Nov 25 07:17:22 107 PA - Languages Collide

From Chronicles

Nov 25 07:17:22 107 PA.

YAKOV'S DELI

It is late at night, and while the lights are on at Yakov's Deli there is only one short, singing Dwarf. He is working through a large bowl of bell peppers. Taking care to clean each one and to dice the very thinly and smartly.

A short man with hair in a roughly 50/50 mix of gray and dark black enters from the streets, his nose sniffing the aromas. His features are, well... he could very easily be described as having come from direct Slavic origin, actually. As the air is apparently deemed fit, he closes the door behind him and approaches the counter where the dwarf is singing. However, whether or not his genetic ancestry is Slavic or not is somewhat hidden by the fact that he speaks with a very thick Kentucky accent. "Evening, sir. I'm a first timer - you have a specialty?" Gabriel just politely waits for a reply.

Rasputin looks up as the door makes the small jingle of someone entering, "Da, da. Dobryj vecer sir. Velcome. Everythink is specials here, da. Dere you lookink for anythink special? We have all typink of meats, and poultry. Soups, pasta's and cheeses." He chuckles, "Dhat would you be likink?" He finishes with his work, then steps up on a ledge after washing his hands, ready to take your order.

The fellow's face blinks a little at the unexpected accent, but he seems to take it in stride. "Oh, privet. Russki? Menya zovut Gabriel." It's obvious that the man speaks the language some, but also clearly not his own. "Do you have shashlik? My wife used to make it for me, when she was able. I haven't had any in a long while now." His head turns to examine the delicatessen. "Nice place."

Rasputin chuckles, "Da, da. Net manink are askink for dit. Dit will be takink me a few moments to be makink, da? Dhis OK? Perhaps a bowl of hot Borscht while you are waitink? Dis dery goodink. Da?" He grins a bit, "Dor Russian is net badink. Havink you been speakink it longs?"

Smiling pleasantly, Gabriel says, "Well, it's not my first language, no. But it was definitely both business and family." He nods to the man and says, "Borscht would be fine, I'm very used to borscht. Do you have a name, sir?" A sudden itch apparently comes across his face, as his hand shoots up and scratches madly at the bridge of his nose.

Rasputin nods slowly, "Da, da." He turns and loads up a bowl of borscht for you to eat while he makes your shashlik. He starts to make them, from scratch but it seems he already had the meat ready for such a meal. He starts to push them through long metal skewers. He says as he works, "Rasputin Khlyst. I own and run dhis deli da. Are you newink to da city? Or just net beink to dhis part of it before? Dit dhis near da Dregs, many are net comink here."

Gabriel smiles again. "Both. I'm new to the city - well, fairly new I guess - and I rarely come down to this area." His eye quirks upward. "Rasputin Khlyst? That's a very unique name, wouldn't you say? Carries a certain amount of connotation with it. But," he sighs, "I'm fairly certain that there aren't many people on this godforsaken continent who would guess that. You? Been here long enough to establish a deli apparently." His eyes gaze over the borscht with possible suspicion, but he seems pleased with the other meal. "Russian is obviously your maiden tongue."

Rasputin nods and smiles. He chuckles, as he flips his hand and creates a nice cooking fire on the stove. Was that magic? He lays the shashlik onto the fire and nods to them as he makes sure they are cooking correctly. He looks back to you, "Da, da. I am beink here for manies years, da. My peoples moved here many years ago, 20, da. I was born in mother Russia, da. And da, Russian native language. And dhis continent dhis nice, dery nice. All prospective, da."

There's a smile crossing his face as Gabriel keeps mental track of the seven 'yesses' that impact his eardrums. "Really? Which part of Russia? Kiev? Moscow?" The words are still in thick Kentucky accent, but it's obvious that he knows exactly what he's talking about. There's a tentative taste of the brew in his hands, followed by a pause as his eyes search his brain for a decision. Then, "Mmm. It's good."

