. English colonies, I presume.”
Alexander nodded. “We were bound for New York. But then as storm came and I was pulled into the water. I guess it must have brought me here.”
“You’re not drunk?” He asked.
“I’ve never been,” Alexander replied.
Pierre held Alexander’s hands in his larger, hairier ones. “You’re not shaking either.”
Several heads turned around to stare.
“Kto ti?” a man asked drowsily.
“Ya ne vi ponimayet,” muttered another man.
“I suggest you get out of here, son,” Pierre grumbled. “I should too. This is no place for an idealistic young man like you. Come with me.”
Alexander nodded slowly. “Will most people here understand me?” He asked.
Pierre sighed deeply. “This is a world where people reject their heritage. They don’t want to be Russian, like the peasants who eke out a living tied to the land. They’re forced to work for the landlords who get all the crops they harvest…”
“That’s unbelievable! Why do they do that?”
Pierre shook his head. “I was like you once,” he muttered to himself. “But that’s the way it’s always been. We never had a renaissance here. But no one has the heart to change things here….”
“So will they understand me?” Alexander asked again.
Pierre nodded. “Sadly, most people here have rejected their heritage and most speak English and French to seem advanced. Even though we’re so far behind. Ignore the glitter, Mr… Hamilton, this world is broken.”