Evening with Jackie Chan

Gennady Bondarenko

 

About half an hour was left before the end of the workday. The editor’s secretary at the newspaper where I recently started working called me up. “Igor,” she said, “the editor-in-chief wants to see you, and urgently. Put all your work aside – if you are still busy with something (there was a slight chuckle in the receiver) – and hurry over to him.”

The editor’s invitation was com­pletely unwelcome. No less urgently. I was needed at the “Black Cat” bar. Tonight, our press photographer, Kolya, was celebrating his birthday, and people would gather for the party soon. My present for him, a Zippo lighter, already smelled of gasoline like a harbor tug.

My recent communications with the editor had been sort of strained. Or rather ours, Kolya’s and mine. After all, we worked in tandem, as a reporter and a photojournalist. It’s a small wonder here. Take, for example, our latest assignment. Just a couple of weeks ago. The editor summoned the two of us for, as he put it, a very important mission. We had to report on how our city – not long ago a Soviet naval base and a ‘closed city’ – had transitioned to a peaceful life, as he’d called it. “Yes, there was a time, in quite recent memory,” the editor began in a formal tone, “when the Cold War continued between the Soviet Union and America. But luckily it was all over. And now, in a peaceful country like Ukraine, such enormous quantities of weapons were just not needed. So we’re getting rid of that surplus. And you are to witness,” he continued, “the Conversion Program in action and convey the picture, in every sense, to our readers. So here we are,” he concluded in a convincing tone, “I have already done half of the work for you. The only thing left is just to go to the military post and prepare a report on how we are transitioning to the track of peace.”

For a second, he was silent, as if pondering how this phrase “transi­tion to the track of peace” would suit a place like this one, especially a coastal city. Yet he quickly recollected himself. “The most important part of your job is the photographs,” he said. “They must be convincing, you know. And everything has been agreed with the naval authorities. They are already waiting for you, so go.”

Soon we were standing at the gates of the military unit. Yes, they were expecting our arrival, immediately issuing temporary passes for the territory. Conversion or not, the city was still a naval base, and a permit was required to enter the facility. However, as it turned out, the Conversion Program, so grandiosely presented by the editor, in reality looked much less presentable. On the pier, three sailors under the command of a lieutenant were trying to cut the old ship’s hull into pieces with an autogenous cutter. The hull was so rusty that one would think the Cold War ended centuries ago, not recently, as the editor put it. If those parts of the ship were ever to “go on the track of peace,” that would clearly be in the form of scrap metal, and not as a symbol of conversion and disposal of surplus weapons.

The work went slowly. The lieutenant paced nervously along the pier, but the sailors demonstrated philosophical calm and were ready to saw through the rusty metal until ‘demob’ day. Nothing special was happening – and clearly no spectacular shots were to be anticipated either. Kolya and I stoically watched their work for half an hour, until finally the sailors decided to take a break and went to the smoke shack. The idea seemed quite good to us, so we followed them. As it turned out, the lieutenant in charge of the process was none other than Vasily, Kolya’s former high school friend. They hugged. We explained why we were there. Vasily complained how much time he had already wasted on, by his words, ‘butchering the carcass’. As we found out, the vessel itself was actually a German trophy from World War II. The German shipbuilders had worked conscientiously so that the minesweeper stubbornly did not succumb to either a metalworking saw or an autogenous cutter.

Our hearts sunk at hearing this news. Those ‘conversion’ photos we’d come for would only be that of a once formidable warship cut into now harmless parts. Noticing our disappointment, Vasily was quick to come up with an ingenious solution: Since we had come for a report and especially for effective photos, he would arrange everything in no time. “Look no further,” he exclaimed! “You’ve found the right person to show how a fearsome battleship can be made into parts – neatly, beautifully and quickly. Especially for a newspaper report and, what is more, one agreed with the higher-ups. It was not for nothing.” Vasily added a bit boastfully that he had completed the demolition specialist courses at his naval school. Yes, accelerated, that’s true, but you could still safely consider him a master demolition man. “Rest assured,” Vasily continued cheerfully, “all the world’s leading news agencies will fight for the photos we are about to take.”

In the meantime, the sailors had returned to the dock, but Vasily gestured that we should follow him. We did and soon, as it turned out, entered a military warehouse where he greeted yet another lieutenant. “How about explosives?” he asked, and then briefly outlined the purpose of our visit, along the way making some calculations with a pen on a cigarette pack, explaining to the depot officer what exactly he was going to do. The lieutenant from the warehouse only grinned in response, “Explosives! We have heaps of them. And since the top brass themselves have invited these newspapermen to report, there is no problem in providing the required number.”

