You never know how it is going to go in Moscow Domodedovo airport. Sometimes there is a long queue full of Caucasian families in front of the passport control booths waiting to be questioned and requestioned, other times it is just you and a a mixed of a few tourists and Russians. Michael was lucky this time. It was the second.
Michael’s ‘Dobroe utro’ is received with a mumble from the guard in the booth. The mumbling guard takes Michael’s passport. He looks once, twice at his face. He puts his passport on the reader, and waits. Michael considers whether to smile at him or just look straight. The second. His passport is duly return to him. He is now officially in Russia.
No surprise. His usual driver, Igor, was waiting for him with the sign “Michael Forsyth-Demtri”. Wrong. It was actually Forsyth-Demetri, but this is the price of willing to keep his mother’s name in his surname. She made for a big part of what he was. He wanted to reflect that fact somewhere in his public identity. ‘Privet, Igor’, ‘Privet, Mr. Forsyth, how was your flight?’, replied the driver with an obvious Russian accent. ‘Bumpy, but it got here. Never guaranteed.’, ‘Sorry?’, ‘Never mind. Let’s go, I have a busy schedule today.’