Set in Siberia, Dmitry is a disillusioned ex-journalist, drifting through unemployment, loneliness, and late-night fishing showsâuntil a glitch on his TV swaps trout for Carrie Bradshaw. Something about her voice, her poise, her narration aloud reminds him of Yuliana, the woman who vanished from his life a decade ago. The resemblance is imagined, but the longing it sparks is not.
Chasing a past that may not want to be found, Dmitry joins forces with an eccentric ex-military friend on an illegal sturgeon-poaching scheme on Lake Baikal. Along the way, he crosses paths with a former Kremlin diplomat carrying her own secrets, a psychologist with questionable methods, and a growing suspicion that reality itself may be slipping.
What unfolds is a story of collapseâof identity, connection, and meaning. As Dmitry slips further into alienation, a birthday invitation brings him face to face with everyone who once mattered, confirming what he had long suspected: the world he knew has quietly, and perhaps irreversibly, moved on without him. In the silence that follows, he begins to writeânot to explain or atone, but to salvage something of himself from the wreckage, and perhaps, to invent a new self from the ruins.
Set in Siberia, Dmitry is a disillusioned ex-journalist, drifting through unemployment, loneliness, and late-night fishing showsâuntil a glitch on his TV swaps trout for Carrie Bradshaw. Something about her voice, her poise, her narration aloud reminds him of Yuliana, the woman who vanished from his life a decade ago. The resemblance is imagined, but the longing it sparks is not.
Chasing a past that may not want to be found, Dmitry joins forces with an eccentric ex-military friend on an illegal sturgeon-poaching scheme on Lake Baikal. Along the way, he crosses paths with a former Kremlin diplomat carrying her own secrets, a psychologist with questionable methods, and a growing suspicion that reality itself may be slipping.
What unfolds is a story of collapseâof identity, connection, and meaning. As Dmitry slips further into alienation, a birthday invitation brings him face to face with everyone who once mattered, confirming what he had long suspected: the world he knew has quietly, and perhaps irreversibly, moved on without him. In the silence that follows, he begins to writeânot to explain or atone, but to salvage something of himself from the wreckage, and perhaps, to invent a new self from the ruins.
âBlyat! Now, of all times? Youâve got to be kidding me...â Dmitry's tirade echoed in the room as he gave his TV a fervent smack. Out of the blue, for no apparent reason, the ancient set, with its worn-out brand logo and buttons that had been pressed one too many times, had decided to rebel against him. Just his luck, tonight of all nights, when The Ultimate Catch was about to feature Anatoly Rybakov. Who is Anatoly Rybakov, you might ask? Heâs the world champion of sturgeon catchingâyes, the sturgeon: the royalty of fish, the source of that fancy caviar the world likes to rave about.
âDavai, come on!â Dmitry grumbled impatiently as his gaze drifted toward the inviting dinner on his plate: a delectable dish of Sibirskiye Pelmeni. These impeccably crafted Siberian-style meat dumplings, topped with a dollop of rich sour cream, looked as though theyâd been plucked right out of a foodieâs well-curated Instagram feed. However, the promise of their rich flavor had been momentarily eclipsed by the drama of the recalcitrant televisionâan antiquity that usually served as Dmitryâs trusty portal to the world but today, for some reason, obstinately refused to fulfill its duties.
Dmitry's frustration with his old television set mounted, each moment accentuated by escalating curses and determined thumps against its rebellious frame. Suddenly, as he wrestled with the device, unfamiliar scenes intermittently broke through The Ultimate Catch. A group of women, seemingly in their mid-30s, were chatting animatedly, sharing stories over brunchâor perhaps it was an early lunchâin what looked like an upscale cafĂ©, the kind that likely prided itself on its unreasonably steep prices. This bizarre interlude came unexpectedly, paired with incomprehensible subtitlesâJapanese or Korean? He wasnât able to tell. To Dmitry, it seemed as though some alien transmission had hijacked his beloved fishing program. Squinting, he tried to comprehend what in God's name those women were talking about. However, his grasp of English was shaky at best, and this wasn't helping much. It was like trying to decrypt a hidden message without a key.
