Clash of the Titans

               Everything in Australia is opposite to the way it is in Russia.
               We, who would come here, have to get into this way for a long time.
               Summer is in winter, winter is in summer over here. On New Year’s Eve, Jack Frost would be sweating on a red-hot pavement.
               Here, while you are crossing the street, you should turn not like it had been learnt in our childhood: first on the left, and then on the right, but the opposite way.
               We had kept our grandma’s high shoes until the last breath over there, perhaps, they would useful. And here, we would throw old clothes out from time to time frequently; you can’t stand it any longer.
               Everything here is the other way around. There, we saw something senseless happening, but no one was able to change it. And here anyone can get in the road of history in a way you would marvel at.
               So it’s a couple of years that we’ve been in Australia. We’ve already settled in, got back on our feet and are now carrying a bit extra and not only around our middles. I’m working, my wife is studying, and the children have fitted in. The fridge, the same one from the nature-strip, is always full. We’ve rented a new unit recently.
               We’ve given a house-warming, as it should be. Everything is in order. You don’t need much more to be happy. Live and rejoice! As one of our famous poets said, “Life is good and it’s good to live.”
               But far from it. Since we moved to the new house, everything has gone strange. My wife has started up.
               “I don’t want a 48cm. I want”, she says, “a flat TV set with an 80cm diagonal screen”.
               “Missis, and what about vertical?”
               “Don’t play the clown. And the TV must have been with a triton”.
“What kind of animal is this?”
               “I don’t know what it is exactly, but it’s something modern”, my wife explains to me. “I saw TV like this in my friend’s home”.
               “Well, alright then”, I answer. “We’ll go around the garage sales and maybe we’ll find one”.
               “It’s not alright”, she announces. “I don’t want a second-hand one; I want a brand new one from the shop”.
               “And what’s about our television? It’s still working well”, I ask.
               “Put it on the nature-strip”, she replies.
There’s not a shadow of mercy. She’s going on the spree. Once before, she couldn’t get rid of the old stools. Now, she wants to throw a good television out onto the nature-strip.
                There was nothing I could do, so I went off to the shop to look at the 80cm television with the triton. I saw the price… and the floor under my feet reared like a stormy sea. $3999! I could buy a decent car for this price! And my old wagon had one wheel in the grave.
                But my wife didn’t take a step back. She wouldn’t budge; give her 80cm, and don’t argue! And a triton actually turned out not the triton, but Trinitron, a television design.
                “Buy it”, she says, “if you still love me”.
                How’s that!
                “I want to live like a human being”, she says. “Don’t I, in the end, have a right to?”
                I went to my friend Tim.
                “Listen, my honey has got mad, she wants a new television and it should be a modern one”.
                But instantly he said:
                “That’s right! Your better half is right. You’ve done enough hanging around the junk shops and markets, picking up rubbishy items. It’s time to buy decent things in the shops. Like a civilized being!”
                Some friend! Call that support!
                “Et tu, Brute!” I said.
                Tim made a gesture of helplessness.
                “But that’s one rouble short of four grand”, I implored.
                “Are you really sure it’s four grand?” asked Tim.
                “I saw it with my own eyes and my eyesight is still okay”.
                “We’ll go with your eyesight, but as for the price, it’s pretty clear that what you saw was not right”, Tim said with a mysterious smile.
                “Why are you pulling my leg?” I blazed. “What’s with you, do you think I’m an idiot?”
                “Don’t get hot over nothing, calm down”, said Tim. “Here’s what we’ll do: we’ll take Totosha with us to the shop and you’ll be convinced that it’s time you got some new glasses; good Australian ones. By the way, do you know Totosha?” “You’ve already got me with your Totosha”. I said.
                In all honesty, I can’t stomach Totosha. He’s a big thug, built like a brick shithouse and almost two metres tall. However, he has a child’s face, like that of a newly hatched chicken, with angelic lips, plump cheeks and sweet naïve-looking eyes. A cherub or what!          
                But look closer, his sweet eyes are in fact cunning, mischievous, cheeky peepholes. And a ring dangles from one of his eyebrows.
                When he sees me, he’ll start asking me each time about the imitation marble furniture. This’ll be his hint at the time when Tim and I took someone else’s furniture from the nature-strip.  In short, he’s a teaser, and I don’t like teasers.
