I departed Russia in 1994 and headed to Singapore to study Chinese. I had visions of learning Chinese and covering Russia’s growing relations with China. With its warm weather, tropical fruits and Chinese ways, Singapore was the inviting opposite of Russia. That’s what I yearned for after three years of chronicling Russia’s bumpy transition. 

The last time I saw Zhenya, he told me he was headed to Siberia to work at a gold mine. Siberia and Singapore – I couldn’t imagine two starkly different places. I remember him during that last visit on the outskirts of St. Petersburg in March 1994 cradling his newborn daughter in his arms, a product of his third marriage. At 31, I had never been married. By 28, Zhenya had been married three times and had children by two wives. I got the sense that, true to character, Zhenya was still scrambling to survive, impulsive and sociable as ever, with a penchant for taking on new family responsibilities when it seemed he could least support them. 

Frequent address changes and the hustle and bustle of life conspired against Zhenya and me staying in touch. I never got another letter from him, no more heartfelt sentiments in elegantly addressed envelopes with colorful stamps. 

After studying Chinese in Singapore for a few months, I realized that mastering Chinese was a lifetime occupation to which I wasn’t committed. Upon my return to the US, I got a job teaching and coaching at a private school in Washington, DC, then went back to journalism before landing in international development work that took me overseas again. In 2004, I accepted a job with a U.S. non-profit organization to help political parties develop in Central Asia. That sent me, my wife (Yes, I got married in 1999.) and infant twin sons to Kyrgyzstan, a former Soviet republic in Central Asia. Postings followed over the next decade in Washington, DC; Amman, Jordan; and back again in Kyrgyzstan.

From time to time, I’d think of Zhenya. Sometimes when I tossed the frisbee with my sons, I’d imagine Zhenya chasing down a long throw, his kinetic energy unfurling in a sprint, jump and catch. How had his life turned out? Was he still scrambling? Would I ever see or hear from him again? Was he even alive? I’d picture him in the far north of Russia working in bitter cold at the gold mine. Or somewhere in the vast expanse of Russia. 

With the passage of years, I realized what a rich time of living, discovering and growing those years in Russia had been for me, and I thought about searching for Zhenya. I imagined traveling the length of Russia by train, bus and plane – as I’d done in the early 1990s —  to follow leads and see where they ended up. I’d use Russian social media to track down mutual acquaintances. Even if I didn’t find Zhenya, I’d console myself with the prospect of getting a chance to rediscover the country that had been so formative in my young adult life. 

Go to Part VII

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