With one last, exasperated smack, the screen flickered, and The Ultimate Catch finally came to life. Despite the grainy image and choppy soundtrack, Dmitry found little reason to complain; at least the program was finally on. He sank back into his sofa, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. Calm at last, he reached for his plate of pelmeni, but just as his fork began its descent, poised to dive into a succulent dumpling, everything changed. The lure of the Siberian landscape and the vast expanse of Lake Baikal vanished, replaced by crisp, clear images of what seemed to be the bustling streets of Manhattan.
Surprised, but not delightfully so, Dmitry sank deeper into that relic of a sofa, its every fiber screaming 'Soviet-era.' He jabbed at one of the pelmeniânormally the pinnacle of his culinary indulgenceâbut today? They were as uninspiring as bland lumps of dough. Taking an unenthusiastic bite, he found the taste barely registered, leaving him dissatisfied and irked. As scenes of New York City continued to unfold on his capricious TV, he mumbled something about the need for a new set.
Dmitry Pogodin wasn't always this engrossed in the antics of malfunctioning TV sets and televised fishing escapades. Once, he held the coveted position of a columnist at the East Siberian Morning Gazette, a venerable institution that had graced many a breakfast table in its heyday. But as the digital age dawned and paper faded, the Gazette's sales waned, prompting a painful restructuring. Finding himself on the wrong side of progress, Dmitry was displaced from the hustle of journalism. He was forced to trade his downtown apartment for a quieter home on the far outskirts of Irkutsk, and his vibrant social life for more solitary hobbies, like fishing in Lake Baikal. For those not familiar with Russian geography, Irkutsk is the fifth-largest city in the Siberian Federal District.
In his prime as a columnist, Dmitry tackled topics that might seem as drab as a Siberian winter to the unfamiliar eye. Local government activities, zoning decisions, council meetingsâsubjects that could easily send a reader into a mid-article slumber. However, Dmitry possessed a knack, a kind of journalistic alchemy, that transformed these seemingly mundane topics into stories of intrigue and significance. With a well-placed adjective here and a clever turn of phrase there, he made council debates feel like high-stakes drama and portrayed local officials as either town heroes or subtle antagonists. His articles, often laced with wit and a hint of sarcasm, gave the residents of Irkutsk a reason to care about the doings of their local government. It wasn't just news; Dmitry made it art.
In the fickle world of journalism, reputation and flair, while indispensable, cannot always shield one from the storm of corporate decisions. Such was the case for Dmitry. His exceptional skill in transforming the dreary into the delightful just wasn't enough this time to spare him when the wave of restructuring hit. The shift from the heart of the newsroom to the periphery of relevance was a jarring experience. Even Dmitry, who wasn't easily rattled or disheartened, found himself taken aback by the speed at which he became a mere afterthought. Was this the heartless nature of the industry, or merely the ebb and flow of life? Perhaps it was a bit of both.
Dmitry continued to stare blankly at his satellite TV screen, engulfed in a sense of helplessness and disgruntlement. Gradually, he came to terms with the fact that watching The Ultimate Catch just wasnât in the cards for tonight. His gaze drifted aimlessly across the screen, now showcasing the same group of chatty women against a different backdrop. Elegantly dressed, they mingled at a house party, enveloped in the glitz and glamor typically reserved for well-off socialites.
Then, without warning, as if struck by a subtle cue from one of the scenes unfolding on the screen before him, a wave of nostalgia washed over him, whisking him back to his formative years at the University of Irkutsk. His thoughts meandered to the days when he was deeply immersed in his undergraduate studies of Russian literature and journalism at the Faculty of Humanities and Arts. There, amidst the drafty halls that carried the weight of tradition and strict academic rigor, he was once a young man, his eyes alight with curiosity and his mind teeming with lofty ideas. When we speak of strict academic rigor, the emphasis truly is on strict. This was Russia, after allâstudents there didnât dare stroll into class wearing baggy joggers and clutching iced lattes, nor did they think to ask for an extension on an essay because "their vibes were off."