We all returned to the pier where Vasily ordered two of his sailors to go to the warehouse for explosives. Under the leadership of our, albeit extracurricular, but still, demolition specialist, the explosives were reinforced on the minesweeper in the necessary places. He set the timer while we quickly hid behind the corner of the barracks. Kolya prepared his camera for the shots the news agencies were about to fight for. At this moment, a midshipman rode his bicycle out on the pier. We all in one voice started shouting at him from around the corner and waving our hands, but he just smiled happily and made a welcome gesture in response.

The minesweeper exploded…

Our cyclist was the first to take the blow…

The midshipman, together with his bicycle, were thrown into the sea by the blast. A second later, a combat alarm wailed over the territory of the unit. As the smoke cleared, we saw sailors running towards the pier with machine guns in their hands. Sirens on ships nearby were also turned on. It looked like they were already urgently giving up the mooring lines, preparing to go to sea and repel a sudden enemy attack.

Finally, the black smoke cleared and I looked at the pier. But instead of the nice and neatly ‘transitioned’ parts of the minesweeper, I saw only smoking blackened concrete. The minesweeper itself had disappeared, as if it had never been there at all.

Soon everything cleared up; the alarm stopped; the midshipman was taken out of the water – frightened, but alive and not even wounded. Kolya climbed a tree and took a camera off a branch, slightly scratched, but in quite good operating condition. A bit more problematic was getting the bicycle back from the bottom of the sea near the pier.

As for the leading news agencies, they too were left with nothing. The fabulous transition to the track of peace was never captured.

We returned to the editorial office empty-handed.

As Vasily explained, when we met him the next time, he accidentally put a comma “not after the right sign” in his calculations. However, he did not mention this fact in the report to the unit commander, which he was ordered to write. Still, his idea with explosives was ultimately crowned with success: The minesweeper was really blasted into fragments, which they collected over the entire territory of the unit for several more days. Ultimately, the midshipman was given three days off to recover, and the senior lieutenant Vasily was given a severe reprimand, but at least no one was killed or maimed. And as for us, well, the editor blamed me and Kolya for everything that happened, although Kolya tried to explain that we literally had no hand in any of it.

A few days later we almost managed to regain our reputation as documentary reporters. The police planned a night raid with the code name “Special Operation to Detain Drunk Drivers.” Local press participation was also encouraged to highlight the police’s “uncompromising commitment to principles.” The editor’s choice inevitably fell on Kolya and me. “Mind you,” he added sternly, “this is your chance to prove yourself worthy of the good name of journalists. In a southern city like ours, and especially in the summer, such a ‘special operation’ could not fail to be successful.” By midnight there were about a dozen ‘highway’ lawbreakers. The policemen were writing out tickets; Kolya took pictures; and I recorded statistics in my notebook for future reporting. Yes, I told myself, that would indeed be great material for the newspaper, especially the contrast – the disgusting faces of drunk drivers and trustworthy sober police officers.

It turned out as I expected … well, almost like that. The chief of police was pleased and personally called the editor, thanking the journalists for their good work. Our editor-in-chief liked this reaction from the chief of police. He shook hands with us and promised hefty bonuses, but very soon he got a call from the city government inquiring if it was really necessary to publish a photo of the governor’s daughter. Kolya and I tried as best as we could to convince him that it was neither his nor my fault. Who could have known that she got married and changed her last name? As for those bonuses, well, we never received them.

 

* * *

 

In my mind I scrolled over where I could have blundered in my newspaper responsibilities last week to arouse the heightened interest of the editor. I had not done anything in particular to warrant such attention lately…

Okay. I composed myself. There’s probably some minor issue, and it will take at a maximum no more than ten minutes time.

The editor sat at his desk absorbed in reading the galley proofs. Glancing at me briefly, he silently nodded toward a chair. Without a word, I sat down and waited. The editor-in-chief finally looked up from the papers.

“Do you know what is happening in our city?” he began, but somehow not in a very confident tone, as if he himself was not yet sure whether this ‘happening’ was worthy of such an educational moment. “You work in our information department, don’t you?”

