Business Class Taxi

By: Aleksandra Velikova

The alarm never went off. Or maybe she simply didn’t hear it. Not at all.

She had gone to bed late — first unable to finish her presentation, then, already too exhausted to think straight, packing her things: drifting half-asleep from room to room, taking items back out after she had already packed them, forgetting to put them in again. In the end, charger cables, the belt from a dress, and shoe straps were still sticking out of the suitcase. But she was so unbearably sleepy already. She lay down on top of the bedspread, just for a minute, she thought.

And passed out instantly.

Some knocking sound in the neighboring apartment woke her. Before even checking the time — by the sunlight in the room, the sounds drifting in from outside, the general atmosphere of a world already fully awake — she immediately understood she had overslept.

And she had a lecture to interpret that afternoon.

Getting ready took ten minutes. The suitcase, still not fully packed, gave an offended squeak as she zipped it shut, and Lera ran down the stairs with it, trying to call a taxi on the way. As luck would have it, there were no cars available. Economy, Comfort, Comfort Plus — nobody accepted the ride. One driver seemed to take it, then changed his mind and canceled.

Seriously? What kind of neighborhood was this? Not a single taxi — and it was morning, not the middle of the night. Though at night they were probably everywhere. Lera rarely traveled at night. Only to the airport, maybe.

Should’ve booked a night flight, she thought bitterly, stabbing at every button in the app. Wouldn’t have gone to sleep at all, wouldn’t have overslept! Idiot.

Then suddenly she noticed a driver two minutes away in the Business category. Business class was, of course, expensive. More than three thousand. But what choice did she have? Otherwise she would definitely be late. At least this way there was still a chance.

Audi S8. Driver: Stanislav.

The narrow lane outside her building was jammed with cars — there was a hospital nearby, an ophthalmology clinic on top of that, full of half-blind patients and absolutely nowhere to park. People used to leave cars on the sidewalks, drive onto the grass — but that had stopped eventually. Grim men in poisonous green vests had appeared, along with tow trucks in the same color, handing out terrifying fines, and everyone had started obeying the rules and paying through apps instead. The patients, though, were no better off for it.

The car stopped directly in front of her entrance, blocking the road — there was only one lane here, and even that was one-way traffic. But nobody honked behind them; they simply waited. What else could anyone do? There was nowhere to pull over.

Lera hurried to the trunk, shifting impatiently from foot to foot, about to shove the suitcase in herself, but the driver intercepted it, settling it neatly onto the mat inside.

“I’m just in a terrible rush. I’m late,” she said, suddenly thinking that in business class passengers probably didn’t load their own luggage.

“I understand.”

The driver shut the trunk quickly, opened the door for her, then slid into the driver’s seat himself, fastening his seatbelt as he moved — and Lera felt a flicker of hope that maybe they would drive faster than they were supposed to. Just a little faster, at least.

She couldn’t focus on her phone. Instead she stared absentmindedly out the window, tracing the pattern of sunlight through the mesh sunshade. There was a small bottle of water in the armrest compartment, wet wipes, paper tissues — Lera tried to remember the last time she had ridden in a car like this.

She couldn’t.

Regular taxis were faster — they could use the bus lanes, dart in and out of traffic. And this was expensive. She had been saving for an apartment for three years already, and still didn’t even have twenty percent for the down payment. Miserable.

“When’s your flight?”

“10:40.”

The driver lowered his eyes briefly — there was a round mechanical clock on the dashboard. She looked too.

8:50.

And the airport was at least an hour away.

“Have you checked in?”

“Oh God, no.”

“Do it now.”

Lera frantically began fumbling through her phone. Under pressure she kept entering the wrong information, mixing up her passport number, her birth date. Finally, when she managed to complete the check-in, she looked up.

They were stopped at a traffic light. The driver was looking at her again.

“All set?”

“Yes. Thank you, Stanislav.”

He gave the faintest hint of a smile.

Strange that in all the chaos she had remembered his name at all.

Lera studied him more carefully now — forty-five, maybe fifty, dark blond hair touched with gray, brown eyes. An ordinary type. Probably some businessman with a chain of car washes, plugging a hole in his budget. White shirt, tie, black pullover. Probably required by the dress code.

Sunlight emerged from somewhere, streaking across the dashboard, crawling in a mesh pattern from the sunshade over the seat. Stanislav put on sunglasses — his movements were quick but smooth, deft, never abrupt. His right hand rested on the gear selector. Probably used to driving stick shifts.

Lera tried with all her might not to think about time slipping away so fast. There was barely an hour left before departure, and they still weren’t even at the airport. She began tapping her fingers against her briefcase. Unconsciously.

Stanislav turned his head and looked at her directly now, not through the mirror — and Lera suddenly felt small and awkward. There was so much confidence in him. She would never have that.

