The White Trousers

     The first time I met Uyuriy was at the Milhouse Hostel in the city center of Buenos Aries.  It was after midnight and I wanted to sleep.  I occupied the bottom bunk near a small patio.  We left the doors open to let the breeze in.  Across from me was a man who appeared to be sleeping.  I had a smoke, brushed my teeth and got into bed.  Uyuriy waited until my eyes were shut to begin speaking.
     "You from America, yes?"  He asked in a loud whisper.  I responded yes.  "Good.  America is King.  No one fucks with America."  He had what sounded like a thick Soviet accent.
     I said something to the effect that he was right; we were the last true super power.  Then I turned my back to him so he might understand that I didn't want to talk.  There was a brief silence where I could hear the curtains moving in the wind.  The traffic from below reminded me of the busy city.  I was almost asleep.
     "No true!"  He exclaimed and sat up in bed.  He turned his body and placed his feet on the dark tile floor.  "History shows us there is always waiting someone to take over.  U.S. is not last super power.  They could be but will not be."  When I didn't answer he continued.  "We could not defeat China, no one can.  Their army is to big.  They have standing army of one billion people.  And now they buy up everything American.  Total shame."
     Out of politeness I turned back around but kept my head on the pillow.  Uyuriy took this as his cue to go on. "I tell you this.  President Bush Jr. never should have entered Baghdad.  Most sucessful war ever fought.  In six days U.S. defeated all Sadam's army without one casualty.  Six days!"  He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees now.  "But why he enter?  Now 4000 casualties.  Lots of Arabs love U.S.  We could have got them to enter and fight.  U.S. cannot win a civilian war.  Doesn't have the guts for it.  To much humanitarism.  They should learn from Isrealis.  They are killers of women and children.  Butchers of innocent men.  The have no right to be in Hezbollah!"  The last he shouted rather loudly.
    He had changed the subject three times now and I was oddly curious as to what his point would be.  "Uyuriy,"  I said in an almost pleading voice.  "It's really late.  Can we talk about this tomorrow?"
     "Yes, yes, yes.  I am old man.  Tell me to stop talking and I do it.  Goodnight Ryan of U.S."