“Everything I am supposed to know, I know,” – I nodded assuredly, “and what I do not know, I am not supposed to. After all, our city is subject to nothing but the utmost military and state secrecy.”

“You’re right there, and no arguing with that, but here’s the thing: A film studio from America will be shooting here, in our city. Yes, no kidding – right from Hollywood, as chance would have it, and not just in Ukraine, but right here, in our Crimea. So, I suppose the fact that we now have a famous Hollywood actor, Jackie Chan, in our city is not a military secret for you?” – my editor could not resist a stinging remark.

I only shrugged and tried to interject, but he stopped me with a gesture.

“So the situation is clear to you, and we can cut the unnecessary introduction short. Take Nikolay, your photographer friend, and get a moment to talk with that Jackie Chan. Tomorrow, at the latest, have an interview with him on my desk, and five or six good photos!”

“What… tomorrow?” I was taken aback. “He just arrived! Needs some rest, needs to relax, and then, why me? I am the youngest in our editorial office, and this is a responsible business. Someone with more experience should be assigned to this.”

“That’s exactly why,” – the editor nodded. “You’re young and, as I’ve heard, fluent in English…”

“I appreciate your trust in me and my abilities,” I said. “But let me disagree. I don’t know English well!”

“And you’re sure Jackie Chan knows it well? Do you think all them Japanese speak English so fluently?’”

“He’s Chinese,” I corrected grimly. It looked like I had to drop the party at the Black Cat.

“Even more so!” the editor snapped back. “Everything has been arranged. Take your friend and go! Ask this artist why he decided to shoot here, what he expects from our city, and how he likes it here… well, why do I need to teach you this!”

“But he just arrived, you know! He hasn’t seen the city at all!”

“So show it to him!” – the editor raised his hands emphatically. “What did you learn English for? Take him on an orientation tour, have an informal interview over a cup of coffee …”

“Yeah, sure… and money for the coffee?” – I could not resist a sarcastic remark. “From that bonus we received recently for our… e-e-eh… hard work?”

The editor sighed, reached for the jacket hanging over the back of the office chair, and pulled out a few bills from his wallet. He handed me a couple of banknotes.

“Enough for coffee.”

I remained silent.

The editor chuckled, but I continued:

“By the way, any idea about the movie? At least what its genre might be – drama, comedy, a historical film?” – I gave him the forgiving look of a movie aficionado.

“Well, you can’t go wrong there with Jackie Chan. Everything will be as usual – I mean, the typical movie with Jackie Chan. International mafia … or even the Russian mafia. Bad people mistreating good people. But they won’t get away with that because Jackie Chan comes. Then shooting, kung fu fights, and all that stuff. In a word, everything the audience loves. Long story short, good guys beating bad guys. As you see, you can retell the plot without even watching a movie.”

“And why here? We don’t have Russian mafia in our city,” I remarked, but not very convincingly.

“But we have beautiful vistas, mountains, the sea. It’s cheap here, and our people are energetic and curious. They would eagerly sign up for the crowd scenes.”

I still had to drop by the Black Cat on my way, if only to see the birthday boy and tell him the news. Kolya was already there. When I came in, the fun was in full swing. People greeted me with cheers and immediately offered a shot of vodka. I sat down next to the party boy and briefly recounted the conversation with the editor. Kolya was already in such a mood that the news upset him in no way. On the contrary, he immediately agreed and was clearly welcoming the unexpected adventure. After a little pause, he declared publicly:

“Guys and gals,’ he said, “go on without us for a while. The two of us will be back soon… and probably with a surprise!”

At the hotel reception, as it turned out, he had a friend, a girl named Katya, and she told us that Jackie Chan was indeed staying there.

“Only you won’t see him or get to his suite,” she added. “There are his … e-e-eh … guards!”

Kolya just grunted at that, “You go ahead and tell me what room it is. As for those guards…”

We went up to the third floor and at the end of the corridor saw two huge guys standing at the suite’s door. It was only when we came somewhat closer that we noticed the most unusual look they had. They wore gray officer’s trench coats with a major’s stars on their shoulders, blue buttonholes and emblems of the Air Force of the former USSR. At the same time, the trench coats were girded with golden ceremonial naval belts and cavalry broadswords with red lanyards hanging on the side. Each had a general’s Astrakhan hat on their head. The light of the neon lamps reflected on their polished high boots.

“What the…?!!” said a stunned Kolya.

“Hi, guys,” I addressed the sentries.– “Hu ar yoo?”

