Scapegoat Court

Artemy made himself very small when he entered the corner pub on Pretoria Road. It was no easy feat; he hunched his broad shoulders and bowed his head through the narrow English door - he'd spent that entire morning choosing a shirt that would be considered inconspicuous. When he lifted himself onto one of the bar stools as quietly as he could, he stared down the old oak wood, certain that the older two gentlemen a few seats down were staring at him.

He knew he looked Russian. He never knew exactly what that meant, but people had told him all his life. He felt the bartender approach him and kept his eyes fixed on the counter.

“What can I get you?”

“I'll have a Tanqueray, please.”

As the Englishman went to prepare him his drink, Artemy's eyes flickered to the television screen above the bar. His heartbeat picking up he made himself say: “Would you mind turning that on? Your website says you put on tennis games.”

The bartender grunted. “We do. Just wasn't in the mood to see a bloody Russian win today.”

Artemy nodded fiercely at the counter as he accepted his Tanqueray. “The German might win.”

The bartender gave an exasperated chuckle but went to turn the telly on. The game had already begun and Artemy looked up to see in Daniil Medvedev's face his own – carbon guardedness and alert.

“You really think the German can win?” a raspy voice asked to his right. Artemy looked up and quickly scanned another man sitting in the shadow. He seemed in his seventies, bald and small in his threadbare leather jacket. But two startlingly blue eyes looked at him beneath heavy lids. He gestured to the screen. “Medvedev ranks much higher, I believe.”

Artemy inclined his head. “He does. But the German is alright. You never know.”

The old man laughed roughly and hopped down from his stool to approach Artemy with a knowing smile. “You're really trying to convince me you came here to see the German, mate? “

It took Artemy a moment to realize why his blood went cold at the words... the old man had spoken in Russian. He threw a panicked gaze at the other two customers, one of which had indeed looked up with a wary frown on his face.

Artemy swallowed. His mouth had gone so dry, he could hardly make words. “Excuse me?”

The bald man sat down next to him with twinkling eyes. Then, with a hand to his chest, he casually said in English: “Always such a pleasure to meet another Pole.”

The frown on the patron's face relaxed; he turned away and the bald man patted Artemy's shoulder. “Most English natives have no sense for foreign languages... nor much interest in them, their language is too convinient” he continued gently in Russian. “Don't be afraid, son. Speak your tongue.”

Artemy stared at the stranger before he remembered he was supposed to look away. The man did not look Russian, though he couldn't pinpoint why. He stuttered, not having spoken his native language in ages.

“You're... Russian?”

“No, German. Well, I grew up in East Germany, so... I learned Russian as a boy. But I'm assuming you are?”

When Artemy remained silent, the old man laughed and extended his hand.

“I'm Elias.”

Automatically, Artemy shook it. “Artemy.”

“Tell me, Artemy: if you're afraid to be known as Russian, why come to a pub to cheer a Russian player? Why not stay home?”

“I didn't cheer.” Artemy averted his eyes, fiddling with his drink. He worried the old man was testing him – his every day a test now, though he couldn't always say for sure who was doing the judging anymore - himself or the inquisitors. “It's... the players, the war is not their fault. Is it? I mean, if they say they oppose it? Vehemently?”

Elias nodded noncommittally. “But why come here?”

Artemy didn't know the answer. He had asked himself the same question the entire ride on the bus, curled into the cold window.

Elias hummed. “You were curious, huh? How people act a year into the war? If they would applaud one of the best tennis players in the world, even if he is Russian?”

Artemy blinked and let the words sink in. “They say that Germans are smart.” That was something his father had taught him; if someone prejudges you, pay them a compliment.

“That's not their first association here.” Elias' smile was so sad and tender, it made Artemy skid on his seat.

“But your war has ended so long ago?”

Elias rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Do you think the Russians are right to wage this one?”

“Of course not. The Ukrainians are our brothers. And sisters. I have family there.”

Elias nodded. “It's right and a duty to condemn a country that invades another. To condemn all its civilians... now, that's a more complicated question, especially in a dictatorship. The world judges civilians very selectively, Artemy. Look at the British. Only twenty-two countries on this earth they haven't invaded-”

“Only twenty-two? Really?”

Elias nodded.

Artemy sipped from his Gin, blinking rapidly. “I didn't know they invaded that many.”

“...and yet no British player was ever banned from their sport for their wars. And the British paint themselves forever the good, pointing to the Germans for eternal reference. It allows them to avoid the present state of affairs.”

Elias asked the bartender for another beer. Artemy listened for an accent – but just like his Russian, Elias' English was flawless.

Elias raised his glass. “The world will always paint their scapegoats broadly... and permanently. It's so much easier to have some sinners stand for the sins of us all by default. But look.”

He pointed to the two geezers in the corner - they were watching the game that Artemy had almost forgotten. Just then, Medvedev won a point with a daring volley – the men nodded in silent recognition.

“Be kind, do good – and they'll remember we're more than the flags we didn't choose.”

At last, Artemy allowed himself to meet Elias' eyes.