In these spirited and intellectually stimulating classrooms, Dmitry's world buzzed with the tales of the great Russian writers. To him, they were more than just stories; they were the backbone of his budding narrative. He devoured Tolstoyâs grand epics, got lost in the existential depths of Dostoevsky, and chuckled at Chekhovâs sharp wit. But it was Bulgakovâs The Master and Margarita that truly captured his heart. Its well-thumbed pages were his constant companion, fueling his relentless search for hidden truths. Naturally, had he managed to secure a girlfriend back then, his obsession with the literary titans of the 19th century might have waned, replaced by far more agreeable pursuits. But alas, that was not the caseâdespite being an attractive man who could turn quite a few heads.
Those university days overflowed with a sense of purpose and the conviction that he, too, could contribute his own verses to the grand narrative of Russian literature. Dmitry's ambition extended far beyond writing mere articles or essays; he set his sights on crafting a novel, a masterpiece that would resonate through the ages. Well, that was his plan. Spoiler alert: that didnât quite pan out. But who could argue with the audacious confidence of an 18-year-old? In his mind, the journey from dreaming to realization appeared as a straight lineâunmarred by obstacles, heartaches, emotional turmoil, financial challenges, bureaucratic entanglements, and disheartening compromises.
What was it exactly about this American series that stirred memories of his formative years is anyoneâs guess. But considering the fact he had never set foot in New York, nor had he ever harbored any real desire to visit the U.S., it seems only plausible that the air of confidence and the undeniable sense of entitlement exuded by the chatty women on the screen reminded him of someone he once knew. And that someone must have been him.
Yet here he was, nearly two decades later, the once ambitious glint in his eye now dulled by years of idleness and the sting of unemployment. As Dmitry half-watched the women on the screen, their friendship so evident in every exchange and burst of laughter, a pang of longing ignited within him. What had become of those who once called him a friend? They had all mysteriously drifted away after his abrupt dismissal from the newspaper, leaving him to marinate in the silence of his solitude.
"Come on, snap out of it!" some of you might say disparagingly from the sidelines. Yet, when you're in the thick of it, finding a way out isn't as straightforward as it seems. One thing was certain: this was not the future he had once envisioned for himself. The young man who devoured classic literature with insatiable hunger and shone as a gifted columnist at the newspaper was now reduced to collecting unemployment benefits and watching trivial fishing shows.
"Fishing??" Dmitry would have scoffed if asked back in the days when he was a columnist at the East Siberian Morning Gazette. The very notion would have seemed almost laughable to him. He had never cast a line, never felt the early morning chill on a riverbank, never yearned for the tug of a fish at the end of a reel. Back then, his world was entirely different; back then he found his pleasures in the thrill of uncovering truths and chasing hidden corruption within the local government of the Siberian Federal District. But fast forward to the present, and there he was, fixated with fishingâof all thingsâand all thanks to a chance encounter with an eccentric neighbor, Bogdan Potemkin.
To the casual observer, Bogdan Potemkin might easily be mistaken for an extra in a brooding Russian literary epicâquiet, introspective, the embodiment of existential melancholy. His conversations were sparse, yet despite his quietude, there was a certain magnetism about him, a pull that suggested the quiet before a storm.
Much of what we know about Bogdan is derived from press accounts. He once held a respected position as an engineer at the Irkutsk Hydroelectric Power Station, a formidable dam harnessing the power of the Angara River. Yet, one fateful night, possibly clouded by one too many shots of vodka, a critical lapse in judgment precipitated the largest catastrophe ever recorded in the region, flooding the Irkutsk area with immense volumes of water. The fallout was immediate: stripped of his prestigious engineering title, Bogdan found himself unmoored from his employment and his sense of purpose in life.