The guards stared at us in bewilderment.

“What do you want?” one of them asked in plain Russian. In addition to a broadsword, he had a naval officer’s dirk on his right side. Apparently he was the superior.

“Oh, so you are locals,” Kolya brightened up. “But why this masquerade?”

“May be a masquerade for you, pal,” answered the superior as he wiped the sweat that was seeping from his forehead under the general’s papakha. “But we are on duty. Guarding a Hollywood artist. What do you want?”

We introduced ourselves by showing our press cards. Recognizing locals in us, the guys softened up, in every sense of the word. It turned out that they were from the marine brigade. Apparently, the arrival of a Hollywood celebrity had drawn not only our editor’s interest. By all appearances their superiors chose the tallest marines and assigned them to the artist to portray the local police, at the same time entrusting them with the responsibility of guarding a visiting celebrity. As for those bizarre uniforms, that was the idea of a costume designer who came with Jackie Chan – so, he said that the local police would look much more authentic.

“As soon as they arrived … still in the Kiev airport,” said the other guy plaintively, “he saw some lady in a fox fur hat. And immediately requested exactly the same one, only with a red star – for their villain, as he explained. Somebody has already gone to look for it. Sure, there won’t be a problem with the star in our city, but as for the fur hat …”

“Yes, in the movies it’s always gotta be larger than life. And where is our movie star in the flesh?” I asked, “so we to have a chance to take a picture of him in that most authentic of headwear. I can imagine how delighted our readers will be!”

“We have our orders, pal: Don’t let anyone in,” the senior of the two answered wearily, the one with a naval dirk, “especially you, the press. And, between us, he is not in the room right now. Recently left. Maybe, in the hotel’s restaurant? If you need him so urgently, try to find out… Good luck for now.”

We headed to the hotel restaurant. Going down the hall, we almost ran into a short, sturdy Asian in a red nylon jacket. Under his arm he held a shaggy hat. No red star was visible in the fur’s curls, but apparently that was our man.

Our eyes met and I realized that our hour of glory had struck.

“My friend!” – it was Kolya getting ahead of me – happily opening his arms to meet the Chinese man. “Here we are, looking for you, searching high and low!”

We introduced ourselves again, showing our press credentials one more time. I greeted the guest to our city as best I could in English, “We are happy to host your film crew here in Crimea. Especially today, when my friend Nikolay has his birthday. And we would be happy, to the utmost, if Mr. Chan gave us at least half an hour for an interview over a cup of coffee in some nearby café.” All this while Kolya eagerly nodded, and when he heard the word ‘coffee’, he only smiled eloquently. Mr. Chan listened attentively, paused for a minute, then nodded too in agreement.

Kolya immediately suggested going to the Black Cat. “Maybe,” he said, “they haven’t finished everything and there are still a couple of drinks remaining for us.” I reassured my friend, telling him about the unexpected editorial generosity. I suggested showing our visiting celebrity the city center and taking some photos in front of the local sights – Admiral Nakhimov’s monument or Grafskaya pier, and so we did, telling our guest along the way, who was who, and why this was here. Jackie Chan listened attentively and obediently posed for photos. He did seem to have heard about our country. For example, he knew that every city here has a monument to Vladimir Lenin, the leader of the anti-globalization revolution. He only wondered why Lenin was in military uniform, with a naval dirk on his side and a telescope in his hand? The question caught me so unaware that for a moment I pondered to myself why Lenin really needed that weapon paired with a telescope.

I didn’t have time to answer. We were already near the column of the Scuttled Ships monument. Here’s where our guest evidently got interested. Under what circumstances, he asked, did the ships sink, and so many at once, or for what reason? I explained as best I could in English, “On purpose to prevent the enemy fleet from entering the city bay.”

“We,” added Kolya, “have such a tradition here, to start something first by breaking everything, and as radically as possible. For example, if we have ships, we sink them first. And why – we’ll figure that out later.”

Our guest was visibly miffed by such a tradition. Then, after reflecting a little, he cheered us and said that it was very much in the spirit of Bushido. “Real heroes indeed behave this way: If you were to choose between life and death, choose death.”

“Oh yes, that explains everything,” we agreed in one voice.

I even was a bit ashamed that I had not come up with such a simple and elegant explanation on my own. The Bushido Code! Our “mysterious Slavic soul” was not alone in this vast world, after all.