     That was how I came to know him.  His full name was Uyuriy Mylko.  He was born in the Ukraine in a town called Lukansk in December of 1940.  I had mistakenly placed his accent as Russian.  In the days that followed Uyuriy would explain to me that he was a war time child.  His mother did not have enough milk to nourish him so he remained small and weak.  As a youth he was forced to wear braces on his legs and left inside to read while the other boys played sports in the field.  His father had other plans for his youngest son.
     In the Ukraine world of academics the highest honour to be bestowed on a scholar is when he achieves his second doctorate.  This normally happens when a man is in his late fifties or mid-sixties and has devoted his entire life to the art of higher learning.  Uyuriy's father decided early on in his son's life that he would be the youngest man ever in the Ukraine to achieve this honour.  He would be thirty-five.  As a result the boy was forced to to rise at 5:45am everyday to to begin his studies.  History, mathematics, literature.  While the other kids played he poured over his books and gradually developed a resentment for the life his father had chosen.  A destiny that he was powerless over.
     At the age of fifteen in 1955 Uyuriy had had enough.  He left his family and ventured into the city to live with the gypsies.  The braces had long since been taken off his legs.  He was not strong like the other men but had strength of character and wit.  Despite the fact that he remained slender with almost no muscle, he had grown quite tall.  He was picked up by the policia and returned to his father four months later.
     When he was nineteen he attempted and succeeded at crossing into France and assuring his freedom from a tyrannical political regime full of corruption and violence.  He was on French soil for less than six hours and began to worry about the fate of his older brother and father.  Begrudgingly he enlisted the aid of some French merchants who helped cause a distraction while he crossed back into his country.  His best friend, (whose name he would not give), escaped into Finland and made the mistake of asking a local policeman for aid.  He did not know that although the Finnish people hated the Soviets with a passion, they were locked in a political agreement and anyone caught crossing the border would be detained and returned into the custody of the Soviet Army.  His friend was never heard from again
      This was the life that Uyuriy had led; so unlike anything we fourth and fifth generation Americans know today.  My financial troubles or car problems pale in comparison.  Having friends assassinated by Soviets, secretly crossing borders for freedom and worrying about the massacre of your family are out of my conception of reality.  This made Uyuriy all the more fascinating to talk to.  The other boys in the hostel viewed him as an old annoyance who didn't belong there and talked to much.  His stories of political war and and pre World War II tyrants didn't fit in with there desire to get drunk and fuck a woman for the night.  He could talk above the pounding Spanish Techno music that played twenty-four hours a day.  But I was the only one who listened.
     For two days we walked the Plazas of Buenos Aries.  Up to Casa Roja where Eva Bron gave her famous speeches to raise money for the poor.  Down to the Congress building which is the political heart of Argentina.  We walked along the old port which has been transformed into a massive tourism hotspot, lined with restaurants and bars.  Over to La Boca and the art district then across town to Palermo where the wealthiest patrons have their colonial mansions.  Even though Uyuriy was one year away from turning seventy, I could barely keep up with him.  He walked with a purpose as if we actually had somewhere to go.  Once while we were heading down a small residential boulevard we passed a graffiti painting of Che Guevara.  Uyuriy looked around frantically until he found a small stone on the ground.  He threw it wildly at the wall.  This infuriated some local men standing outside a corner fruit market and they started to approach us.  I grabbed Uyuriy by the arm and pulled him around the corner.  "Socialist pigs!  Communist bastards!"  He shouted.  "They revere Che for his boyish good looks and charm.  He is a murderer!  A doctor of death, not medicine.  Thank God the CIA had him assissinated.  He would have been worse than Castro for this country."
     In 1976 Uyuriy escaped to the U.S. through Italy and France.  He would not elaborate which was unusual for him.  He liked to talk.  He worked two jobs, married a lady from California and within five years was able to buy some property in West Virginia.  Shortly after that the U.S. government hired him as a language specialist.  He worked with Ukrainian refugees mostly but briefly mentioned interrogation.  I pressed him for more information but he would only smile and say that that was not to be talked about.  He retired thirty years later with a full pension and a home in Washington D.C.
     While I passed the humid days on the balcony smoking my cigarettes, Uyuriy would wash his clothes in the sink and hang them to dry four stories above Av. de Mayo.  One day he was working frantically at the dirt and sweat that was consuming the white trousers he wore every day.  They were beyond repair and needed to be thrown away.  "Hey Uyuriy, why don´t you get yourself some new pants, those are filthy?"  I said.
    "Why," he replied.  "So I look then like a rich tourist?"  He didn´t look up from his scrubbing.  "I´m fearing they will not let me on the plane.  I look like terrorist in these pants.  I get them clean soldier."
     He called me soldier because of my name and its connection with the movie Saving Private Ryan.  He thought is was a funny joke and I admit it amused me to be of service to his poor humor.  The truth though, was that I had been called this many times before in Argentina when I told people my name.  I was constanly being called Bryan.  When I tried to correct people they would say, "Oh, like the soldier!"  That took a while to figure out.
     "Suit yourself."  I said.  "But those pants couldn´t even be used as a surrender flag.  They´re ruined.  Get yourself a nice pair of beige trousers for the plane.  At least you´ll be a well dressed terrorist."
     Uyuriy ignored my sarcasm.  "They call this country dangerous.  That everyone will rob you.  Hold on to your bag and don't take your money out on the street.  So foolish.  I say to you if men are watching you, walk over to a trash can and rummage through it.  Ha!  That will make them think you have no money or you are crazy.  Trust Uyuriy, they will leave you alone."  He sat on his bed and took out a white grocery bag. From it he produced a small bottle of red wine, some fresh bread, a tomato, cheese and salami.  "Today I eat like the Mediterranean.  You want?"  He cut a slice of salami and handed it to me.
     The sun was dipping down and streamed into the room.  I kept my bandanna close so I could dab my forehead when needed.  We ate his food and he let me ask him questions so I could get the names and dates correct.  My feet, bare and dirty, stuck to the floor.  Despite a soft breeze, the air in the room was stagnant.  It hung on our clothes like a peasant begging for his life.  It drug me down and made me want to drink.  Hanging from the ceiling was an air conditioner unit.  For five pesos ($1.25 U.S.) we could have had it turned on but we both agreed that there was something pleasant in our condition.  Why ruin it with cold air.
     Uyuriy finished his wine, wiped the bread crumbs from his sheets and stood up to leave.  I took a paperback novel from by pack and laid it down on my bed.  He left the room and said nothing.  In the absence of company I thought of lonliness and starred at the cheap wooden boards that held the matress above me from falling.  I couldn´t figure out if I was happy or not.
     The door opened and Uyuriy walked back in.  He didn´t bother to close it behind him.  He stepped close to my bed and looked down at me.  Perhaps down on me, I don´t know.  Still thinking of the matress boards, I didn´t sit up.  "Are you married?  How old are you?"  He said.
     "No I´m not.  And I am thirty-six."  I replied.  I could hear his laundry falling off the rail from the balcony.  "You need to be married.  I tell you this.  Go to Romania.  Or to Prague.  Make no difference which one.  Go to these place and find a wife.  A good wife, twenty years old.  Is ok for you, no?  Take her to U.S., have babies.  No black woman, No Mexicans!"  He sat down on the edge of my bed.  "I love America.  I love my country.  Is my country, I am citizen now.  I love America.  In one hundred years I am scared.  Not now but then.  Go to east of Europe and find a wife.  Preserve our genes."  Uyuriy stood up and walked towards the door.  He stopped and turned back towards me.  "Besides they are quiet.  Know how to treat man.  I say to my wife, when I am at work I am king.  When I come home you are queen.  This house," he shouted, "is your Kingdom!  But why when I come home why you have to talk so much?  Blah, blah, blah.  I love you!  I want sex and food and children and clean.  I love you but why you have to talk so much about nothing?"  His hands appeared to be conducting the symphony coming from his mouth.  I raised in my bed a little and set my book down.  "This is what an American wife will get you.  Listen to Uyuriy.  A Romanian wife?  She will give you silence."  Then he left the room.

     Uyuriy was a war time child.  He had a war mentality that years of peace could not soften.  He drew his line in the sand as a young man and then walked away; opinions formed.  He loved America and everything American because of the opportunities it had provided him.  America, like Uyuriy, hated the Soviet Union.  This made us allies and he was a man of honor.  For that reason alone I found myself on his side of the sand.
     I checked out of the Milhouse Hostel the next afternoon and moved my meager belongings to a quieter side of town.  Uyuriy had already left for his morning walk; I never got to say good-bye.  I wish I could have said sorry for the hardships he´d been through but I never did.  I wish I could have thanked him for his thirty years of service to the U.S. government.  We did not exchange emails.  He was not on Facebook.  I never told him the name of my blog.  I stood in the quiet of my dormroom, both packs strapped to my body and wanted to hear the voice that never stopped talking.  He was the man I turned my back on the first night we met so I could get some sleep.  Uyuriy, I hope one day you get your white trousers clean.