                “Listen”, I’ll tell him, “it seems you’ve hung your ring in the wrong place. You’d be better off sticking it in your tongue”.
                But he won’t care and again he’ll do his bit:
                “Have you found anything else on the nature-strip?”
                I’d act the role of his father, but he treat me like I’m a little boy.
                Then there’s Tim, who at the slightest chance pushes Totosha as an example of how to behave onto me:
                “Do you know Totosha? The one with a two-storey home at Brighton Beach, I wish I had it so good, with an ocean view.”
                So what about Brighton Beach? Are Beaumaris or Chelsea worse then? There, the water in the sea is cleaner and the air is fresher than on Brighton Beach. And the main thing is that there’s less noise and commotion.
                “Brighton Beach is more prestigious”, Tim assured me.
                Well, here they just make up the rules as to whether it’s prestigious or not and then fuss over these rules like a child over a new toy. What’s more, they pay too much dough for it.
                “Just what exactly does your Totosha do?” I asked Tim.
                “Paper”, he answered. “He would buy and sell paper”.
                “Utilizing scrap paper?” I asked.
                Tim burst out with laughing.
                “There’s scrap in your head. But Totosha’s engaged in sharetrading. Imagine, while sitting at home at his computer, he can make himself one or two thou in an hour. I wish I had it so good”.
                “It wouldn’t hurt us to buy a computer like that”, I said. I was eager to do it.
                “A computer’s not the problem. The problem is having the right extras”.
                “What extras?”
                “Totosha’s head”, laughed Tim. “You can’t buy that in the shop. And with our tin pots”, he tapped his finger on his forehead, then mine and then on the table, “it’s not worth us poking our noses in. We’d fly past, like an old biplane over Paris”.
                To cut a long story short, we all went to the shopping centre, Tim, I and Totosha. The centre was so huge, you could’ve got lost in it. Totosha led us assuredly to the Belas department. (For obvious reasons the author has changed the names of the companies. All the rest is the complete truth).
                “A prestigious shop”, said Tim with respect.
                “Prestigious, meaning expensive”, I added.
                “Einstein taught us: ‘Everything in the world is relative’. What’s cheap, ends up expensive, and vice-versa”, pronounced Tim.
                Totosha squinted in a sneer at Tim and whispered in my ear:
                “Not long ago, Tim got a car in the cheapest car-yard”.
                In Belas there were heaps of televisions.
                “So-o-o”, drawled Totosha, rubbing his hands. “Why did we come here?”
                “For an 80”, I prompted.
                “Where do we have an 80 here?” Totosha asked, taking a glance around. “There’s one, a flat-faced beauty from Sony. Good! And how much do they want from us for it? $3999.  Alright then”.
                “I told you that already, but you went on at me about Australian glasses”, I reproached Tim.
                But he, carefully observing Totosha, made a gesture to be quiet, putting his forefinger to his lips.
                Totosha began circling the 80, examining it from all sides thoughtfully. Before he’d completed a second circle a salesman jumped up.
                “May I help you?”
                “I suppose you can”, said Tim, not tearing his eyes away from the television.
                “Which one would you like?” asked the salesman, making a wide gesture.
Totosha carefully - you could even say lovingly - laid his hand on the 80, clicked with admiration and asked the salesman whether he approved of his choice.
                “Why waste time asking, of course the salesman will praise his own product’, I said to Tim.
                “Everything requires a different approach’, whispered Tim.
                The salesman spent a long time painting a picture of the television’s merits, and Totosha listened to him blissfully, the way some people listen to the warble of the nightingale.
                When the salesman had exhausted himself, Totosha asked, “How much will you take off?” as if this was already implied.
                The salesman looked somewhat bored and even yawned. Then he asked:
                “What did you say?”
                Totosha was silent in expectation.
                The salesman walked off and busied himself with papers on his desk, moving them from place to place. Then he said:
                “No more than $100. Discount has been already done for that”.
At this, Totosha livened up.
                “You see, this man here”, he said, pointing at me, “has come from a country where they’ve never before in their lives seen these sorts of televisions”.
It was true. When I’d left my country, shop counters had been empty like locusts had flown over.
                “This television’s his dream”, Totosha continued. His voice quavered and his eyes became teary. “He doesn’t have the money for a television like this. But he really wants to have a television from Belas”.
                “Where are you from?” The salesman asked me with interest.
                “From Russia”.