The car slowed slightly before a knot of traffic at a light, then swerved into the oncoming lane and shot through the intersection first. Just beyond it, tucked into a roadside recess, stood a police car.

So much for saving time.

The officer who flagged them down wasn’t caricature-fat at all — on the contrary, he was young, thin, tall, pointing his baton at them sharply.

Stanislav stopped, pulled out his documents, opened the door, and stepped outside. He clearly didn’t want her hearing the conversation. And she couldn’t anyway — the pounding of a nearby jackhammer drowned out not only voices but even the wail of ambulance sirens that usually tore through the city air.

The lieutenant stood facing her; Stanislav had his back turned. Obvious enough.

Driving into oncoming traffic — a five-thousand-ruble fine or suspension of your license for four to six months. Lera remembered the rules perfectly well; she had just passed her driving exam. On her own, too. Though she didn’t actually have a car. And wouldn’t anytime soon.

A pistol hung at the lieutenant’s hip.

Guns inspired something close to reverence in Lera — a real deadly weapon, barely a meter away from her. Even if the lieutenant might never actually use it. She wondered whether he even knew how to shoot. Thinking about anything detached from time was becoming harder and harder, but Lera forced herself. She started imagining that the strap crossing Stanislav’s back beneath the thin pullover wasn’t suspenders at all. That it was a shoulder holster. And the slight bulge near his left forearm wasn’t wrinkled fabric but the outline of a small pistol.

That Stanislav was actually some undercover operative and right now, along with his license, he was showing the lieutenant official credentials.

9:50.

Half an hour until boarding closed.

If there was going to be a bribe, they’d have to walk over to the police car, and that would take even more time. Strangely enough, nobody went anywhere. Stanislav took back his documents, slid into the car, started the engine and shifted gears in one seamless movement, and pulled away.

How had the lieutenant let him go? Lera watched him in the mirror. He was looking at the road. His expression was focused, but not angry, not even irritated. There was something deeply calming about him. Maybe he really was law enforcement. Not some car-wash owner at all. And he’d managed to talk his way out of the stop.

Definitely.

At the airport Lera jumped out of the car. Their eyes met for only a second. The touch of his hand, when he passed her the suitcase, lasted even less. She was already rushing, counting steps in her head, calculating how to save time between passport control and security.

And still — she felt something.

“Run. You’ll still make it.”

Lera ran. She slipped past the entrance line, raced by the check-in counters, past the corridor leading to international departures, toward domestic flights.

A short line.

Okay.

Boarding pass.

She didn’t have a printed one.

She’d show it on her phone. That was allowed now.

On her phone.

On her pho — where was it?

One pocket. Another. Third. Her bag.

No.

Left it in the security tray? No, she hadn’t taken it out.

In the taxi?

But how?

Fell out of her pocket?

She couldn’t remember.

That was it.

Now she’d definitely missed the flight.

Her memory stumbled helplessly through tangled thoughts — the last moment she remembered having the phone had vanished completely. People streamed past her in line, backpacks brushing her shoulders, suitcases bumping into her legs, while she just stood there looking around without understanding where to go now — the information desk? Back to the entrance?

Then suddenly she saw a man running through the terminal, skillfully dodging passengers blocking his path. Running gracefully was even harder than walking gracefully. Either you were chasing someone or running late — elegance no longer mattered. Lera couldn’t move. Could that really be her driver?

“You forgot your phone.”

She stared at him in shock, trying to mumble something.

“Quickly, come on. Your boarding pass is already open.”

And indeed, the airline app had automatically pulled up a reminder with the QR code already on-screen.

“Go!”

He squeezed her hand lightly. The scanner beeped, she slipped through the automatic gates, then turned around for one brief second before they closed. Stanislav raised an open hand at chest level and smiled. Now she would definitely make it.

Already on the plane, Lera noticed a business card tucked into the pocket of her phone case, where she kept her bank card.

Romanov Stanislav Sergeyevich.

And a phone number.

That was all.

It was the first time she had ever seen a business card like that. Did such cards even exist? Without a profession? Without a company name? Especially for drivers. There should have been a car model, all kinds of services listed. Maybe even a photograph. But Stanislav’s card contained only his full name and phone number. Of course he wasn’t really a driver.

And still she felt unexpectedly happy. Like in childhood — that rush of excitement that made you hold your breath for a second. She was just happy she’d made the flight.

That was all.

Thank you, Stanislav. I’m on the plane! she managed to text him on WhatsApp while the aircraft accelerated down the runway.

Have a safe flight, Lera, the reply came through barely before the signal disappeared.

For four hours.