Rasputin shakes his head, "Net net. It dwas in a small village in the middle of mother Russia, da. Cold place, da. But goodink home. Dill lords of war came, but net. Net dhat is in dink past, da." He sighs a bit and smiles, "Good soup, da?" He looks back to the meat he is working on. Then he rolls the meat over a little bit, and makes sure it isn't burning."

"Siberia?" Gabriel helps himself to another sip from his bowl as he stands near the other man, waiting patiently for his primary meal. "I was in Kiev and Moscow, mostly. But also all through Georgia and that general area between the Black Sea and the Caspian." He shrugs, adding, "the Soviets usually thought that we were too fucking stupid to guess that moving through Iran left a gaping hole in their southern perimeter." He sips again at his borscht. "Small town, huh? Small town myself. Kentucky. Hazard, Kentucky. Not sure if Kentucky exists anymore, but that's where I'm from. When the Depression came through? No more than two-hundred of us were left. Not entirely sure how I got here." He waves a free hand to indicate Kingsdale as a whole. "What's a.. ah.. lords of war?"

Rasputin grins as he turns the meat again, "Net, I am net knowink what it dwas near, we lived in a small dally, which protected us. But dhis was a good life, da." He looks back to you, "Da, lords of war are dhese forces which destroy dhat dhey wish. Evils men. Men who are of machines, and net of life." He frowns a bit, "Did you net seeink dhem dhen you dere beink in Russia?" He looks back to the meat, and smiles as it is almost done.

He shakes his head. "No, I didn't see any men who were not men when I was in Russia, vacancy of morality notwithstanding the definition of what a man is, I suppose. We didn't have men who were not men. Except on the Silver Screen, of course. Some good science fiction flicks. Target Earth, The Day the Earth Stood Still, War of the Worlds? The family loved 'em." The borscht is beginning to disappear at this point as Gabriel has now adjusted to the particular taste of this one restaurant. Contrary to popular belief a borscht is not a borscht is not a borscht. "So they were what, robots? Some of these people with metal implants in their heads? Don't sign me up for that, that's for sure."

Rasputin sighs softly as he thinks about his childhood. Then he looks to the cooking, plates up about 10 shashlik and fills up 4 small ramikns with 4 different dipping sauces. He takes them all over to a table, and sets it down, "Dhey dere horrible bionic creations with dery smallink pieces of man left." He shakes his head, "Any think to be drinkink?"

"A soda, please. Anything fizzy," Gabriel answers in response to the question. "Looks good. Smells good." He nods in approval and takes a seat at the assigned table. After glancing around the establishment for a short time, he waves an open hand across the table. "Care to join me, Rasputin? I can't eat all of this myself, at least, not without taking it home with me. Seems fair, you cooked it up. Please, sit. I feel guilty when other people make me food and I can't do anything for them in return."

Rasputin chuckles, "Net, net. I am always aroundink food, da." He grins, "Buttink, perhaps two or three, da?" He walks over to the counter, grabs a spare plate. He pours out a few drinks of some sort of fizzy substance. He then looks to you and delivers them both, with his empty plate. He smiles, "Spasibo for invitink." He chuckles and sits down. The soda's he sets down are some sort of cola. "Dhough you are new to da city, da?"

"Dobro pozhalovat," Gabriel replies with a smile, waiting for the other man to settle himself. "Kind of depends on how you define new, Rasputin." He chuckles and says quietly into his food, "Rasputin. God, what a place." There is a sudden, subtle buzzing coming from the man's wristwatch. It's not actually a buzz like a buzzer, just something shaking the watch itself. Probably like you'd want to have happen for you if you needed to be notified without making it known to anyone much father than a few feet away. "Damn," he says, beginning to roll his food up into the middle of his plate. "I'm sorry, Rasputin, can I get a bag or something? I have to take off. Oh, and I probably need to pay you."

Rasputin pops up quickly and then before you know it, he has packed all of your food up in to-go boxes, "Da, da. net problemo. Be takink, and come back. Da. We talk more."