On one rare occasion, Bogdan attributed his struggle with alcohol to his military service, having been conscripted at eighteen during the Second Chechen War. Dmitry never dared to ask for details, and Bogdan, for his part, never offered more than a vague mention of a deadly ambush.
In the stillness of the Siberian landscape, Dmitry and Bogdan would often sit side by side, casting their lines into the cold waters of Lake Baikal and waiting. The silence between them was profound, yet not in an uncomfortable manner. It wasn't the awkward quiet of strangers but rather the contemplative hush shared by souls who've seen much and have much to reflect upon. You know how it isâsometimes, those silent, nonverbal friendships hold a depth far beyond the most loquacious ones.
Dmitry remained transfixed by his TV, the flickering images barely registering in his mind. His thoughts drifted back to his encounter with Bogdan just a few hours earlier. Now, we might have gotten slightly carried away earlier, painting their friendship as rosy and idyllic. Yet the truth must be acknowledged: like in any friendship, disagreements occasionally bubble up, leaving a sour aftertaste. In fact, the argument that erupted between them this morning had Dmitry deeply contemplating the future of their companionship, wondering whether they should continue seeing each other.
It was May 1st, the Day of Spring and Labor, when all of Russia was either parading or picnicking with family and friends. Dmitry and Bogdan sat side by side in a small motorboat, floating listlessly on the mirror-like surface of Lake Baikal, their fishing lines cast into the tranquil waters. The day was unseasonably steamy, and their skin glistened with sweat. Itâs hard to say whether it was the mugginess that clung to Bogdan like a second skin or his perennial disdain for national holidays, but since the early morning, Bogdan had been singularly focused on finding a solution to their financial predicament. Itâs true that both of them lived on the edge, subsisting on meager unemployment benefits, but Dmitry had come to accept their realityâunlike Bogdan, who simmered with restless energy, always searching for an elusive escape from their predicament.
Bogdan's eyes gleamed with feverish intensity as he outlined his clandestine scheme to tap into the lake's hidden riches. âJust think about it, Dimaâa few mid-sized sturgeons, and we'll be set for at least a couple of years,â he proposed, his voice tinged with a manic edge that Dmitryâor Dima, as Bogdan liked to call himârecognized all too well as a harbinger of trouble. Anchored in practicality, Dmitry couldnât ignore the legal ramifications. The Siberian sturgeon, on the brink of extinction, wasnât just any catch; it represented a high-risk venture, with potential fines soaring to half a million rublesâa sum that matched their combined annual unemployment benefits. Such a penalty wouldn't just strain their finances; it would plunge them into insurmountable debt.
Dmitryâs gaze was steady as he unloaded on Bogdan. âBlyat, Bogdan, havenât you learned your lesson yet?â Rolling his eyes, he continued, âYou either have amnesiaâin which case, you should get yourself checked ASAPâor youâre just really good at forgetting all the run-ins with the cops and those black market guys.â Dmitryâs voice sharpened. âYour lifeâs been one shady deal after another. If you want to dive into yet another mess, fineâbut count me out.â
Bogdan scoffed, a sneer spreading across his face. "Dmitry, my so-called friend," he taunted, his words dripping with bitter sarcasm. "Ever since they booted you from the newspaper, youâve become nothing but a shadow of your former self. You talk a big game about taking risks, but when push comes to shove, you always back down. But hey, itâs your life. Just remind me to toss you a couple of rubles for old timesâ sake when I hit it big."
The Day of Spring and Labor slowly drew to a close, and the simmering tension between Dmitry and Bogdan softened into an uneasy truce. They lapsed into their familiar silenceâthe kind shared by those who know each other well enough to leave things unsaid. As the light of day began to fade, a mutual, wordless agreement emerged: it was time to head back to shore. While Bogdan remained absorbed in his grand sturgeon scheme, Dmitryâs thoughts turned eagerly to the comfort and predictability awaiting him at home.
