It's summer in the global north (which is winter in the global south), and for the month of August Literatur.Review is bringing them all together, publishing previously untranslated or unpublished stories from the north and south of our world.

Radha Vatsal is the author of the Kitty Weeks mystery novels set in World War I era New York. Her writing has been published in The New York Times, The Atlantic, Los Angeles Review of Books, CrimeReads, and more. Born and raised in Mumbai, India, Radha received her Ph.D. in film history from Duke University. She used to be fluent in Russian, which she studied at the House of Soviet Culture in Mumbai (then Bombay). She has traveled on the Tran-Siberian Railroad, and for one summer, worked as a translator in the Far East of Russia, near the Russian-Chinese border. 
Radha now lives and works in New York City. Her new novel “No. 10 Doyers Street” will be published in March 2025.

One morning in August, I was jogging in place slowly, waiting for the light to turn on 34th Avenue. Slowly, because it was sweltering out even at seven o’clock and I don’t care for exercise. But at my age—I’m in my forties, a challenging time for many women, weight gain and whatnot—I don’t have much choice. A sheen of perspiration misted my forehead. I wiped it away with the back of my hand.

The “walk” signal flashed, and I proceeded, but not before carefully scanning the avenue left and right. On a two-way street like this, I make sure to look all oncoming motorists in the eye. That way I know for certain they’ve seen me. Can’t be too careful these days, not with all the traffic accidents one hears about.

Satisfied that the coast was clear, I jogged towards the divider and was about to cross when, over my right shoulder, I caught a glimpse of a vehicle approaching from the east, bathed in the radiant glow of early morning sunshine. Later, I couldn’t recall whether it had been light green or dark, hunter or what they call “moss” because my attention was captured by the face behind the windshield. The car decelerated as it approached the intersection. Disbelieving at first, I blinked a few times. The car came to a halt.

It was him. Definitely him. No one could mistake those arctic blue eyes or the thinning yellow hair lying flat against his scalp. He looked so buff and larger than life in photographs, galloping shirtless on a majestic stallion—but here he was, driving through my neck of the woods, Jackson Heights, Queens, in a button-down, short-sleeve linen shirt. No security detail. 
He rolled down his window. I caught a whiff of manly cologne. Could it be Pour Homme by Paco Rabanne? 
“Which way to Northern Boulevard?” Even at this hour, and so informally attired, he gave off an aura of command.
I looked around but saw no one else. 
Me. He was speaking to me. “You don’t have a GPS?” 
The pale eyes narrowed with displeasure. 
“Waze? Google Maps?” 
No, he did not.
I panicked. “It’s around the corner.” And pointed him in the correct direction. 
The light changed, and he stepped on the gas.

No sooner had he disappeared, then I feared I had made a terrible mistake. What was Vladimir Vladimirovich doing in my modest, distinctly unglamorous neighborhood? Alone and unescorted. Was he lost? What did he want from us?  

Heart pumping more rapidly than it usually did during my workouts, I resumed jogging in place on the divider, since I was now stranded and had to wait again for my chance to cross. I told myself not to worry. There must be some rational, sensible explanation. I’d see it in the Post tomorrow. RUSSIAN TSAR TOURS QUEENS et cetera, et cetera. 

Still, I was assailed by doubts. Northern Boulevard greeted me a minute or two later. I couldn’t fathom what would bring Vlad here. It’s a dispiriting ribbon of car dealerships, auto parts suppliers, and chain drugstores. Maybe his car required servicing, I told myself. Or maybe he was en route to Manhattan—but why not take the highway and then the tunnel to mid-town?
Other than auto dealers, this little patch of earth boasts a sleepy strip mall complete with post office, a standing MRI facility, and a Santander self-service bank. After you have your innards photographed, you can buy pastries at an excellent patisserie run by the former patissier for the Waldorf Astoria. Perhaps that was it. Vlad had woken early and, feeling restless, decided to treat the consulate staff to a breakfast basket—croissants, brioche, pain viennois, perhaps also guava danish. Given its location, the baked goods are very well priced.

I couldn’t picture him at the Bed, Bath and Beyond or Home Depot a few blocks farther. Not because I don’t believe he does his own shopping but because I suspect he doesn’t have much interest in home improvement. There’s no particular reason for this. It’s just a hunch.

I continued down my route, which takes me to Landing Lights Park. The park is just a square of green bordered by trees, studded here and there with skinny metal supports for lights that direct incoming aircraft. The planes swoop in so low that even a shorty like me feels the need to duck.

And then I spotted it again. By the side of the street. The Citroën. And about a hundred feet away, thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his beige pleat-front pants, Vlad, his neck craned backward to examine the skies. 
“Hey!” I yelled.

The sound of approaching jet engines drowned out my voice. The monstrous bird was nearly upon us.  I could have reached up and tickled its gleaming belly almost—but in a rush, it slid over the trees and touched down at LaGuardia.
Vlad dropped his hands from his waist. For a moment, they hung loosely by his sides. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out car keys. Jingling them absently, he returned to his vehicle at an unhurried pace, docksiders squelching through the grass and then on the concrete sidewalk. He grasped the handle, pulled open the door (he had left it unlocked) and drove off once more, this time down 25th Avenue in the direction of Manhattan. 