                “Oh, from Russia!” he exclaimed, and then suddenly in broken   
Russian greeted us, “Den dobrij” (Good day)
                “Dobrij den”, we replied happily.
                It turned out he was from Poland.
                “We’re almost from the same place. Have you been here long?” asked Totosha.
                “Thirty-five years. I was brought here at age of five”, answered the salesman.
                “Well, you’re a dinkum Australian by now”, said Totosha.
                “Oh, yeah”, laughed the salesman, obviously flattered.
                “Have you been working long at Belas?” continued Totosha with interest.
                “It’ll be ten years soon”, answered the salesman with pride.
                “You’re lucky”, said Totosha, “this company’s the best there is”.
                Our new friend broke into a happy smile.
                “So here’s deal; this gentleman wants a television from Belas”, Totosha returned to the main topic. “Can you help him?”
                “Okay”, said the salesman. “I can let you have $200 off, but that’s the limit”.
                “Okay”, said Totosha in a pleasant tone, “we’ll go and look at some other things here”.
                Totosha advanced with measured steps in the direction of the exit. Tim and I followed him.
                “Well, what about the television? The salesman dropped the price then”, I asked, confused.
                “It’s not the supper time”, said Totosha and added, “now lets go to Douglas”.
                The ‘Douglas’ store was one floor below. On the way, Tim told me about Belas and Douglas. These were two titans of retail, who had been competing relentlessly with each other for ages.
                “We’ll see what Douglas are made of”, announced Totosha.
                We arrived at Douglas. It was the same story – the same televisions and the same prices.
                “Why all this mucking about? If we’d bought a television from Belas, we’d be done by now”, I said.
                Tim and Totosha smiled condescendingly at me.
                Totosha repeated the tactic he’d used in Belas, strolling around the 80. But the salesman was clearly in no hurry. When he did approach us, Totosha went straight on the attack.
                “How much?”
                The salesman pointed to the price-tag.
                “How much discount?” Totosha was more specific.
                The salesman missed the question and was just about to begin singing the praises of the television set. But Totosha interrupted him, saying: “In Belas they gave us $200 discount”.
A dark shadow ran across the salesman’s face at the mention of Belas.
                “Just a minute”, he said and went off to his desk.
We saw him telephone someone and nervously discuss something with them. Then he announced:
          “$250”.
                “$300”, bounced back Totosha without hesitation.
                “I can’t”, answered the salesman in a firm voice, which didn’t lend to further discussion.
                Totosha’s face suddenly acquired a jolly and friendly expression. He hugged the salesman by the shoulders with kind familiarity, then led him aside and began saying something while glancing over at me. The salesman burst out laughing and said:
                “Wait a minute, I’ll call the manager”.
                “What were you bagging about me to him?” I asked indignantly.
                “Never mind, old man. I’ll explain later”, waved away Totosha.
                Up came two managers at once. The salesman told them something with laughter, motioning to me. The managers , glancing at me, also began to smile. They discussed things amongst each other for long while and finally one of them said in a festive manner:
                “Discount $300!”
                He held out his hand for me. I was nearly to shake it, but I drew my hand back after hearing Totosha begin hissing a warning to me.
                “Okay, we’ll still have a look at what’s going”, Totosha said and moved off to the exit.
                On the way to Belas, he rebuked me sharply for my hastiness and then in reconciliatory tone said,
                “It’s not the supper time”.
                The salesman in Belas made a client to understand something. When he saw us, he quite coldly, as it appeared to me, asked us:
                “Well, will you take it?”
Totosha stared at him with a smile which had everything: There was an air of respect to the opponent – ‘we’re both people with experience and know what is for what’, - and a mysteriousness coupled with mischievousness, - ‘but I know something which you don’t know yet’, - along with many other things.
                “He’s got a good smile on him, the devil”, whispered Tim with admiration.
                But the salesman turned out a solid nut. Nothing changed in him. I seemed to forget that we had fraternized with him just one hour ago.
                “What a beetle!” Tim said, maybe doing justice to the salesman’s self-control, or being angry with his unscrupulousness.
                Realising that his smile had not worked, Totosha changed his tactic. He acquired a serious appearance and said in an apologetic tone, as if he felt sorry for Douglas’s impudent behaviour:
                “At Douglas they gave us $300 off”.
                The salesmen was stunned for the moment. Then he intended to answer but Totosha made a forestalling move, saying:
                “But we’d like to get our television from Belas. It’s a more reliable firm”.