Comfort and predictability might not thrill everyone, but for Dmitry, they were a lifelineâa way to keep his life anchored amidst its unpredictable tides. Every night, like clockwork, at precisely 9 p.m., the familiar theme tune of The Ultimate Catch filled his modest living room, signaling the start of 30 minutes of adrenaline-fueled fishing escapades. Bathed in the flickering glow of his old satellite TV, Dmitry transformed into an armchair angler, momentarily escaping the humdrum of his solitary existence.
Back to where we began: Dmitry was jolted out of his contemplation. The evening was supposed to be particularly special, featuring Anatoly Rybakov, the unrivaled sturgeon-catching champion. Yet, it seemed reality had other plans. "Plans?" he mused with a faint, sardonic smile. "As if plans ever hold water."
Dmitryâs irritation kept simmering as the images of the chattering women refused to leave the screen. Particularly grating was the woman with the cascade of curly blond hair and her garish sense of fashionâyes, the one always vying for all the attention. In a fit of anger, he snatched the remote control and jabbed at the off button, but the old satellite TV defiantly glowed back at him. Muttering a string of curses, he shook the remote control; the batteries clattered inside, yet the off button remained stubbornly unresponsive. Pushed to the edge by this technological debacle, Dmitry leaped from the sofa, ready to physically confront the obstinate TV. But, just as he approached the set, poised for action, the screen finally relented, fading into a much-welcomed dark silence.
Dmitry let out a sigh. "How on earth did this American show with those odd subtitles end up on my TV?" he mumbled to himself, his voice barely audible in the steamy air of his room. This bizarre occurrence left him wonderingâwas it just a fleeting, momentary glitch in his otherwise predictable routine, or could it be traced back to the cheap satellite dish he had recently bought from that dubious character in the market, the one who had assured him it was 'top-notch'?
Deciding it was time to wrap up the day, Dmitry reflected on the events that had unfolded with a strange sense of inevitability. The steamy May Day, his heated argument with Bogdan Potemkin on the lake, and now the TV's inexplicable behaviorâit all signaled the close of a particularly trying day. All he wished for now was to crawl into bed and wake to a world that made sense againâpreferably one where the air was less stifling, the TV worked without protest, and disagreements faded swiftly.
If you are expecting this book to be about sturgeon and Carrie Bradshaw from the title and the strangely incongruous mix that those two present, then you would be right - but only partly.
Because this is the story of Dmitry, a reporter who has been ousted from his paper, his investigative reporting taking him into the dark recesses where powerful people do not want a light shone, and who is now attempting to live a life which doesn't have a lot in it. He has vodka; he has Bogdan, his fishing buddy; and he has his favourite fishing show, his comfort watch which he tunes into every night. Oh, and he has memories of lost love.
He is listless and doesn't have a great deal to look forward to until one evening, Carrie Bradshaw appears on his screen when his fishing show is infiltrated by a dodgy satellite feed and "Sex and the City" replaces his normal viewing. Her appearance intensifies his memory of Yuliana, the love of his life and someone who he has never got over.
So, that's Carrie dealt with. And the sturgeon? Caviar, of course, and the chance to sell it on the black market for roubles galore, which further, if successful and the fish is caught and sold, will give Dmitry the chance to get out of Irkutsk and pursue happiness, only it doesn't quite go to plan and leads to hospital visits rather than liaisons.
This is an entertaining read throughout. It is fluidly written from start to finish and I was fully immersed in the text. The story ends well although a little open-endedly but I feel like there is scope to continue Dmitry's story beyond these pages and it reaches a satisfactory conclusion with regard to the action unfolding within these particular pages.
What you should read this book for is the narrator because the narratorial voice is what makes this novel stand out: witty, gently poking fun at Dmitry, and with asides that provide commentary on current affairs and historical anecdotes with a knowingness that makes the reader feel like they're sharing an in-joke built on mutually recognised intelligence, like an admired friend has his arm around your shoulder and is there exclusively to entertain you.
I liked it and I think that you probably will too.