“Run,” my phone commanded. It’s on a walk/run program. I broke into a jog. A different possibility presented itself: Mr. Putin could be interested in aviation, and wished to observe for himself the effects of the expansion plan at LaGuardia on flight paths. The idea had the right ring to it: technical and high-minded enough for a man of his stature in the world, and yet familiar in a way that made sense. Most out-of-towners come to Queens for some reason having to do with the airports.

Back home, unlacing my sneakers, I related what I had witnessed. Whom I had witnessed.
“No way,” my husband said when I finished. “I don’t believe it.” Shaking his head. “I just don’t buy that he’d be driving a Citroën. No one drives a Citroën these days. Are you sure it wasn’t a Lada?”
I gave the matter serious consideration.
“Was it boxy?” He was ready to leave for work. “Old-fashioned looking?”
“Uh-huh.” 
“In that case, definitely a Lada.” 

The make of the car was neither here nor there as far as I was concerned. Something else was troubling me. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. It came to me as I stared at my computer screen. Vlad had asked for directions in Russian, and without thinking, I had answered in kind. I replayed the conversation. Felt the sounds of his words jostling in my mouth. There was no doubt about it. We had spoken in his native language.

But how had he known that I would be able to understand, let alone reply? 

Memories of years spent studying the language in India came flooding back. I had been an impressionable teenager then, and the Soviet Union still existed, and Mumbai was still Bombay—but there was no way he could have known any of that. Or could he have a sixth sense for such matters? I will tell you this. When I replied to him in Russian he hadn’t so much as batted an eyelid. 
I needed to see him again. I’m not a fan of his politics but, as you may have guessed, I am a Russophile. The land of Turgenev, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, of the Steppes and of Siberia, has always called to me, and now here was its head honcho, right in my backyard.

I couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t write a word. I wondered whether, if I left the house again, I would spot him for a third time. 
The café was bustling when I entered, the communal table full of patrons tapping away at their keyboards or mesmerized by their screens—and my heart lurched. There he was. Again by himself, at a table in the back. 
Willing my trembling hands to remain still, I brought my mug of coffee over. “Mojhno?” May I? I hoped I sounded nonchalant, and didn’t wait for an answer before I sat. “How’s the tea—any good?” 
He grimaced. “Terrible. No strength at all. Even a boy in short-pants can make better.” 
I checked the label dangling from the cup’s edge. It was fair-trade, an artisanal blend, the leaves hand-picked in Sri Lanka and Assam.
“I’d try Irish Breakfast next time. It’s more robust.” 
“Maybe.” 
I tried to sound casual. “Will you be spending the day in Queens?”
“I think so. I come to New York often. Always in Manhattan. Think it’s high time that I explored.”
“Official visit?”
He declined to answer.
“So, how often do you come here? To New York I mean.”
He smiled slyly. Stirred the tea, but didn’t drink. “Every few weeks. No one knows because no one notices. Here, no one looks at anyone else twice.” 
I allowed my gaze to wander. The other patrons were still busily absorbed in their own business. He had a point.
“People on the subway sometimes tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘hey, you look like Vladimir Putin;’ once, a tramp shouted my name. But that’s about it.” 
“You ride the subway?”
“It’s filthy. Nothing compared to the Moscow Metro. Truthfully, nothing compares to the Moscow Metro. But riding the subway is much faster than driving or taking a cab.”
“What else do you do while you’re here?”
He glanced at the brew in his cup.
“Come on. You can tell me. I won’t tell a soul.”
“You promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
“I work out at the gym, Equinox, it’s very nice, and from time to time, I play chess in the parks. You may not know it, but I’m good. I’ve won hundreds of dollars. Don’t believe me?” By way of proof, he produced a bulging wallet. A nice alligator number stuffed with cash. “Want to play?” It was combination of invitation and dare. “I keep a set in the car.”

He beat me in seven moves––I was amazed I’d lasted even that long––and added my meager bills to his stash. Fastened the travelling chessboard closed. Checked his watch, and stood. 
“Can I ask you just two questions, Vladimir Vladimirovich?” 
“Make it quick.”
“Which do you prefer––Home Depot or Bed, Bath and Beyond?”
“Home Depot has some useful items but Bed, Bath and Beyond is junk.”
Just as I had thought. 
But I wasn’t finished. “Why do you come here? Why do you really come here?”
“Why do you think?” He gave me a look as though it was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “Because I can. I can do whatever I want.”

I followed him to his car, which he’d parked at a metered spot. The time had almost run out.
“Where are you going now? Would you like directions?”
“No need.” He waved me away. “Everywhere I go, the world opens its doors to me. This morning, I spoke to a jogger and just like you, she answered me in Russian. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s magic. As it is, I know it’s thanks to my charisma.” 

A part of my ego was crushed that he hadn’t recognized me from our previous encounter.
But that was nothing in the larger scheme of things. The big news was that Vladimir Putin was here, tootling around New York City with no one the wiser.

I toyed with the idea of informing the authorities. After all, they ought to be alerted if he’s out and about, playing chess and fleecing tourists and locals of their hard-earned cash. Who knows, maybe he’s evading fares and jumping turnstiles for the fun of it. Has he even paid for his Equinox membership? Or does he just bluff his way inside?

I doubt the authorities would believe me. I’m not sure that you believe me. But I’ll tell you this. Keep a look out. He could be strolling down your street, driving down your block, sitting right beside you on the subway.