We walked at a leisurely pace down Primorsky Boulevard, admiring choppy waves on the autumn sea. Then Kolya stated resolutely: “Yes, our guest is already quite familiar with our city, its architectural features and heroic past. The next move is to meet the local people!”

The Black Cat was, quite predictably, crowded as usual. I was not surprised to find our partiers still there too, and not even very drunk. Kolya stopped at the entrance, raised his hands.

“Listen up, folks!” he shouted, and somehow everything immediately quieted down. “Look who I’ve brought here! The great Jackie Chan himself has visited our city and will shoot a movie here!”

After a minute’s pause, people cheered the famous guest and welcomed him to their tables. Everyone in the bar immediately wanted to have a drink with him, or for that matter, with Kolya, as the closest friend of the movie star. Bartender Sasha brought us another couple of vodka bottles, sandwiches and asked for an autograph, which our guest readily signed on the bottle without having to be asked twice. Everyone liked the idea, and Jackie Chan had to sign ten or twelve more bottles. Meanwhile, Kolya and I, as his close friends, left our autographs on several too.

Then, the police came, evidently summoned by someone who thought that we were here to have a fight or an unauthorized demonstration. We explained to the officers that the great kung fu star Jackie Chan was our guest today. He would shoot his next wonderful film in our city, about … in a word, they would see for themselves soon.

The police didn’t believe us at first and politely asked us to lead them to the famous actor. Initially stunned by his fierce appearance and fur hat with a red star, they nevertheless greeted him by shaking hands. Then they too asked for an autograph, on the blank police ticket block. Then, after some quiet consulting among themselves, they said that actually they were not supposed to drink on duty, but on such an occasion …

Jackie Chan took off his fur hat and put it on a nearby chair. It was getting pretty hot in the bar, and a police cap was immediately put on his head. This caused an explosion of cheers again, and Kolya invited everyone to take a collective photo. Thursday, he promised, these pictures would definitely appear on the newspaper’s front page.

All the rest went in episodes for me, like a movie trailer. Here we all drink once again to the health of our guest. Then, for the further flourishing of the friendly People’s Republic of China. Here we are already walking in a cheerful crowd along the Bolshaya Morskaya street in the direction of the hotel and singing songs in Chinese. A police patrol car slowly followed us as an honorary escort.

At the very entrance to the hotel, we handed the movie star over to our acquaintances, the naval sabers. The bodyguards took him by the arms, as he was swaying, but balanced. Kolya and I saluted them in a soldierly manner. In the lobby, we were met by our friend, the girl at the reception. It seemed that this time she was less than happy to see us.

“What have you done!” she exclaimed. “Everyone here is running off their legs looking for him! They even called the police… a foreigner going out to fetch a hat – and disappeared! With all that film shooting, tomorrow morning, in the mountains at Baydar Gates! Even Jackie Chan himself has inquired where his wardrobe supervisor disappeared to.”

We asked, “…who?” and gasped simultaneously. “And who disappeared …? And who then was with us all that time?”

“Come on, guys!” – Katya made a helpless gesture with her hands. “Having that drinking bout, and you don’t even know who you were with? This is Mister Lee, the star’s costume designer. When the fur hat they ordered for tomorrow’s shooting was brought to the hotel entrance, he just went down to pick it up…”

We stood for a moment and then left the hotel without saying a word. It was past midnight and the street was empty. Fumes of alcohol evaporated surprisingly quickly in the fresh night air. For a moment, we breathed silently.

“So, what now?” I asked, addressing more myself. “The editor’s expecting an interview and photos tomorrow. He is burning with impatience to know Jackie Chan’s opinion of our wonderful city. What his impressions are. How he likes it in Ukraine and in Crimea in particular.”

Kolya gave me a pensive look, then smiled, as if it were he who had been asked about his impressions on the night in the city. He glanced at the sleeping houses and the deep night sky twinkling like the glimmers in the nearby sea.

“So, what’s the problem? I’ve taken the photos, remember?” he said finally. “And you – yes, you will write about his impressions of our city. You are a reporter, aren’t you? Always at the forefront of events, with all those battleships blowing up and kung fu matters, sharing the most secret techniques! You’ve got it, man… so live up to your story! Besides, the newspaper will come out on Thursday, and the film crew leaves on Wednesday … and he does not read our newspaper anyway, that Jackie Chan! And as for his impressions, what were they? I bet you anything – only the best, that’s for sure!”