                The salesman said ‘sorry’ and looked after some other customers. We waited a long time.
                “What are we waiting for?” I asked impatiently.
                Totosha winked at me, indicating all was going to plan, yet the salesman had completely vanished. At this point even Tim started to fidget. But Totosha remained unperturbed.
                About half an hour later, a whole delegation of salespeople appeared. Approaching us, they were still arguing, waving their hands. One of them, obviously the chief manager said to us:
                “We’ll give you $300 discount”.
                Totosha blinked his eyes in bewilderment and started to look around, asking:
                “Where am I? Is it Belas or Douglas?
                Everyone burst out laughing. The chief manager, trying to hide his smile said:
                “This is Belas, Sir”.
                “Really?” Totosha continued foxing.
                The chief manager then called someone higher up. He looked outwardly calm, but was betrayed by his shaking hands. Then, in low voice he said:
                “$400”.
                Totosha thanked him and then whispered to us:
                “It’s not the supper time”.
                After that, everything unwound quickly, as if in old movies with fast forward on. We would run from floor to floor while the salespeople, no longer quibbling needlessly, found out from us their rival’s discount and offered their own in turn. Everyone got very hot. For every $50 from Douglas, Belas gave $100 in authoritative response.
                Finally, after the long discussion between the salespeople and their bosses, Douglas passed. You should have seen the disappointed faces of the Douglas salespeople.
                We ran to Belas and to the festive rumbling of the gathered crowd, informed them of Belas victory. We ourselves were already on our last legs and ready to drop dead, like the ancient Greek warrior from Marathon. The only thing keeping us on our feet was the happy thought that we’d get the television for $3100.
                But Totosha still wouldn’t rest. He began pushing something onto the chief manager, after which the latter announced:
                “We’ll give it to you for $3000!”
                He stretched out his hand to me. I glanced over at Totosha, and this time he nodded his acceptance.
                “I’ll nick off to the bank now and get the dough”, I started fussing.
                “Wait”, Tim stopped me. “Where is your credit card?”
                I didn’t learn to use a credit card yet, and so it was at home in a safe place.
                “You’re really a ‘sovok’ (a man from the Soviet Union with old ideals). Why are you going to pay cash? Do you have enough money in the bank to pay for this television?” Tim asked.
                “I'd have enough”, I replied.
                “Would the rest of the money be enough for living?” Tim asked worriedly.
                I shrugged my shoulders sadly.
                Totosha was carefully listening to our dialog. Then he dragged his check book out of his pocket, wrote out a cheque for $3000, and handled it to the salesman.
                “Never be in a hurry to pay”, he told me didactically.
                While my 80 was being loaded into the car, I ran off to the bank anyway and took out 3000 dollars. I offered it to Totosha, but with a regal flourish, he parried my hand to the side. I was dumb struck.
                “We’ve conferred here and decided that a new telly demands a new interior for your house. Now we’ll go and buy some furniture,” Tim explained to me in a serious manner.
                “I saw a lounge suite not far from here”, added Totosha. “They want $3499 for it, but they’ll give it away for right on $3000”.
                I tried to refuse, but Totosha gave me a friendly hug with his huge paws. Pointing to the money, he said:
                “You can return it when you’ll collect it. Without interest”.
                “Once such a piss-up is already happening, slice up your last cucumber”, I waved my hand with excitement.
                We drove to the furniture shop, the three of us, Totosha, Tim and I.
                In the back seat, Totosha’s body spread out and filled up half the cabin. He was snoring peacefully, throwing his head back against the spine of the seat. He appeared to be asleep but when I looked at him in the rear-view mirror, his eyes mockingly flashed at me through partly closed eyelids and he said:
                “And your suite is an imitation black marble”.
                Then he sweetly yawned, stretching himself so that the car rocked, and he sang merrily:
                “Can we send someone to the bottle-shop?  It’s supper time now, I wish I had it so good”.
                Just a couple of months later, talk went around that Douglas was going down the tubes. Their business was crook. Some linked this with the world economic crisis. Others related it to the unfavorable position of the stars in the sky.
                This is all rubbish. When people don’t understand what’s going on, they always lump the blame onto the stars.
                I, however, know exactly that the poor heavenly bodies have nothing to do with it. Belas, by the way, is flourishing. This means we’ll have to look for something else to blame.
                Or someone else.