During the five days she spent on the business trip, they talked on the phone several times. Lera was used to texting — sending memes, crafting witty replies — but Stanislav was completely different. From another world. Another generation. Another life. He hardly texted at all, only a few words here and there. But he called. Somehow it always turned out that she was the one talking while he mostly asked questions. Lera felt that he was genuinely interested — though some people mastered the art of seeming interested perfectly. Or maybe it wasn’t an act at all. Still, she had learned so little about him. An old cat. Scandinavian detective novels. Target shooting. (Maybe he really had carried a pistol under his arm.) All of it vague somehow. Weightless. But she liked his voice. There are so many frequencies in the world, and only a few resonate with something inside you. Once you find them, you could listen to absolutely anything. It was good that she’d be back soon. He would meet her at the airport, wouldn’t he? Of course he would.

It was painfully early morning.

The kind of hour when sleep still feels almost nauseatingly necessary.

The sun barely peeked above the uneven horizon of apartment blocks, trees, and construction cranes. The passengers, awkward and sleepy, drifted lazily into the aisle without even crowding together the way they usually did.

Lera sat by the window, forgetting to unfasten her seatbelt.

Clutching her briefcase.

Nervous.

There were very few people waiting in arrivals. A girl holding a toy tiger. A man with an enormous, strangely inappropriate bouquet. A brisk little old man carrying a plastic shopping bag, probably ready to repack whatever someone had brought him. That was all.

Lera looked around. Stanislav was nowhere. She dialed his number. Ringing. The phone wasn’t off. He simply wasn’t answering. Something unpleasant tightened beneath her collarbone. Something must have happened to him if he hadn’t come.

Maybe he really was police after all. Called out on some operation. Unable to answer. Unable to warn her.

Ridiculous.

Of course he wasn’t a policeman. A criminal, maybe. Though she didn’t even know what criminals did these days. And it didn’t matter anyway. Just what she needed — some aging gangster. How quickly she had started looking for flaws in him.

Stupid.

So far he only had one flaw: he wasn’t here.

She remembered his attentive eyes, his slightly asymmetrical smile — Lera knew that happened when the muscles on one side of the face were a little more tense than the other. She had the same thing herself.

The slight bump on his nose. Some kind of chemical reaction had already begun. Idiotic neurobiology. Just a few molecules, and everyone makes such a fuss over them.

A little farther down from the domestic arrivals exit was the international terminal. That was where the crowd was gathering. A small boy burst free from somewhere deep inside the green corridor and ran toward a tall man in a leather jacket. The man scooped him up effortlessly, like a ball, pressing the child’s tousled head against his cheek. For a second Lera thought it was Stanislav.

Impossible, of course.

But what if somewhere, in another part of the airport, he really was meeting his family? Children, a wife — maybe even grandchildren already. Completely forgot he was supposed to meet her, made promises without thinking. Then remembered. Too late.

Or maybe something had happened to him. Maybe he was in a hospital now, nurses running down the corridor with a gurney like in the movies, anxiously holding up an IV bag. Dangerous age. A heart attack. A stroke. God forbid, of course. Better let it be a wife.

Or maybe he got drunk. Tired, decided to unwind. Or a friend stopped by. To celebrate something. Or mourn something. And they lost track.

Though he didn’t seem like someone who drank. She remembered the way Stanislav had run through the terminal. Athletic. Lean. Not even the slightest hint of a belly.

Lera let her gaze wander over the cold, unfriendly walls. Everything felt unreal, deliberately constructed, intentionally unpleasant.

Once she had worked as an interpreter on a film set. They had been shooting in a studio pavilion, and everything there had felt exactly like this. Fake.

The tears came suddenly. For a moment she even thought it was something physiological. Like cutting onions. As though the hurt, lagging behind her sleepy thoughts, had only now caught up with her. Joining together the cold autumn day, the cavernous hall filled with strangers, and Lera’s own uselessness, her own dispensability.

Another person she had counted on for nothing. And all the explanations she had invented for him — they simply weren’t real. There was only a tired man who had felt something for a moment and then let it pass. Decided it was better this way. Otherwise there would be hair on pillows. Things scattered around. Little jars in the bathroom. Besides — what did they even have in common?

At first you never notice any of it. Like anesthesia. Later it wears off. Years ago, a surgeon had stitched up Lera’s ankle that way — she hadn’t even been afraid watching the curved needle sliding through her skin, the surgeon deftly pulling the edges of the wound together with forceps. It hadn’t hurt at all then. But by evening the pain had become unbearable. People were the same way. In the beginning, euphoria numbs everything. And afterward all that remains are bruises.

She needed to call a taxi. From a different app this time.

“Lera!”

She turned around.

A suddenly appearing group of noisy tourists blocked the entire terminal from view.

Maybe she’d imagined it.

She tried to make out something through the crowd. Useless. Probably nobody had called her at all.

“Lera!”

The tourists thinned out.

The toy store came back into view. The coffee machines. The little baked-potato café tucked into the corner.

Outside, beneath the spilled gold of the sun, an airplane was taking off.