Free Meatloaf in Manhattan by Robert Power

infusion of Western ways. How far must his life have been turned around? I wonder how do his memories and achievements find meaning in this new world order? His Russia of today, where powerful families rape vast tracks of the landscape for its minerals and buy fancy hotels in London and Paris, while doctors wait for months to be paid and live off the carrots and cabbages from their dachas. A world where the old values are scoffed at and derided as everyone chases the pot of gold. One where the city streets are run by new mafia groups who recruit their adolescent foot soldiers from their own martial arts clubs and infiltrate all levels of government.
    The previous evening I had sat with Oleg at the ballet as the young mafia hoodlums lolled in the best box in the house, swigging vodka and talking loudly for all to hear on their newly imported mobile phones. They left with banging doors, just as the ageing anorexic diva, a hopelessly ancient Giselle (despite the powdered cheeks and blonde pigtailed wig), took her dying breath. Oleg, ignoring the noisy exit of the narcomafia group, turned to me and said, ‘She has died because she is very, very, old’.
    â€˜Like Russia, maybe,’ I suggested. He smiled.
    In the games room, one of the soldiers places the balls on the lush green baize as the General pieces his cue together. The cue is beautifully crafted from a single branch of ash wood, divided into three sections that fit together with military precision. The patterned grain in the wood is like the veins in an arm. Even the case is a work of art: its thick canvas material is fringed with a lovingly sewn border embroidered with delicate violets. Each piece of the cue has its own pocket in the case. The silver tip of the General’s cue, he tells me proudly, comes from deep within the Altai Mountains. As he screws each section onto the other he does so with the precision of the infantryman preparing his rifle for battle.
    â€˜Russian billiards is not like your billiards,’ says Oleg, as I chalk the tip of the cue I’ve chosen from the selection kept in a special cabinet for visitors. ‘You can hit any ball onto any other. The first ball you send down decides which side of the table is yours. The aim is then to hit as many balls as you can into the pockets on your side of the table. Each one you score is placed on your rack,’ he explains, pointing to two wooden racks screwed onto the wall. ‘The first to score nine balls wins.’
    â€˜So,’ says the General, running his hand along the length of the cue, ‘the good versus the bad.’
    â€˜Who’s who?’ I ask, making the break, sending the balls spinning around the table.
    As the night progresses I find myself on one of those rare rolls where mind and body, spirit, soul and billiard cue merge. Every ball I hit finds a home, and the General’s subaltern reluctantly racks up my successes, each ball displayed like the shrunken head of a vanquished warrior. At one point the referee tries to cheat and places one of my balls on the General’s rack. A snarl from my opponent makes it clear he wants no help.
    The General drinks more vodka and smokes more cigarettes. I drink more water and eat from the plate of cheese and meat provided by the kitchen.
    I win game after game and the General insists we play on and on. During a break between frames, Oleg sidles over to me, and in that peculiarly Soviet way, cups his hand and whispers in my ear.
    â€˜It is a Russian tradition that the General wins at billiards.’
    But I can’t play otherwise. I must play my game and he must play his. As the night wears on I feel as if I’m playing for more than just myself. As each game progresses my playing gets even stronger and more consistent. His balls are taken from the pocket and placed in his rack by his lieutenant; mine by myself. He is outraged when once again one of his lackeys cheats and places one of my balls next to